Archetype (13 page)

I
stand in front of my open closet—have been standing there for nearly thirty minutes—looking for an outfit suitable for tonight. I have nothing. How do I have nothing to wear to my own opening?

I warned you two weeks ago about this,
She tells me.

Shut up.

“Emma?” Declan’s voice startles me. It is the middle of the day and he should be at work.

“In here.”

I step out of the room to find he is not alone. A young woman stands with him carrying what looks like a large toolbox. Her short hair is dyed practically white, with small chunks of black intermingled throughout. I think she might be younger than me by several years.

I glance curiously between them. “Who is this?”

“Paula is here to do your hair and makeup,” he says and pushes her forward. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

I blink at him in surprise as he disappears into the teleporter tube with a wink.

“Ma’am? Where would you like to do this?”

I shake my head to clear it. “Oh, um, I do not know. The bathroom, I guess.”

She follows me into the room and begins to set up on a large vanity table I never use. I am not accustomed to sitting to get ready, nor do I spend a lot of time on my hair or makeup.

But Declan thinks of everything. Sometimes too much.

Since my fight with Charles, I have given many things like this extra thought. On the vanity are bottles of lotions and creams of varying scents, and one in particular contains balsam of Peru. I am highly allergic and would never purchase such an item, a fact I only found out about when She warned me before applying.

I wonder about an accident they will not explain. A wedding I do not remember with a honeymoon I would have had to fly to get to. My husband would know I fear flying, would he not? He would not have been surprised when he learned I could paint. He would know my allergies. Declan is obviously not aware of these things, and being the attentive husband he is, he
would
know.

I have no idea what purpose these small lies hold, but I know I love him. I hate that I do. I hate that I stay knowing the past he speaks of may be a lie, but I cannot bring myself to question him or leave. I still know nothing of my life before, no more than the awful images of fighting and running and war. Why would I want to return to that? Declan has given me a safe home and he loves me. If I believe nothing else, I believe this.

But there is still one moment that calls to me. The beach. If only I could remember who the man is. He must wonder where I am. Foster must know, and if I find him, it will be my first question. Only one thing makes me question if the beach is a memory or a dream like I believed Foster to be. One look at the back of my hand is proof that I cannot be that woman on the beach. I have no brand.

“Is something wrong?”

I look up at Paula’s reflection in the mirror and realize I have made a noise of frustration. “No, I am just deep in thought.” I pull a smile together. “What will you be doing?”

She combs her fingers over my head and narrows her eyelids. “I love this cut, so let’s leave it down, maybe angle it forward? As for makeup, I saw your dress—”

“I have a dress?” Declan really does think of everything. “What does it look like? Is it lovely?”

She smiles for the first time. “If you don’t know what it looks like, I’m not spoiling the surprise.” She comes around and opens her box. “It’s more than lovely—I’ll tell you that much. Your husband has excellent taste.”

“Yes,” I agree.

Paula clips my hair back and applies a moisturizer to my face. She is trying to match a concealer to my skin when I ask, “Do you like this job?”

She stiffens, so the soft chuckle she emits is obviously forced. “Come on,” she whispers. “You know as well as I do that ending up in a job you love is rare. You ended up in a good position. You’re lucky. And while I’m good at this job, I don’t like it, no. This”—she motions to my overall head—“isn’t so bad, but when I have to do some old guy’s pedicure? I guess it could be worse. I could be a masseuse. Can you imagine rubbing all those nasty backs?” She shivers. “Gross.”

“Are you not married?” I ask. “I only ask because I had an accident. I have no memory from before this past autumn. Declan does not tell me very much, and you make marriage sound like it is a job position.”

She sits on the edge of the table and folds her arms. “Are you serious?”

I nod.

She nibbles on her lower lip, studying me. Finally, she says, “Marriage is for the fertile. They don’t waste time marrying off the rest of us, and there’s always some job that needs a woman to fill it, so at the very least we aren’t wasted. You may have been lucky enough to end up in a marriage to the richest man this side of the Americas, but I’m glad I didn’t end up where you are. I never wanted to lie down for some man because he bought me and that’s my job. None of us do.”

