Текст книги "Seven Nights to Surrender"

Автор книги: Jeanette Grey

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

chapter TWENTY-FOUR

“Seriously, what happened to you?”

Rylan wanted to bang his head against the table, but he managed to restrain himself. Barely. “Could we maybe focus first on what the hell you think you’re doing here?”

“What”– Lexie looked around innocently—“in the dining room? Where else am I supposed to eat my dinner? Midnight snack? Is it closer to midnight in this time zone? I’m not sure.”

He rolled his eyes.

Once he’d more or less recovered from the heart attack she’d given him by showing up in his living room, he’d stormed off to the bedroom he’d been using as his own to wash his face and try to get himself under control. His sister had apparently taken advantage of the pause in conversation to order take-out.

Now she sat at the big, fancy dining room table he never used, dark hair tied in a knot on top of her head, bright pink pajamas making his already sore eyes hurt.

He gestured toward the croissant and lox and fruit she’d unpacked from the brown paper sack it had arrived at their door in. “Who even delivers croissants?”

She shrugged. “Beats me. Jerome can get you anything you want, though. Night or day.”

“Jerome.” The concierge down in the lobby. “How do you know Jerome?”

She gave him a look like he was an idiot. It wasn’t an expression he’d had directed at him in a while, but it was painfully familiar. “Mother and Evan and I killed an entire summer here one year.” She waved a hand at him. “But you wouldn’t remember. You decided to stay at Exeter or something, I think.”

Of course he had. He’d taken any excuse he could get not to go home back then. “You were, what? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen.”

“And Jerome was getting you anything you wanted, huh?”

“Within moderation.” Her eyebrow twitched upward. “Some things I preferred to handle internally.”

Rylan really didn’t even want to know.

He gave her a second as she tore off a piece of croissant, topped it with a bit of the salmon, and popped it into her mouth. The noise she made was borderline obscene. “You cannot get a croissant like this outside of Paris.”

Of course you could. There were five places he could name in New York alone. “Lex,” he finally said, out of patience. He’d come back here to lick his wounds, dammit, not deal with his sister. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was trying to take a nap, right up until you decided you didn’t like Mom’s interior decorating.”

He didn’t take the bait. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

She rolled her eyes. “I graduated two weeks ago. If you read your email you’d know that.”

“So, what, you decided to celebrate with a trip to Paris? Here to find yourself or something?” The question came out sneering, but it threatened to strangle him.

“Ha-ha. Not all of us have time to travel for pleasure, you know.” She stabbed a bit of her fruit, then set her fork aside, narrowing her eyes as she stared at him. “Look, Thomas has been trying to call you. I’ve been trying to call you. The one time you actually pick up, you brush me off within about three seconds. It’s been a year, Teddy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I want. Family gets to do that.”

He snorted. “Family.”

“Yup. Like it or not, that’s what we are.”

“And we’re supposed to, what? Band together and pick up the pieces our disgraced patriarch left for us?”

“Basically.”

“Well, I don’t want to.” He rose from his seat, feeling too caged in there at the fancy table in this ugly, fancy room. Feeling too caged in this conversation. Rubbing a hand over his face, he paced over to the wall, then flipped, putting his back to the plaster. “I wash my hands of the whole damn thing.”

“You washing your hands of me and Evan, too?”

“Evan doesn’t give a shit about any of this.”

“He will, someday, when he wakes up from the hippy dreamland he’s living in.”

That hippy dreamland being art school. Anger rose up in Rylan’s throat. “Why do you always have to dismiss what he wants to do with his life?”

“Because it’s not a real life! He should be part of the family business—”

“Not everybody wants to be you!”

Fuck. First it had been Kate, thinking about throwing away her passion because of whatever imaginary pressures she was facing to conform, and now it was this. It had always been this.

It had always been Lexie, striving so damn hard to be their father. Only their father hadn’t wanted a daughter for a CEO. He’d wanted a son. Evan had been too sensitive—too drawn into other things.

So Rylan had been the one to step up. He’d done what he had to do, for the family and the company, and for Lexie and Evan, too. Fighting for Lexie’s right to a seat at the table. For Evan’s chance to study whatever he wanted to at school. Fighting for everyone except himself, and he was tired, goddammit all.

He was done.

He glanced up at Lexie to find her staring at him, face stricken.

“Fuck it,” he mumbled under his breath. She’d never understood anyone who hadn’t had her drive.

He was almost to the door before she spoke.

