by Selena Kitt
"You're his secretary," I said. "Didn't he tell you?"
I knew that would rankle him. "Tell me where he is!"
"Sheepfuckistan," I said, and hung up.
It was the wine. I swear.
Not knowing what else to do, I walked out of the bedroom and back to the living room, putting Malcolm's phone on top of his coat before pouring myself another glass of wine and glancing around. A TV sat against the wall. Bingo, I thought. I located the remote and settled down with my bottle of wine.
* * * *
I was good and drunk by the time Malcolm stumbled out into the living room, wearing only a pair of silk pajama bottoms. His sex-messed hair and evening wood had me thinking dirty, drunken thoughts, and when he kissed me good evening I leaned into his lips and it felt like falling.
“I see you've located the wine,” he said. He took the bottle from my hand—now only a third full—and wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a glass for himself. “I thought we'd go out to dinner. Do you like seafood?”
“I love seafood,” I said. “Ljubav. Love. Love, love, love.”
He took a sip of wine and raised his eyebrows at me. “You speak Croatian?” he asked.
“Hell no,” I said, “I've just been watching Croatian music videos. You can figure out some words from pop songs, because pop songs are the same in every language. All about love and crying and hearts and stuff.” I gestured drunkenly at the television as it flashed a gorgeous, fresh-faced Slavic girl at me, her perfect voice caressing the words as they flowed out of her mouth. I loved it. I love everything when I drink wine. I even loved Malcolm Ward, although I wasn't in love with him. I loved him deeply, though, because he was a fellow traveler on this road of life and all that shit. I'm a soppy drunk.
“You're drunk,” Malcolm said.
“Yup,” I replied. “There wasn't any food in the apartment.”
“True.” He seemed amused. “I'm going to make a few calls and see who wants to give us a private dinner.”
Calls, I thought. There was something about calls that I was supposed to remember, wasn't there? Calls, calls, calls...
Oh, shit, I realized. Malcolm's horrible asshole secretary! He needed to call him back. And I'd answered the phone...
Oh dear. I shouldn't have done that, should I? Well, I was about to be found out, because he was going to turn on his phone and then he'd see all those missed calls and the answered one would be in the record and I'd better confess right now—
But Malcolm wasn't going for his cell phone. He was instead lifting a handset off the wall and dialing out. Oh my god, a land line! This really was the Old Town. I giggled to myself as Malcolm spoke to the person on the other end of the line, in French. Surprisingly.
After less than a minute's conversation he hung up. “You speak French?” I said.
“Mais oui.” He smiled. “But not as well as I speak German and Japanese. And I certainly don't speak Croatian. I never had the chance to learn. Luckily for me it seems everyone here is multilingual. Dominic knows French best, so I speak to him in French, and he, in turn, laughs at my French. But he will still make the most delectable meal you've ever tasted.”
“He will?” I was dubious. I've had some damn good food in the last year or two. And New York is lousy with hole-in-the-wall restaurants that would make a gourmand weep for joy—if you know where to find them.
“Indeed. We should get dressed.”
Getting dressed took a little longer than it normally does because I was too drunk to match my clothes up, especially because they were all new and I'd never seen any of them before. In the end, Malcolm dressed me, pouring my drunk ass into a corset and delicate stockings before wrapping me up in fine winter clothes and handing me my purse. His hands on me made me happy and warm, and by the soft kisses he planted on my skin I could tell he felt the same. Coming with him had been a good decision. I was sure of it.
When we finally wandered out into the streets, the city was different than it had been this morning. Lamplight filled the stone world, and the smell of the sea hung sharp and cold in the air. I reveled in it, letting it sober me up a bit as we walked the cobbled streets. Or stone-paved streets. They kept changing under my feet, and it wasn't long before I was completely turned around and lost. All I knew was that we were on a large, main thoroughfare. It had rained again while we slept, and the streets gleamed wetly, small puddles reflecting the street lamps, gilding the stone world in gold.
I was very warm from my stifling under things and the walk through the streets by the time Malcolm steered me off the road and into a little cafe. No chairs or tables stood in the street outside it, but inside a few lights burned, and when we stepped through the door I nearly fainted with hunger at the delicate smells of fine herbs and sweet shellfish. Traditional music played, tinny and old-world sounding on an ancient sound system. White tablecloths shone in the warm yellow light, and I immediately felt at home.
An older man, his face lined so deeply he looked like a raisin, came out of the kitchen and exclaimed something in French, his arms open wide. Malcolm returned the greeting and the two hugged and kissed like old friends.
Friends. That was what Malcolm was like. A friend to everyone. Straightforward. Open. Welcoming. And despite his strange talk and idiosyncrasies, he seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be. The realization startled me. I'd known so many men who hid things, who led double lives. But Malcolm was completely transparent. Everything there was to know about him was floating on the surface, written in plain words in a language I was learning to decipher.
Malcolm introduced me to Dominic, and the old man embraced and kissed me as well, his arms surprisingly strong for a raisin. Speaking in rapid French, he ushered us over to a table in the middle of the room decorated with fluttering candles. Malcolm helped me into my chair, and then seated himself.