“You must want . . .” I search for the right word. “Companionship?”

She shrugs. “There are always ways to find that, but it’s tough. How can you trust a man who says he really loves you when he could be using you just to get laid for free? Makes it hard to trust any of them.”

She returns to applying my makeup. “What’s it like?” she asks after a long moment. “Not remembering anything? I would give anything to forget those years in the WTC.”

“It is difficult, actually,” I say, wishing I could confide in her, but she is a complete stranger to me. “Some days I think I would give almost anything to remember. Other days I think it is best I do not.”

“That’s too bad. My advice? Let the past go. Don’t force it, because you have a good setup here. I almost believe your husband really loves you.”

“Almost?”

She laughs. “Love is a myth.”

 • • • 

Declan kisses my cheek when he comes home, careful not to smudge my heavily glossed lips. “You look beautiful.”

“Too bad I have nothing to wear.” I smirk and nod at the garment bag hanging over his arm. “Or do I?”

“Of course you do.” He passes over the bag with a grin. “I’m going to shower and get ready.”

I wait for the shower doors to slide closed before I unzip the bag. The dress is burnt orange with thin straps making up a halter neckline. I put it on, finding it soft against my skin and showing more cleavage than I am accustomed to with the low V neck. As if to offset this, the dress drapes against the floor
with
my heels on.

Declan strolls out in only a towel and a tilted grin. “Wow. That looks amazing on you. I knew it would.”

I motion to my breasts. “Do you not think this is too much? Maybe I have a shawl or—”

“Oh, no you don’t. You are
not
covering that dress up. I’ll be the envy of every man in the room tonight.”

I think he is about to kiss me, so I place a finger over his lips. “You will mess up my makeup.”

“Later,” he begins in a throaty tone, “the threat of makeup will not save you from me.”

I laugh. “I should hope not.”

He is ready in another twenty minutes, and we step out of the teleporter tube in the back of the gallery. The lights are dim except for the spotlights on each painting. Mr. Geist erected partition walls to hang more pieces, and the place resembles a maze rather than an open room. Fabrics drape the ceiling in the colors of sunsets or midday or sunrise, depending on which area you stand in. A holograph covers the floor, turning it into beach sand.

Mr. Geist appears from around a corner and raises a hand toward us. “Ah, there you are. The guests should be arriving any minute now. Don’t forget to walk the room, mingle with them, talk about what inspires you—”

Declan cuts him off with raised hands. “Yes, yes. She knows.”

When Mr. Geist disappears after a waiter carrying champagne flutes, Declan bends to whisper in my ear. “I think he’s more nervous than you. Speaking of which, you look as cool as a cucumber. Aren’t you nervous?”

I smile. “Of course.” My stomach aches from the knots it is twisting.

“Well, you’d never know to look at you.” His eyes widen suddenly and he mutters something under his breath. “I almost forgot.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small felt box. He flips the lid back, and the largest set of diamonds wink up at me. “Your wedding ring.”

I gape at the ring and cannot move.

He laughs and reaches for my hand. “I had it custom made or you would have had it a while ago. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. That dress deserves more jewelry.”

He slides the ring on my finger and, while it is beautiful, his joking manner does not hide the fact that the ring is no more than a pair of handcuffs.

When did you start getting so cynical?
She asks.

I wonder about this myself, but I know it happened the second Paula mentioned how men cannot be trusted. And she is right. How do I know Declan truly loves me? Maybe he only wants me because he can get all the sex he wants as well as a house full of children.

It’s a little late to think about this now,
She says.
You made your choice.

I know.

Declan smiles over my shoulder and I turn to see the first guests arrive. He does not leave my side no matter where the guests lead us. We must circle the room a hundred times, meeting new friends and acquaintances.

