The Replacement Wife (14 page)

It just had to be.

It was two days, perhaps three—he’d long since lost track of time—when Theo finally found himself the single visitor in Larissa’s room. No doctors. No hovering Whitneys. Just him and the woman he was still engaged to marry. The woman he’d written off as dead, who as far as he was concerned had come back to life from the grave.

He hardly knew how to feel about that. Not that he could feel much of anything. He’d been numb ever since Becca had walked away from him, letting the grand door of the Whitney mansion slam shut behind her, severing whatever had been between them.
Numb.
He supposed that was better than what lurked beneath it.

And now he was the man who sat at the bedside of his convalescent fiancée, thinking of another woman.

So far from the man he’d thought he’d be, he reflected darkly, with no little self-loathing. So very far from the man he should have been.

She stirred, and woke, and Theo was still surprised that she was not Becca. That she was nothing like Becca at all. How had he convinced himself that they were similar? It wasn’t just that Larissa was so pale, so fragile-looking. It was that the whole bright thrust of Becca’s personality simply … wasn’t there. It was like looking at a black-and-white photograph when he’d grown so used to color.

“Am I hallucinating?” Larissa asked, her voice raspy, as if from a rough night in a bar. Theo wondered that his mind went there, directly, when he knew perfectly well it was from the tubes that had kept her alive. Or
perhaps he shouldn’t wonder. She’d been in one of those bars before her collapse, hadn’t she? It would behoove him to remember that she was still Larissa, no matter how small and wan she looked today.

“I can’t imagine why you would hallucinate me,” he said. She smiled, and he saw the Larissa he’d liked the most peek out of her eyes for a moment. The Larissa he’d fantasized would be the one he’d marry, because he’d thought that was the real Larissa. The one she kept so deep inside, so locked away, that he doubted many people saw glimpses of her at all.

“Out there,” she said, nodding toward the outer room. She frowned in confusion. “I thought … I thought I saw.”

“You weren’t hallucinating,” he said quietly.

She looked at him for a long moment, her green eyes serious—very nearly contemplative—and all he could think was that she was a stranger to him. That he had known her for years and he’d never known her at all. He did not elaborate further, and she did not ask.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve always been honest with me.”

That pricked at his conscience, though he knew she could not mean it to do so.

She sat up slowly, awkwardly, but she waved him away when he moved to help, and eventually she propped herself up against her pillows, her breath coming hard. He should feel more, he thought, despairing of himself. He should feel more for her than pity.

“You should rest,” he said. “You’ll need all your strength to recover.”

“I forgot about the will,” she said, and coughed a little bit. “My father reminded me.” She sighed, and looked
at her hands, and Theo had no trouble imagining how unpleasant that conversation must have been.

“Don’t worry about your father,” he said.

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “It’s not that I wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to make him … something. Anything. I don’t know.”

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Theo said gruffly. He could not remember the last time Larissa had spoken to him like this. No games, no ulterior motives. No tests. There was a time when it would have changed his whole world, when it would have filled him with hope and joy. It would have meant that he’d finally gotten precisely where he’d always wanted to go.

So why did he feel so empty? But he knew.

“We do,” she said. She pushed her pale hair back from her face, showing her high cheekbones that made him wish she was Becca, her mouth that was not quite Becca’s. And when she spoke, it was with her voice that was not Becca’s at all. “I’ll change the will. I’ll sign it all over to you.” She took a quick breath. “And I’ll marry you. I won’t.” She floundered for a moment, then her shoulders sank, and her face cleared of all expression. “I won’t resist anymore.” She looked at him then, her gaze more sad than anything else. “I promise.”

He should have been jubilant. He should have felt some hint of triumph, of victory. Because he believed her. Whatever she’d just been through had changed her somehow, at least so far—and he could see it. He believed it. Which meant that she’d just offered him everything he’d ever wanted on a silver platter. It was his for the taking.

But
everything he’d ever wanted
didn’t mean the same things to him that it had once.

“Keep your shares,” he said. Her eyes flew to his.

“But—”

“Keep them,” he said. “They’re your birthright.”

“I don’t care about my birthright,” she told him. “I really don’t.”

“But it’s yours just the same,” he said gently. “And maybe someday you’ll think that the least you deserve for all the trouble of surviving this family is a stake in it all. You never know.”

