by Various
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Apparently Max could. Zoe’s hand clenched on the sheet, and the satin slipped under her fingers. Max regarded her with a remote coolness that made her throat dry and her eyes sting.
No. No, please, no. Not this. Not this utter rejection, the look in his eyes one of…annoyance? Zoe feared that was the humiliating emotion she saw there. She was no more than an irritation to be dealt with before he got on with his day.
Or was she overreacting? Battle scarred from all the trashy tabloid talk, the stares and whispers?
‘Why?’ she finally asked, and forced herself to smile. ‘Are you out of coffee?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Max replied. ‘But I don’t think you should stay long enough to warrant coffee or clothes.’
Zoe blinked. She felt as if she’d been slapped. She opened her mouth but for once any witty retort or rejoinder deserted her. Her mind was blank, numb, and she looked away, blinking hard.
‘I can’t say much for your hospitality,’ she finally managed. Her voice sounded scratchy, and her throat felt sore.
‘No,’ Max agreed. His mouth was set in a hard line, the expression in his eyes chilly and so terribly resolute.
‘Did last night not mean anything to you?’ Zoe asked, wincing even as the words came out of her mouth. What a stupid question to ask. Obviously it didn’t; he really couldn’t make it any plainer. Was she a glutton for punishment, demanding the torture of him explaining himself even more?
‘No,’ Max said again, and Zoe bit her lip. ‘And I don’t think it meant much to you either.’
How could he say that, Zoe wondered, when she’d felt so different, so new? How could he believe it? Pride forced herself to smile coolly and toss her hair over her shoulders. ‘Well, even so, a parting cup of coffee would be a courtesy, at least.’
‘Sorry.’ He didn’t sound sorry at all.
‘Right. Well.’ She gripped the sheet tightly; the last thing she wanted was for the thing to fall off completely and leave her standing completely naked in front of this man who had used and rejected her with a clinical, cold cruelty.
And she had let him.
She’d wanted to forget…and she had to give Max that—he’d allowed her to forget.
And now she just had more pain and heartache to remember. To try to forget…again.
‘You might want to explain to your future lovers that you have a strict morning-after policy,’ she said, gripping a handful of sheet, her teeth gritted even though she managed to keep her voice cutting rather than wobbly, as if she were angry rather than desolate or even heartbroken. ‘Out before eight o’clock.’
‘Actually, it’s almost nine,’ Max drawled in a bored voice. ‘But I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘Bastard,’ Zoe hissed. She couldn’t keep herself from saying it; it was better than crying.
Max swivelled to face her fully for the first time since she’d come out on the terrace.
‘You knew what you were getting into, Zoe,’ he said coolly. ‘Just Zoe. Some men might sugarcoat it a bit more than I do, but the fact remains the same. We had a night together, and it’s over. Now I have work to do.’
He rose from his chair, one hand braced against the table. Zoe didn’t move, and his mouth tightened.
‘You need to go.’
‘What about—’ Zoe swallowed the words. What was the point of asking, What about when I touched your scar? I held you in my arms. It felt like so much more. It meant so much more…to me.
She was so very, very stupid.
‘Fine.’
In a whirl of satin she stalked from the terrace, and it was a testament to her rage that she didn’t even care when the sheet caught in the door and came undone, leaving her utterly bare.
Naked she strode through the rooms, too angry to care—or at least to acknowledge she cared—and found her clothes in the bedroom. She jerked them on, reaching for her wrap and handbag by the door before she stabbed viciously at the lift button.
It seemed an age before the elevator finally arrived, and she stood there, taut, her chest heaving with the effort of containing her emotion, unable to turn and look at—for—Max, to see the scorn that would undoubtedly be twisting his features. Finally the doors opened, signalling her freedom, her exile. She could feel Max behind her, even though she hadn’t looked at him once since he’d told her to go.
Now as she stepped into the lift she whirled around, determined to give him one parting shot.
