by Amelia Wilde
I can hardly speak. I can hardly breathe. “Why are you calling, Mom?”
“Why do you think?” Her voice sparkles over the phone as if it is totally normal to be calling your daughter from Morocco when last she heard you were in Brazil, and you didn’t even bother to tell her you’d visited the country where she lives. “To catch up with my best girl!”
It sets my teeth on edge to hear that from her. Best girl? Best girl? She probably has new friends in Morocco who know more about what she’s doing with her life than I do.
I hiss out a breath between my lips. She has every right to live her life how she wants, like I do. I shouldn’t let this get to me. I shouldn’t let this affect me at all. It’s not worth it. “Everything’s great,” I say. “The city is great. But I’m busy, Mom. Now’s not a good time to talk.”
“It’s not? What time is it there? I didn’t even look before I—”
“Love you, Mom. I’ve got to go. Call me another time.”
I hang up the phone and dive back onto the sofa. I wish I had more ice cream. I wish it was seven already.
A few more hours of wallowing won’t kill me.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Beau
Edgar is on edge. His eyes flick to the sidewalk multiple times every block. What’s he scanning for? I haven’t the faintest clue.
The first thing he does is rush me into his car. A Secret Service agent sits behind the wheel saying nothing. As soon as our doors are shut, he pulls away from the curb.
“What brings you to New York?” I ask neutrally.
Edgar takes a long, slow breath. “Extreme precaution.”
This kind of thing never happens. Then again, marathon meeting days in DC are rare, even given the sensitive nature of what I do.
“How can I help?”
Edgar turns to face me fully for the first time since we got in the car. “I need a personal walkthrough of all the properties.” His eyes search my face. He’s got dark half-moons under the bottom lids. This is a man who believes in maintaining himself so he’s able to do his job to the very greatest extent of his abilities. He is meticulous about getting enough sleep, about eating balanced meals. I’ve never seen him so tired. “That’s all I can say about it, Beau.”
He doesn’t apologize for how long this is going to take. The properties I’ve selected—and he had confirmed—are spread across the five boroughs, and in the regular push and pull of city traffic, not to mention rush hour, it’ll be a long evening. There’s no point in suggesting that we hasten things by taking the subway. The Secret Service would not allow it for a man like Edgar.
“Understood. I’ll need to let my driver know my plans so he’s not sitting by the curb for several hours.”
Edgar watches me like a hawk as I send a quick message to Winston. He watches so carefully that it becomes clear—Edgar is taking no chances. I don’t dare send another message to Annabel.
I put my phone away. Winston knows now to pick her up from the Pearl with a bouquet of flowers arranged by Michél, my florist. He’s a genius in his own right, and I hope Annabel will see that I am truly and sincerely sorry. I hope she’ll see that the flowers are only the beginning.
*****
I severely underestimate how long these walkthroughs are going to take. The Secret Service parks us where the clients—whoever they turn out to be—will park when they’re housed in these spaces. Not that they’ll have reason to drive anywhere most of the time, but there will be at least one trip from car to apartment. Edgar walks each route slowly, though not so slowly that he attracts any attention. When we stop at the front entrance, he pulls out a small notepad, scribbles notes into it, and then puts it back in his pocket.
We walk through the lobby. He takes notes.
We take the elevator. He takes notes.
He takes notes at the front door and at the doorway to every room.
This process is repeated seven times in seven different neighborhoods. It’s always the same. He never hurries, never cuts corners, never neglects to write down his observations in his notebook.
By the time we’ve completed the last walkthrough, my head is throbbing. It’s an aching, guilty pain. I’m three hours late to meet Annabel.
Edgar scans the building one last time, then puts his notebook in his pocket. “Let’s go.”
I wait in silence as the car pulls away from the curb. There is no doubt in my mind that an email will be forthcoming. Additional security might be the least of it. Someone will need to coordinate secure arrivals and be the point person in the city. With all this cloak-and-dagger business, I’m betting that person will be me.
Edgar is silent, too.
We’re almost back to my office building when the Secret Service agent makes a left turn onto a side street. My entire body tenses. This is my first priority when it comes to work. I know that. I also know—thanks to a single text from Winston—that Annabel is waiting for me in my penthouse. I curse myself silently for not telling Edgar to drop me off at home and not the office.
Edgar must sense my impatience. “There are a few more details to go over, and then we can drop you off wherever you wish.”
I give him a nod. I’m not going to shout at him—that’s never been my style. But I want to. God, do I want to.
We spend the next two hours in a greasy spoon I’ve never heard of in a neighborhood that doesn’t seem safe even with a Secret Service agent, but I’m not going to argue about it. Getting back to Annabel is all I care about.
Almost all my assumptions are proven true. Edgar still doesn’t give me the exact identities of the people who will be living in the apartments, but he details how the security features need to be wrapped in with the renovations. He gives me a separate phone, which will be used to contact me when the clients make their arrivals. I don’t ask him why these people are now the clients instead of the US government. It doesn’t seem need-to-know.
