Fierce (42 page)

So, yeh. I left with too many things left unsaid, too many promises left unspoken. But that was business. And that was me.  

I hadn’t even asked Hemi about his meetings, I realized the next morning, after I’d slept the clock around and then some and was eating breakfast at the dining-room table of the most extravagant suite I could possibly have imagined. Let’s just say that it put the Hôtel du Louvre to shame. There was a huge marble fireplace in the living room, and it had been lit by a butler this morning. Upstairs, my bedroom was set beside a monstrous terrace overlooking Central Park. I wouldn’t be using that in December, but it was nice to have, I guessed. I ate my eggs and toast and wondered how on earth I’d ended up here, and, most uncomfortably of all, remembered how inadequate my thanks had been for everything Hemi had done.

What I’d told him was true. I hadn’t had anything to give—less and less with each passing day. I’d been living on nerves and fumes. But I should have asked about his trip. I should at least have spared him a thought, and I’d be fixing that when he came back.

I did still have my hands full with Karen for now, though. It was a relief almost past bearing to get her out of the hospital, to settle her into a cloudlike bed with a scrolled headboard fit for a princess in her very own bedroom, to have her reach for the remote control with a sigh of satisfaction, and to be able to smile at that. 

And it was more than a relief, during the days that followed, not to have to shop, or run errands, or do anything but look after Karen and try to recover from the sleepless nights, from the fear and worry that had run me ragged. To have our meals delivered at first, to be able to order anything that might tempt Karen’s fickle appetite and have it arrive just like that. And, when she was a little stronger, to take her down to sit in the over-the-top sumptuousness of the Palm Court and eat more, to see her delight in not being sick, in hurting less every day. The hotel was gorgeous, and the suite was better, but who’d known that the absence of pain and illness was the ultimate luxury? We both did, now.

It was a different kind of relief, but just as real, to know that I’d be able to start contributing again, or at least to do my job. I couldn’t come close to paying Hemi back for everything he’d done, but I could get back on my feet again and stop taking from him, and sooner would be a whole lot better than later. Especially since I hadn’t heard from him nearly as much as I’d expected to. 

I’d known he’d be busy. He’d told me so, I vaguely recollected. We’d had a few quick calls in the late afternoon, when he was getting ready for bed, a few more texts during the day. And, on Thursday, the news that he wouldn’t be coming back the next day after all, but would have to stay until Monday. 

Complicated
, he’d texted.
Stay at the hotel.

Karen was so much better, though, bouncing back at a rate Dr. Feingold told me wasn’t uncommon in teenage patients. And I knew staying would be nothing but an indulgence. The sooner we got back to our real life, the better. The sooner we had solid ground under our feet again instead of these clouds we were walking on right now. Solid ground to make solid decisions.

And the sooner I got back to work, too. I’d be doing that from home for the next week, and then, assuming Karen’s recovery went as well as expected, back in the office. That work was going to start this morning, because my bizarre vacation was over.

I’d been lying on Karen’s bed reading to her, because reading was still beyond her, but I broke off in mid-sentence at the knock I’d been expecting, then set the book on the bedside table.  

“To be continued,” I said.

She opened her eyes and smiled. She was worn out, I could tell, from the walk we’d taken this morning to look at the Christmas window displays on Fifth Avenue. But she’d been so much stronger on that walk, and this was going to be a
great
Christmas. Our best ever, because she was here for it, and she was going to be well.

“It’s OK,” she said. “I’m good.” 

I closed the bedroom door softly behind me and hurried across the living room to the front door and opened it to Martine, looking as polished as always in a knit suit that emphasized her willowy proportions.

“Nice place,” she said in the understatement of the year, looking around as I gestured her toward the dining-room table. “You’re a very lucky girl, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” I refused to blush. By now, Hemi’s involvement with me couldn’t have been any kind of secret. I was sure that he’d had to make it very, very clear in order for me to keep my job through all this after barely three months’ employment, especially with a boss who wasn’t crazy about me anyway. 

“Your sister’s doing better, I take it?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

She didn’t say anything further, to my relief, just sat with me and went through what looked like far more than a week’s worth of work, but that I was somehow going to have to accomplish anyway. I couldn’t run to Hemi and complain. How would that look?

“And that’s it,” she said crisply, shoving her laptop back into its Kate Spade bag. “Shouldn’t be a problem, not with all your other needs taken care of so…thoroughly.” 

Her gaze traveled around the room, taking in that fireplace, the huge arrangement of lavender roses and white calla liles on the Beaux Arts end table under the semicircular window overlooking Central Park, the graceful staircase leading to my bedroom on the floor above. At least she hadn’t asked to use the bathroom. Those had chandeliers, too.

Her eyes met mine again, and I realized I hadn’t answered. 

“No,” I said. “Of course it won’t be a problem.” And refused to feel like a mistress, because I wasn’t one. I might have been a lot of things, but I wasn’t that. 

Martine hesitated, tapping an elegant fingernail against the clasp of her bag. “Can I make one more suggestion?” she asked. “A little word in your ear?”

