by Lula Baxter
“Come in,” I say, sucking up the sigh of resignation I feel in my lungs.
It’s my mother. “Astrid, sweetheart, you have to eat something. I made cream of wheat. A little comfort food will do you good.” She has that overly bright expression that seems to be the only one she can manage these days. I’d much rather have the mother who was always henpecking or fussing over something than this fake replacement.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, accepting the bowl, instead of telling her I have absolutely no appetite. It will sit on the nightstand until it becomes so cold the spoon stands straight up in it.
As usual, my mother is two steps ahead of me. “I want to see you take at least a couple of bites, Astrid.”
My first inclination is to resist, as I usually do with her. Then I get over myself. Because of me, this woman has lost most of the funding for the scholarship she was so proud of. There probably won’t even be a charity auction this year. The Campbells should be ashamed of themselves for that one alone. Still, her only thought right now was to make something to eat for her daughter, the very reason for her current problems.
I shove two heaping spoonfuls into my mouth, ignoring the instant rebellion of my empty stomach, which has become used to the lack of food.
“There, that’s better,” Mom says with a smile. Now, I know why I came home instead of finding a place to sublet until school starts. Most of the time, my mother drives me crazy. In times like these, she knows exactly how to be that rock to cling to when the river around you is suddenly full of treacherous rapids. I take another bite.
She settles down on the edge of my bed and I brace myself.
“Astrid, I know we’ve told you this a million times already, but your father and I want to you to know this,” she says, making sure that my eyes catch hers, “you did the right thing. Your father’s company and my scholarship foundation? They’ll survive. Marriage is forever, or at least it should be, and neither of us could have lived with ourselves knowing you were going to marry Bruce for our sake.”
Despite their continuous protests the moment I stepped back into the Campbell’s living room to announce that I was going to marry Bruce after all, it’s only now that I feel the weight of that release. She’s right, I was making a terrible mistake. It would have only been compounded by the guilt they felt, knowing I was doing only for their sake.
“Your father thinks it would be a good idea if we took a vacation somewhere. Nothing big, just a little getaway for us all to decompress.”
“I don’t know, Mom. I think I’d rather just stay here for a while.”
“We’re not leaving you here, Astrid,” she says firmly. “I was thinking perhaps New York. I know how much you like it there.”
“Why don’t you and Dad go? I’m sure you two could use—”
“Not without you. I think we all deserve a little treat, you most of all.”
I should stop resisting. It’s bad enough that I’ve caused so much emotional, financial, and social damage in their lives, now I’m not even taking them up on the one simple request they are making of me.
“Okay, sounds wonderful,” I say, plastering a smile on my face.
She smiles in a way that tells me she knows I’m putting up a front. Then she pats my leg reassuringly.
“I think it will be good for you, for all us.”
I just smile, hoping she believes it.
I’ve forgotten how much I like New York, even in this blistering summer heat. My parents were right, I did need this. We needed this. I try not to think about how much the hotel room is costing, even though Dad has assured me we are nowhere near the point where we have to worry about such an expense.
According to him, the company is still going strong. Just a minor setback is all. But he was just a little too quick to say so, and I saw the tightness of his smile as he said it. I also saw the shallow furrow of Mom’s brow.
At least it isn’t Boston. I’m not likely to run into anyone I know down here, so I’m free to explore the city without worry. Perhaps realizing that I need space, Mom and Dad have gone off on their own, allowing me free rein in the city.
My parents have always picked quirky, out of the way places when we come here instead of the obvious high-profile locations near Times Square or Central Park. This time, we’re in a surprisingly chic hotel in Chinatown. I’m more than happy to gorge myself on the cheap dumplings I just discovered, after a day exploring museums. Who needs to know what foie gras is when I can get overstuffed pork dumplings, ten for five dollars?
It’s a reminder that the Hawthornes did just fine before the Campbells came into the picture and we’ll do just fine now that they are gone. Good riddance.
Dad is a genius at what he does. His company wouldn’t have come this far if he was doing something wrong as all the journals are saying. He’ll overcome this setback.
Mom will find another way to fill the coffers of the Sharon Dobay Scholarship Foundation. If anyone knows how to troubleshoot issues like this, it’s my mother.
I’ll certainly be fine. Yes, the first few days or weeks back at Boston University will be challenging. I’ll be the topic of whispered gossip and knowing looks until everyone gets bored with it, realizing that I don’t care. I’m finally starting to feel pretty good about everything, maybe even happy, by the time I walk through the front doors of the hotel.
It takes me a moment to register the face of the man in the lobby staring right at me.
Alexandre Richmont.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alexandre
Right away she recognizes me and a smile comes to my lips when I see her mouth drop open.
I hadn’t expected to run into Astrid like this. I flew to Boston, only to find out that the Hawthornes are in New York. I’m staying at this hotel—which isn’t quite up to my usual standards—specifically to casually run into Edgar Hawthorne and discuss Hawthorne Pharmaceuticals.
Or so I’ve told myself.
