I nod, uncertain what the appropriate response might be to her warning or her intimate insight into Nick, which I can only assume comes from personal experience. How had he hurt Margot? How many others has he cast aside, banished, when they tried to get too close? I feel certain there are many.
Just as I feel certain I will be next, unless I make every effort to steer clear of him.
Chapter 15
“Hang on, Miss Avery. Let me help you with those.”
Manny hurries outside to meet me at the taxi in front of the building. I’m just returning from lunch with Margot, bringing my paintings along with me in the backseat of the cab. The four pieces are crated and stacked against one another on the seat. As I work to pull the awkward cartons out by myself, he wheels a chrome-finished dolly out and moves close to assist.
“It’s okay, Manny. I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can, Miss.” He lightly taps my shoulder. “Please, allow me.”
Although I’m more comfortable doing things for myself, he’s such a kind man, refusing his help almost seems like an insult, so I step aside.
“All right, then. But please be careful with them.”
“Of course,” he assures me.
Although he’s not young, he’s stronger than he looks. I pay the driver, then watch Manny gently lift each bulky package out of the vehicle with smooth, steady arms. As he sets the last carton on the dolly, I notice him glancing at the Dominion Gallery logo on the crates Margot gave me for transporting my pieces.
“Been doing a little shopping, have ya?”
I practically laugh at the idea that I could afford to buy art, especially from a gallery as exclusive as Dominion. Nick’s gallery, I silently amend. The reminder of my conversation with Margot puts a bitter taste in my mouth. “No shopping today. I’m just bringing a few things home that belong to me.”
“No kidding?” The doorman’s eyes brighten with genuine delight. “You’re a professional artist, Miss Avery?”
Maybe because it’s Manny—because I feel safe with him, secure, in a way I rarely do with men in general—I don’t try to deny the one thing that’s always given me such joy. I don’t feel the need to justify myself to him, not even when he’s wheeling my rejected work ahead of me into the building.
“I paint a bit. It’s something I’ve loved doing since I was a kid.”
“Well, that’s just terrific,” he enthuses as we cross the lobby together, heading for the elevators. “What kind of things do you paint?”
“Landscapes and cityscapes, mostly. A still life, here and there. I’ve done some portraiture, but I had to give it up.” I shrug. “No matter how hard I try, I can never get faces to look real enough.”
Manny chuckles. “Tell that to Picasso.”
I smile as he gestures for me to step into the open elevator ahead of him. He follows me inside with the dolly and presses the button for the fifth floor. As the car begins to ascend, he indicates the cartons holding my art.
“So, what kinds of paintings are these?”
“Oh, just a few scenes from around the city.” I dismiss his interest with a small smile. “Nothing special.”
“Special enough to be in Mr. Baine’s gallery. I’d say that’s far better than most.”
I wince internally. The doorman knows Nick owns the gallery? Oh, God. Does he also know I spent the night in Nick’s penthouse last week?
I glance up to the small security camera mounted in the corner of the elevator car and can hardly suppress my groan of mortification. Although the one Nick and I took from the garage was a private car, it’s too much to hope that it isn’t equipped with the same kind of security equipment as this one.
Wonderful. As if my day hasn’t been humiliating and awkward enough. My only saving grace is the fact that Nick isn’t here to witness me schlepping my crates through the building right now too. I consider everything Margot said about him—and the fact that he played me that night, letting me believe he was only at the gallery as a customer. Seducing me with all of his talk about passion and pain and the pleasure of being reckless.
I imagine him in London these past several days, chuckling at my idiocy—at how easily my legs fell open for him—and it makes my blood boil with outrage. I burn with disappointment, too, but that’s harder for me to acknowledge. I don’t want to feel hurt where Nick Baine is concerned. I don’t want to admit, even to myself, that he has the power to wound me. That would really make me his fool.
