Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  She finally stops and looks at me. “Did you know Jamie Thornton’s been seriously injured?” The question is a whisper.

  News sure travels fast. “Yes. How did you hear about it?”

  “Marty called. He was furious…and accused you.”

  Well, well. So Marty isn’t a complete moron. I was wondering after that idiotic attempt to prevent Iris from leaving with me last night. “A garden at night can be a dangerous place. Who can Jamie blame for his injuries other than himself for being so clumsy?”

  She looks skeptical, of course. She’s smart. But I can’t tell her the truth. Violence upsets her, even when it’s directed at scum like Thornton. He deserved every bit of what I did to him. And he will never be able to touch another girl without thinking of my punishment.

  “So you had nothing to do with it?”

  “If I had things my way, Thornton would be dead.” That’s honest, although it doesn’t really answer her question.

  She shifts in her seat. “I don’t know how you can talk about death so casually.”

  “I don’t. I take death very seriously.” She has no clue how much. “Some men believe they aren’t bound by social norms or human decency. If they want to live like animals, they should expect to be treated as such.” Then, out of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, I add, “I’ve always regretted not doing more nine years ago when that guy tried to rape the girl I told you about. I stopped him, but…I didn’t do enough to ensure he would never do it again.”

  There isn’t even a glimmer of recollection on her face. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Tony. I’m sure she was grateful to you for saving her.”

  A hint of admiration touches her tone, and suddenly I can’t stand it. I didn’t save Ivy. I’m the reason she’s dead.

  I’m the reason so many beautiful things are broken.

  Chapter Forty

  Iris

  I wonder if I said something to upset Tony. He got pretty quiet after I told him the girl he saved must be grateful. Picked at what was left on his plate rather than finishing his meal.

  Despite my protests, he paid for brunch. And we’re back in his car, moving toward Byron’s place. This time, there’s no music and we aren’t talking. I almost wish TJ would put Schubert back on because this silence is really awkward.

  I go back over our conversation at the diner. I probably said more than I normally would. Tony’s so easy to talk to. Unlike most people who squirm and look away when they hear bits of what happened to me, he leaned closer, asked questions and showed a genuine interest. Maybe I unloaded a little too much. I told him things that I haven’t even told Julie or Byron.

  What were you thinking? No wonder he’s gone all silent. He was probably being polite. Marty said I wasn’t Tony’s type because I’m not a buxom brunette, and now my mouth has made sure I never will be.

  Finally, the car stops in front of the building. TJ goes around and opens the door for me. Before I climb out, I turn to Tony. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Just thinking.”

  He’s too guarded. Unlike me, he isn’t going to unload on a virtual stranger, no matter how inviting they might seem. “If I said anything—”

  “You didn’t, Iris. It isn’t you.”

  “Do you want to come up?” I blurt out. Maybe there’s something I can do to lift his brooding mood.

  “Can’t. I have an appointment.” He runs his thumb across my lower lip, making my heart speed up, my skin heat, but stops before touching the cut. “Does it still hurt?”

  I shake my head, then have to swallow before I can answer. “It’s better now. The ointment helped.”

  “I’m glad,” he says, studying my mouth.

  Suddenly, I feel parched. He’s going to kiss me. I can tell.

  Normally, I wouldn’t want a kiss from a virtual stranger, but Tony’s an exception. Anticipation spikes. I feel like I’ve waited my entire life for this.

  His head dips, his large, warm hand on my shoulder, a finger under my chin angling my jaw slightly…

  I part my lips, almost lightheaded with suspense and excitement. But his lips press against my forehead. They’re firm and hot, and his breath tickles my skin. It’s such a sweet gesture, full of affection and something else I can’t quite identify. I feel the touch all the way to my toes, which curl in my shoes, and my heart hammers.

  He pulls back. “I’ll call you.”