“I don’t want anyone to be me.” Her voice was unusually soft. Just a little bit shaky.

He didn’t turn around, facing the hall as he said, “But you expect us all to want the same things you do.”

“I don’t. I just want you to care.”

“Well, I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Just because Dad got caught—”

“He didn’t just get caught. Christ, Lex, don’t you get it?” All the things he never talked about—the things he never even let himself so much as think about—were rising up, sticking in the back of his throat and dripping poison into his gut.

She threw her hands up. “No! I don’t, okay? I don’t get it. The whole thing made you so damn butt-hurt—”

“They took everything.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. He smacked his fist against the archway of the door and closed his eyes, pressing his brow to the back of his hand. “I gave my whole fucking life to Dad’s ambition.” His breath went short, his lungs tightening. “It was all I had, okay? Dad’s name and Dad’s company and Dad’s dirty money, and the name’s worthless now. Our family is worthless. The company is in ruins. All I have left is the money.”

He’d thought there’d been something else there. With Kate, when she hadn’t known who he was or what he brought to the table. She’d looked at him like he was something more.

But in the end, after she’d found out . . .

It still hadn’t been enough.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and gritted out, “Without it, I’m nothing.”

A long beat of silence followed, deafening even over the roaring in his ears.

“Teddy . . .”

He cut her off right there. Pushing off the wall, he opened his eyes and squared his shoulders. “If you’re still here in the morning, the coffee’s—”

“In the jar next to the fridge.”

“Right.” He took another step forward.

Her voice followed. “You’re not nothing.”

“Sure.”

“And you know you can’t run forever.”

He clenched his hands into fists and kept walking.

Only in the silence of his room, with the door closed, did he whisper, “Watch me.”

Kate knelt beside her suitcase the following morning, gathering her things as she got ready to head out. Her heart still ached every time she let herself think about what had happened the day before, but she was done with that. Done.

She’d given into the temptation to be a self-pitying lump the night before, but this morning, Paris was her oyster. She was going to do all the things she’d been too caught up in her whirlwind romance to take the time for. There were a couple of sights she still wanted to see, and she was getting back to the Louvre if it killed her. All she needed were her pencils and charcoals, maybe that lonely little bottle of ink. Her new sketchbook . . .

Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned the contents of her suitcase over a second time. Her sketchbook.

It wasn’t there.

The metal structure of the bunk behind her creaked as one of her still-sleeping roommates turned over in her bed. Kate bit her lip. She felt like a heel to be making so much noise, but she needed that book. Professionally if nothing else. Those sketches she’d done had documented the new style she was developing. She could’ve used them for reference for when she wanted to—

She stopped herself, an ugly bubble of laughter getting caught in her throat.

For when she wanted to what, draw him?

And suddenly, she wanted to do just that. Not the lovesick paintings she’d imagined she’d labor over while she nursed her broken heart, but angry ones. She wanted to take him apart, lay him out with furious brushstrokes and flay him to pieces with a palette knife. Expose him as a liar and a thief and—

A thief.

A new, colder rage slipped like ice into her veins. Did he steal her book? He would’ve had the opportunity. While she’d been in the bathroom, when he’d started to unpack her stuff in an effort to get her to stay. He’d already stolen her secrets and her story and her body. Taking her art would’ve been just one more violation.

Maybe he’d done it to get her to contact him. He was so good at saying all the right things. He’d lured her into his bed once already, and he’d been damn close to convincing her to stay and hear him out yesterday. Maybe this had all been another trick to rob her of her time, or convince her to let him fuck her again before she left.

Maybe she should do just that.

He had told her that she deserved pleasure and sex, and clearly he knew how to give it to her. She could get in touch with him and ask him if he’d found her sketchbook and go back to the mansion he probably lived in and get him to put his mouth on her again. Take what she wanted from him this time.

And then leave. Go home with all kinds of lessons learned.

About what she could ask for in bed and what happened to her when she let it become more than that. More than just sex.

But no. Crawling back to him after everything she’d said—she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

She couldn’t afford to take the risk. Rage might be fueling her blood right now, but her heart was still too tender. Too bruised. She didn’t trust it enough.

It—and she—needed time to harden up before she tried getting close to anyone again.

Hands shaking, she repacked her suitcase and stowed it, then checked over her purse. She’d swing by the hotel where she and Rylan had stayed on the off chance that housekeeping had found her book. That she’d just left it there by mistake.

