I release a shaky breath and press my hand to my stomach, trying to still the rush of the dream as I glance at the clock. Five o’clock in the morning. Ugh.
After about ten minutes of trying to go back to sleep I give up and roll out of bed. I’m never going to be able to sleep after that. I consider a cold shower but opt for a TV intervention, deciding a little Bright Morning L.A. will be less jarring.
I settle on the couch and reach for the remote when a moan of what sounds like pain comes weaving down the hall. A chill works over me and I turn toward the Love Den as another moan comes. Then the sound of someone throwing up. Coughs follow.
Definitely coming from Willow’s room. Emma’s room, now. She must be sick.
I panic, thinking I should do something. She shouldn’t be alone.
I set down the remote, but then a male’s voice rumbles through the wall and I freeze again.
Is Emma in there with some guy?
I stand and walk over to the door, listening harder. She’s still throwing up for several seconds, ending on a whimper. And my heart breaks. Then sure enough, a male’s voice sounds like its consoling her.
I knock softly. “Emma?”
It goes quiet for a second. Then I can hear what sounds like hushed arguing.
Curiosity and concern war in my head. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine,” comes her weak voice. “Please, don’t come in.”
A bang, like something hitting the wall, jars me. I jump back a little and grip the jamb. That’s more than enough mystery.
I turn the knob slow and open the door a crack. “I’m not waiting out here, worrying, Em.” And I dare to peek inside.
Fin and Emma are on the floor, leaning against the dresser. He’s shirtless and barefoot, holding her, cradling her against his chest, while balancing a bowl on her lap. Emma’s scarf is gone, her bald head tucked under his chin. Her skin is ghost pale and dark shadows rim her eyes.
I open the door the rest of the way. “Oh my god, what can I do?”
“She’s okay,” Fin says, sounding protective. I notice a couple blankets, some towels, are piled up around the two of them like a nest, a box of salt crackers and a couple bottles of water are sitting on the reading nook table, like they’ve been at this for a while.
“Please,” Emma says, like she’s half asleep. She barely opens her eyes. “It’s just the treatment I had yesterday afternoon. It’ll pass in a day or two.”
From her appearance that’s tough to believe. She looks like she needs a doctor. I glance at Fin for help but he just shakes his head a little, so I ask, “Can I at least bring you something?”
“I’ve got everything I need,” she whispers, and then she closes her eyes again and nestles against Fin’s chest.
“Where’s Jade?” I whisper to Fin.
“She stayed the night at her parent’s place,” he says, quietly, “It’s one of the kid’s birthdays. Emma didn’t want to make the party a downer and she couldn’t reschedule her treatment, but she didn’t wanna worry Jade about it, so she just said she was tired and kept it to herself.”
That sounds like her. Jade’s not going to be happy about that. “How are you here?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“She called me.”
She called Fin? That’s completely weird. “Well, I can totally help.”
“I’ve got this, Verity,” he says, cradling her head. “I’ve dealt with this before.”
I give him a questioning look, but he just turns his attention back to Emma muttering, “Make sure the place stays quiet so she can sleep. It’s the only thing that’ll help.”
And I’ve officially been rebuffed. All I can do is back out, a million questions roiling through my brain. What the hell did I just see? Fin was totally comforting her—had been comforting her for a while, it looked like. And she called him. So that he could hold her while she’s sick? They barely know each other, it’s so odd.
When I think about it, though. When I think about the beauty of it, seeing him there with her, sheltering her, a girl he barely knows. It physically hurts. Why would Fin, of all people, do something so . . . amazing?
I wander back into the living room, feeling aimless. My insides are coiled up from everything. It feels like death is hovering now. Mortality staring me in the face. Emma had everything. And now she’s fading away. It’s impossible to fathom.
Nothing is permanent. Every second counts.
I can’t just sit around, waiting for life to come to me. I need to do something, I need . . .
Diego.
