Текст книги "Seven Nights to Surrender"

Автор книги: Jeanette Grey

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

chapter TWENTY-TWO

Rylan managed to wait until the door of their hotel room was closing behind them before he rounded on her. And shit, he could actually feel his father’s boardroom training taking over. Making him keep his distance. Making his face hard.

Just like his dad, when Rylan or his siblings or his mom had disappointed him.

What the hell else was he supposed to do, though? Kate hadn’t exactly refused to touch him the whole way home, but fuck if it hadn’t been the longest train ride of his life. Her, sitting right beside him, hand held loosely in his until she took it away to fidget with her nails, her hair, her bag. She forced him to reach for her when he wanted to touch her again—never offered contact herself. The entire time, they’d spoken maybe a dozen times.

Regret was eating at him, but it was slowly shifting into something angrier. He never should have pressured her into spending the day with him. He definitely shouldn’t have suggested Versailles.

He should have put the tickets someplace other than his wallet.

It didn’t seem like it could be that simple, but she’d gotten all closed off right after he’d flashed the damn thing in front of her. He didn’t need to be a detective to figure it out.

He closed his eyes and curled his hands into fists, taking three deep breaths before staring across the room at her. Last night, everything had seemed perfect. And now it had come to this.

Fuck it.

“Say it.” He tore his jacket off and tossed it in the corner with the rest of his things. “Whatever you’re thinking. Just say it.”

She’d been facing away from him, rummaging through her bag, but at the harsh sound of his voice, she shoved the thing aside, sending it clattering to the floor. The violence of it startled him, and his heart squeezed as she set her hands on the edge of the desk. Dropped her head and drew her shoulders up.

“Who are you?” She didn’t look at him until the question was out of her mouth, and even then, she didn’t turn. Just twisted her neck to gaze at him with dark, sad eyes.

His heart rose up into his throat. “What do you mean?”

The whole thing was choking him, the irony making it hard to breathe. Yes, he’d hidden the details of his life from her. But in these spare handful of days, he’d shown her all these other things. Parts of himself that people who knew a lot more of the facts had never seen. Parts he’d never shown to anyone before.

“I mean,” she said slowly, “who are you?”

“You know.”

“No.” Her mouth drew into a tight line. “That’s the problem. I don’t.”

For a moment that felt like an age, he stood there, waiting for the blow.

Finally, Kate turned around, her gaze level. Her voice quiet but strong. “Let me see your wallet.”

And there it was. Not a physical impact, but a punch to the gut all the same. “Kate . . .”

Negotiate. Dodge around the subject. Turn the tables.

She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

He tried to joke, “If you needed money, you could have just said—”

“That’s not what I need. That’s the last thing I want from you.” Her throat bobbed, and her eyes were far too bright. “Don’t you know that?”

There wasn’t any negotiating with that—with the way she was looking right through him. She’d seen his heart; all these days and nights, he’d showed it to her again and again. But she didn’t want that. She wanted the shell.

And it was all his fault. He’d set himself up for this right from the start.

“I can explain everything,” he tried, but she shook her head.

“Just let me see.”

He wished he’d gotten a chance to kiss her one last time.

Resigned, he reached into his pocket and pulled the damn thing out. Really, if she’d been paying attention, just the brand and the suppleness of the leather gave him away. A hundred tiny details all gave him away, from the watch he’d been wearing that very first day to his patterns of speech to the shape of his father’s ring. But she hadn’t wanted to see. Hadn’t wanted to hear.

And now he had to tell her the truth.

“It’s funny,” he said, handing his wallet over. The world seemed to shiver, a low sense of vertigo making everything sway. “I told you my last name when we were at the Musée d’Orsay. You didn’t flinch.”

“Should I have?”

“A lot of Americans do.”

She opened the billfold and counted out the five hundred odd euros he had left in there. Then with unsteady hands, she pulled out the Black Amex. The membership to the VIP fitness club attached to his mother’s apartment building. Each card as damning as the last, and when she looked up at him, her expression was bereft.