I am surprised to find I am not the only woman. But of course, all these men Declan knows can afford a wife. And beautiful ones, too. They are dressed in the finest of clothes and jewelry, smile and greet the room as if we are equal to our husbands. They put on a good show—I will give them that.

Then there are the members of Declan’s board. Most are as gracious as the rest of the people I meet, but a few scrutinize me in ways that make me feel on display. It is with them I put on the most charm because I sense Declan’s reaction to them. His entire body stiffens and does not relax until we move away from them.

I am exhausted after the first hour and growing tipsy from the champagne. I do not think I have released Declan’s hand the entire time. He holds on to me as if he knows I need him to anchor me or I will run from these people who pay me far too many compliments and spend far too much money on my work.

To my surprise, the pieces begin to sell quickly, and it is the one from the window, the one I would never part with had I been given the choice, that nearly breaks me. A fissure spreads through my heart when the gallery manager drapes a satin tie over one corner, signaling its sale. I decide right there on the spot to paint another one first thing tomorrow.

“I’m surprised that one lasted so long,” Declan whispers, nodding toward it. “I hear there was a private bidding war, though.”

“Really?” I wonder how he knows and I do not, but there have been plenty of moments when we have had separate conversations while standing right beside each other.

He nods toward a group of men long into the champagne—their guffaws are proof of that. One of the men tilts back to laugh and another man suddenly comes into full view. A man I know all too well.

It is a good thing I am holding on to Declan; otherwise, I might have dropped to the floor. I consider letting go and running instead. At the very least, I beg my eyes to look
anywhere
else.

By the time I regain control, it is too late. He spots me and raises a glass in a silent toast. There is something different about him tonight. Something I am completely unaccustomed to.

Noah is smiling at me.

H
eart drumming hard enough to crack my rib cage, I shift my gaze up to Declan and turn my back to the room. “Can we walk? My feet hurt from standing here.” I need to get as far away from Noah as possible. Anywhere where I can think and not have to look at him at the same time.

“Oh. I didn’t know he came.” Declan nods and smiles at someone behind me. Running straight for the exit becomes a viable option. “He must have showed up late. Let me introduce you to Tucker first, okay, love?”

My heart collapses in on itself. Shrivels. Dries up.
No.
I pray to whatever god is listening to let this be a coincidence. Noah, my dream captor and grieving man, cannot be Tucker. The juxtaposition of the two entities does not make sense as one.

“Tucker,” Declan says, and I know without turning that he must have approached us. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“My other plans fell through.” The voice definitely belongs to Noah, but I cannot yet be sure he sounds like Tucker from my dreams. In my dreams Tucker is soft-spoken, whereas I have heard nothing but harshness from Noah. Anger. And right now, the confidence of a man who exudes arrogance. “This must be the beautiful wife I’ve heard so much about.”

I blink away sudden tears and straighten my expression before turning. When I face him, I pull together the same smile I have managed to shine all night. I have never seen him this close before. Lines fan from the corners of his amber eyes and he has shaved for the occasion. The shorter cut he wears is not spiky and messy but combed back. What surprises me is how nice he smells. The faint musk suits him. I have grown used to Declan’s bolder musk but find Noah’s scent more to my liking.

“Emma,” Declan says, “this is Noah Tucker. He owns Tucker Securities.”

I reach forward on automatic to shake his hand. “It is nice to put a face to the name, Mr. Tucker.”

Noah takes my offered hand, and it is as if electricity has jolted up my arm. His touch steals my breath. Halts my heartbeat. If I had not been studiously watching his face, I would have missed the minute flinch in his own expression.

But as quickly as it was there, it is gone, and he is back to looking at me as if we are strangers. Surely if I were Emma Wade in my past, and he my lover, there would be something other than polite interest shining in his eyes. Especially considering the love that burns as real as any flame in my heart.

I was frustrated at never seeing Tucker’s face in the dreams before, but the feeling now is astronomical.

Noah’s gaze seems entwined with mine, neither of us able to tear away. “Your husband speaks very highly of you.” I note how the smile he wears does not meet his eyes. “Your work is impressive. Are you self-taught?”

