The Man Behind the Mask

by Barbara Wallace

  So complete, she fell apart when he died. Four long years of wishing she’d die, too, while her children struggled to find a way to live without her. Soul mates. Delilah hated the word. Hated that she’d been conditioned to believe that kind of true love was possible.

  Now her brother had gone and found his soul mate. And what was she doing?

  Damned if she knew. The surreal moment on the pier teased her the entire shower. Did she really see heat in Simon’s eyes? Or was the whole moment a product of her desperate imagination? If the latter, someone needed to let her body know. Her entire nervous system was awash with awareness.

  Tightening the belt on her robe, she got up and walked to the glass. By complete coincidence, her hotel room had the same view as the dock. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see the lights of departing airplanes. Simon’s room was only a few doors down. Was he watching the same view? For that matter, was he even in his room? After the security guard rousted them for sitting on the dock, Delilah had made a beeline for the elevator. The very idea of being in a small space with Simon turned her inside out.

  No, the idea of being in a small space following Simon’s rejection of you turned you inside out. She saw how quickly he pulled away when the guard arrived. Obviously, if there had been a moment, Simon wasn’t interested in it continuing. Why would he be? Simon was probably on the phone right now chatting with his socialite girlfriend or some other gorgeous prospective lover. Or having another whiskey to forget the whole evening ever happened.

  Her head fell against the glass. Maybe forgetting wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Like Simon said, the best thing she could do was start out better and stronger in the morning.

  * * *

  The boathouse was damp and cold. Without sunlight, the air never warmed. Simon’s breath made small gray clouds as he dragged the scull from the doorway. Every few feet he had to stop and readjust his grip because his numb fingers wouldn’t hang on. At this rate, breakfast would be over, meaning he’d have to sit through algebra on an empty stomach. Crap. This was so not how he wanted to spend his mornings. But, his father insisted he participate in sports. “Sports are an important part of prep school. They teach team spirit as opposed to those damn video games you’re always playing.” And so here he was, freezing and wet, dragging a stupid boat out of the stupid Charles River.

  He didn’t see the shadows until they were on him. One minute he was fine, the next he couldn’t move. Someone had his arms pinned behind his back.

  A face pushed close, the breath moist and sour from vodka filling his nostrils. “Where you think you’re going, Freshman?”

  * * *

  Splash! The cold water surrounded him and Simon felt his lethargic body slowly return to life. It might not be Olympic-size, but the hotel’s rooftop pool more than served its purpose. He propelled his way to the other end, his arms slashing the surface. Coach Callahan would have a fit if he saw him now. There wasn’t a bit of technique to his strokes. But Simon wasn’t interested in technique. It was the burn he craved. He wanted to push himself so hard his brain had no choice but to clear.

  Last night’s nightmare came out of nowhere. Damn inconvenient, all these memories rising to the surface. Made him stupid, off his game.

  He never told anyone about that day in the boathouse. Masking the broken parts of himself the best he could, he took what happened that day and filed them away in a locked part of his brain. Even when the scandal broke years later, he kept the memories quiet and carried on. No one would ever know the truth. How part of him shattered that raw, foggy morning. The world would forever see the Simon Cartwright they wanted to see. And on those rare occasions the memories did intrude and the mask threatened to slip? Well, then he had the pool.

  How many times had water saved his sanity?

  His fingers brushed the concrete, letting him know he’d reached the opposite wall. Hinging his hips, he pulled his torso down, dragging his memories beneath the surface. When he got low enough, he would flip directions and leave yesterday behind. Once again his life would be organized, the bad memories locked away where they couldn’t interfere with the here and now.

  A pair of black patent leather flats waited at the pool’s edge when he returned, a shiny reminder that not all of yesterday’s “issues” could be pulled underwater. He flipped and took another lap, pretending not to notice the shoes or their owner.

  Drowning his memories with pleasure was nothing new. He long ago learned the best place for keeping bad thoughts at bay—outside the pool—was his bed. Fortunately for him, there was never a shortage of women willing to join him, although for obvious reasons, he was always careful to keep business and pleasure separate. Until a second glass of whiskey blurred the two, that is.

  Thank goodness for the security officer.

  He waited two more laps before finally greeting her with a nod. “Morning, Delilah.”

  She looked different today, though how, he couldn’t say. Outwardly, she looked the same as ever. Gray slacks, same brown ponytail, bangs flopping in her face. Had to be the top. Pale blue silk, it was more fitted and brought out the blue in her eyes. Blue like the color water should be. Words that should sound foolish in the morning light, but instead, one glance told him they remained strangely accurate. Looking up at Delilah’s face, last night’s weightless feeling returned. He was falling and floating all at the same time. Just like being suspended in the deep ocean.

  Oh, for crying out loud, listen to him. He needed to pull himself together.

  “What has you visiting me on the roof at this hour?” He rested his arms on the pool’s edge and waited while she gathered her thoughts, hoping her early appearance didn’t signal a resignation. The way he had behaved, he’d be lucky if she didn’t slap him with a harassment suit.