“A friend of mine manages the gallery,” I tell Manny, dismissing his well-meaning, but grossly misplaced praise. “The only reason I was there was because she helped me get in. Unfortunately, Mr. Baine has decided to award my space to some better artists.”
“Oh.” Manny’s bushy brows furrow with his frown. Obviously embarrassed for me, he averts his gaze and shifts on his polished shoes as we wait for the elevator to climb. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do just fine somewhere else,” he says. “After all, plenty of other galleries in the city, right?”
I force a smile. “Sure.”
“That’s right.” He nods his head as if hoping to convince me. “You know, a lot of people pass my way every day. Thousands of ‘em. I see good folks, and the not so good. After a while, you learn to spot who’s who pretty quick. Like you, for instance.”
I stare at him, half in curiosity, half terrified of what he might say.
“I’ve had you pegged right off the bat.”
“You have?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have. You’re one of the good ones. Got a feeling maybe no one’s told you that often enough, but if you don’t mind me saying, I think you need to hear it today.” His mouth curves warmly, and he reaches out to lightly pat my shoulder. “You’re a good person, Avery. You need to remember that, no matter what life hands you.”
I’m silent, taken aback. I don’t know what to say. Words clog my throat along with my breath, but it’s not because of the weight of his kindness.
It’s because he’s wrong.
I’m not one of the good ones.
If he knew anything about me—about my past, about where I’ve come from—he wouldn’t think so either.
It takes some effort to find my voice. When I finally do, it comes out quiet, a thready whisper. “Thank you for saying that, Manny.”
Before his tender gaze can see through me, I glance away from him. I stare straight ahead as we ride the rest of the way to the fifth floor. In the hammered steel of the elevator doors, my reflection stares back at me, a blurred and distorted mask.
~ ~ ~
I’m getting dressed for my evening shift at Vendange when my cell phone rings. Cursing, stumbling out of the massive walk-in closet in just my half-buttoned black work shirt and underwear, I dash for the living room where I dropped my purse on my way in earlier this afternoon.
Although I’m not anticipating that Nick might call—more accurately, I’m convinced that he won’t—I still race for my phone as if I’m running a marathon. My mind swirls with a dozen cutting things to say to him, all of the icy responses I’ve been rehearsing since my lunch meeting with Margot.
But it’s not Nick calling.
Of course, it’s not. The bastard probably deleted my number by now.
Some of my anger fizzles out as I register the Pennsylvania area code on the display. I’ve already spoken with my mother this morning. It’s rare that she’s allowed to call more than once a day. Practically unheard of. Something must be wrong.
Alarm jolts through me as I swipe to answer. “Mom?” The automated collect call message talks past my rushed greeting. Anxiety spiking, I wait for it to finish. “Yes, I accept. Mom? Hello, are you there?”
“I’m here honey.” Her voice sounds thin, a little weary, but that’s nothing unusual the past couple of years. “Am I calling at a bad time?”
“No, you’re not.” I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder as I fasten the rest of the buttons on my shirt. “What’s going on? Is everythin
g all right?”
“Oh, yes. Everything’s fine, sweetheart.”
“What’s up, then? Why are you calling again today?”
“Mr. Stadler came to see me a little while ago.”
I frown at the mention of the public defender handling her case. “What did he want? Has there been any progress on your appeal?”
“Nothing yet on that, sweetheart. But he’s working on it.”
I refrain from pointing out that Stadler’s been working on her appeals ever since the state sent her away. All we’ve seen is one roadblock after another. Honestly, I don’t know where my mother gets her patience. Maybe she’s eternally optimistic. Or maybe, in order to survive where she is for the past nine years, she’s had to give up any hope that she might ever see her conviction overturned or her sentence reduced.
I hate that I can’t do anything to help. I hate that she’s in a cage two-hundred miles away from me and I can’t see her face. I haven’t hugged her in more than a year.
I hate that the woman I love more than anyone else on this planet has been labeled a monster by the judicial system. A killer who shot her husband—my drunk of a stepfather—dead in cold blood.