“Theodore Rylan Bellamy the third,” he said, like he were introducing himself for the first time. It was a weight lifting off his shoulders and an anchor sinking him to the bottom of the sea. “Firstborn son of Theodore and Felicienne Bellamy.”

She repeated the name, pronouncing it slowly, recognition a distant but approaching hollowness to her eyes. “Theodore Bellamy.”

“I’m surprised you don’t remember it, if you go to school in New York. It was in all the papers last year. He embezzled half the earnings out of Bellamy International.” He couldn’t help grasping the ring through his shirt. “Within five years, it went from one of the biggest IPOs of the decade to a cautionary tale.”

Her gaze followed the motion of his hand as he tightened his grip on that little slip of gold. “Your father who went to prison.”

“Currently starting the second of a fifteen-year sentence.”

“I don’t remember—” She cut herself off. “I was in school. I didn’t pay that much attention to the news.”

“There’s not much more to tell. Well, unless you skip to the gossip pages. Then there’s his society wife who was having dalliances with half the young men in Europe. She had her own assets, so when Dad went away, she started over again. Somewhere. I imagine she’s doing well.”

“And your assets?”

“My father lost almost everything, but we each had trust funds predating the crimes. The courts couldn’t touch them.”

Looking faint, she sunk down to sit on the edge of the bed and dropped her head into her hands. “Trust fund. You have a trust fund.”

Of course that was what she keyed in on.

“I never lied to you, Kate.” Spoken aloud, it sounded just as empty as it had when he’d thought it in his head the night before.

She look up at him, eyes blazing, and fuck. Apparently, it sounded even worse than that.

And then she laughed, the sound ugly and wrong and bordering on hysterical. “No,” she choked out amidst it all. “No, of course you didn’t. Stupid me just made assumptions about you being a normal guy. Stupid me suggested you’d been staying in as terrible of a hostel as I was.”

“I should have corrected you.”

“Damn right you should have. Crap.” She buried a hand in her hair and tugged. It looked painful—made him want to cross the room to her and stop her, or soothe the ache with his touch. “Shit, you must think I’m such an idiot.”

“No. Not at all.” He went so far as to reach out, but she recoiled, standing and stepping back, putting as much space between their bodies as the room could afford.

It was a slap in the face. One he deserved, but one that took him by surprise. It hurt even more when she wrapped her arms around herself.

Her expression was lost. “You lied to me. I trusted you, and you lied to me. After everything I let you do, after everything I told you last night . . .”

“I wanted to tell you . . .” His excuses and his plans seems so pathetic now.

She shook her head. “With that kind of money, you can have anything, do anything you want. Stay at the nicest place in the city. And yet you’re here.”

“I thought you’d be more comfortable—”

“What? Someplace cheap?”

This was all spinning out of his control so fast. “Someplace . . .” The word stuck in his throat. “Normal.”

Because that was what he’d been stealing here, what he’d been squirrelling away in this pocket of time. The chance to be normal. To have a normal life instead of having to be . . . him.

It had been exactly the wrong thing to say.

“Normal.” The corner of her lips twitched downward. “Ordinary, right?”

She was the furthest possible thing from ordinary. “No!” He planted his feet, raked his hand through his hair. “You’re twisting everything I say.”

“Because you lied.” She said it so quietly. “I asked you who you were, so many times, and you lied.”

“Not about the things that mattered.”

Something in her eyes broke. “But they were things that mattered to me.”

And what could he say to that?

He wasn’t sorry. She never would have touched him had she known, and he wouldn’t give up what they’d had for all the money in the world. Even with how much this hurt right now. He wouldn’t give it up.

“Tell me how to fix this.”

Shaking her head, she looked away. “I don’t think you can.” She swiped a hand under her eyes and turned, picking her purse up off the floor.

Reaching for her suitcase.

Everything in him screamed. She wasn’t really leaving. Not without giving him some kind of a chance to make this right. “What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“And where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know. Back to the hostel. A different hostel. I don’t care.”

“No. No way.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

His throat ached. “You’re really going to throw this all away? Just like that?”

