Stolen Hearts

by M. O’Keefe

  The hot water ran out, and the early spring night was freezing.

  Dripping wet and steaming into the cooler air, I stepped out of the shower across the pool deck through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen. This – dripping puddles across the floor would have enraged the senator. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a decision born of my own desires rather than just reacting to him. Reacting to fear.

  My phone on the edge of the counter, which had gone completely dark a week after the funeral, was bright again with an incoming message.

  From Caroline.

  Come to my office tomorrow in the city. We have much to discuss.

  Thank god, I thought, and braced myself against the counter.

  Something to do.

  5

  The next morning, I got dressed and put on makeup and my sharp black suit with the grey silk shell, and I sat in the backseat of my husband’s town car that I now owned as I was driven into New York City to see Caroline.

  And I was excited. Excited by the drive from the rolling green lawns and the mansions of Bishop’s Landing down the interstate into Manhattan. Excited to do something.

  It started to rain, and the umbrellas sprouted on street corners, and the air got that smell of wet cement. We stopped at a red light, and kids were streaming out of a school, jumping over puddles.

  Even through the glass of the window I could hear them laughing.

  I should get a hot dog. From one of those carts. I hadn’t had one of those in years. And perhaps after the meeting a short stroll through Central Park. No, it was raining, and the senator would want me back . . .

  The senator was dead, and I could do whatever the hell I wanted.

  What did I want? Lord, the thought was paralyzing. I could feel my heart start to pound in my neck. The reality of my freedom making me short of breath. Sweat bloomed along my hairline. Two years with him. Three months with his memory, and I had no idea who I was anymore.

  Stop. Breathe.

  I didn’t have to experience all my freedom all at once. I wanted a hot dog. I could start there.

  The Constantines owned a giant high-rise office building in Manhattan where Winston ran Halcyon. But Caroline owned a brownstone on the Upper East Side across from the park. And that was where I’d been summoned.

  The car pulled up to the curb, and Theo got out in the rain, popped open the umbrella and opened my door.

  The memory came out with the cool fresh air. Like a missile hiding underwater.

  “Stop,” Jim said, grabbing my wrist. “Wait.”

  “I don’t need someone to open the door for me,” I said, pulling away, but his grip was unbreakable, and he got that look on his face that he was getting more and more. That half smile. That blank stare. I stopped fighting him, and he squeezed my wrist harder.

  “You’re hurting me,” I whispered.

  “Am I?” he asked, suddenly and completely unfamiliar to me. His handsome face was simply a mask over the reality of him. The awful snakey-ness of him.

  “Jim—” I breathed.

  “You wait for the driver to open the door,” he said like I was a child. Like he needed to teach me. He dropped my wrist just as the driver opened the door. His face his own again. His smile the lie everyone believed.

  “Ma’am?” Theo stood outside the door, his head framed by the umbrella behind him.

  “Yes,” I said, fighting the urge to rub away the phantom pain in my wrist. “Just a second.”

  Theo stood back. He was just a man. An employee. But he was also a reminder of what I’d been. A possession. If I wanted real independence, I did need to learn how to drive.

  Perhaps this was too soon? Coming into the city? I hadn’t been back here without Jim or without trying to hide what he did to me for over two years. But if I gave into this fear and went home, I knew there would never be a day when I was brave enough. It was now or never.

  I had to get out of the car. I did. Caroline was expecting me, and I loved Caroline, and I wanted a hot dog, and so I forced myself to get out of the car and stand in the drizzly rain. Theo didn’t smile at me. He didn’t seem like the smiling type, but I could tell he was proud of me.

  I was proud of me. This was clearly a baby-steps situation.

  “Mrs. Maywell,” a serious man with a smart suit stood up from behind his desk when I walked in. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too.” The banalities came so easy.

  “We’re all so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Mrs. Constantine is waiting for you in her office,” he said and led me to the elevator. I was embarrassed by this attention. By his kindness. I wanted him to sit down and ignore me. He pushed the button for the carriage. “Justin will meet you by the elevators.”

  I smiled and thanked him. The elevator whisked me to the eighth floor and Justin, Caroline’s assistant, greeted me at the door. It was like I couldn’t be alone, even for a minute. Was that standard, I wondered? Or was everyone just so convinced I was helpless.

  “Hello, Mrs. Maywell—”

  “Poppy,” I all but snapped. I couldn’t stand that name. It made me feel owned. I smiled. “Please, call me Poppy.”

  “Of course. Caroline will be two minutes. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  Justin led me across the waiting room to Caroline’s office. The rugs were burgundy Turkish silk. There were leather couches and chairs for people to wait in. He led me right past them to the double wooden doors with beautiful lion’s head doorknobs in the middle of them. There was another door leading off from this room. An office for one of her children, I imagined. Which one of them had the honor of sharing space with her I didn’t know.

  “Mrs. Constantine said you should wait in here,” Justin said and opened the door to Caroline’s inner sanctum.

  I sat and waited to see what was in store for me now. Waiting, always waiting to see what was going to happen to me next.