I grab my flip-flops, keys, phone, and head out the front door. I’m in the hall, down the stairs, and out of the building in the early morning air before I stop to think about where I’m going. I’m in my leggings and a tank top with no bra. I have no sweater and it’s not exactly hot out right now. I have a blanket in my car, though, I think. From the time Phoenix and I had that picnic on the beach.
It feels like that was a lifetime ago. It was definitely another girl.
I go to my car and pop the truck grabbing the blanket out, then tap Gilbert’s number into my phone. I put it to my ear and listen to it ring. I’m not surprised when he doesn’t pick up. When the voicemail clicks on I listen, anxiously, wrapping myself in the old blanket.
Cars are already coming and going down Chatsworth, people living their lives, heading for places as the sun begins to warm the horizon in a light pink glow.
The beep sounds and I start to ramble out my message. “Gilbert, I need to talk to Diego and I know he’s with you—or at least, I think he is. I love him, Gilbert, and I refuse to be the lame girl who waits around for the man to show up—call me back and tell me where he is so I can go to him, or else I’m never buying coffee from you again, got it?” The brakes from a city bus hiss, and I look up as it passes my car with a cloud of black smoke. I wave the carbon footprint away, coughing a little from the fumes as I continue my message, opening my car door to get in. “I’m going to his house and see if I can find any clues—it’s in Malibu, right? I know he probably told you not to tell me anything, but he’s in trouble, and you know how stubborn he is and how he’s always trying to do everything on his own—”
A strange tingle works up my arms and I freeze half way into my car, my voice catching in my throat. Someone’s eyes are on me.
I look around and then have to do a double take.
Is that Diego? He’s leaning on his black Mercedes, watching me from across the street.
A bubble of relief and excitement and annoyance fills my stomach. I lower the phone from my ear, saying, “Never mind,” and hanging up, shutting my car door.
Diego sees me notice him and he straightens, walking toward me. He’s wearing his glasses, a cream cable-knit sweater, faded jeans and flip-flops. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Diego in flip-flops before. My body wars, wanting to run to him, torn between hugging him and hitting him.
He’s really here.
Of course, he could just be coming over to tell me that I’m a sweet girl but it’s just not going to happen. Well, he’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m just going to go along with him dropping me for some slutty French cougar con artist.
Before he can say anything I hold out a hand to stop him. “Look, I don’t care what you think you’re going to say right now, but you need to know—”
My brain freezes as he gets closer and I see he’s holding something shiny in his fist. It’s shimmering gold in the rising sunlight. A ring?!
My hand waves at him now, panic rising. Oh, no, no, no, he wouldn’t. “Are you kidding? I can’t marry you yet!” So much for YOLO.
He stops in his tracks and blinks at me. He looks down at the gold ring in his hand and then he laughs. He actually laughs at me. Normally I’d be pissed. But that grin filling his face is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. My knees turn to Jell-O. If I wasn’t completely confused I’d grab him and kiss him.
He walks over to my side of the car, standing beside
me. And he holds out the gold ring.
A key ring. And a key. I want to walk into freeway traffic right now.
“That’s quite the greeting,” he says. “Good morning to you, too.”
I cover my face with my hands and groan. I should be locked up. Seriously.
“A guy could get the idea he’s being used.” I feel him move closer. He takes my wrist and pulls my hand from my face.
I shake my head and bite my lips shut.
His thumb moves back and forth over the pulse point on, coaxing the beat there into a gallop, reminding my body how he can captivate me in seconds.
“Can we talk?” His features are schooled now, every line of his face is perfectly neutral. It’s unnerving.
I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak anymore.
“First off, I need to apologize for leaving like that, after . . . everything. I panicked once I was on the plane, realizing it was a shit thing to do, leaving a damn note. But I couldn’t call to explain until we landed, and then you didn't answer.”
“Plane?” That information jars me. “Where did you go?”
“New York. With Francesca.”
My chest constricts.
He must see the horror on my face because he rushes to add, “Not like that, Verity, I told you. I didn’t sleep with her.”