  I get out of the car on unsteady legs and watch him go, realizing for the first time in my life that with the right man, a kiss on the forehead can be more intimate and romantic than anything with anyone else.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Anthony

  On Monday, I arrive at the Pryce Family Foundation, the feel of Iris’s skin on my mouth still lingering. I wanted to kiss her for real, but there was that damn cut…

  I spent yesterday afternoon and evening thinking about her. I just can’t believe Iris isn’t Ivy, logic be damned. Even if she is using a different name and has no recollection of our time together.

  It hurts that she doesn’t remember, when there hasn’t been a day or night I haven’t thought of her. Is it just the head injury? Is it too emotionally painful to recall? All the silly movies and shows have that kind of nonsense, but this is real life. If you could just erase painful stuff from your head, I wouldn’t remember Katherine…or Ivy’s death.

  It’s just possible she’s a ringer, a setup by some enemy, like Edgar said. But I can’t believe it. If someone was going to dig nine years back, they would do better than amnesia, a different name and no tattoo. And if she weren’t Ivy, she wouldn’t have said or done the things she has.

  What she said when I was kicking Jamie’s ass. Piano practice in the morning. How she still loves tiger lilies. Grapefruit juice being her favorite.

  Yeah, sure, Edgar’s voice says, then ticks off its points. No tattoo on her wrist. Didn’t attend a conservatory. Has no ambition to become a concert pianist. Her parents were alive until nine years ago. The scar on her palm is from a car accident, not gardening shears. Didn’t care for the French toast and bacon. The yearbook that proves she was just an ordinary high school kid who graduated on time with a bunch of other ordinary high school kids.

  Shut up. It’s enough to drive a man out of his mind. Mainly because unless I find answers to all those points, there’s no way I can really be certain that I’m not repeating the mistake I made with Lauren.

  To get some answers, I picked up my phone last night and texted Jill Edelstein. She’s a PI that I sometimes use. She’s thorough, nasty and loyal, which is exactly how I like the people who work for me to be.

  Good to hear from you, but I’m out of the country at the moment. Can’t take the job.

  Fuck. When are you coming back?

  Don’t know yet. Three weeks? Could be earlier, could be later, depending. If urgent, I can give a referral.

  No need. I don’t want a referral. I want the best.

  So I’ll do this circuitously until Jill’s back in town.

  I walk into the foundation’s neat, contemporary and functional office. I spot the Russian—assistant to Elizabeth Pryce-Reed, now Elizabeth King—in the vestibule. His sandy-brown hair short and military, he looks like a cross between a pit bull and a Rottweiler. I’d bet my entire fortune he has the tenacity and aggression to match those breeds as he studies me with pale, emotionless blue eyes. He’s in a dress shirt without a tie, a jacket and slacks. Most likely carrying. Since the attack in her home some months ago, Elizabeth is probably being extra careful. And this assistant’s prominent presence is obviously part of her plan.

  I put on a pleasant expression. The last thing I want is him sniffing out the real reason I’m here, since I plan to use both him and Elizabeth. The Russian’s ability to dig up stuff not even the CIA can get is a well-guarded secret, but I’ve made it my business to know everything related to Ryder Reed, and that includes his sister and the huge charity foundation she runs.

  “Got an
appointment?” he asks, his voice chilly.

  I nod. “Yes. Would you let her know Anthony Blackwood is here?”

  He squints like he’d rather kick me out of the office, but hits a button on a tiny Bluetooth earphone. He nods, then tilts his jaw toward Elizabeth’s office.

  I walk in. The space is large and tastefully decorated, without that self-conscious humblebrag that many charities and foundations have. The walls have pictures of the difference the foundation has made since its inception, and none of them look particularly posed. It used to do mostly international work, but recently it’s acquired a more domestic focus, helping the people who are most vulnerable and helpless. Pretty fulfilling work.

  “Hello, Anthony,” Elizabeth says from her desk. As usual, she’s stylish in a pink dress. Her ring finger sports an enormous pink princess-cut diamond.