  “Did anyone offer you a drink?” Caroline said as she swept in.

  I jumped. “Everyone,” I said. “You have very thorough staff.”

  “Well, don’t let them know that or I might have to give them a raise. Now,” Caroline sat down on her side of the desk and shot me a level look. “How are you doing?”

  “Good!” I said, too brightly. “Fine. I’m fine.”

  “Zilla headed home?”

  How did she know that?

  “Yesterday. And, before you ask, I’m fine with it.”

  Caroline gave me a long look that seemed doubtful. And I felt a strange and sudden spark of anger. I’d been watched for months now. Years. I didn’t like it. Never liked it.

  “You summoned me,” I said. “Why am I here, Caroline?”

  Caroline blinked at my tone and then flipped open a file.

  “We’re doing a charity fundraiser in two weeks, and we’re going to give a posthumous award to the senator,” Caroline said.

  “All right,” I said. Those sorts of things happened all the time. In Jim’s office were stacks of framed letters and plaques from different charities honoring him as some kind of hero. “What do you need me for?”

  “We need you there so we can present you with the award.”

  I started to shake my head. No. Nope. I didn’t need to do that anymore. Jim was gone. My life as the smiling clapping wife in Vera Wang was over. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next, but it wasn’t going to be that anymore.

  “It’s been months,” Caroline said.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You are the face of his legacy. He had business ventures and legal obligations, and they’re yours now.”

  “No.” I shook my head again. “They’re not. I’m his widow. That’s all.”

  She tilted her head, and I sighed, sensing what was coming. “What do you want, Poppy?”

  A hot dog. I just want a hot dog.

  “Not . . . busin
ess ventures and legal obligations,” I said. I didn’t want to be the face of his legacy. I wanted a million miles between myself and him. I was going to change my name back to my maiden name. Dye my hair.

  “What about the foundation?” She lifted her eyebrows, and I felt a tug. Old dreams that had been squished and pushed aside and forgotten. But I had no idea if I wanted those dreams anymore. I’d been so young. Twenty years old, fresh-faced and convinced I could help. Fresh-faced and hopeful.

  God, I’d been so hopeful. The kind of hopeful that was just hollow now.

  “There will be press at the fundraiser. It will be good for our company and good for the senator’s foundation . . . which, I will remind you, is yours now. And you can do what you want with it. But the fundraiser will give you options. And I would think . . . options might appeal to you.”

  I stiffened, unable to look at her, but terribly aware of her looking at me. Was she saying the thing we never said? That I want options now because the senator stripped me of them?

  Was she pitying me? Manipulating me?

  Was I being distrustful because that was all I knew how to be now?

  I shook off the thoughts and smiled.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay?” my dear friend and mentor lit right up. “I knew I could count on you.”

  I sat up straighter, trying to manage the strange nausea in my stomach.

  “I’ll have Justin send over the details. Do you want him to write a few remarks for you?”

  “About the senator?” I asked. What in the world would I say about him?

  Once, he broke my finger at the dinner table. One minute I was handing him a plate, the next he’d snapped my pinky finger back until it popped.

  “That would be great,” I said and stood up. “Have Justin send me everything I need.”

  “You’re not going to stay for lunch?”

  “No, actually. I’ve got another engagement for lunch.”

  “With who?” Caroline asked. She asked like she was surprised. Like it was impossible I had friends. And she wasn’t wrong, but I was allowed to have some dignity.

  “Just a friend from college,” I lied and picked up my purse. “I’ll look forward to Justin’s notes.”

  I left her office, aware of her concern chasing me out the door. Justin sat at his desk in her outer sanctum, and I gave him my breeziest smile. “I look forward to seeing you at the fundraiser!”

  “Let me—” he said, standing up from his desk.

  “I’m good. Take care.” I pushed the button, and the elevator opened as if it had been waiting for me. Which, since it was Caroline’s private elevator, it probably had been.

  I heard one of the other doors open as I stepped inside, leaning back against the glass and marble. The low murmur of voices as the doors began to slide shut.

  “She’s leaving?” asked a brogue that made me stand up straight. Was that . . .?

  Before the door could shut, a hand braced it open, and I came face to face with Ronan.

  6

  Speechless, I gaped at him as he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed behind him, shrinking the square footage around us to absolutely nothing. I stepped back into the furthest corner of the elevator.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. It was ingrained, being frantic alone with a man that wasn’t Jim.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for my elbow. And I absolutely flailed away from him so he wouldn’t touch me.

  “I’m fine,” I said, embarrassed down to my core.

  “You’re a terrible liar.” He dropped his hand without actually touching me, and I’d never been so relieved and disappointed in my life.

  I laughed, low in my throat because he had no idea what a liar I could be.

  He reached behind his back and pressed the button that stopped the elevator. We lurched to a halt, and I braced myself against the wall behind me so I wouldn’t bounce into him.

  “What are you doing?” I cried.

  “Why are you upset?”

  “Because you are like . . . kidnapping me?”