“Yes,” I say. This is my standard answer, since I do not know, nor do I believe they teach art classes at any WTC.

“What inspired you? Did you vacation somewhere in particular to get these images?”

Declan steps in here. “A single photograph started this, if you can believe that. She has quite the imagination.”

Noah nods, but his amber gaze stays glued to me. “That she does. Anyway, I should let you get back to your guests. It was nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Burke.”

With a final nod to each of us, he turns and rejoins the group of guffawing men. I do not realize how tense I have become until he is gone.

“Let’s take that walk,” Declan says.

 • • • 

Noah is everywhere I look.

Declan and I move to one side of the room and then Noah does. Another side, there he is again. He watches me from the corner of his eyes. Watches me watching him. I am determined to hide my anxiety with my practiced expression of impassivity and a straightened spine. I hold my champagne flute but do not drink now, in order to keep a clear head. Until I know his purpose, I will be prepared for anything.

“Declan,” a man says upon his approach. His thinning hair is solid white, but his face is strangely unmarked by age.

Declan flashes the man his perfect smile. “Richard. Glad you could make it, though I think you’ve missed the best opportunities.”

Richard glances around. “So it would seem.” His attention falls on me. “This must be your wife.”

Declan places a gentle hand on my back. “Emma, this is Richard Farris. He’s an old colleague of mine.”

I shake Richard’s hand, and his smile is kind. “Nice to meet you.”

Richard shifts his attention back to Declan and says, “I heard about Charles and Ruby.”

“Hm,” is all Declan says and rocks slightly on the balls of his feet.

“I would love to talk to you and Arthur if you have time.”

“Arthur couldn’t make it tonight. A close friend of his died unexpectedly.”

This is the first I am hearing of this. I had not realized Dr. Travista never showed, either. “That is terrible,” I say.

Richard nods in agreement. “I assume Jodi finally . . .”

“Yes.”

It takes everything I have to remain unaffected. Jodi has died, and while I never knew her, I feel sadness. Maybe it is for the best, though, given her situation.

Richard’s expression is as grim as I feel. “I suppose I will call your office for an appointment, then.”

Declan eyes me for the space of a heartbeat. “I have a moment right now, and you can schedule with Arthur tomorrow. Emma, will you be all right by yourself for a minute or two?”

I nod. “Of course.”

The two men walk away from me, and I realize how cool the room is now that I stand alone for the first time. A shiver runs down my spine, and I run my now free palm over my opposite arm. I sip the tiniest of sips of champagne just for something to do. Everyone around me is engrossed in conversation and unaware that I stand alone.

I catch Noah’s eye just then and decide to move deeper into the maze of people and partition walls. I nod and thank anyone who compliments me on the way, but still no one wishes to hold a conversation without Declan present. I catch the eyes of a few wives who nod but do not dare start up a conversation. Not alone. I have come to realize this is not done.

Declan’s voice pulls me to a stop. People melt away from the area, and I realize it is not because of me, but because of the private moment taking place on the other side of the partition. Without any conscious thought, I stand in front of one of my paintings, focus my gaze on the luckenbooth painted in the sand, and listen intently to the sound of my husband’s muffled voice.

“You understand she cannot bear children for a while,” he says, voice low and buried under the din of conversation and laughter filling the room. I step closer to the painting to hear better. “Charles fought this from the moment she awakened.”

“Patience was never his strong suit,” Richard says. “How long is Arthur’s estimate?”

“Only a few months.”

“I see.” There is a long pause. “I would love to bring Lydia in for a consultation. If she were a good candidate for the trial, well, I don’t have to tell you how well we work together. This could benefit both of us.”

“If you’re referring to the board, I could use any help you would be willing to provide. They’re still wary and need results. The situation with Charles set me back months.”

“Don’t worry so much about them, Declan. They’re still loyal to your father. One day they’ll see how you’re already surpassing him. Tonight’s outing will sway more than a few of them; I’d stake my entire net worth on it.”