And then my phone rang.
Real world calling.
The happy buzz of the wine receded somewhat before I realized that the ringtone was not Felicia's. I probably had a million texts from her, but she'd known I'd gone to see Malcolm on Monday because he'd asked her for the day off so he could paint me. If there was anyone in the world who would understand getting swept off her feet and off to some other place by a rich, magnetic man, it would be Felicia. So... someone else was calling me.
I didn't want to answer it. Whoever it was could wait. I kicked my purse under the table and shrugged out of my coat. The corset kept me sitting straight, and I suddenly realized how far my breasts were pushed out toward Malcolm. And he knew it. His eyes glittered at me, dancing mischievously in the candlelight.
Dominic rattled off more rapid French as he poured out small glasses of liqueur. Malcolm tossed his back immediately and I... well, I let mine sit after taking a whiff and feeling my stomach turn. I really needed something to eat first.
My phone rang again. I gritted my teeth, then gave Malcolm a bright smile. “Just a second,” I said. “I have to turn that off.”
He smiled back at me. “Very well.”
I ducked under the table, the tightness of the corset making me wheeze as I grabbed my purse and ripped it open, fishing the offending piece of technology from its terrifying depths.
A number I'd never seen before flashed on the screen. New York area code.
I hesitated. What if it was an emergency? What if something had happened to Felicia and someone was trying to get a hold of me? What if something had happened to Felicia and Anton together? Felicia and Anton and Arthur, and the whole company...?
Well, okay, the more I thought about it the less likely it seemed that everyone I personally knew would have been consumed by the same disaster, except of course it had happened before. Many times. I hadn't seen the news lately...
“I have to take this,” I said, suddenly feeling more sick than drunk.
Malcolm frowned at me. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Haha!” I said. “Probably! Is there a bathroom here?”
“Where the hell is Mr. Ward?” Don's angry voice surged across the Atlantic, pissed beyond belief. “I know he must be awake by now.”
This. Fucking. Guy, I thought. Two could be righteously angry! “How'd you get my number?” I demanded.
“That's not important. I need to talk to Mr. Ward as soon as possible.”
My buzz was thoroughly wrecked at this point and my stomach pitched and roiled, basted in acidic wine. I needed to eat something. Preferably a piece of bread. “I'll tell him you called,” I said.
“Oh, will you? Think you can remember to do that this time?”
I hated this guy. “I remembered,” I said. “I just didn't do it.”
A sound of frustration came over the line, and I smiled. I mean, I'm not usually vindictive and unprofessional like that, but I was drunk, I really needed to eat something, and he was just a shithead.
He changed tactics. “I apologize, Miss MacElroy,” he said after an audible sigh. “It has been a long and very trying few days. Mr. Ward must come back to New York. It is very important.”
“You're not going to give me a hint about what's so goddamn important?” I said. I obviously didn't have any right to that information, but if it was a business deal or something I was certain it could wait until the end of our meal.
There was a silence. “Okay. Fine. He's wanted for questioning by the FBI.”
I nearly dropped the phone in shock. “What?”
“Yeah. You'd better get his ass back to New York, or he's going to be arrested.”
I licked my lips. “I have no reason to trust what you're saying. You've been nothing but a shitlord to me since the world hello. You better tell me right now what you need him for or you're just going to have to call him yourself.”
“Does he have his phone on him?”
“No.” I wasn't sure, but I wasn't going to give him any quarter.
“And I have no reason to trust what you are saying. You're just a gold-digger.”
Now I was so shocked I couldn't even speak. Was that why he was such a terrible person to me? Don seemed to take my silence as an admission of guilt. When he spoke next I heard his smile.
“He's not crazy, you know,” he said. “It's all an act. You can't get his money by duping him.”
I felt cold. “I know he's not crazy, you ass. I'm not after his money, either.”
“Sure you aren't,” he said, his voice brimming with smugness, as though he knew all my motivations. I'd have had no problems marrying someone for their money as long as we were perfectly honest about our relationship... but this wasn't like that.
“Good luck getting a hold of him when I accidentally drop his cell phone in the toilet,” I said and hung up before I became the target of any more invective.
Sobered, I stood in the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. I hadn't put on any make up and my hair was loose, but the clothes I wore were beautifully made and they mostly hid my tattoos. I didn't look like someone who would sleep with a guy for the money... did I? And I certainly wasn't the sort of person who would take advantage of a crazy person for monetary gain.
That dickhole knows nothing about you, I thought fiercely. Leaning over the sink, I splashed some cold water on my face and, feeling a bit more clear-headed than before, I turned and strode back to the table where Malcolm was speaking with Dominic.
“Sorry about that,” I said, settling back down in my chair.
“Who was it?” Malcolm asked.
I shook my head. “No one important.” Just your secretary, telling me you're wanted for questioning by the FBI. Oh yeah, about that...