“Sleep? I’m not worried about sleep.”
He leans closer and touches my face, running his finger along my jaw. “I didn’t have sex with her. I didn’t kiss her. Nothing happened, other than a business deal.”
“She’s a criminal Diego.”
“I realize that, obviously, but I—”
Panic fills me and I burst out, “You cannot get caught up with her again. I won’t stand by and let you hurt yourself. I’ll help with money, if the studio is in trouble or something. I’ll have control of my trust fund on my birthday next week and it’s more than seven hundred thousand dollars. You can have it, all of it, take it! I can’t lose you to her, I won’t—”
He stops me with his lips, cradling my face in his hands for a moment before he pulls back and whispers, “I don’t want you to give me anything.” He kisses me again, gently, then says against my lips, “Except your heart.”
My throat goes tight from his words, his closeness. “I’m afraid. How can I trust you, Diego when you just take off like that? That hurt. I’m not a child, I can handle the truth.”
“I know,” he says, trailing his lips to my temple. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t had to think about anyone but myself for so long. I forgot how much it hurts to know the one you care about is in pain. I can’t ever feel that way again. Selfishly, I’ll need to protect you at all costs.”
“What sort of business deal was this?” I ask, not sure how to respond to his promises.
He moves back, the warmth between us cooling a little as reality settles back in. “Hopefully one that will have her out of my life for good.”
“You can't trust her.”
“No, but I can trick her.” When I make a confused face he elaborates, “It was Gilbert’s idea, and it's actually genius. Tempt her with a deal she can’t pass up.”
“What sort of deal?” That doesn’t sound remotely good. This isn’t some Hollywood buddy cop movie. “And how in God’s name did the baker get involved?”
“Gilbert is a friend. And he's aware of my past.”
“Yes, but if he’s encouraging you to get in deeper, I’m not liking him very much right now.”
“Gilbert saved me,” he says, “He posed as my middleman, and we gave Francesca the Bowan paintings under the guise that I would claim they were stolen and use the insurance money. Then she would get them for a small finder's fee.”
A chill sweeps over me. “Oh god, Diego. What do you mean? You . . .?” All of a sudden, I'm pissed. "You stole the Bowan pieces and gave them to that slut?! Dammit, Diego! Is that why the hold stickers were on them?!"
His eyes go wide and he glances around, checking for onlookers. But when he doesn't see anyone he turns back to me and smirks.
He's smirking?! I'm going to kill him! What is he thinking—?
“Verity. I'm Bowan. Those were my paintings. I can do whatever I want with them.”
Anger turns to confusion. “But . . .”
“And I'm not going to claim any insurance money, obviously. I'll simply let the buyers know the paintings aren't coming in until next season. I still have the statues to sell. And I’ve called an old contact at the NYPD to handle the rest. Francesca’s not going to get far.”
“You're Bowan? Michael Bowan, the painter who won the Filler Award of Excellence? The Michael Bowan?” How in the name of God did I never know this? I assumed the guy lived in Paris or something.
“Yeah. Hopefully that doesn't change your high opinion of me,” he says.
“Holy cow, you are seriously talented!”
He laughs. “Thank you.”
“But why all the mystery? Why have you been hiding? I didn't even know you could paint!”
“For so long my art was mimicry of someone else's work, a tool for Francesca. I actually stopped creating for a while after I left her. Then, as I watched you, it all came back to me. I needed to start again. But I did it for me this time. I didn't want fame, I just wanted to paint. That's how I came up with Bowan. It’s the name of an old friend who saved my life once.”
“Wow, this is . . . this is crazy. You're stupidly famous.”
“No, the art is. And that's how it should be.”
“You're a total mystery.”
“The mystery to me is why you're out here at six in the morning,” he says, rubbing his palm over my arm like he’s trying to warm me up.
He doesn't need to. Heat fills my skin every time he’s close. I’m not about to tell him that I was ready to run around LA all day to find him. “I live here. What are you doing here at six in the morning?”