A warm breath caresses my ear, sending a shiver racing down my spine. “The luckenbooth was a nice touch, Mrs. Burke.”

My fingers tighten around my champagne glass, and every muscle in my body tenses. Inside, my belly is a swarm of locusts. No one in this room has noticed the hearts I know only from a memory of a man I have loved and lost somehow. No one but this man.

Noah.

I cannot bring myself to turn and face him. “Glad you approve.” His presence puts me in a stranglehold, and my voice comes out just above a whisper.

He moves to stand beside me now. His scent overwhelms my senses to the point of dizziness. The sleeve of his suit brushing my arm is like fire. Still, I hold my gaze on the luckenbooth, fearing that if I look at him this close, everything inside me might burst forth like a flood.

His hand touches my elbow, and his gaze burns into my skin.

He is close. So close.

His champagne glass inclines toward the next partition. “Shall we?”

I hesitate to respond, but he does not wait for me to. He nudges me gently and I have to communicate to my feet that I must walk or fall over. The last thing I want is to draw Declan’s attention to my eavesdropping, which I am ashamed to admit makes me curious about far too many things.

Noah follows alongside me and we stop in front of the next painting. On the beach lay indigo petals leading to a receding tide. A seagull stands on one foot with a single petal in its mouth. This is a replica of my very first painting, only I left out the arch wrapped in soft fabric.

He leans in, and my attention falls instantly to his lips as he says, “I always loved the ocean.”

Despite his last name and the memories associated with it, he is still Noah. The man who attempted to kill me in a memory I cannot make sense of. I am wary of his intensions and do not want to share anything with him, let alone my precious beaches, but he has information I need and hope to get at some point. Remaining civil is the only course of action I have. “Have you spent much time there?”

He shifts his attention back to the painting and draws in a deep breath. His chin falls for only a moment, and when he looks at me again, I am surprised to see the tilted grin on his face. His amber eyes watch me steadily for every nuance. “Have you?”

Why does he continue with this charade? I know why I do; I have no reason to trust him yet. I need to know who I am dealing with—Noah or Tucker—before I give anything away. But him? What is
his
excuse?

“No. Maybe someday.” I avert my eyes, finding it too hard to stop looking at his lips. His eyes have an even worse effect on me. Instead, I find a much needed peace in the luckenbooth hidden in the brushstrokes.

“You realize you won’t find a beach like this in the Americas—West or otherwise.”

I nod. “War is a devastating thing, but in Mex—” I stop abruptly. I cannot trust this man not to tell Declan I paint a beach in Mexico. I have been too careful to hide this since coming to this realization.

He tilts his head as if trying to hear the words I refuse to say. “You
are
painting a specific place. Why does your husband believe your inspiration comes from a photograph?”

My heart beats erratically. “Dr. Travista says the photograph was taken in California. So I suppose you could say I do paint from a specific location.”

“That’s not what you were going to say.” He steps closer. The musk on his skin stirs heat in my stomach.

I lengthen my spine, and as much as I want to put space between us, I will not show him fear. Unfortunately, the way he leans toward me, this nearly puts us nose to nose.

“Tell me,” he says in a voice low and even.

I know now I am seeing the side of this man I have no interest in dealing with. The side that can be violently angry. Noah. Not Tucker.

“No.” I do not know why I say it, but it is out and there is nothing I can do about it.

His eyes burn holes through me for a protracted moment. Finally, he takes my champagne flute and sets both his and mine on a passing tray of full glasses. Before I can voice my disapproval, he leads me once again through the room and into a brightly lit corridor. We are surrounded by doors, a few leading to offices. We are also out of sight and earshot.

Alone.

“Mr. Tucker—”

Noah’s arm moves like a shot to pin me to the wall. My head bounces off the surface, blurring my vision. I feel cool metal pressed to my forehead before I see the gun.

His eyes are unwavering as they look into mine. There is no mistaking the bloodlust in them. “Tell me, Mrs. Burke, what do you know about Mexico?”