She studied him for a moment, but did not speak. Theo climbed to his feet, and rubbed his hands over his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. There had been too much going on the past few days. Bradford had told him he looked like a
ruffian
, and he’d taken it as a compliment when once he might have worried that he’d let his poverty-stricken roots show through. His true face, poor and desperate and nothing but ambitious. But he no longer cared.

He cared about one thing, in all this great mess, and he’d let her walk away from him.

“I owe you an apology,” he told Larissa.

“I doubt that,” she said. But her eyes were solemn on his, as if she thought something else entirely. He had a moment of regret, for all the mysteries he would never uncover about this woman, who seemed to be so very altered today, with none of her usual masks. But it was gone so quickly, he almost thought he’d imagined it.

“I think I loved what I wanted you to be,” he said, testing out the words, feeling the truth of them roar through him, making sense of all the past years. “Not you. Never you.”

There was something so weary in her gaze then, something sad and wise, and he wondered if this, right now when it had ceased to matter, was the real Larissa he’d been searching for all these years. She gazed at him
for a long moment, and then her mouth crooked into a wry sort of smile.

“I know,” she said simply. And set them both free.

W
HEN HER COWORKER
popped her head into Becca’s office and told her, in a hushed tone of deepest awe, that she had a
male visitor,
Becca felt as if all the blood drained out of her head. She took a breath, then another. Only when she was reasonably sure that she wouldn’t topple over in a faint did she manage to smile.

“Please have him wait for me in Reception,” she said, as calmly as possible. “I’ll be out when I can.”

“I don’t think this is the kind of man who waits,” Amy said, starry-eyed, still in that
amazed
sort of tone. Becca only smiled.

But when Amy disappeared again, she felt her smile slip from her face. She reached up and rubbed at her temples, closing her eyes for a moment against the swell of emotion that threatened to tip her over in her chair.

He was here.

She had no doubt at all that it was Theo. She couldn’t think of another man alive who would render the usually sophisticated Amy so flabbergasted. He had that effect.

It had been two weeks since she’d walked out of the Whitney mansion. She’d congratulated herself. She’d told herself that she’d accomplished all she’d set out to accomplish. She’d walked into the belly of the beast and
came out the other side, as planned. Surely that had to matter. The simple
fact
of her survival.

She’d come home to Boston, immediately had her hair dyed back to its natural color as a clear gesture toward reclaiming her old self, and picked up her life right where she’d left off. It had been wonderful to see her sister again—and to see the acceptance letters Emily had received from every single college she’d applied to, making what Becca had gone through worthwhile, after all.

“I know we can’t afford it,” Emily had said, holding the letter from Princeton in her hand, but her eyes had shone so brightly, so proudly, anyway. “But I wanted to see if I could do it at all.”

“Don’t worry about the money,” Becca had said, hugging her. “That’s my job.”

It didn’t matter what had happened to her in New York, Becca had thought then. She’d still believed that Theo would give her that money, as he’d said he would, and that meant everything had been worth it. Everything. Even her broken heart. If it meant Emily could have the future she deserved—and that Becca could finally make it up to her poor mother as she’d promised to do—then she would have done it all over again.

She might have had to beg a little bit to walk right back into her job, but they’d eventually relented—even if, as punishment, she’d gotten assigned to the crankiest, most demanding lawyer in the firm. She could handle that.

What she was not at all sure she could handle was an infusion of Theo into her neat, orderly little life. It was one thing to live in his Manhattan dream-life. Penthouses and private cars and the best of everything laid out for his pleasure. But this was
her
life, and he
was too big. Too overpowering.
Too much.
He didn’t belong here. Not even for as long as it took him to do whatever errand he’d planned to do on this unexpected visit of his.

But she was going to have to dredge up the strength to tell him that, and Becca wasn’t sure she could do it. Not when she’d done nothing but ache for him, wide-awake and hollow-eyed, every sleepless night, since she’d left New York.

So she did the only thing she could do. She made him wait.

How long would she make him wait? Theo stretched out his long legs and ignored the receptionist’s blatant stare. It was coming up on an hour, and yet he still sat, in the small little office that housed this second-rate law firm she worked for. It was not the sort of place he would ordinarily grace with his presence, but then, what about Becca had ever been ordinary?