‘Go to he—’ The words, ripped from her, were cut off as she gazed at him still standing by the door to the terrace, the sheet she’d worn pressed to his face, his eyes closed.
He didn’t seem aware of her at all, and before she could say—or think—anything more, the doors whooshed closed and she was speeding down, away from Max Monroe forever.
The sheet smelled ever so faintly of rose water. Max breathed it in, his eyes still closed, trying to reconstruct her face, the feel of her body, in his mind. A memory.
Everything was becoming a memory.
Sighing, the sound harsh with regret, he dropped the sheet. He’d almost tripped over the blasted thing, and he’d only meant to kick it away, but when he’d smelled that faint, lingering scent…
He sighed again, and then he cursed.
It was over. He’d never see Zoe again. He let out a sharp laugh at the irony of his words. Of course he’d never see Zoe again. That was why he’d sent her away as callously as he had. Admittedly he’d never spent more than a few days—sometimes weeks—with a woman, but he favoured them with more dignity and respect than he’d just treated Zoe.
He’d had no choice. The cut had to be clean. Sharp.
Final.
Everything felt so final.
Cursing again, Max walked with careful steps to the study. At least he had his work…for now. When would that be taken from him? How could he consult or invest when he couldn’t even read a newspaper or a computer screen? Already those tasks were proving difficult, near impossible, and it was only a matter of time before everything went blank. Black.
Forever.
And he was left powerless, as helpless as a child once more. He couldn’t bear to feel that again, and he certainly couldn’t bear for anyone to see him like that.
That was why he’d sent Zoe away.
Bastard.
Yes, he was a bastard, and she was a shallow socialite, and they’d forget each other in a fortnight. For his own sake, Max prayed that were true.
Go to hell.
Max smiled grimly. He was already there.
Zoe took a taxi back to the Balfour apartment, barely conscious of the blocks speeding by, a blur of traffic lights. Her body and mind both ached, and she felt utterly exhausted. Spent.
Used.
She gritted her teeth, trying to keep Max’s words—his sneer—at bay. Some men might sugarcoat it a bit more than I do…
That was an understatement.
Sighing she leant her head against the windowpane of the cab. The morning sunshine had given way to grey, and outside a light drizzle fell, misting over Grand Central Station. The weather matched her mood perfectly.
Why had she gone with Max last night? What had she been hoping to achieve? Even though she liked a party, she was choosy with her partners. She didn’t hop into bed with just anyone, and yet last night…
Last night had been different. Max had been different.
Or so she’d thought. She winced, remembering that feeling of glorious optimism she’d felt when she’d woken in a pool of sunshine in Max’s bed. She’d felt as if it was the beginning; she thought she’d finally found herself.
Hardly.
Nothing had changed; she hadn’t changed. Max Monroe was a self-serving ass and she was just what she’d been before, and what she’d called him—a bastard.
The apartment was dark and quiet when Zoe entered, flinging her keys on the marble table in the grand entrance foyer. Oscar Balfour hired a full-t
ime housekeeper to maintain the apartment, but she had weekends off and Zoe was glad. She wanted to be alone. She needed to be alone; she didn’t think she could handle a conversation of any kind at this point.
She stripped off her clothes, kicking them into a corner, vowing never to wear them again. Then she strode into the marble en-suite bathroom and ran a full, foaming tub, hot enough to almost hurt, sinking into the bubbles in blessed relief.
She stayed in the water until her fingers and toes looked like prunes, and it had gone from steaming to tepid to cold. Only then did she reluctantly rouse herself from the blank state of lethargy she’d snuggled into like a cocoon, blocking out the world and its harsh judgements and memories. She put on the pair of pyjamas no one ever saw her in—an old pair of grey track bottoms and a worn-to-softness hoody—and curled up in bed, her knees to her chest.
All around her the apartment was quiet, dark. Empty. Curled on the huge bed, she’d never felt more alone. More lonely. Spinning in a great, empty void of uncertainty and uselessness.