  Since her marriage, Elizabeth has changed. Her eyes seem more gray than brown, and she’s less uptight. I met her through Ryder while we were in Europe together. He and his siblings, including Elizabeth, were banished together for being in the way of the lifestyle their parents wanted. Elizabeth was easygoing and spontaneous in Europe, but once she returned to the States, she turned into such a robot of propriety that I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever had any fun.

  But now she’s more relaxed, and her smile’s more genuine than camera-ready. It’s obvious marriage has been good for her.

  “I don’t suppose this is a social visit,” she says.

  I sprawl in a seat opposite her. “Not really.”

  “Are you here to donate?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “There’s a young woman. A high school graduate, I think. No job experience, but she’s smart, articulate and very well traveled. Unfortunately, she hasn’t been able to land a job. She’s staying with a friend now, but is starting to run out of money.” It’s necessary to lay it on a little thick if I want to sell Elizabeth on the idea. She can’t resist helping people down on their luck. More than half the staff here were homeless or pretty close when she hired them. “I want you to give her a job. You have an opening for an admin position. My assistant checked.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Me?” she says. “What about you? Z always needs people, doesn’t it?”

  “She doesn’t know how to bartend.” Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. I’m not having a bunch of drunkards come on to her.

  “It can’t be that hard to learn. Besides, it probably pays better than the foundation. Customers tend to be generous, especially if you know how to flirt.”

  My teeth clench involuntarily.

  “Guess that isn’t what you want,” Elizabeth says, smiling. “Fine. I’ll do it, provided she can handle the office work and is trainable. I need a new assistant anyway. But it’s going to cost you.”

  “Of course.” I start to pull out my checkbook.

  Leaning across the desk, she puts a hand over mine. “No.”

  “No?” I don’t know what she could want more than a sizable check to fund some new cause.

  “I want you to make up with Ryder.”

  Of all the ludicrous crap… “He has nothing to do with this.”

  She leans forward and says in a low, steady voice, “Anthony, he would never have approached Lauren if he’d known. He isn’t that kind of guy. If he were, the two of you would’ve never been friends.”

  I’m surprised she knows so much. Did Ryder tell her everything?

  “He should’ve been more careful, but you know deep inside he didn’t do it on purpose. If you didn’t, you would’ve done everything in your power to wreck what he had with Paige instead of backing off when you did.”

  I hate the way she tries so hard to make me into a nice, reasonable man. “I got busy and lost interest,” I say coolly. “Otherwise, you don’t know what kind of scandal I could’ve created for him. Or Paige.”

  “Anthony…just imagine how you would feel if you made a mistake and the other person absolutely refused to forgive you.”

  Her statement is like a blade digging into an old wound. “I’m not here to discuss Ryder with you, Elizabeth,” I say, my voice frigid.

  She shakes her head. “You’re such a stubborn man.”

  I give her a bored look, unwilling to negotiate further. I don’t care what she calls me as long as I get what I want. A job for Iris, so she can move out of Byron’s penthouse. I’d offer her my own place if I thought she’d take it, but that’s premature.

  There’s another reason as well, but I dare not contemplate it, not within this building. That Russian of Elizabeth’s can probably read minds.

  Elizabeth waves a hand. “Fine. I’ll hire her, provided there isn’t anything weird in her background. But she has to apply. I can’t just offer a job to someone without going through the right procedures.”

  “Fair enough.” I hand her a check. “A small token of my thanks.”

  “I’m not doing it for money.”

  “I need a tax deduction this year.” And I hate owing people, especially someone related to Ryder. I place it on her desk and stand. Since nothing makes her happier than feeding the poor and hungry, the donation should placate her even if I don’t make up with her brother.

  Without touching the check, she gives me an even look. “You’re an impossible man, Anthony.”

  “You’re a meddlesome woman, Elizabeth.” I study her mild irritation with amusement, then, out of impulse, add, “And you really should call me Tony.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Iris

  Monday morning, Tony sends me an MP3 of György Cziffra playing Liszt’s “Mazeppa” étude. I’ve always wanted to hear this particular performance, but never had a chance. I immediately start listening with a headset pressed tightly against my ears, a half-eaten granola bar and freshly brewed coffee abandoned on the kitchen island. Cziffra’s performance is divine. I sigh when the music ends. It’s too bad they didn’t have better recording technology back then.

