The One in My Heart

by Sherry Thomas

  He gazed at me. “You really know how to put a man in his Cro-Magnon place, Eva.”

  Pater had always insisted that nicknames were only for spouses and immediate family. He never referred to me in public except as Evangeline—and neither did Zelda, because he had been so adamant.

  To hear Bennett call me Eva was a shock to the system, all the more so because I loved it.

  Before I could reply, mournful, sensuous notes wafted across the ballroom.

  A tango.

  Damaris strode to the middle of the dance floor, struck a pose to a smattering of whistles and applause, and hooked her finger at Bennett.

  He shook his head no.

  “Come on,” she wheedled.

  He shook his head again.

  “Pretty please,” she pleaded.

  Bennett hesitated. He turned to me, a gleam of calculation in his eyes. “Did you like Dirty Dancing? Did that movie turn you on?”

  “Why do you want to know?” I asked cautiously.

  “That’s a yes then.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it over the back of a chair. Then he pulled off his tie and extracted his cuff links. The music writhed and trembled. He approached Damaris slowly, almost casually, rolling up his sleeves as he did so. My heart stuttered at the sight of those beautiful forearms. The crowd was no less appreciative, the women cheering loudly.

  All of a sudden he looped his arm about Damaris’s waist and yanked her to him.

  Catcalls erupted.

  He drew a hand up her bare arm, over her shoulder, and cupped her cheek.

  “Mamma mia!” said someone behind me.

  Bennett flung Damaris away. She spun outward. He caught her by the fingertips. They stayed like that a moment, precariously balanced. She spun back into his arms. They were now pressed together from shoulder to groin, legs completely tangled.

  He flicked one spaghetti strap off her shoulder. I heard myself gasp. He released her into a sweeping dip, then pulled her up so that their faces nearly touched.

  The dance began in earnest. I’d seen tango, both as performance art onstage and in the clubs of Buenos Aires. But I’d never experienced another tango in which the man dominated the pairing quite so overwhelmingly.

  The feral agility with which he moved had me slack-jawed. His turns and steps were as precise as an assassin’s aim. His posture was gorgeous. And his understanding of the soul of the tango—the courtship in all its danger and complexity—mesmerized me.

  Damaris was in thrall to his will, draped about him like a scarf. He was all cool provocation and heartless—or so I hoped—promises.

  “This is better than porn,” someone else said.

  I was too flabbergasted to speak.

  They sank into a deep lunge. While she remained in the lunge, he rose and walked away. She ran after him and lobbed her arms around his shoulders. He turned, lifted her, and dropped her into a reverse dip. Then he pushed her away, hard. They stared at each other. The music rose to a crescendo. She launched herself at him; he caught and held her, then slowly slid her down against his person, until she stood with one foot on the ground and the other hooked around his thigh.

  The barest hint of a smile softened his mouth—power, control, and rampant masculinity in a bespoke package. The music stopped. He let go of Damaris, who immediately wrapped him in a hug. Something crooked and thorny poked into my heart—even more so when the guests burst into wild applause.

  Then he was back at my side, reaching for his jacket. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 6

  AS SOON AS THE ELEVATOR door closed, I yanked him to me. We kissed, devouring each other. The elevator could have crashed and I wouldn’t have cared. Lust, need, and a crazy ache simmered inside me. I couldn’t get close enough to him.

  I couldn’t get enough of him.

  My fingers were in his hair. One of his hands was at the small of my back; the other cupped my bottom, molding our bodies together. Through his trousers his arousal pressed into me—a lot of arousal, that. I kissed him with even greater abandon.

  Someone cleared her throat. We stilled: Without being aware of it, we’d reached the first floor and the door had opened on us.

  Almost casually, Bennett kissed me at the corner of my lip, and then on the lobe of my ear, whispering, “I’ve never been caught in an elevator before, have you?”

  I didn’t make out in public, period. What in the world had come over me?