And then before she could stop herself, the tears she’d been holding back for not just hours but weeks came rushing down her face, scalding her cheeks, emptying her soul.
She didn’t know how long she cried, the sobs racking her body as for once she didn’t hold anything back, didn’t pretend even to herself that she was all right, that she was strong as her father had told her she was.
She wasn’t. She wasn’t, Zoe thought as she wiped her cheeks, anything at all. The loss of the Balfour name had been the loss of her identity. It was humiliating to realise that, to feel as though she had nothing to call her own, nothing to be.
And had she actually thought—if only for a few hours—that Max Monroe could give that to her? That with him she’d know who she was?
‘I know who I am,’ Zoe said aloud. Her voice sounded small and forlorn, pathetic. Yet still hugging her knees to her chest, she reminded herself of just what kind of woman she was. What she could do best.
Sparkle.
And so she would.
She sparkled and partied and kept herself busy, all of her energy and emotion poured into the trivial matters of shopping sample sales and deciding what the best entertainment for an evening was. She came back to the apartment only to deposit her shopping bags and to sleep, and she determinedly ignored the housekeeper Lila’s silent censure.
She refused to think about Max. She didn’t think about anything, anyone, not even herself. Yet with each party she felt herself becoming more fragile, more frantic, clinging to a way of life that was surely slipping out of her grasp. Perhaps it had been for years, and it took the outing of her birth to make her realise she couldn’t be an it-girl forever. Eventually you had to grow up. You had to do something.
You had to be strong.
Except she had no idea how to be strong, or even who she was, or how to go about finding out.
Three weeks after her night with Max, Oscar called her. Zoe wouldn’t have even answered—she didn’t want to talk to her so-called father—but she’d been asleep and she reached for her mobile in a half-stupor.
‘Zoe?’ Oscar’s sharp tone had her scrambling to a sitting position.
‘Dadd—’ She pressed her lips together, and heard Oscar sigh.
‘I hadn’t heard from you since you arrived in New York, Zoe, and I wanted to make sure you were all right. You sound as if you were asleep—’
‘I was.’
‘It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘I was out late last night.’
The tiny, arctic pause told Zoe Oscar wasn’t happy about that. ‘Am I to understand you have not taken steps to reach your father?’
‘He’s not my father.’
‘Indeed.’ Oscar’s tone gentled. ‘But you know who I am talking about, Zoe, and—’
‘I haven’t decided if I want to find him,’ Zoe cut him off. ‘I’m not sure what good it will do. He hasn’t been interested in me before now—’
‘I doubt he knew of your existence.’
‘You don’t think my mother ever told him?’ The question came out stilted. My mother. Who was she? Bella and Olivia had memories; she had nothing but the knowledge that she was the cause of her mother’s death. The only mother she had really ever known had been Oscar’s third wife, Lillian, and she’d died months ago. The loss was still fresh, painful, leaving her feeling even more adrift.
‘I doubt it, Zoe.’ Oscar paused. ‘But even if she did, his position was hardly tenable. She was married, you know, to me.’
‘Well, still,’ Zoe said, hearing a petulant note creep into her voice. ‘I don’t know if I want to find him.’
‘Then perhaps you should return here,’ Oscar said after a moment, ‘to Balfour Manor.’
Balfour Manor…the only place she’d ever really thought of as home, with its gracious rooms and rolling lawns, its sense of history and honour, certain of its dignified place in the world.
If only she felt the same.
‘Zoe…?’ Oscar prompted, and she shook her head even though he couldn’t see her.
‘I can’t.’ She couldn’t face everyone’s pity or curiosity, the tabloids who wouldn’t let go of her story, or the fair-weather friends who would turn—already had—at the first sign of rain. She couldn’t, even though part of her—a large part—longed to flee back to the safe haven of home.
‘If you can’t go back,’ Oscar told her, a smile in his voice, ‘then go forward. That’s why you’re in New York—not just to ring up the charges on my credit card.’ Although the kindness in his tone took the sting out of the words, Zoe still flushed guiltily.