I’ve never been so relieved to get back into a car. They drop me off in front of my building. “We’ll be in contact,” Edgar says. The car is gone before I get to the door.
The elevator must be broken; it goes so slowly.
It’s dark in the penthouse, and it smells freshly cleaned. I had the cook stop by in case Annabel was hungry. She was—he texted me saying he’d prepared pork, salad, and mashed potatoes for her. None of it is out. Of course not. It’s after midnight.
I pad through the apartment to the master bedroom, which is where I find her, bathed in the glow of the television. She’s curled up under my comforter in the center of the bed. She startles when I step into the room.
“It’s you,” she breathes, and there’s a sadness in her voice that nearly breaks my heart.
“I am so sorry, sweetheart,” I tell her. “It was urgent.”
She lifts the blankets. She’s got nothing on except her tank top. “Make it up to me,” she says.
I do.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Annabel
Beau was sorry for a few minutes. After that we were tangled under the sheets. It was a long time before both of us were spent. I took the longest—no surprises there. I thought I was done, but one stroke of his fingertips between my legs, and surprise, I was not done.
We had enough energy left to shower afterward. I slipped into a fresh tank and shorts from one of his closet drawers. Beau will swear to me that there’s no pressure, but he has a drawer full of my clothes, in case. I can’t tell if it’s Beau or if all rich men do this kind of thing. Who knows? They might not be for me. They could a collection of clothes for dates who sleep over.
No, that’s not true. I know they’re for me. They’re my size. My brand, even.
Beau falls asleep right away, curled toward me. His face is the picture of relaxation. All is forgiven.
It’s completely forgiven.
I don’t begrudge him having to work late at night.
Unless it wasn’t a late night at work. Unless he had somewhere more important to
be, with someone who isn’t exactly a colleague.
Kinsey comes to mind.
It’s crazy to imagine this. He wouldn’t come home from a night with another woman—especially not Kinsey—ravenous for me like he was.
Would he?
I press my face into the pillow and breathe in the scent of him. Clear the mind. Clear the heart. This is ridiculous. A man like Beau Bennett is not one for cheating.
Still, we haven’t had a conversation about being exclusive. We’ve never said exactly those words out loud to each other. And why would we? We met by happenstance, a random collision, and that does not make a real relationship. Not with me. He does need someone like Kinsey. Someone graceful and blonde who can rub elbows with all the other rich people they know.
I roll over and wriggle back against him. He stirs, then settles in with an arm around my waist. Within minutes his breathing is steady and slow.
The sound washes over me, deep and peaceful. My thoughts flow with the rhythm of it, coming and going, coming and going. I can’t believe my mother. It’s time to go. I don’t want to go. It’s okay to stay. Jump in with both feet and then back out. The sweet spot is running out. Make a move. Make a move.
Eventually they shift and turn. Doesn’t it feel nice here in his arms? It feels so nice. So safe. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. It’s late.
*****
Beau’s ringing phone jolts me out of a dream. In it I am fourteen years old, and my mother and I are at Disney World. It’s the first and only time she’s taken me to a place like Disney World, and I am sick with love for it. I’ve never been to a place where everything is so shiny. There are no sharp edges. Every mess is swept up as soon as it hits the ground. The worst that happens is that a ride closes for an hour, and all around us are people whose job it is to smile and soothe and be there every step of the way.
In the dream I lose my mother. She presses ten dollars into my palm and tells me to choose one of the hats I’ve been lusting after since the dawn of time. When I’ve bought it, black and classic, I come out onto the sidewalk.
She is nowhere to be found.
There are hundreds of people, but none of them are her.
The sun beats down on the theme park and everyone in it, and I clutch the plastic bag in my hand, my heart in my throat. I know she is gone—and not gone from the park, but gone so far away I will never be able to find her again. I circle the park again and again, until my feet ache, but she’s not there. She’s not anywhere.
Finally I find a person in a uniform whose face changes every time I look at her. “My mother,” I say as if she will know who my mother is among this crowd.
“One minute, sweetheart,” she says. The phone on her belt is ringing with a buzz that shakes me all the way down to my core, a vibration that’s too big for the size of the phone.
“Are you going to answer that?” I ask her.
She smiles, and the ringing gets louder, then louder again, until I surface with a gasp.
Beau is leaping into action at the same time, snatching his phone from the bedside table. “Bennett,” he says, sounding crisp and alert. You would never know he’d been sleeping. I’m impressed. “All right. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
He looks distracted as he throws himself out of bed and runs a hand through his hair. Then he looks at me curled under the comforter. Why should I bother getting up, honestly? “Sweetheart,” he says, a smile lighting up his face. “Join me in the shower?”
Yes, please.
I follow him into the bathroom. Beau keeps things relatively snappy, right up until I catch him on the way to rinse his hair and press my lips against his.
His erection is instant, or he was pointedly ignoring it, and he groans. “Annabel, I can’t. I have to work.”