She twisted to look over her shoulder at him. “Throw what away? This was never going to last.” And there was something bitter there. “Even if—even if you hadn’t . . . It was a fling. I live in New York and you live here. Even if I were in your league—”

“Don’t you ever say that.” He steamrolled right over her. She could say a lot of things, but she could not say that.

“Please,” she scoffed. She looked away again, but not before he saw the redness in her eyes. “I’m this naïve, broke art student, and you’re . . .”

The word came out before he could stop it. “Lost.” With her, he’d felt found for the first time in months. In years. “You weren’t wrong, that day in Montmartre. When you asked me what I was running away from. I may have more resources—”

“And more experience, and all these . . .” She waved her hand, flustered. “. . . moves. Your pickup crap.”

“My pickup crap never worked on you.”

She shook her head. “It worked so much better than you ever would have imagined. I just pretended it didn’t because—”

He gave her a beat before asking, “What?”

“Because I knew you were going to break my heart.”

God.

“Kate . . .”

“No.” She grabbed the couple of things she’d spread out on her nightstand and shoved them into one of the pockets on her bag. “It doesn’t matter.”

Two could play at that game. “It matters to me.”

She snorted, clambering over the bed to avoid touching him on her way to the bathroom. The second she stepped away, he headed over to her bag and started taking things out again. She came back, her toiletry and makeup bags in her hands, and glared at him.

“I’m not letting this go without a fight,” he promised. “After everything. All the places we went, and the . . .” His gaze drifted to their bed. The one where she’d let him strip her bare. Let him taste her and touch her and put himself inside her. He squeezed his hands into fists. “After everything we’ve done together.” His heart dropped another inch. “After I posed for you.”

He’d shown her his fucking soul, and now it was all worth nothing to her? Because he’d told a couple of little half truths?

She paused, breathing slower, and for a brief instant, he let himself harbor a hope. She surveyed the tiny space where they’d touched and kissed, and dammit, made love.

And then she gave him the most watery, awful smile. “Maybe it’s better this way.”

“Better?”

She stepped around him, placing her things into her bag. Swallowing hard, she grabbed his hands, and it felt so fucking good just to have her touch him. Right up until she took the shirt he had balled up in his fist and pried his fingers away.

She repacked it, along with the other items he’d removed. “If this had gone on—if I’d left feeling the way I felt yesterday . . .” Her voice cracked, and just the sound of it had his own eyes burning. “I would have held a torch for you forever. I always would have wondered.”

He would never, ever stop wondering.

“And now?” He barely dared ask.

She zipped her bag, and it sounded like the end of the world. “Now I can go home knowing it was never meant to be.”

He took a step back. She was done. Really, truly done, and he didn’t have any more illusions about changing her mind. Besides, it wasn’t right. He’d told her, that first night she’d let him make her come: Anything she didn’t want to happen—he would never force it. That hadn’t just been about sex.

It was her choice. He could respect that. He had to respect that.

She raised the handle of her suitcase and turned toward the door.

Oh, goddammit. Fuck decorum and fuck respect. “You know,” he said, stopping her. “The only reason I didn’t tell you the truth right off the bat.” It was a weakness, admitting this. It rankled, but who cared? He’d already given her everything else. “It wasn’t to deceive you, or to seduce you.”

She paused.

It was his only chance.

“You were beautiful, and smart, and you saw right through my bullshit.” He took a deep breath. “And I thought—I thought you saw something more than just that superficial stuff. Like you wanted to see more than that. And I wanted it. I wanted it so fucking bad, though I didn’t know it at the time. The idea that a girl might like me not because of my name, or who my parents are, or because I’ve got some money.” Because of all the things that had been beyond his control. His lungs felt hollow in his ribs. “I wanted you to like me for who I was.”

“Oh, Rylan.” Her gaze met his. “I would have liked you for who you were regardless.” The corner of her lip wobbled. “But you were the one who wouldn’t show me who that was.”

He had to look away.

When he turned to her again, her eyes were glassy and her cheeks splotched, but her shoulders were back. She lifted her chin.