  We pulled apart as if we’d engaged in nothing more erotic than a hug. Bennett took my hand. The next moment he turned stock-still, staring at the handsome middle-aged couple waiting to get in. They likewise gawked, in a way I wouldn’t have expected of such a dignified pair.

  The family resemblance struck me.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. You’re late—the newlyweds have already left,” said Bennett, with a nonchalance that gave no hint of how much he had schemed for this moment. He placed an arm around me. “Have you met Evangeline?”

  Their gaze was more wary than curious.

  “Hi, I’m Evangeline Canterbury. I believe you know my former stepmother, Zelda.” I thrust my hand out. “It’s great to meet you.”

  Mrs. Somerset visibly relaxed—so Bennett was right in wanting a known entity for a fake girlfriend. “Yes, of course,” she said, shaking my hand. “Zelda never has enough good things to say about you. I’m delighted to meet you at last.”

  Mr. Somerset was less effusive but completely civil. “A pleasure.”

  Mrs. Somerset touched her son on his sleeve. “How’s the fellowship, Bennett?”

  “Inhumane, but I’m determined to persevere. How’s work for you?”

  “Good. Really good.”

  “I hear Custard is still alive. How is she?”

  “Pretty well, actually. She had to find new places to nap once TVs became wall-mounted, but otherwise she hasn’t changed much.”

  “Good to hear,” said Bennett smoothly. “And please don’t let us keep you. Enjoy the reception.”

  He tugged on my hand.

  “It’s really nice to meet you,” I said brightly. “Have fun.”

  “Bye,” said Mrs. Somerset, her gaze not leaving her son.

  “Are the two of you going out?” asked Mr. Somerset, who hadn’t said a word since our handshake.

  Bennett looked at me.

  I smiled at his parents. “We’re playing it by ear.”

  “Just remember,” said Bennett. “My biological clock is ticking, and I really need to settle down soon.”

  I laughed despite my nerves. We walked out of the hotel hand in hand.

  I BROUGHT BENNETT TO A quiet café a few blocks away that served rib-sticking Russian fare. He sat down and dropped his forehead into his palm, his frustration palpable.

  He had been so cool and unaffected in front of his parents—the contrast was stark. I’d known that this was important for him: He’d moved across the width of a continent to be in the same city as his parents. But now I understood in my gut just how much he wanted this.

  How much he wanted to be home again.

  “Thanks for not deserting me,” he said after some time, two fingers pressed against the space between his brows.

  I didn’t need him to elaborate to know that he was thinking back on the exchange, trying to process the fact that his father didn’t say a single word to him. Even when Mr. Somerset asked whether we were together, he’d been looking at me, and not his son.

  I should probably comment on Mr. Somerset’s aloofness. But I didn’t know him; I only knew Bennett.

  “You were too slick,” I said. “There was no way for them to tell whether you still gave a shit about them. If I were the father you’d tried to bring down multiple times, I wouldn’t have relaxed my guard.”

  He was silent.

  “And don’t forget, you’ve been in town for more than six months without making any attempts to contact them. As far as they know, you’ve written them off completely. I’d take it as an encou
raging sign that they both came when they heard you were at the reception.”

  He nodded slowly.

  I let him be, now that I’d said my piece. We both took out our phones. Multiple text messages were waiting for me, most of them from Zelda, whose concert had just ended.

  People keep texting me about seeing you and Bennett together.

  What’s this saucy tango involving your date and Damaris Vandermeer?

  Is it true? Did you run into Rowland and Frances Somerset?

  I texted back.

  You knew we were attending together.

  Damaris and Bennett used to ballroom dance as partners. Revival performance tonight.

  Yes, true. It was all very civil.

  I didn’t mention the part about Bennett and me accidentally making out before his parents. I figured they wouldn’t either.

  A new text came through from Zelda—The boy can dance—followed by a YouTube link. And when I clicked through, I saw the tango, captured by someone who kept whistling throughout the recording.