He knew the moment she entered the reception area, though she did it from the side door and he could only sense her out of his peripheral vision at first. Still, he knew at once it was her. His Becca. He would know her if he was blind.

“Almost an hour you’ve let me sit here,” he said, still pretending to flip through the magazine he’d picked up when brooding at the carpet had bored him. “Is that sufficient penance for you?”

“Not even close,” she said, her voice crisp.

He looked up then, letting his eyes drink her in. Two weeks without her had felt like a lifetime. He had no intention of repeating the experience. She’d darkened her hair, and rid herself of those damned green contacts.
He liked it. There was something about the chestnut color of her hair, swept back into a competent bun today, that worked with her mossy-hazel eyes, and the less she looked like Larissa, the more he liked it.

How had he ever considered her dowdy? Because he knew he had, though he could not seem to access those memories. He got too caught on the images of the two of them naked, Becca moaning out his name, while he moved hard and deep inside of her.

She was wearing what he supposed passed for a business suit. It was nice enough, though it only hinted at her delectable body beneath. He knew that was undoubtedly more professional, but he preferred her in more revealing clothes.

“Hello, Becca,” he said after a long moment, when they only stared at each other.

Her face colored with temper, and her eyes crackled. She shot a look over her shoulder at the receptionist who wasn’t even attempting to hide her avid interest, and then jerked her head toward the door.

“Come on,” she said, her voice clipped. It was a direct order and despite himself, he found it delightful. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He put the magazine aside and stood, slowly, watching her. A very male satisfaction flashed through him when he saw the way her eyes tracked the movement of his body, the way she swallowed, hard.
Good,
he thought. As long as she still wanted him, he could handle the rest. That was the only part that mattered.

She jerked her gaze away from his abdomen and met his gaze, and he could see the flush on her cheeks was as much desire as temper now. She might hate him. In
fact, she should. But that didn’t mean she wanted him any less.

Far happier than he should have been, he followed her outside.

She whirled on him the moment they hit the sidewalk, the midday buzz of downtown Boston disappearing as she focused on him.

“'Hello, Becca?'” she echoed, in disbelief. “Is that really what you said to me? As if we are nothing but casual acquaintances?”

“Is there some other way you would like me to greet you?” he asked in that lazy way that made her suspect he was laughing at her. And it hurt too much. She was too raw and he shouldn’t be here—he was too powerful a presence, even in nothing more than a dark sweater, a coat and jeans. He was attracting stares from all the passing alpha male lawyers on their way to meetings, depositions and court appearances, because he was something different, something more, than all of them. He lit up the Boston street like a supernova.

Though Theo, of course, noticed none of that. He only watched her as if she was prey. Or something precious to him. Or both. She could not decide which was worse, which would damage her more completely.

“What do you want?” she asked woodenly.

He pulled a thick envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to her. She took it without meaning to, and stared at it in her hand.

“What is this?” She felt dull. Thick. She wanted him to go away. Or in any case, that was what she
should
want.

“What do you think?” His amber eyes saw too much. They touched too many places inside of her she would
prefer to keep hidden. “It is your money. There are some forms to sign, and some investment portfolios you should consider with an inheritance of this size, and, of course, tax issues.” His brows rose. “I’m happy to recommend a good lawyer if you would prefer the ones you work for not know your new net worth. It may be better to keep such things private.”

She couldn’t take it in. That he was here, or that she was holding an entirely different life in her hands, the culmination of her wildest dreams tucked into this little envelope.

“Have you become a messenger boy in your spare time?” she managed to ask, concentrating on the one thing—the only thing—that she could make herself focus on. “You deliver the mail?”

“Only to you, Becca,” he said, his voice so rich, so deep, that it seemed to inhabit her, taking her over and making her melt. How could he have this power over her?

But even as despair washed through her, it was met with desire, stronger and hotter and far more dangerous. As if he could sense it, or read it on her skin like text, he reached over and cupped her face with his warm, strong palm.

She had to fight against the urge to turn her face into his hand. Tears pricked the back of her eyes, and this was all too unfair.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered. “Is this a game? Do you want to be the one to walk away this time, so you can keep up your winning streak? Is that what you came for?”

She thought he would drop his hand, but he only moved it, sliding it down her neck to rest against her
collarbone, where she had no doubt he could feel the wild fluttering of her pulse.

“I love—” he began, but panic soared in her, thick and smoky and desperate.