  “Kidnapping?” His grin was . . . well, it was something. And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like how it made me feel. “Are you all right, Poppy?”

  “Stop pretending you care!”

  “Someone should care,” he said, quietly. “Someone should care about you, Princess.”

  Oh god. Oh god.

  “And you think you’re the man to do that?” Why did I say that? He was making a mess of me with his concern and proximity. I was unused to both. “Never mind. I don’t care.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Such a liar today. It’s hard to believe you’re the same girl I met at that party.”

  “Because I’m not,” I snapped. He leaned a shoulder against the wall. Like we were two people chatting at a bar. A party. Any two people.

  “Why are you upset, Poppy?”

  I stared at his shirt. The white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. The neck loose like he’d been working hard at something, but I couldn’t imagine what this man worked hard at. “My husband died,” I said, because I hadn’t figured out why I was really upset.

  “That’s why you’re near tears, running from Caroline’s office?”

  “Of course.”

  His grin was a direct shot to my chest. “What am I supposed to do with a girl with so many lies in her mouth?”

  There was something . . . maybe the way he said mouth. Or the way he was looking at me. The tiny elevator. Any of it. All of it. But I got this sense, this very real sense that what he wanted to do to me was dirty.

  And I could count the number of times I’d thought of something dirty in the last two years on one hand.

  But at this moment, locked in an elevator with Ronan whose last name I didn’t know, I imagined, in one white-hot second, him pushing me up against the wall. Stepping up tight against me. That lethal body of his pressed to mine.

  A blush incinerated my face. My neck.

  “Oh, what are you thinking?” he asked. His voice low. His smile a charming twist. “What dark thing am I doing to you in your mind?”

  I swallowed, and he grinned like he was relishing my discomfort, and I realized that I was a toy to him, the same way I’d been a toy to my husband. It was just a different game.

  “Make the elevator go,” I said. The blush on my neck was gone, though that thought I’d had would haunt me.

  “Tell me what you were thinking.”

  “That you only want to hurt me, like everyone else.”

  Something in him shifted; some unseen darkness leapt in his eyes. His face. But his expression didn’t change.

  I gave him no time for more sarcasm or false concern. Some half-baked flirtation for the pitiful widow. I reached past him, ignoring the warmth of his body and the smell of his skin and pressed the button that made the elevator resume its descent. Within seconds the door was open, and I walked around him towards freedom. Part of me expected him to follow. My husband was always going to have the last word. There was no situation where I was allowed to walk away.

  But then, I was oddly disappointed when Ronan didn’t.

  My driver, of course, was waiting for me, back door open, and I knew that Justin had called him and told him I was on my way down. I slipped into my seat, and the door slammed behind me. When I turned, before the car drove off, I saw Ronan standing there. On the sidewalk, Caroline’s building behind him, the madness of Manhattan spinning around him like he was the untouched, unmoved center of everything.

  Ronan.

  He didn’t wave or take the ten steps it would take to open my car door and pull me out, and I was both relieved and upset that he didn’t. Feeling foolish followed, of course, it always did. But still he stood there, looking at me, studying me through the glass of the door. Through the span of the two years and two other times we’d seen each other.

  My pulse hammered in my throat – and it wa
sn’t fear. It wasn’t anything but the normal violence of being alive. Very alive.

  “Where to, ma’am?” Theo asked.

  “The nearest hot dog cart,” I said, and we pulled away from the curb.

  7

  The Valentino ballgown swirled in shades of light blue around my bodice and flowed out into the skirt in indigo and then cobalt and black down to the floor. It was dramatic and elegant. Swishy around my legs and forgiving around my waist.

  Suitable for mourning.

  Jim’s mother’s black pearls were in my ears and around my neck. My hair, freshly dyed for the event, was blonde again and pulled up on top of my head in a tight bun. I had the particular kind of headache that comes from having your hair pulled back too tight. But it distracted me from my nerves.

  The Prince George Ballroom was decorated in Caroline’s traditional cream and gold. The cream roses and pale pink hydrangeas. It was breathtaking the first time I’d seen it and now, years later, it was still breathtaking. The power of classic.

  Though there could be an argument that it was enough already with the white roses.

  “Poppy!” It was Julie Dunbar coming out of the bathroom I was lingering beside.

  “Julie. It’s so good to see you.” We kissed each other’s cheeks with equal fakeness.

  “You look marvelous, darling,” she said. “Again, Dean and I are just so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” I said. A waiter went by with flutes of champagne, and I snagged one. A drinking game, I thought. Anytime anyone said they were sorry for my loss, I had to take a drink.

  Oh, I thought. This was an excellent coping mechanism.

  “He was a great man,” Julie said, taking her own glass.

  “Was he?”

  “Pardon?”

  “He was,” I said and smiled my serene smile. “If you’ll excuse me.” I breezed past her and on the way to the door, three more people told me how sorry they were for my loss, and at the door to the ballroom, I got a new champagne glass.

  I made a wide circle around the room, clinging to the outside where the shadows had the best chance of hiding me. But still, I was down another champagne glass by the time I was halfway through the room.