“My plane landed at LAX an hour ago. I needed to be sure we were all right. I needed to be close to you.”
My insides melt. “My God, Mr. Bowan, you are good.”
He releases a knowing chuckle. “Would you like me to show you how good?” He pulls me close, gripping me by the ribs as he kisses me with enough vigor to steal my breath. “Not here, though. I have something I want to show you. Can we take my car?”
I make a noise of agreement and follow him across the street, a frenzy of emotions roiling through me. Terror, excitement, then terror again. It isn’t until I get in the plush Mercedes that I remember I look like a pajama party reject. Maybe I should say I want to get dressed first, that I need a little dignity. But then I’d have to find a way to make my voice work. Plus, I’d be calling attention to the fact that I have no bra on and that I’m wrapped in a purple and orange checkered blanket.
I am wearing bedazzled footwear, however, so there’s that.
TWENTY-FIVE
After a good half hour we’re merging onto the Pacific Coast Highway. The ocean stretches out to our left in an unending swath of blue grey. The sun rises over the San Fernando Mountains, casting its golden light on the water’s surface. My stomach clenches as we begin the winding journey north, and I realize we’re going to his house; I knew he moved somewhere out in Malibu last year, but I wouldn’t have had reason to visit him before now.
With each mile of road my brain gets louder, arguing with my body about whether it’s wise to jump into bed with Diego, like he hinted at. So many questions are still circling in my head. I'm still reeling from the fact that he’s back, and the reality that I didn’t dream the other night at the studio is buzzing through me, not to mention I just found out the guy has a secret identity.
Let me see . . . not gay, marathon kisser, massive talent in the hands department, retired con artist and thief, and he’s got a famous secret identity tucked away. Uh, that’s a lot to digest.
We pull off down a narrow side road that’s lined with gate after gate, all in a row. Now my curiosity is distracting me as I study the m
ysterious residences and lush tropical greenery.
My parents live in Hollywood Hills; I grew up with nice cars, and friends with winter homes in Vail and summer homes in Napa, so I’m not impressed easily. But houses along PCH are insanely pricy. And if you live here it’s because you exist in a world outside of reality, a world of movie stars or international banking.
We pull into one of the driveways and the gates close behind us. Diego comes around the car, opening my door like a gentleman. I leave the picnic blanket I was wrapped in on the seat and take his offered hand in mine. Once my skin touches his, I’m fairly sure that any argument my head had against this is now getting placed in the round file.
We walk down a moss and stone pathway, around the side of a modern Spanish style house. And then we’re standing on a wooden deck, high above the sand, overlooking the pastel colors of the Pacific Ocean. The sunrise over the mountains behind us is so lovely my breath catches.
Diego takes the key that I thought was a wedding ring and presses it into my hand.
I look down at the simple gold key and then up at him. “What’s this for?”
He smiles down at me. “My gift. It’s a key to my house.” He points at the large glass door.
Shock fills me. “You’re asking me to move in with you?”
“Not exactly, no.”
My fickle heart squeezes in disappointment.
He adds, “My dream to tie you to my bed would finally be realized if you did, but I figured that proposition would have you running scared. Practical Verity would think it was too soon for that.” He smiles again and places a small kiss on my forehead. “This is a key to the truth. About me. I want you to know me, no more secrets.”
I stare at him in amazement as he moves to unlock the door. He really means it. This is happening? Diego wants me to be his.
An alarm beeps as he opens the glass door and then goes over to a keypad on the opposite wall, punching in numbers.
He turns and smiles as I follow him inside. “Would you like the grand tour?”
I nod, amazed at the surroundings, and follow him down a small hallway along the wall of windows, into a wide space. The whole top floor is open with no walls between the living room, kitchen, and dining area. Only furniture delineates each space. The seaside walls are glass, giving me the illusion that I could reach out and touch the sky above the water.
Twisted In You_A Twisted Romance Page 17