“Your power games,” she interrupted him. “Your boardrooms and your corporate suits and however else you plan to rule the world. I know what you love.”

“Becca.” His voice was a command. A strict order. But this time, she could not allow herself to obey it. There was too much at stake—and she had already lost more than she could bear.

“Women who do not exist—figments of your imagination,” she continued, breathless and chaotic, not even knowing what she meant to say. “The whole corrupt and despicable Whitney family, who would cast you aside in a heartbeat if you did not contribute to their ever-swelling coffers. That’s what you love. Greed and snobbery. Fantasies and—”

“And you,” he said. His gaze was serious, and her heart stuttered in her chest. “I love you.”

A fierce joy slammed into her, so hard it took her breath away, but then sanity returned and with it, another wave of that crippling despair. It didn’t matter what she wanted, because she knew him. She knew him too well, and while she loved him with a ferocity that shocked her on some level, she had walked away from him for a reason.

“No, you don’t,” she said, her voice small but sure. “Not enough.”

She stepped back from him before his hand on her drove her to distraction. Before he made her forget herself, and the sad truth of things.

“What would prove it to you?” he asked, almost idly, as if he was not particularly concerned. But she could
see the fire in his gaze. The steely determination. It made her shiver slightly. “Because I already know that you love me, though you have never bothered to say it.” His hard mouth crooked into a smile. “I can see it even now.”

“Why would I tell you something like that?” she asked, and realized as she did that she hadn’t denied it. She couldn’t. “And what does it matter anyway? You’re engaged. Everything that happened between us is wrong.”

“I am not engaged,” he countered. “And what happened between us was many things, Becca, but none of it was wrong!”

“But.” She wanted so badly for what he was saying to be true that she was afraid that she was making it up in her own head. “What happened to Larissa?”

His amber eyes burned as he looked at her, but his voice was soft when he spoke.

“She’s fine,” he said. “She offered to make good on all of her promises.” His gaze was like steel. Serious. Sure. “I declined.”

“You.” She couldn’t make sense of it. Her heart was pounding too hard, too fast. She felt slightly dizzy, slightly ill. But she couldn’t look away from him.

“I left her shares in her possession,” he said, very deliberately, moving close again. “I won’t be marrying her.”

“But Whitney Media is your whole life!” she managed to say, though she felt as if she stood on shaking ground, as if the earth rocked beneath her, as if the slightest breeze would fling her sideways and she was not sure she would ever get up again.

“About that,” he said. Dark humor lit his eyes, and she could not help but be drawn to it. To him. Even
now, even knowing that she should turn and run in the opposite direction. “I quit.”

She felt her mouth drop open. She felt that shuddering again, from deep inside, that threatened to break her into pieces.

And then she couldn’t seem to keep herself together anymore. It was all too much. Becca stared at him for another moment, fighting a losing battle, and then could do nothing but burst into tears.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Becca said a long time later, standing in Theo’s massive hotel suite that looked out over the city of Boston as the sun began to inch toward the horizon.

He had taken care of everything. He had bundled her sobbing form into his waiting limousine, contacted her employers and then whisked her off to one of Boston’s most outrageously expensive hotels to let her cry it out in peace. He even held her while she did so, his warm hand against her back, his soothing murmur in her ear.

And oh, how she had cried. She’d cried for her poor mother, and for the tiny little baby she’d been when she’d been treated like nothing more than a bomb in her mother’s life. She’d cried for her guilt ever after, for the life she’d kept her mother from, and for the life they’d led together, traipsing from one bad male figure to the next. She’d cried for the promises she’d made and the faith that she’d broken with herself to even dare to ask the Whitneys for help in the first place. She’d cried for Emily’s innocence and her own loss of it, but most of all, she’d simply cried to get out all of the shattering emotions that had wrecked her, again and again, since the day she’d met this man.

And when the storm was over, when it had wrung her dry at last, he had still been there.

“What don’t you understand?” he asked now. He stood by the window, where she’d found him when she’d emerged from the long, hot shower she’d felt she had to take after such an extended crying jag. Now she was dressed in nothing more than a thick robe, her hair scraped back, her face free of any cosmetics, and on some intellectual level she imagined this should make her feel vulnerable, this near nudity. But she could not imagine feeling any more stripped than she already did, simply by being in his presence. So what could what she wore matter?