Now, seeing Astrid, I wonder if this trip is truly about Hawthorne Pharmaceuticals. I had a moment to observe her before her scan of the lobby exposed me. She looked better than I expected, with a small, ambiguous smile on her face as she entered. It made her seem carefree and hopeful, if not entirely happy. She’s a bit thinner than the last time I saw her. Even two weeks after the fact, I suppose the ripple effect of the Campbells’ revenge would make anyone lose their appetite. She has no idea that I’m the one partially responsible for her family’s downfall, and I intend on keeping it that way.
The morbid humidity of the city clings to her skin, causing stray, blonde wisps of hair to stick to her forehead. Her face is ruddy with the flush of mild exercise and the touch of sun she’s been exposed to. The jumper she’s wearing is wrinkled and damp with perspiration.
She looks stunning.
I can’t help but make the comparison between her appearance right now and what she looked like after the day on my boat back on the Riviera.
I stand up to approach her and her eyes trail down my body. Having had the benefit of air-conditioned relief from the heat for the past hour while I lingered in the lobby, I’m sure I present a more respectable picture than she does right now. As if realizing what she must look like, one hand instantly rises to brush the strands of hair from her face. The other tugs at her jumper as if trying to pull the wrinkles out.
“Don’t bother,” I say, giving her an indulgent smile. “You look perfect.”
Astrid flushes with pleasure and embarrassment.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, still staring at me like I’m an apparition.
“I won’t lie, I’m doing a bit of stalking.”
Her eyes widen, then she blinks. “Me?”
“Your father.” Disappointment touches her face. “And you.”
Her face brightens with pleasure again, and it stirs that same longing in me. Her emotions are so raw and unpracticed, without any hint of the pretense and manipulation I’m used to, especially from women.
“What
do you want from me?” she asks, even though that color in her cheeks tells me she already knows the answer.
“You know what I want from you, Astrid.”
As soon as the words leave my lips I know exactly what I want. It isn’t Edgar Hawthorne or his company that I’ve flown across the Atlantic for. Gabrielle sensed it the first day she came into my office after Monte Carlo. Astrid had affected me more than I wanted to admit. It’s mildly unsettling. I’m used to being the chess master, controlling the board and all the pieces on it. Now, the woman who started as a fortuitous pawn in this game, to be used, ignored, or discarded as needed, has somehow become the all-powerful queen.
Astrid practically glows as she revels in the intent behind my statement. The glow slowly fades as the stroke to her vanity gives way to suspicion. “And what do you want from my father?”
“I heard about what happened to his company, losing its financing. I’ve come to discuss perhaps investing in Hawthorne Pharmaceuticals.”
There’s a flash of hope in her eyes before she swiftly blots it out. Smart girl. Never let them see how desperate or weak you are. I wonder if she learned that from her father.
“If you want to discuss business with my father, I can go and get him,” she says. “Maybe you can discuss it over dinner, just the two of you?”
I smile at the not so subtle suggestion. Just for that, I’ll be frank as well. “I don’t want to discuss business with your father right now. As for dinner, I want to dine with you…just the two of us.”
“And if I say no?” she challenges.
“Why would you say no?” I reply with a confident grin.
“I have a feeling it’s more than just dinner you want,” she says, with a look on her face that’s slightly cynical and slightly amused.
“I’m more than happy to include dessert,” I offer in a suggestive tone.
Astrid rolls her eyes and gives me a look of disdain.
I laugh. “Fine. Would you even believe me if I said I just wanted dinner?”
“No,” she replies tartly, then laughs herself. When it subsides, she gives me a considering look. “So why not just be honest?”
“You want honesty?”
“Right now, yes. I’m sick of lies and games.”
I come in closer to her, picking up the verbal gauntlet she just threw down. If she wants to put an end to the games, I’m perfectly willing to be blatantly honest with her. My gaze fixes on her, holding hers captive.
“Astrid, there will never be a moment when I don’t want to throw you on the bed, rip off your clothes, and fuck you so hard you can’t even scream my name,” I pull away, giving her a moment to reflect on that. “Is that honest enough for you?”
Her reaction is almost precious in its absurd surprise. Eyes going wide, pupils dilating with astonishment. A sharp but brief intake of breath. Mouth falling open, one hand coming up so her fingertips touch the plump lower lip, almost a caricature of scandalized virtue. If she was wearing pearls, I’m sure they would be firmly clutched.
That initial show of shock is quickly replaced with reluctant desire. Lids lowering slightly as those wide pupils lose focus. Her breathing now accelerating into panting. Her fingers curling in to worry that bottom lip, a lip that needs to be kissed hard, sucked on…wrapped around my dick.
Again, she recovers quickly, her composure coming back as she looks around the lobby with quiet concern, wondering if anyone took note of that entertaining display.
“I’m here with my parents. I can’t…,” she blinks up at me then colors, “I can’t have dinner with you.”
“You were with your parents the last time we…had dinner. It didn’t seem to be a problem then.”
Her color deepens. “That…that can’t happen again.”
“Why not?” I reply, then grin. “Do they still suspect you of being a virgin?”
She gasps in surprise and, on some impulse, slaps my arm.
“Ah, there’s the foreplay I remember,” I say with a laugh.
“Stop it!” she hisses, her face now matching the red carpet in the lobby.