If it wasn’t there, she’d write it off as a loss. She’d put it behind her.

She’d move on.

Lexie was still there when Rylan woke up. She’d traded the pajamas for one of her usual ensembles, a black and white and pink top with jeans she’d probably paid a grand to have look like they’d been casually worn in. She’d done her hair and makeup, too, though he had no idea who for.

He stopped at the threshold of the living room to blink the sleep from his eyes.

Jesus, when had she started to look so much like their mother?

Scrubbing at his face, he stumbled past the couch where it looked like she’d decided to crash for the night, pillows and folded-up blankets stacked up neatly on the floor beside it. He mumbled out a low grunt of a greeting as he passed her.

“You seem chipper.”

He grunted again and poured himself some coffee. Lexie must have made it earlier. At least having her around was good for something.

It was early yet. By his own ridiculous standards, he’d slept in the past few mornings with Kate, but waking up alone had apparently reverted him back to his usual habits. And he was exhausted.

“What’re you doing up?” He poured some cream in his coffee and took a sip.

“Jet lag is a bitch. I got a nap in, but that was about it.”

“You could have used one of the bedrooms.”

“You’re in the one I always used to stay in. And Mother’s room . . .”

Yeah. That was the last place he wanted to sleep, too.

“There’s always a hotel.”

“Like the one you’ve been staying at the past few days?”

That woke him up. “Excuse me?”

“You left the bill on the entryway table. You still have the place for another night, you realize.”

“That’s not for me.” Not anymore.

“And the duffel bag by the door is just one you keep full of dirty laundry all the time?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. Flipping her off was close enough, though.

“Very mature.” She turned off the TV and crossed the room to him, empty coffee mug in hand. “You know, you never did tell me what was wrong last night.”

There wasn’t much point denying that something had been bothering him. The shattered vase in the corner kind of gave him away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ooh, it must be good, then.” She refilled her cup and put her back to the counter. “Come on.” Her voice went teasing. “I can braid your hair and you can tell me all your secrets.”

He gave her an appraising look. She was trying just a little too hard here. But then again, she also decidedly wasn’t pressing him about going back to New York to save the company. Or giving him shit about his outburst from the night before.

So he went with it, letting the one corner of his mouth curl up. “The hair-braiding thing only ever worked on Evan and you know it.”

She hummed in agreement. “He had such nice hair, before Dad made him cut it off.”

“It’s probably grown back by now.”

“It was still short the last time I saw him.”

“Which was when?”

“Six months ago, maybe? He came and stayed with me for Christmas.”

While Rylan had stayed here, staring out a window at a Paris that was lit up like a tree.

“Teddddyyyyyy,” she whined. “Tell me.”

The name and the question made every hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“It’s nothing.” He gripped his mug tighter. “Just—just a girl.”

“I knew it!”

“Please.”

“What’s her name? What does she do? Is she French? I bet she’s French.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He set his mug down before he could break it. “She’s gone now.” He put his hands on the counter and faced away from her. Fuck, this hurt to admit. “It’s over.”

He tried to remind himself: It had been over before it had begun.

Kate hesitated, standing at the base of a set of white marble steps. It was one of her very favorite parts of the Louvre. Above her loomed Winged Victory, the huge statue she’d seen with Rylan that very first day, when he’d taken her here to try to earn her trust. This was the path they had taken. Just a few more twists and turns and she’d be back in the rooms where he’d charmed her, looking at beautiful, enormous paintings. Waxed philosophical about Greek mythology and told her about his family. If any of that had even been true. Bitterness welled up at the back of her throat.

But then she hesitated. His tales about the rich, socialite mother who’d taken him to art museums when the family visited Paris on business—they fit with the confessions he’d made once she’d figured him out. So maybe not every story he’d sucked her in with had been a lie. Just the majority of them.

If only she could go back in time and shake her former self. Open her eyes and save herself so much heartache. All the signs had been there. She was the idiot who’d refused to read them.

She dug her nails into her palm. And he’d been the asshole to let her believe what she wanted to.

She was blocking up the flow of traffic, standing where she was. Sighing at herself, she changed direction and headed away from the stairs, back toward the gallery she’d just been through. There were entire sections of the museum they hadn’t made it to. She was going to hit as many of them as she could.

This was what she’d come to Paris for in the first place, after all. Not to have some torrid love affair, or to fall head over heels for a beautiful, tousle-haired, blue-eyed boy.