  She gave him a long, unfathomable look before answering. “Josh Bartlett called.”

  They were apparently conducting business as usual. Thank goodness. Assistants as smart and capable as Delilah didn’t grow on trees. If he had ruined their relationship with last night’s insanity, he’d do more than just mentally kick himself.

  “Little early for business, isn’t it? What did he want?”

  She ran a hand around her ear, a habit he remembered finding incredibly fascinating last night. Daytime proved that notion correct, as well. He’d never noticed how long and graceful her fingers were.

  “Apparently the Bartlett family has a home on Cape Cod,” she told him. “They are throwing a New England clambake tomorrow night and invited us to attend.”

  “Beer and seafood in a relaxed setting. What better way to catch people with their guard down?” He had to hand it to Jim Bartlett. This need of his to interview agencies on a “personal” level might be peculiar, but the eccentricity had savvy. “You told him we’d love to, right?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “It means staying another two nights, including Saturday night at their beach house,” Delilah told him. “I didn’t think I should agree until I knew your schedule.”

  “I have no problem rearranging my life to win this account. You know that.”

  “I know. I also know how important the account is to you.”

  “Then why put him off?” Hesitation made them look indecisive, and that was the last image they wanted to project.

  “Delilah?” he prompted when she looked away. “Is there a problem?”

  “The account team for Mediatopia is also going to be there.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” He chuckled at Bartlett’s audacity. What better way to judge people than to have them mingle with their adversaries? Made his and Delilah’s attendance all the more imperative. He was beginning to understand how Bartlett made his fortune, and it wasn’t simply because he knew how to brew a good beer. “Tell him I said the more the merrier.”


  “Are you sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s just that after last night, I wasn’t sure you’d be...”

  “Up to it?” he finished for her. She nodded.

  Wow. He must have been more off his game than he thought. “Last night was an anomaly, I promise.”

  No sooner did he speak than the strangest expression crossed her face, passing too quickly for him to decipher. “Is there something else?”

  She suddenly became quite entranced with tracing a splash stain darkening the cement with her foot. “They want us to spend the night.”

  Of course. “You’re worried about spending the time alone with me.”

  Her face paled. “No, I...”

  “It’s all right, Delilah.” Stupid to think he’d escaped completely unscathed. Letting out a long breath, he hoisted himself out of the pool and made his way to the towel cart. Talking would be good. The two of them could clear the air and move forward.

  “Frankly, I don’t blame you. I think we can both agree I wasn’t myself last night,” he said as he toweled off. “The whiskey went to my head and I crossed the line. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Mistakes happen.” Turning abruptly, she headed toward the chain-link fence lining the pool area’s perimeter.

  “No, it’s not all right,” he said, following. “I’m your boss, and I have no business making you feel uncomfortable. Ever. I’d hate for an unfortunate mistake on my part to ruin a great working relationship. All I can hope is that you’ll accept my apology and let the two of us start fresh.”

  He wished she would turn around so he could convey to her the full apology in his words. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “In other words, you want to pretend last night never happened.”

  “Only if you’re willing to. The ball’s in your court.” She still hadn’t turned around, leaving him to wonder what she was thinking.

  After what seemed like hours, she shrugged. “Why not?” she said in an odd voice. “No harm, no foul, right?”

  “Thank you.” Simon let out a breath as some of the tension bearing down on his shoulders eased. He joined her at the fence, ready to say more when he caught sight of her profile.

  Disappointment flashed behind her eyes.

  Ridiculous. His conscience was playing tricks on him. Had to be. When it came to his behavior last night, he could see Delilah having many reactions: anger, embarrassment and humiliation, to name a few. But disappointment? Not possible.

  “Nothing to thank me for. Last night’s completely forgotten.” She looked straight at him, wearing the same calm expression she always wore. No disappointment in sight.

  “Do you need anything else?” she asked.

  Nothing a big fat do-over wouldn’t cure. He shook his head. “Not right now.”

  “Then I’ll go call Josh and let him know we can’t wait to join them. See you downstairs for the tour.”

  Simon stayed at the fence watching her walk away. Talk about dodging a bullet. He should be flooded with relief right now. Why then, did he have this overwhelming desire to chase after her before she closed the rooftop door?

  Unable to come up with an answer, he headed back to the only place that, while not promising answers, at least offered peace—the pool. Clearly, he needed a few more laps as everything hadn’t been left behind in the water.

  * * *

  “Most of our facilities have switched to brewing our fall varieties, but we’re still brewing summer ales here in Boston. For the tourists.”

  Josh flashed them a grin. “Hope it’s not too early for you folks to try some samples.”

  “Why not? It’s five o’clock somewhere, isn’t it?” Simon replied.

  “Ha.” Josh clapped him on the shoulder. “You just named one of this season’s flavors.”