“All day?” I murmur into his ear, the stream from the showerhead hot on my back. “Escape with me this afternoon. I—I need it, Beau.” It’s a dirty trick, and I know it, but it’s also true.
He pulls back, frowning. “Won’t you be busy all day at the Pearl? Opening night is in a week.”
The smile I put on is shaky. “Actually . . .” His eyes are on my face, and his frown deepens. “That gig is over. It turned out to be even more temporary than I thought.”
Beau draws in a breath so deep I wonder if it’s going to be a sigh. He reaches for my face and bends down to give me a soft kiss. “If you don’t want to go to your suite today, there’s no need. Stay here. I’ll send the cook.” He kisses me again. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Beau
So much for buying myself some peace of mind by getting ahead with work.
Edgar Sykes needs to get some sleep. We were out late last night, and this kind of call—wanting to meet with me in the office, where I can go over my choices of contractors with him—doesn’t come from a man who’s well rested. He sounded like he’d been up for hours. He might not have gone to sleep after he dropped me off. I don’t know.
I can handle all that. I’ll make room in my schedule to meet with him all morning, if necessary.
The part that has me on edge is Annabel.
Why didn’t she tell me about the job at the Pearl coming to such an abrupt end? From the sound of it, she was hoping for it to have lasted longer. For all her bluster about leaving jobs before they go sour, there was such disappointment in her expression that it makes my heart ache.
It also makes me nervous.
The job was the thing that bound her to the Pearl.
Last night I thought inviting me into bed was an act of passion. She had to have been lonely sitting there all by herself, waiting for me to get back.
Now I wonder if it was one of evasion.
She might not have wanted to tell me about the job. She might not have wanted to tell me why she looked so sad before she knew I was in the room. She might not have wanted to say those things because she’s planning to leave.
Annabel’s strange obsession with leaving situations behind before they go sour can’t already be happening to us, can it?
From the look on her face last night, it absolutely could. If she’s already holding back from telling me the things that happen to her, she might be gaining distance, making it easier to walk away. Easier to disappear into this city or even elsewhere in the country.
Finding her wouldn’t be impossible. Not with my resources. But that’s irrelevant if she doesn’t want to be found.
My heart thuds in an erratic rhythm. I don’t want this. I don’t.
I love her.
It sings through every one of my veins. I’m not tired anymore. My vision is razor-sharp.
She should know it, too. I should tell her.
Winston needs to turn the car around. I open my mouth to tell him so, but he’s already pulling the car to the curb in front of my office building.
I steady myself, hands pressed together, forehead leaning against my hands. I cannot go into a meeting with Edgar Sykes with my mind scattered in a thousand different directions.
This afternoon. That’s when I’ll let this feeling back in.
*****
The meeting is a disaster.
I’ve never been so impatient in my life, and it shows. I catch myself twice drumming my fingertips against the surface of the table in the meeting room. I don’t drum my fingers on tables. I’ve never had that habit.
But the energy running through me is like a riptide, and it’s going to come out somewhere.
Get back to Annabel. Get back to her.
Tearing my mind away from the nagging fear is impossible by nine o’clock. What’s the fear? That she’ll already be gone by the time I get there this afternoon. Between meetings, when Edgar steps outside to call DC, I write and delete so many texts I lose count.
An abridged list:
Don’t make any hasty decisions without me :)
I’m planning an amazing getaway. Try to stay in the city, would you?
I’m sorry to hear a
bout the job at the Pearl. I’ll fund another show, if you’d like.
Stay.
They all seem desperate or condescending or cavalier. None of them strike the mood I want to strike.
In the third meeting of the day, I can’t sit still any longer. I push my chair back from the table and pace over to the window, trying to show on my face that I’m still extremely invested in the outcome of this meeting. The man giving a presentation to Edgar is one of my regular contractors. He’s currently giving the rundown on what kind of doors are the most secure without being obvious. The last thing these people need is to stand out.
“An excellent marriage of safety and discretion,” he’s saying.
But Edgar Sykes is looking at me.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Bennett?”
“Not at all.” I answer him quickly.
Too quickly.
He narrows his eyes.
“It looks like there’s an issue.” Edgar cocks his head to the side, his eyes locked on mine. My entire body goes still, but inside, beneath the skin, my impatience is a roaring heat. “You’ve been unable to stop fidgeting all day. Now you can’t keep your seat.”
It snaps me into a cold reality. I am not impressing Edgar Sykes, and he is the key to Bennett Inc. in a way that all but a few of the employees—and even the rest of my friends in Hawthorne International—will ever understand.
“I have an appointment at noon,” I say. “But there’s no issue as long as we can wrap this up in time.”
Edgar stares, his eyes going dark. This is the first time I have ever suggested that he cut a meeting short. “What’s your availability in the afternoon?”
I try to tell myself this is due to the pressure he’s facing. He’s coming down on me because he needs this—whatever this ends up encompassing—to go off without a hitch. But my blood is rushing through my veins. I need to get to Annabel more than I need to make Edgar Sykes happy.
No.
I need to do both.
I’m failing miserably at it.