  I text Tony. Thanks for the music. I love it.

  It made me think of you.

  I pause at his response. Other than Grand Galop Chromatique, he only heard me play Debussy’s “Claire de lune” and Mozart. There’s no reason for Liszt’s “Mazeppa” étude to remind him of me.

  Have lunch with me, Tony texts.

  I tap the side of my phone, dithering. But I want to know why he kissed me on the forehead that way. And don’t I want to find out why it seemed so intimate?

  I’ve dated a few times in the last six years, but none of the guys I spent time with made me feel the way Tony does. Is it because of my strong reaction to him the first time we met and the way he rescued me?

  Whenever I’m with him, the hollowness in my heart seems to ease. I’m not sure why. If I knew him before the accident… But no. I couldn’t possibly have. Tony has never once indicated he knew me before.

  But it’s also clear he’s been less than fully honest with me. His answer about what happened to Jamie was evasive. And there was Marty’s total freak-out. Last night, as I was jotting things down in my notebook, it struck me that Marty never flipped out like that before over someone I met or spent time with.

  Whatever Marty knows, Sam does too. Marty’s a daddy’s boy. I want to discover what really freaked him out. I doubt it’s just Tony being disowned by his family.

  My mind made up, I call Sam.

  “Iris. I heard about Saturday. Are you all right?” he asks.

  If he was that worried, he could’ve called to check up on me. As soon as the thought pops into my head, a tiny bit of guilt wriggles in my conscience, reminding me of everything Sam’s done. But more and more over the last two years or so, I can’t shake the uneasy feeling he isn’t being nice to me entirely out of altruism. I don’t know if it’s just from resentment that he seems to want to control me forever or the fact that I’ve never really sensed any genuine warmth from him.

  “Didn’t Marty tell you?” I ask. I’d be amaz
ed if he didn’t run to his daddy to complain.

  “Only that Jamie Thornton groped you and you left early. I apologize for that. I didn’t realize he was that kind of man.”

  “Me either,” I say, relieved and happy Sam’s reacting like a decent human being—unlike his son. I don’t know if I would’ve been able to handle the disappointment and anger otherwise.

  “So. What can I do for you?”

  He always says “what can I do for you” in that brisk, businesslike tone every time I call him. It’s as though he doesn’t want me to call him just because. Or maybe it’s his way of communicating that I shouldn’t be in touch unless I need something. That’s why I quit calling to say hello unless I had something else to discuss. Sam has never complained about it, though, so I guess he’s okay…even though I think it puts a distance into our relationship. Another reason I don’t sense genuine warmth from him and feel like he didn’t take care of me purely out of familial concern.

  “I was wondering, did I know a man named Tony Blackwood before the accident?”

  There’s such a long pause that I wonder if we got disconnected. I pull away and check the phone. Nope, still on the line.

  “Sam?” I say.

  He coughs once. “Sorry. Tony Blackwood?”

  “I met him at the reception.”

  “Ah. Right. He did come by.”

  “So…?”

  “You might have. I can’t say. He’s distantly related to us through marriage, but not to your side of the family. You might’ve seen him at some point when he came to visit me, but I doubt you were that close to him. Why?” His voice grows incisive. “Did he say something?”

  The wait is pregnant with an anticipation I can feel even through the phone. The hair on the back of my neck stands. “No. Nothing like that.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “It’s just… I felt like I knew him.”

  Sam laughs, but there’s a brittle undertone. “If you knew him that well, you wouldn’t have had to call me to ask. Your mind can be confused on details, Iris, but it still remembers all the important people in your life. As for your…curiosity about how you might’ve heard about Tony, he’s always been bright. His family and everyone around him had high expectations. His parents sent him to Europe for the best education they could afford, and later he graduated from Princeton in three years, top of his class.