“You told me—” She cut herself off and started again. “This morning, you said you thought I already knew what I wanted. I just had to stop worrying about what I should do and go for it. You’re right. You were right about me.” She shook her head. “I hope you figure out what you want, Rylan. I hope you can be honest about it, at least to yourself, when you do.” She shot him a shaky smile. “Because I’m not the only one you’ve been lying to this week.”

With that, she let go of the handle of her suitcase and came over to him. She put two hands on his shoulders, but he knew what this was.

The kiss when it came was hard and angry and sad. It tasted like good-bye.

“Don’t go,” he said, sounding broken to his own ears. “If you want me to leave, I will, but stay. Take the room.” It’s yours anyway.

With a wistful little smile, she said, “I like to pay my own way.”

And that was it.

She made it all the way to the door before he gave in and stopped her one last time. It was fucking masochistic, dragging it out like this, but he couldn’t let this one thing go unsaid. “I never lied about how amazing you are.” There was more, too, about how he hoped she pursued her art and her dreams, because she was so damn good. She made the world a more beautiful place.

But before he could reopen his mouth, she said, “Neither did I.” She didn’t look back.

The door opened and closed behind her. It sounded like a death knell. All the energy going out of him at once, he collapsed into the empty chair in the empty, empty room.

Just like that, she was gone.

chapter TWENTY-THREE

Oh God.

Kate just barely made it to the elevator bay before she broke down, smacking the button over and over while the dam burst inside her. She heaved out her first rough sob while still mashing at the button, waiting for the freaking doors to open. She had to get this under control—there could be someone in the lift, Rylan could decide to chase after her, hell, a maid might stumble by—but it wasn’t any use. She’d managed to hold it together that whole time in Rylan’s room, and now it was all crashing over her.

She’d walked out on him. He’d lied to her, had been pretending to be someone he thought she’d like. The entire time, when he’d touched her and when he’d told her she deserved more. It had all been one big lie.

The doors of the elevator slid open, revealing an empty car, thank God. Dragging her suitcase along after her, she stepped in and pressed the button for the lobby, letting out a whole new fresh torrent of tears with the closing of the doors.

Alone in that contained space, she shuddered and buried her face in her hands. She’d loved him so much. It had been too soon to feel so strongly, but she had. None of it had been real, though, and she’d been such an idiot to let him in in the first place. More of one to fall so fast and so hard. He was probably laughing at her right now.

Except she’d seen the look on his face. The devastation. He was a damn good actor, she knew, but was he that good? Did she care?

The elevator dinged as it arrived at the ground floor, and she scrubbed at her eyes. As if that would help.

She had practical things to worry about. She needed to find a place to stay for her last couple of nights. Rylan probably wouldn’t come looking for her, but there weren’t any guarantees about that, so she needed to find a different hostel than the one she’d started out in. He had her email address, but no other contact information for her. She was probably safe.

She shoved her hair back from her face and squared her shoulders before stepping out. The little details—the ones she’d somehow managed to ignore every time they’d strode through here in the past—stuck out to her like sore thumbs now. Gilded edges on mirrors and a marble bust beside the door. Thick draperies and gleaming tile. Of course this place cost more than he’d said. Lying liar.

Shaking her head, she marched up to the desk and dug through her purse until she found her keycard. She placed it down on the counter and slid it across to the woman standing there.

Who of course asked her a question in French.

Shit. She’d gotten way too dependent on Rylan handling all of their transactions this past week. She blinked a couple of times, all her high school French flying out of her mind, deserting her.

“English?” she asked weakly.

“But of course. Are you checking out, mademoiselle?”

“No. No, I—the other person I was staying with. He can keep the room.” It was his anyway. She bit her lip. Maybe she should offer to pay her half of the bill for the past few days. As if there was any chance she could afford it. “It’s just me who’s leaving.”

“I see.” She took the keycard and fixed her with a sympathetic look, and Kate wanted to melt right into the tile and disappear. “There is a water closet.” She pointed to the left, down a hallway, then gestured at her own face. “If you would like to freshen up, I can hold your bag.”

How much of a mess did she look like?

She nodded. “Thanks.” She rolled her suitcase to the end of the desk, where the woman tucked it under the counter.