“Of course.”
Note One. You are calm.
Even though I was anything but. My emotions were so volatile these days, rocketing from the giddiest heights to the darkest depths. My brain and body seemed determined to force me to acknowledge the extent of my terror, now that it was over. 

The lesser but still powerful anxiety about what to do about my job, all Karen’s missed school, and both of our futures still loomed. And always, still, the overwhelming need for Hemi, undeniable and irresistible as the tide, and just as dangerous.

There was desire there, of course there was, coming back now that I could feel something—anything—again. But that was the easy part. It was remembering his tenderness that was so devastating. The sweet rightness when I’d been in his arms after we’d made love, when his hand was stroking down my back to soothe me. The leaping pleasure I still felt at every text, every phone call. The thrill every time I’d opened my apartment door, had seen him standing outside, and had known he was there for me. 

I’d told him I couldn’t think of anything but Karen, but I’d come to realize during this past week that it wasn’t true. Somehow, sometime, I’d fallen in love. During these past quiet days, I’d been forced to admit, to myself if nobody else, that this was so much more than attraction. That I loved Hemi with an intensity, an understanding, and a connection that was all the more powerful for being unspoken. I loved him for his strength, yes, but I loved him more for his weaknesses. For how hard he worked to be the best, and for how deeply he feared that he wasn’t enough. And I missed him. I missed him so much.

Now, Martine smiled at me, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that all those thoughts were there to read in my transparent face. 

Her next words confirmed it. “I know it’s so tempting,” she told me, “to think it will last. It’s a beautiful dream, isn’t it? But you know,” she sighed, running two fingers lightly over the diamond pendant at her throat, the gesture so habitual, “that’s all it is. A dream. One brief shining moment. And the thing about dreams? You wake up.”

I swallowed, but didn’t trust myself to speak.
It’s not a dream
, I wanted to say.
It’s real.
Because Hemi
was
real. He might be handsome, he might be rich, he might be powerful, and heaven knew he was the most desirable man I’d ever met. But he was so much more than that. He was a living, breathing, caring man whose emotions were as deep and strong as they were hidden.  

It wasn’t the myth I loved. It was the man, in all his shining, glorious light and all his dark, disturbing shadows. The man who thought he had to hide both of those sides from everybody, but who couldn’t hide them from me, because I saw him, and I knew him, and I loved him.

“And then you wake up,” Martine repeated, and I forced myself to focus. “And you get such a lovely present. The most beautiful farewell gift, carefully hand-selected. By Josh. The kind of present you’d have given anything to receive, if it had been what you wished for. If it had been the real thing. And the better your time with him has been?” She smiled sadly. “The better the gift, because he’s always fair. But that’s when you know it’s over, when you get that token that you can keep to remember him by. Or that you can sell, of course, if you need the money more. If you’ve been picked up from the gutter, and you can’t stand to go back there again.”

I barely heard her, because her fingers were still at her throat, stroking the huge diamond solitaire on its heavy golden chain, the one she wore every day. 

No. Surely not. It couldn’t be true.

“Well,” she said, gathering her things, “you’ll want to get to that work. You don’t want to go back to the gutter, I know you don’t, and for that? Work is the only solution. That’s what’s left after men leave. Because the thing about men?” She put a hand over mine for just a moment, the lightest of caresses. “They always leave.”

I didn’t open my laptop. I didn’t pick up the stack of papers, and I didn’t look at my notes. I stood up without knowing what I was doing, walked to the window, and stared out at bare brown branches. At the frozen expanse of Central Park in winter. 

The sky was gray today, the clouds low and menacing. Just like that day in San Francisco. The weather turning cold, the storm threatening to break. 

No.
Martine was jealous of me, of my position. Of course she was. I’d seen it from the beginning. She’d been forced to hire me, forced to keep me on. If she resented me for that, wouldn’t anyone? But Hemi wouldn’t have set me up with a job working for his former mistress. 

Really?
My inner voice mocked.
Not even at first?
When all he’d wanted had been to add me to his list? Who knew what he’d said to Martine to get her to agree to my going to Paris? Who knew what he’d actually said to her about my being “needed by Marketing,” the day I’d gone to San Francisco? 

No.
Hadn’t I just been thinking that I saw him, and I knew him? When had he ever been less than honest with me, even when a lie would have served him better? These past weeks—when had he been less than kind, and thoughtful, and...honorable? 

Never. 

So I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to go there. I was going to wait for him to come home—or, better yet, for him to call me tonight—and
ask.
Like a reasonable adult woman who loved and trusted a man. 

I turned from the window, went back to the table, and began to move everything to the desk. I wanted Hemi to take me seriously? Then it was time to get to work. I might be about ten giant steps below the CEO, but what I’d told him was true. I could do a job if I were given a chance, and I’d been given one. Maybe it wouldn’t be
this job
, in the end, because the signs weren’t looking good. But I could do something, and it was time to start proving it.

Which was when there was another knock on the door. Housekeeping, probably. 

I went to the door and opened it for the second time in an hour. But it wasn’t housekeeping.