  We put away our phones when the waiter came with our food.

  “Did your mom text your sister, by any chance?” I asked.

  “Good guess.”

  “Here’s another good guess. Your sister texted you in return and you gave a completely noncommittal answer, along the lines of, ‘Yep, saw them.’”

  “Not as accurate. My sister was asking about you, so I waxed poetic about how good you are in bed.”

  I gave him a look.

  “Fine,” he said, smiling slightly. “How good you are out of bed.”

  I dug a spoon into my bowl of borscht. “Any plans for what to do next?”

  “Somewhere in my head, I must have assumed that it would be like a movie: Put my parents and me in the same place at the same time, and magically all would be well. But we were all together just now and…” He exhaled. “And nothing has changed.”

  I sighed. “Welcome to Life Sucks 101, in which life doesn’t work like movies.”

  Or Zelda would get well and never be afflicted again.

  He cut into the blinis—buckwheat pancakes—he had ordered. Then his gaze turned to me. “My offer still stands, you know. If you say yes now, I’ll date our agreement retroactively to the day after Christmas, so you get almost a month for free.”

  I stole a piece of blini from his plate. “Not that I don’t think you’re a generous man, but almost one-sixth of half a mil is a lot of generosity. What’s the reason for the backdating?”

  “My parents are going to the Amalfi Coast to mark their anniversary, which falls on the weekend after your symposium in Munich. If the dates don’t conflict with anything else on your itinerary, will you come with me to Italy?”

  This was why I hadn’t wanted to agree to the wedding reception: It gave him another opening to reel me into his scheme. I stirred my soup. “Probably not. I have plans to explore the Bavarian countryside that weekend. ”

  “I haven’t gone down on you, have I?” he murmured. “Let it be said I’m willing to devote considerable hours to that particular pleasure.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to betray how turned on I was. “If only your parents knew you were willing to prostitute yourself for them.”

  He snorted.

  Neither of us said anything for a while. He steadily polished off his blinis. I finished my soup. The waiter came and replenished our tea.

  When Bennett was done with his food, he wrapped his hands around a large tea mug and examined a picture on the wall, his profile to me. There was something to the set of his jaw, a resignation that was at once stoic and desolate.

  He’d taken my silence as my final answer, a firm no.

  I was not going to be mixed up in his schemes. I was not going to disrupt the quiet rhythm of my even-keeled life. I was not going to open myself up to false pleasures that came with an expiration date.

  And yet…

  Could I really abandon him? It was obvious that, left to his own devices, he would continue to play the part of the blithe, uncaring son. He knew this. That was why he had wanted my help in the first place.

  Without a firm kick in the pants once in a while, he would flounder. His plans would go nowhere. And all the changes he’d made, uprooting his entire life, would be futile.

  “I’ll take that half mil for charity,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ll come with you.”

  HE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING, ONLY looked at me as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

  Neither could I, exactly.

  That silence lasted until we were in a cab, going uptown along Central Park West. We discussed logistics. On which day could I leave Munich? When was he setting out? And how long were we to remain in Italy?

  Throughout it all, I was conscious of his gaze on me. His initial incredulity had worn off. Now his demeanor made me think of a mountain climber who had reached the Everest base camp, someone who knew that the easy part was over and the real trial was about to begin.

  “I forgot to tell you,” he said as we e-mailed each other our itineraries. “I’m paying a visit to Mrs. Asquith on the way back. Would you like to come with me?”

  “I would. But I bought my tickets a long time ago, and my return flight doesn’t pass through England.”

  “I can take care of that for you, if you want, along with your ticket from Munich to Naples.”

  “In that case, yes, thank you.”

  When the cab stopped before my house, he asked the driver to wait and walked me to the door. “I owe you, Professor.”

  “You’re going to be out half a mil, at least. I’d say you don’t owe me anything else.”