  Delilah watched as Simon stiffened under the younger Bartlett’s touch and told herself she didn’t care. Simon had made his position very clear this morning. Last night was a mistake. Make that an unfortunate mistake. Mustn’t forget the adjective, in case she harbored any delusions their interactions meant anything more. Which she couldn’t, since Simon had also made it clear that he wanted to start fresh. As far as he was concerned, whatever last night was—drunken mistake, surreal dream, pick a term—it never happened.

  Fine. She shot her boss a polite smile when he glanced in her direction. If Simon wanted to file yesterday away, never to be mentioned again, let him. She could pretend nothing was wrong with the best of them. After all, she’d been doing so for the last four years, right? Hell, she’d been doing it since she was a teenager.

  Pretending would be a lot easier though if she didn’t have to spend the next two days in Simon’s company. This morning had been awful enough, being forced to put on an unaffected face while he stood there, his body wet and shining in the sunlight. Racing bathing suits left little to the imagination, and although they spent the entire conversation inches apart, she’d still been able to feel the moisture wicking off his warm body. He’d smelled of chlorine, the chemical scent making it impossible to chase the image away even after turning to the Boston skyline. Dear Lord, but he had looked beautiful.

  How on earth was she supposed to spend another forty-eight hours with the man when a simple mental image made her weak in the knees?

  Two words. Unfortunate mistake.

  For goodness’ sake, the event shouldn’t be that hard to shake. Wasn’t like time stood still or she felt sparks when he touched her hand or anything like that. Once you got past the pull of those deep blue eyes, and the heart wrenching disquiet he seemed to wear around him like a shroud, it was just another touch.

  Back in the present, Josh was telling the history of Bartlett brewing. At one particular point, he touched Simon’s shoulder and she saw her boss stiffen again. If she cared, she’d warn Josh about her boss’s need for personal space. Then again, she never truly understood Simon’s issue with closeness. Especially since he seemed fine with initiating contact himself.

  There was a lot she didn’t understand about the man, wasn’t there?

  “...gallons,” Josh finished.

  Since he was looking straight at her, she assumed he wanted a comment. “That’s a lot of beer,” she replied.

  Josh grinned. “Actually, we’re still in the mash stage so we’re still talking grain plus liquid, but either way, we’re still talking a sizeable amount of ale.”

  He beamed with such pride, Delilah had to beam back. “This is the smallest of our brewery locations. It’s active mostly for tours and stuff. Hard to believe the original Bartlett used to make his beer in a room at the back of his house.”

  “Bet the original Mrs. Bartlett was thrilled.”

  “The first in a long line of tolerant beer widows.” Josh grinned again. He did an awful lot of smiling, Delilah noticed, often in her direction. She was beginning to suspect the younger Bartlett found her attractive. After this morning’s rejection, the thought was a stroke to her ego, to be sure. If only his smile made her stomach flip-flop the way Simon’s did.

  “From here, we pump the mash into the brew kettle.”

  They passed under an archway into another large room with different metal tanks. A bitter aroma clung to the air. “This is where we add the hops.”

  He motioned for them to step closer to get a better view. As she bent over to read one of the nearby informational plaques, Delilah felt a hand brush the small of her back. The shiver passing down her spine told her the touch didn’t belong to her guide. Sure enough, Simon had joined her side.

  “The mixture stays here for...whoops, hold on.” Josh’s cell phone stopped him midsentence. Delilah took advantage of the reprieve to put some distance between her and Simon by pretending to study the other tanks.

 
; “I didn’t know you had such a keen interest in beer brewing,” Simon said in a low voice.

  His breath tickled the back of her neck, the sensation sending goose bumps across her skin. “You’re the one who suggested I find common ground, remember? Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. I appreciate the effort.”

  “It’s hardly an effort. Josh is an excellent tour guide.”

  “Yes, he definitely seems to be working the charm this morning, doesn’t he?”

  “What was that supposed to mean?” she asked, giving in and looking at him.

  “Nothing. Only that he’s being very charming.”

  What did she expect he’d say? It means I don’t want you interested in anyone but me, Delilah? Nothing was ever going to happen between the two of them. Unfortunate mistake, remember? High time she got over him.

  Josh returned, cutting short their conversation. “Sorry to break away,” he said. “That was Dad. He’s waiting for us in the sample room.”

  The “sample room” as Josh called it, was a rustically decorated cafeteria filled with long tables and chairs. There was a long wooden bar along the rear wall, behind which was a line of faux wooden kegs with taps. “Most of our guests consider this room the highlight of the tour,” Josh said, ducking behind the bar. “They aren’t nearly as interested in making beer as they are in drinking a glass.”

  “I wonder why?” Simon noted dryly. Before Josh could answer, he stepped up to take the pilsner glasses he was holding out, and handed one to her. “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere?” he guessed with a grin.

  “One and the same,” Josh replied.

  “And if not, we’ll pretend,” a new voice boomed out.

  As though he’d been waiting in the wings, Jim Bartlett entered and immediately joined his son at the tap. Delilah wondered if his absence had been a ploy so his son could feel out Simon on his own.

  “On Fridays, we invite the whole company to enjoy a cold one to celebrate the end of another work week,” he told them. “Looks like we’re starting early today.”