He held my gaze for a little longer than I would have liked, but after a moment he turned back to Dominic and spoke again in rapid French. Dominic smiled and laughed, left and then returned almost immediately bearing a loaf of crusty bread, olive oil and vinegar, and a smattering of herbs on a plate. With a flourish, he poured out the oil and vinegar onto the plate, somehow managing to create a pool of oil with a perfectly-formed black-vinegar heart in the middle. Malcolm shook his head, but it was indulgent.
“Dominic claims we are destined lovers,” he said as the old man bustled off, presumably to get the rest of our meal ready.
“You said that we might be the day after we met,” I said. “Don't you remember?”
His eyes softened. “I do, but I said it was the red thread of fate, which ties together those who are destined to meet, not necessarily become lovers. So the red thread of fate connects us, perhaps, and even if it were to designate us as destined lovers that is not necessarily a good thing. Often lovers in Eastern mythology are tragic figures.” His eyes twinkled, as though he thought being a tragic figure would be quite a lark. “Dominic doesn't mean it that way, but he's a remarkably optimistic man.”
I tilted my head, “And you aren't?”
He seemed surprised that I had misread him so badly. “Me? Oh, no. I'm far more fatalistic. The Buddha himself tells us that suffering is inevitable. It must be true.”
He was getting mystic on me again, and I was no longer in the mood for his whimsies. “I know you're not crazy,” I blurted suddenly.
Silence fell across the table.
Me and my stupid drunk mouth.
His eyes hardened and he leaned back in his chair, and I suddenly realized that there was another side to him. The side I'd seen when he commanded me to submit to him. The side of him that had made him a formidable businessman and a billionaire at a relatively young age. Mastery. Dominance. Implacability.
I gave an involuntary shiver and forced myself to not look away.
He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, every inch the CEO. “And how would you know that, Sadie?” he asked. “Does it have anything to do with the scars hidden beneath the ink on your skin?”
I stiffened, inhaling sharply. The strictures of the corset restrained my ribs, and I became lightheaded. “That's none of your business,” I said. “But yes. Yes it does. Now don't change the subject.”
He blinked, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. He hadn't expected me to admit anything. “What subject?” he said.
“The subject where I tell you I know you aren't crazy, so why do you act the way you do?”
He tilted his head. “And what way is that?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You know exactly what I mean. Skipping the country with a woman you barely know and buying her thousands of dollars worth of clothes.” God, tens of thousands, probably. The thought made me slightly sick to my stomach. Eschewing decorum, I nibbled on a piece of bread to settle my stomach before continuing. “Declaring yourself to be a tortured artistic genius. Singing with homeless men on the subway and then giving away a thousand dollars just because. Spouting off religious aphorisms in every day conversation. You know. That sort of thing.”
He was silent for a moment, and we stared at each other as Dominic emerged from the kitchen with our first course, a delicate display of fresh mussels with a drizzle of cream sauce. The bread had settled my stomach and it smelled heavenly, but I didn't want to be the first to look away. Dominic, clearly sensing something had gone awry with his fated lovers, faded back into the kitchen.
Finally Malcolm picked up his fork and deftly pried a mussel from its shell. “Who was that on the phone, Sadie?” he asked me. He didn't exactly sound like a disapproving father from a sixties sitcom, but it was close.
“Why?” I demanded. “What does it matter?”
“Because the moment you came out of the bathroom after speaking to them, you acted differently. Whoever it was told you something about me, or warned you against getting involved with me, or something else to that effect, and I would like to know what it was, and who told you such things
.”
I pressed my lips into a line. He didn't have a right to know. But then again, I didn't have a right to interrogate his personal secretary.
And I really liked Malcolm Ward. He was weird, but he wasn't trying to be. He was just a guy who had removed his social filter and decided to do whatever the fuck came into his head. The only reason he wasn't singing on the subway as a homeless person himself was because he was so goddamn rich. Why he'd decided to do that was the question.
Surely it didn't have something to do with the fact that he was being investigated by the FBI, could it?
It was all the wine, I swear. And I guess some of it was my own bad judgment, but mostly it was the wine.
“Your secretary called me,” I confessed at last. “Don Cardall, or whatever.”
That surprised him. His eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline. “Don called you? How did he know your number?”
Now I had to look away, worrying my lower lip with my teeth. “He sort of called you on your cell phone about a thousand times while you were asleep and I answered, thinking it might be important.”
I sneaked a glance at him from the corner of my eye, and was relieved to see he looked more puzzled than anything. I'd expected him to be angry. I pressed on. “I asked him what he wanted, and he said he needed to talk to you. I tried to wake you up, but you were passed out. Like, drugged passed out.”
“Mm,” he said. “I do sleep fairly heavily. And I haven't been sleeping much in the past few weeks.”
Few weeks? So not just since he'd met me. Interesting. “Anyway, he was really rude to me, so I was rude back, and by the time you woke up I'd had too much wine and watched too much Croatian television to remember that he wanted you to call him back. So he got my number from somewhere and called me to yell at me for not informing you that he'd called.” I thought for a moment. “And now that I say it out loud, it's all very high school. I also told him I'd accidentally drop your phone in the toilet if he wasn't nicer to me.”