It’s not like she denied it. My sweet, loving mother had shocked everyone in the court, including me, when she pleaded guilty to first-degree murder.
“We don’t have word on the appeal, Avery, but Mr. Stadler did have some other news.”
Her soft voice breaks into my thoughts. I hear something odd in her tone now. Something light. Is it . . . excitement?
“What kind of news? What’s going on?”
“We got the parole board interview.”
Elation soars through me. “Momma, that’s wonderful! When?”
“Mr. Stadler says it could be as early as next week. Probably sooner.”
“I want to be there.”
I hear her soft inhale. “Honey, I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“I want to be with you, Momma. I need to be.”
Even as I say it, I know what her answer will be. I can sense it coming in her tender sigh on the other end of the line.
“Avery, I don’t want you to come.” Her denial is heavy in her prolonged silence, and I know her heart is breaking as much as mine. “I don’t want you here for any of this. You know how I feel about that.”
I say nothing, all of my arguments dying on the tip of my tongue. From day one, she’s insisted on fighting this battle alone. As a sixteen year old girl, I was too terrified and weak to stand by her. Now, I’m a twenty-five year old woman who can’t do a damn thing to save her.
“Avery, honey. Tell me you understand.”
I shake my head mutely, wishing things were different.
Missing her like the scared, uncertain girl I was back then.
“Yes, Momma,” I finally agree. “I understand.”
Chapter 16
Hello, beautiful.
The text message hits my phone as I disembark from a Sunday morning subway at the Flushing station in Queens. I’m heading out today for the 10:30 A.M. baptism of Tasha’s baby girl, followed by a small gathering at their house.
I was in a cheerful, upbeat mood when I left the apartment an hour ago—happy to be outside on the gloriously warm, early May morning and to have an excuse to wear something other than bartending clothes or the oversized T-shirts and sweatpants I tend to live in when I’m off work.
As I begin walking the couple of blocks to the church in my pale gray dress and heels, I glance down at Nick’s unexpected message and feel my joy leech away. In its place is a spike of disbelief and a slow-simmering annoyance.
Is he for real?
Does he actually think I’ve been sitting around all this time, waiting for him to get in touch? Or is he trying to line up his stateside conquests now that his two weeks in London have passed?
The arrogant prick.
I roll my eyes and toss the phone back in my handbag, determined to ignore him.
The chime of another incoming text sounds only a minute or two later.
Don’t look. Don’t even think of looking, I command myself. And yet in spite of my own dignity and better judgment, I retrieve the phone again and swipe the screen lock open.
You there? Got you on my mind in a bad way.
“Oh, please.” I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk and glare at my phone. Because I’m thoroughly pissed off and can’t help myself, I tap out a scathing reply.
Why? Have you already run through all the available women in London?
I hit SEND and resume my walk, hoping my digital fury will be enough to shut him down and end this farce right here and now.
My phone starts ringing immediately.
Dammit.
I know I should just let it go to voicemail. I should pretend Dominic Baine no longer exists and carry on with my life, such as it is.
Instead, my feet slow to a halt. I curse under my breath and angrily swipe to answer.
“I really don’t have time for this, Mr. Baine.” I lean heavily on his name, not even trying to sound cordial.
He’s silent for a second and I know I’ve caught him off guard. “You’re upset. Tell me why.”
No greeting, only a demand. Clipped and direct with concern.
God, I’ve forgotten how velvety dark his voice sounds. It caresses my ear, strokes my senses. If I wasn’t so stung and infuriated, I might not be able to repress the quickening response of my body to his deep, masculine growl. But I bite it back, clamping my molars together in sullen silence as he tries to understand my change of attitude.
“Avery, what the hell is going on?”
“You tell me.”
“You’re angry with me.”
“How brilliant of you to notice.”
“Because I haven’t been in touch until now.” Not a question, but a self-assured statement of fact.