A rich, lying, confused, sad man.

She was here for art and beauty and culture. To find her muse, and she’d found it all right. She’d happened upon a whole new style of drawing that she was going to take home with her, and into whatever was next for her life.

She didn’t need him to make the art come to life. Didn’t have to conjure the feeling of him at her spine to get her drawings to come out right. She didn’t.

She wouldn’t.

The next morning, Lexie slammed a briefcase down on the coffee table.

Rylan looked at it for a long second, then turned his attention back to his phone. “Nice. But I prefer black leather. Brown snakeskin is a little feminine.”

“You asshole.”

“Yes, dear?”

It was pointless, but he tapped the refresh icon on his email again. When nothing happened, his throat threatened to close on him.

There were so many things he’d never asked Kate about. He didn’t know where in New York she lived or what her parents’ names were. He knew she’d gotten into Columbia for graduate school, but he didn’t know if she’d take the offer, and if she didn’t, he didn’t know where she’d end up working.

He knew that she was leaving the country today, at some unspecified time, on some unspecified flight. He hadn’t expected her to contact him, and the same restraint that had kept him from running after her when she’d walked out of their hotel room had stopped him from sending a message of his own.

But she was leaving. Soon. It already felt like she was a little bit farther away.

Lexie shoved the briefcase closer. “These are all of the reports you’re legally entitled to as Dad’s proxy.”

“Wonderful. I needed some kindling.”

“Goddammit, Teddy.”

He snapped his head up. “I told you not to call me that.”

“And I told you to come home.” For a second her mouth wavered, real emotion in those cool, distant eyes.

It made him pause. “Lex . . .”

“Please. I can’t do this without you. Legally, I’m not allowed to.” She took a deep breath and dropped her arms to her side. “I don’t want to do this alone. Dad built this company from nothing. It’s all we have left.”

“He should have given it all to you.”

“Yeah.” She said it unironically. “After the way you flaked, he should have. But he didn’t.” She looked him right in the eye. “Please. Rylan.” Her voice shivered as she gave in and used his actual name. “I know he fucked you over. Him and Mom, both. They fucked us all over, up, down, and sideways. But we can make something of it.”

“Like what?”

“A life? A family?” Her half attempt at a smile crumpled. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a stupid idea. But it matters to me. And you being okay matters to me, too.”

He leaned back against the couch. “I’m always all right.”

“No. You’re not.” She crossed the room to the bag he’d somehow failed to notice her packing. She put on her jacket and lifted the handle of the suitcase. “I told you before. You can’t run forever.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“A fact.” She shook her head. “I can’t tell you what to do. Obviously. But I’m worried about you. I’m mad at them, too, but I want to make something of what they left us. If you change your mind . . .”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Please, Rylan. If you won’t leave with me today . . . the next board of directors meeting is in a few months.” Her expression went pleading. “It’s our last chance.”

His chest constricted, his throat catching.

One of the emails he hadn’t replied to had warned him they were coming up on the date. Ninety days out from the sentencing, the now provisional board had taken over, with a one-year mandate of stewardship. Once that year was up, the Bellamy family had a final chance to restake their claim, and then that was it. Everything his father had built and destroyed—everything he himself had helped build . . .

He’d get to watch it all be swept away. A silent shareholder with a front-row seat to witness his legacy as it burned.

He should have laughed. Should have been delighted to watch it go.

But there was something. This quiet voice in his heart, one Kate had awoken.

It told him he was better than sitting here idly. He could make something of his life.

He pushed it down and returned his gaze to his phone. He could go back there, all right. But if he did, his life would never be his own.

With a sigh, Lexie rolled her suitcase across the carpet to him. Bending at the waist, she dipped to press a kiss to his cheek. “Come home. Help me fix this.”

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

But he couldn’t promise her any of that.

Letting go, he said, “Have a safe trip back, Lex.”

Something in her face fell. She turned around without saying anything else.

He didn’t watch her walk away from him, luggage in hand. He’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime this week. Instead, he buried his gaze in the screen of his phone.

And he hit refresh. Again.

Kate heaved out a sigh as she plunked herself down in the lone free chair at the airport internet café. Around her, people were moving, wheeling around their tiny suitcases and checking their passports. She tucked her own boarding pass and travel documents into the front pocket of her purse, her security wallet relegated to the bottom of her carry-on at last.