Her cheeks burned as she rounded the corner to the bathroom, hauling the door open and stepping inside. At least there wasn’t anybody else there to witness her humiliation. She stepped up to the mirror and took a good, long look at herself.

It was worse than she’d thought.

Her eyes and nose were red, heartache written across every inch of her. In despair, she grabbed a wad of paper towels and ran them under the tap.

The goddamn gold-filigree tap.

Goddammit.

She squeezed the sodden mess in her fist and threw it away, turning off the tap and running to lock herself into a stall. Her head hit the back of the door, and her eyes blurred and burned. Hot tears made tracks down her face. Their room had been just as nice, the fixtures had shone just as brightly.

She felt so stupid, and not just for missing the signs.

Her mother’s voice kept coming back to her, telling her that people weren’t always who they said they were. Kate hadn’t learned from her mother’s mistakes, and now she hadn’t even learned from her own. After her last breakup, she’d sworn she’d learn to stand on her own, that she’d never let anyone lure her in with pretty words again.

Rylan’s words had been pretty all right.

Another choking sob tore itself free from her throat. He’d made her feel special, and so she’d let down her defenses, convinced that he was different.

She took a deep, shaking breath and blew it out, opening her eyes. She tore off a couple of handfuls of toilet paper and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

This time, she’d learned her lesson. Letting people in was a mistake, believing any of the things they told her to get her in bed. It was all a mistake.

One she was never, ever going to make again.

Rylan wanted to throw something. He eyed his phone, the lamp, half the contents of his suitcase. Reared back and started to take a swing at the wall itself but drew himself up short.

He could see the headline in the gossip page: BELLAMY HEIR TRASHES HOTEL ROOM. He didn’t need that shit.

He didn’t need any of this.

Threading his hand through his hair, he gave it a good hard tug and turned around to look at the fucking empty room he’d been left with. She’d only stalked out a few minutes ago. If he ran he could catch her. For a few euros, the doorman would probably be happy to tell him which way she’d gone.

But no. Fuck, no. He’d already made his case. He’d stopped her ten times on her way out. Nothing he could say would change anything. It would probably just make things worse. He couldn’t go after her.

He couldn’t stay here, alone, either.

Jaw gritted, barely restrained violence still thrumming through his limbs, he gathered up what little of his stuff he’d let get strewn across the room and shoved it into his bag. Out of habit, he opened all the drawers and checked the closet. Even lifted up the bed skirt—

Only to find a book there.

A sketchbook.

Fuck.

It suddenly seemed impossible to breathe through the tightness of his chest. He flipped it open, and he had to close his eyes. Had to stop himself from crinkling the paper in the stone of his fist.

They were the pictures of him, of course. A dozen pages of his face and his eyes and his hands. All of him, spread nude across that bed.

He’d shown her so much. He’d hidden things he shouldn’t have, but his ribs were clawing at him with the anger boiling in his chest.

Well, fuck her. Fuck that and fuck everything. He grasped the pages in his fist and moved to tear them out and—

And he couldn’t. It was all he had of hers.

Faltering, eyes hot, he closed the book and laid it on top of all the other crap in his bag. He’d find a way to get it back to her. That would be the right thing to do.

With that, he zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

He took the stairs down to the lower level. When he slid his card across the counter to the woman at the desk, she raised one eyebrow and asked, “Vous partez?” Are you checking out?

That had been his plan, but . . . “Non.” He’d booked the room through the end of her stay.

And he might be livid with her now, but if she couldn’t find someplace else . . . she could always come back here. He wouldn’t take that option away from her.

The woman furrowed her brow as she scanned the card. “Une clé nous a déjà été rendue pour cette chambre.” I’ve already had another key returned for this room. She looked up from her screen, and the expression on her face was damning.

Kate had dropped her key off when she’d left. It made him even angrier, that she would have left herself without recourse. What if she couldn’t find someplace? Her options had to be limited on her budget, and hostels sometimes sold out.

“Oh.” He blinked a couple of times. Dammit all. Refusing to be judged, he asked to add another name to the reservation.