I practically snort in reply. “I’m sure you’d like to think so.”
It’s amazing how convincing that sounds, even to my own ears. Until I’d spoken to Margot, I actually had been upset that he hadn’t called or texted. Now that he’s on the other end of the line, I can’t wait to end this conversation with him and erase the night we spent together from my mind.
“If you think you need to explain or make excuses, Nick, trust me—you don’t.”
“I don’t do anything because I think I have to,” he says, somewhat sternly. “That’s not how I operate.”
I can’t say I’m surprised to hear him admit that. “What do you want, Nick?”
“I’d have thought my text made that clear enough. You’ve been on my mind, Ms. Ross. Ever since our very stimulating conversation the other day. In fact, I’ve thought of little else since.”
Just the mention of what we did together via text makes my body quicken in vivid remembrance. I close my eyes and release a pent-up sigh. “You know what? I can’t do this with you. Not right now.” Not ever again, I vow, and I’m almost desperate enough to believe I actually mean it. “I’m busy, Nick. I have somewhere I need to be and—”
“So early? And on a Sunday besides?” He asks it almost conversationally, but I can hear the seriousness in his tone. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t see how that’s any interest of yours.”
“And yet it is,” he says, unfazed. “Everything about you interests me, Avery.”
God help me, but the way he says my name in that deep voice of his is working its dark magic on me all over again. I should be incensed at his arrogance and offended that he evidently thinks I’m idiot enough to buy what I’m certain is nothing more than a line. Instead, I stand mutely on the sidewalk, all of my anger clogged up in my throat.
When my silence stretches out for a long moment, Nick fills the quiet. “It wasn’t my intent not to contact you these past couple of weeks. Unfortunately, things got in the way. It couldn’t be helped.”
I tell myself that whatever game he’s playing, I’m not going to be party to
it. Real or not, I don’t need his attempts to soothe my anger. I don’t need his consideration. But there is a sober quality to his voice that makes me keep my claws sheathed. At least, for now.
“The day I texted you, I had to leave for Dubai to finalize an acquisition,” he says. “In fact, I only got back to London less than an hour ago.”
“Oh.” I try not to acknowledge the idea that he’s reaching out to me so soon after his return. For all I know, he’s probably lying. He could be, except I hear a sincerity in his words. There’s a faint heaviness in his slow exhalation and in his voice I hear what sounds like genuine weariness. Possibly something deeper.
“The deal dragged out longer than anticipated. It was complicated . . . unpleasant. They tend to be, when one side has its back against the wall.”
I don’t need to ask if he’s talking about his own back. I’m sure Nick conducts his business the same way he does his pleasure, and I can’t imagine he ever finds himself in a position of weakness, no matter what he does. Or with whom.
I realize I’m stopped in the middle of the sidewalk as I listen to him. Moving to the side of the concrete walkway, I let a group of people step by me and wait for Nick to tell me more. As much as I want to deny that I care what he has to say, I’m curious.
And yes, there’s a part of me that’s concerned for what he went through while he’s been gone. If that makes me an even bigger fool now, so be it.
“What happened in Dubai?”
“I’d been negotiating to purchase a property I’ve had my eye on for several years. A landmark hotel in a prime location. The family who owned it for three generations fell on hard times and was eager to sell. Most of them, that is. We had the signoff from four of the shareholders, but the last one—their grandfather—had been stalling the deal from day one. Since he held controlling interest at fifty-one percent, nothing was going through until we moved the old man to our side.”
Luxury hotels. Jetting off to conduct real estate business deals in London and Dubai. Nick mentions these things as if they’re all par for the course for him on any given day. I’ve never been outside the States, let alone somewhere as far-flung and foreign as the Middle East. As for the kind of money Nick’s talking about, I can’t even begin to imagine. If I’d been trying to guess at the level of his wealth before, now I’m all but certain it has to start with a “b.”