  “I did promise to go down on you, frequently and attentively.”

  Was it still January? Heat buffeted me from every direction. “That’s not why I said yes, so there’s no need.”

  In the coppery light from the street lamps, his gaze was steady, curious. “Then why did you say yes?”

  Zelda and I used to build houses of cards together. A well-made house of cards actually stood pretty okay on its own. But because the construction material was so flimsy, and nothing held the structure together except prayer and careful placement, any kind of disturbance could bring it down—someone walking by too fast, a fridge door slamming shut, and once, a moving truck rumbling down the street.

  Bennett’s question was such a disturbance. Faced with its friendly directness, the lies that I’d told myself in the Russian café came crumbling down. I had not agreed to help him out of altruism. Or sympathy. Or even greed.

  It had been fear, pure and simple.

  He was consumed by his quest. If I turned him down, he would find someone else. Tonight, perhaps. Tomorrow at the latest. Maybe Damaris would get the call, maybe someone more restrained in her public demeanor. But no matter who, in two weeks’ time, when he arrived in Italy, he would have a woman on his arm.

  And the thought suffocated me. I would rather face far worse heartache later on than go home tonight with this huge weight on my chest, unable to breathe for the foreseeable future.

  It was, without a question, the stupidest decision I’d made in a long, long time.

  “Because I finally remembered that a million has six zeroes to it.”

  His gaze remained unwavering. “You deal some dope bullshit, Professor. I admire that.”

  “A perk of being a materials scientist: My bullshit is well made on the molecular level.”

  He laughed softly. Then he leaned in and kissed me, a kiss of only our lips, gentle, unhurried, yet unbearably sexy.

  Swoony.

  He pulled away, looked at me another moment, and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Thank you,” he murmured. “It’s going to be one hell of an adventure.”

  I WOULDN’T GO SO FAR as to speculate that Zelda had been listening at the keyhole, but she did pop out of the living room with tremendous alacrity as I walked in. “How was your evening, darling? Tell me everything!”<
br />
  I omitted any and all mentions of kisses, but otherwise gave a truthful enough account, up until our departure from the wedding reception.

  “So it happened. They finally ran into one another. Yes, my brilliant scheme worked.”

  “Your brilliant scheme?”

  “Why do you think I’ve been encouraging you to take the Somerset boy to the reception?”

  I felt like an idiot for not realizing this sooner: Zelda knew Bennett’s parents would be there. “And here I thought you just wanted me to date him.”

  “That I can only want. This I can do something about. Now, tell me what happened afterward. Did the boy say anything?”

  “He was quiet for a long time. I mean, the encounter was really unexpected—we were already leaving.”

  That was a truthful enough answer.

  “And then?”

  Now the lying began. “And then he was mainly trying to convince me to let him join me in Munich.”

  “Really?” Zelda blinked. “For the whole conference?”

  “No, the conference ends on Thursday. He wants to come sightseeing with me that weekend.”

  “And you said no?”

  I grimaced, a genuine expression. “I should have but I didn’t. It’s not easy to keep saying no to the Somerset boy.”

  Zelda took a moment to digest this. “This calls for a pot of tea. Chamomile?”

  “You go ahead,” I told her. “I had enough tea tonight.”

  Zelda disappeared into the kitchen. I was almost one hundred percent sure that she’d gone to check her calendar. Sure enough, when she returned, she said, “Not that I don’t love Bavaria, darling—beautiful place, had one of the best hikes of my life there—but the beginning of February is the wrong time of the year for Germany. Why don’t you go to Italy instead? The Amalfi Coast isn’t so crowded right now, and it’s ever so lovely.”

  “Amalfi Coast?” I said the name doubtfully, as if I’d never heard of it.

  “Yes. Hold on just a second.” She reached for her iPad. “Here it is, La Figlia del Mare in Positano. It’s a fantastic hotel in one of the most picturesque comunes on the Amalfi Coast.”