Kate wouldn’t come back. Her pride wouldn’t let her. But if she had to . . . he’d make sure she was taken care of.

It was too little too late. But it was all he had left that he could do.

Of course the only open bunk was a top one, smack-dab in the middle of the room.

Kate put her bravest face on. She was lucky to have found a place to stay, and to have been able to afford it. Forget that it had no privacy, or that she was probably going to fall and break her neck if she had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

She shook her head and rolled her suitcase up to the wall beside the bunk. She was lucky to be here, and it was only two nights. Two nights alone in a tiny bed, sharing a room with five strangers.

But it was fine. The best she could have hoped for, considering.

Grabbing her purse, she climbed the ladder up to her bed. At least the ceiling was high enough that she could sort of sit up without bumping her head. Sighing, she dug through her bag until she found her travel guide. It was already well into the evening, so there wasn’t much point going out, but she could figure out what to do with the rest of her trip. Not everything was lost. She had one more day here in Paris, and she had the freedom to spend it any way she wanted to. No negotiating about when to meet up with anyone for dinner. No smoldering, pleading eyes staring at her. No gorgeous man entreating her to stay in bed.

Just her and her sketchpad. Exactly how she’d wanted it to be.

But it wasn’t what she wanted anymore.

The idea of exploring museums on her own hurt her heart. Eating meals in cafés alone, reading a book when she could be snuggled up in bed, watching weird TV while listening to the translation being whispered, warm against her ear. It all hurt.

The cover of the book blurred as her vision went damp. She’d had so many ideas about what this trip would be, and all of them had been wrong.

She had one more day to see everything left she had to see.

And all she wanted to do was go home.

The door to the apartment banged against the wall as Rylan slammed it open. Shoving the thing closed behind him, he dropped his bag in the foyer and stormed into the kitchen.

The mess he’d left behind had all been cleared away, but the foul, stifling feeling in the air still lingered. No cleaning crew would ever be able to contend with that. He laughed darkly at himself.

Reaching up into the cabinet, he pulled down a highball glass. The good liquor was stashed behind the bar in the living room. Seemed a pity to waste thirty-year-old scotch on a mood as poisonous as the one he was choking on right now, but that was the benefit of his life, right? His stupid, pointless life.

Gripping the glass, he headed to the bar, not bothering to turn on the lights. He’d left the curtains open, so Paris’s glow was seeping in. He popped the top off one of the crystal decanters and poured himself a couple of fingers. The whiskey went down nice and smooth as he knocked it back.

He slapped the glass down on the top of the bar, then braced his arms and let his head hang.

A week. He’d had one fucking week with Kate. After spending a year essentially alone, it should have been nothing. A drop in the bucket. But it had been everything.

One week had been all it had taken to make the rest of his life look so hollow.

He raised his head a fraction, and his gaze focused in on the vase sitting on the corner of the bar. It was pink porcelain. Probably cost a fortune.

He hated the fucking thing.

He hated all the time he’d spent staring at it, hated the color of it, hated the idea that his mother—his mom had left it here along with all the other things she didn’t need. Left it here to rot.

The violence that had shaken his limbs at the hotel came rumbling back with a vengeance. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d picked the vase up and drawn his arm back. And he put all his force and all his anger into hurling it as hard as he could.

The vase hit the wall with a crash, shattering into ruin. A rain of jagged porcelain shards, crumbling into the carpet, and fuck. Just fuck.

He’d made such a mess of everything.

“Was that really necessary?” a voice asked out of nowhere.

He jerked his head up, flailing his arm to the side, getting his hand around a stray corkscrew that’d been left out. A figure was sitting up on the couch—the very one he’d just flung a vase over. Pulse rocketing, he reached behind himself, feeling along the wall for a light, flicking it up when his fingers connected with the switch.

He blinked hard against the sudden brightness, willing his vision to adjust. Once it had, he gaped. Set the corkscrew back down on the counter.

What the hell?

“Lexie?”

His sister arched her back, letting out an enormous yawn. “Long time no see, brother dearest.” She paused for a minute and sat up straighter. She blinked, then cocked her head to the side. “Dude. You look like shit.”