‘OK,’ she finally said, the one word given reluctantly, and Oscar gave a tiny sigh.
‘I love you, Zoe.’
Tears stung her eyes. She thought she’d cried them all already, yet there they were again, ready to fall. She blinked them back.
‘I love you too,’ she mumbled.
After she hung up the phone she clambered out of the bed and walked through the quiet, empty rooms of the Balfour apartment. Out on the penthouse’s terrace, Zoe sank into a wrought-iron chair, drawing her legs up to her chest.
It was a gorgeous day, the sky a pale, washed blue, the trees in Central Park a vivid green. Even in the city everything smelled fresh, new.
If you can’t go back, then go forward.
The thought terrified her. She had no idea what forward looked like, felt like. What it could mean.
Yet she knew of only one step forward to take, the step she’d been sent to New York for.
She needed to find her father.
Chapter Four
ZOE tilted her head back to survey the gleaming glass skyscraper once more; it was one of the tallest, most imposing buildings on Fifty-Seventh Street. A brass plaque by the front doors, guarded by an official-looking doorman in a navy suit with gold braid, had two discreet words: Anderson Finance.
Thomas Anderson, the CEO and founder of the company, was the man she’d come to meet. Taking a deep breath, her nerves still jarring and jangling, she walked briskly into the building’s foyer, favouring the doorman with an imperious nod, her heels clicking on the black marble floor.
‘May I help you, miss?’ A woman with an upswept do and a good deal of glossy make-up gave her a smile of official courtesy when Zoe was halfway to the bank of gleaming gold lifts.
She gave the woman a breezy smile. ‘I’m here to see Thomas Anderson.’
The woman didn’t even blink. ‘Is he expecting you?’ she asked, and Zoe gave her practised little trill of laughter.
‘No, actually, it’s a surprise.’ She batted her eyelashes, and saw a brief look of distaste flicker across the woman’s expertly made-up features.
‘I’m afraid Mr Anderson doesn’t like surprises,’ the woman told her with a frosty smile. ‘And he has back-to-back meetings all morning—’
‘Then call up,’ Zoe interjected. She smiled sweetly, even though her insides felt far too wo
bbly. ‘Tell him…’ She took a deep breath. ‘Tell him Zoe Balfour is here to see him.’ Another breath. ‘Alexandra Balfour’s daughter.’
The woman pursed her lips and then reached for the phone. Zoe couldn’t hear what she said into that gleaming black receiver; her heart was beating so fast and loud it thundered in her ears. It took all of her strength to simply stand upright, a cool little smile on her face, looking for the world like the outcome of that ten-second phone call held no import whatsoever.
The woman put the receiver down and gave her a rather narrow look. ‘He’ll see you. Twenty-sixth floor.’
Zoe let her smile widen as she waggled her fingers and then she turned and walked crisply to the elevators, the click of her heels echoing all around her.
Her heart was still thudding right out of her chest and her finger trembled as she pushed twenty-six and then watched as each floor zoomed by, a reverse countdown.
A little ping announced she had arrived, and the elevator doors opened straight into a large reception room, endless yards of plush cream carpet scattered with leather sofas, a lot of modern art on the walls. Zoe glanced at a few blobs of colour daubed on a canvas and thought of Max’s words to her at the gallery opening: my company donated a quarter of a million dollars to fund these monstrosities on the walls.
She smiled slightly, even though the memory of him still hurt, hurt more than it ever should, considering how little they really knew each other. Had known. Max Monroe was in the past; there would be no opportunities to know him more, or at all, in the future. She would do well to remember that.
A black-suited PA rose from behind a streamlined glass-topped desk and walked over to her. ‘Zoe Balfour?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Anderson will see you now. I’m afraid he only has a few moments. He’s got—’
‘Back-to-back meetings,’ Zoe filled in. ‘So I heard.’