With an hour and a half left before her flight took off, and her gate only a flight of stairs away, she let herself relax. It hadn’t been easy, getting herself packed up and checked out of her hostel, or carrying her things down to the Metro, or enduring the long ride out to Charles de Gaulle. But she’d done it by herself, and now it was over.

Her trip was over.

She wiggled the mouse to dismiss the screen saver. A window popped up, asking for her payment information before it’d let her log on and actually use the thing. She hesitated. She wasn’t unwilling to spend the couple of euros, extortionate though the price might be. But she wanted to get her head on straight before she started burning time.

She’d come here for a reason. Both to Paris and to this café.

Swallowing hard, she rummaged through her bag and pulled out her sketchbooks. She flipped through the one she’d finished, forcing herself to really acknowledge the progression in the images flicking past her. More than a year’s worth of drawings, more than a year’s worth of trying to figure out who she was.

When she got to the one she’d done from the top of Montmartre, she ran her thumb across the bottom of the page. It was good. Really good. A nice capstone to all the other styles she’d tried on over the past year—one drawing done in a style that felt like her own.

She’d found something that day. The whole trip was worth it, just for that. No matter how much the rest of it hurt.

Refusing to dwell, she closed that book and opened up the one she’d started yesterday. She’d filled a dozen pages with studies of statuary in the Louvre, and views of the Arc de Triomphe and the Seine. They didn’t have the same quality to them as the ones she’d done before things with Rylan had fallen apart. But that was okay. She could recapture that with time. After a few days alone to lick her wounds.

Nodding to herself, she turned back to the computer screen and entered in her information. Once she was in, she opened up a web browser and fired up her email. She glanced at the clock, giving herself exactly five minutes to indulge herself.

The snapshots Rylan had sent her took a few seconds to load, and she watched the screen with her heart in her throat. When they appeared, the sight of them was a punch to the gut. God. That first day, with the two of them outside the museum, him looking so debonair, her with a smile that seemed about to crumble right off her face. Brittle and wary. She’d had no idea what she was getting herself into.

And then their last day together, when she was a whole different kind of miserable.

He looked . . . fragile in this picture. Like he knew, and had accepted it, and was waiting for the blow.

Well, she’d delivered it. He deserved even worse for how he’d used her and lied to her and betrayed her trust. But at least she could hold her head high. She’d figured him out, and this time she hadn’t hesitated. She wasn’t her mom, and she wasn’t her old self, either.

She deserved better. And she was finally starting to demand it.

As much as part of her wanted to forget their whole time together, that was one thing she could be grateful for. Rylan’s voice had joined her own in drowning out her father’s. He’d told her that her artwork was amazing, and it hadn’t just been simple praise. He’d really looked at the work she’d done, and with a considering eye. He’d always taken a moment to think before making his pronouncement.

He’d told her that it was she herself who was special. Her way of seeing. The pieces of herself that she let bloom across the page.

He’d told her she already knew what she wanted to do.

There were still a couple of minutes left of the five she’d budgeted for wallowing, but she minimized the window with the images, returning to her inbox.

It only took a moment to pull up the messages that had been haunting her this entire time. She brought each one up in a new window and arranged them side by side.

Grad school or a real job. Risk or safety. Dreams or security.

She’d come to Paris chasing a dream. She’d followed a different one, one about love and sex and the ideal of a man who might treat her with honesty and care.

That one had turned out to be a fantasy.

But the other one . . .

Rylan might have been a fantasy. But he’d told her some things she’d needed to hear.

Without another thought, she clicked on the message from the admissions office.

She typed out her acceptance with shaking hands. This might be crazy, but if she didn’t take the chance, she’d regret it always.

Her reply declining the job offer was even quicker and easier to write. Once you knew what you were doing with your life, everything seemed to flow.

She hit send on both messages, then closed the windows.

Before logging out of the terminal, she brought up the photos of her and Rylan again. Every moment since she’d left him, she’d been torn between wanting to punch his teeth in and wanting to contact him. She didn’t know what she’d say, but things felt somehow unfinished between them.

Just in case, she checked her inbox one last time. Her chest deflated when there wasn’t a message from him. A tiny part of her was still hoping for some kind of overture, some kind of apology.

Just as well.

With her time on the computer running out, and with only an hour until her flight, she took one last look at his face on the screen. She was still angry, but there was more there, too.

She pressed her fingers to her lips and then grazed them across the screen.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You asshole. For everything.”

She ended her session and gathered her things.

It was time to leave Paris—and Rylan—behind.