“Well, I have to say, this is a far cry from the Astrid who was so quick to proposition me back in Monte Carlo.”
She coughs out a sharp laugh. “Me, proposition you? Don’t act like you didn’t spend all day trying to seduce me, from the moment you rolled up on your motorcycle. ‘It would be an offense to single men of the world,’” she mimics in a tone of voice that doesn’t even remotely reflect my low baritone.
I laugh all the same. “Am I making you angry?”
“Hardly,” she snaps, quick to pick up on my hint. “This is not foreplay.”
“Oh, come on, Astrid, now who’s not being honest? I never understood this silly puritanical need to play coy when it comes to sex that you American women have.” I say, mostly in jest, just to tease her.
“First of all, you’re half American so you can stop being so pretentious. Secondly, don’t you blame my being American on your lack of…subtlety. Maybe it’s you French or—whatever you call people from Monte Carlo—”
“Monaco is actually the country, not Monte Carlo. And it would be a Monegasque,” I say with a straight face. Then I look up to the side thoughtfully, “although, technically I’d be a Monacoian, since I’m not native to—”
That’s when she finally realizes I’m joking. “Whatever. Don’t flatter yourself, at any rate, it was just okay,” she says, but the hard swallow that follows it belies the insult.
My mouth curls up into a grin, which only makes hers tighten into a straight line. “You know, these thought-provoking discussions on international relations would be more enjoyable over a meal.”
“You expect me to take you up on dinner after this?”
“Yes,” I state plainly.
She just stares at me, for some reason surprised at my gall.
“I think you’d like to go to dinner with me too,” I say further.
Now she crosses her arms, staring at me with an amused look on her face.
“One harmless little meal. I promise not to, ahem, seduce you. Though I’m perfectly open to being propositioned again.”
That’s when the smile cracks. She shakes her head and looks off to the side, making me wait for the answer we both know she’s going to give.
Something in her gaze breaks as some sudden thought crosses her mind. Astrid quickly swings her head back in my direction to give me a piercing look. “You aren’t basing whether or not you invest with my father on…what I agree to tonight are you?”
My head snaps back as though she’s actually slapped me. I focus hard on her and I see the challenge and accusation in her eyes. A less perceptive man would miss the preemptive disappointment and resentment hidden behind that defiant facade.
What the hell have those people done to her?
“No, Astrid,” I say, making sure there’s no hint of a taunt or, suggestion, or derision, or anything other than the plain truth. “I simply want to have dinner with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Astrid
“But we only have one last night here in New York, Astrid. Are you sure you don’t want to join us for dinner?” my father asks.
“No, no,” I protest, hoping they don’t hear the deception in my voice. “You two don’t need me tagging along. Treat it like a date night or something.”
“I think it might be a good idea for us to eat together as a family,” my mother says, giving me that look. That look that hovers and worries and fusses and dotes and thinks that maybe I need looking after.
That’s when I realize that I have to frame it so it’s about me, not them. “You know, I really just want to explore the city on my own. I haven’t been to New York in forever and, well I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” I make sure to paint a guilt-ridden look on my face. Hopefully, that will keep them from second-guessing themselves tonight as they enjoy their meal.
“Oh, sweetheart, of course,” Mom concedes.
&nbs
p; “I get it, I get it. Someone is sick of us old-timers,” Dad says with a smile. “What do you say, Helen? Date night?”
My mother scrutinizes me a bit more, not entirely convinced, then she sighs. “I suppose we could have a bit of fun on our own.”
“You should!” I say encouragingly before she changes her mind.
I only relax when they finally leave. I’m supposed to be meeting Alexandre at eight and now I have a little over an hour to get ready. Despite all my protests—what fun is it if I don’t make him work a little bit?—I’m actually excited about being with him again.
I have no idea what he has planned, but it was more than enjoyable enough last time. I know Alexandre will probably work to keep me all night, maybe even end up in his hotel room. I think back to that day on his boat, and then that night in his penthouse suite. That same thrill of excitement wraps me up in its arms, making my skin tingle and my toes curl, just as it does every time I think about those twenty-four hours of pure pleasure.
I’m just getting out of the shower when I hear the knock on the door to my room. I frown, wondering if perhaps Alexandre decided to come up to the room instead of meeting him in the lobby as he said. It’s still only half-past seven.
“Who is it?”
“A delivery for a Ms. Astrid Hawthorne?”
I feel my frown deepen.
“I’m not expecting any delivery.”
“Um…” I hear shuffling on the other side. “It has Astrid Hawthorne on the card here.”
“What is it?”
I hear a sigh on the other side. As much as I hate taking it out on someone who is literally just the messenger, I watch too much TV not to be wary of being the next feature on Dateline.
“It’s from Bergdorf Goodman. You wanna check with the front desk? You’ll see it’s legit.”
It’s actually a good idea, one that I’m surprised I didn’t think of myself. I pick up the phone and call the front desk to confirm that, yes, a package from Bergdorf Goodman arrived for one Astrid Hawthorne and yes, a member of their staff has been sent up to deliver it to me. Before opening the door, I throw on a long t-shirt and underwear, which is only slightly better than the towel.
