His Name Is Sir (The Power to Please #3) (14 page)

He was through the door by the time I got there. He turned and gave me one last look, said, “Goodnight.”

I said, “Goodnight.”

And I watched him walk away down the hall, his back stiff, head high. Watched him until he was gone.

I closed the door softly.

My face was burning, and my hands began to shake. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, then I sat on the edge of my bed and fought back the urge to cry.

Oh God. I dropped my head into my hands. How could I have done that?

My outrage at Gibson had vanished at the end, when his old demeanor returned and he apologized, wished me the best.

I had been cruel. Far too cruel. But he goaded me into it, wouldn’t let it go when I told him to. And I was so angry, so offended by everything he said.

Still, that wasn’t a good enough excuse. I had been many things in my life that I wasn’t proud of, but I liked to think that I wasn’t a cruel person. Until tonight.

I kept seeing it, over and over again, his final stricken look, then his emotionless mask slipping into place. And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? A mask.

Yes, Gibson was arrogant and obliviously callous. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have feelings of his own. I had seen them myself, tonight, when he told me how he felt about me.

And yes, he had treated Michael badly, but that wasn’t really my business, was it? That was between him and Michael and I should have left it that way.

I had been kinder to Michael at the end, Michael, who had done infinitely more to me, personally, that was deserving of my wrath than Gibson ever had.

Just because I disapproved of Gibson, didn’t like him, was angry and offended by the things he said about my job, about me, none of that gave me the right to go so far.

I was ashamed of myself.

Chapter 8

Sleep didn’t change my opinion of my behavior. The only bright spot of the next day was that Isabel sent a memo first thing in the morning announcing that Roundtree had completed their inspection. She advised everyone to do their jobs as usual and thanked all those who helped the visitors.

I couldn’t have been more relieved to hear that Gibson would not be in the office. I still found it difficult to believe what had happened the night before. Had Gibson Reeves actually asked me to move in with him -- into his estate? I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

I had no problem, though, getting a little steamed up again when I thought of some of the things he said. And I cringed when I thought of some of what I said.

When I got home that evening, I followed my usual routine. Around seven, I checked my email. Nothing out of the ordinary except for one item.

The subject line was, “Read in Private.” The sender was Gibson Reeves.

What could he possibly have to say to me? It couldn’t be anything that I’d like to hear, I felt certain. And yet, I couldn’t just delete it. I opened the email.

It was long. Wow. I scrolled down to the bottom. Very long indeed.

I settled in to read.

Dear Nonnie,

I want to assure you that I understand why you turned down my offer last night, and this email is not an attempt to change your mind in any way. You were clear about your wishes, and I respect that. I’m writing to you because after I left your apartment and had time to think, I became concerned about a few things we discussed and I can’t rest until I explain some of those things more fully.

In regards to my objections about forming a relationship with you, I believe my reasoning was sound. You are too young for me, you are too inexperienced, and your connection with Michael Weston only complicates both of those issues. These facts cannot be refuted, and are legitimate reasons for why I fought my attraction to you.

Also, I believe that anyone who knows you would agree that you deserve more than what you have, a better job, a better home, and greater opportunity to thrive. I cannot apologize for thinking this about you, though I do apologize if the way I expressed myself made it sound as if I were belittling you, or the life you’ve made for yourself; that was not my intention.

The above points aside, the main thing I need to tell you concerns Michael Weston. I don’t know what he has told you about me and my past with him. I have to take this opportunity to tell you the truth about him, and not simply because I need to defend myself, but also because I fear he might pull you in somehow, get you back under his control. I can’t watch that happen again.

I hope you will bear with me through some of our family history. I can think of no other way to tell this story.

I assume you know that Michael and I are cousins. Michael was raised by an alcoholic father (my own father’s younger half-brother, Lyle) and a kind but eccentric mother (my Aunt Rose). Uncle Lyle blamed all of his problems on my father, who had been forced to fire Uncle Lyle from his position as a research scientist at my father’s pharmaceutical company. My uncle had been drinking on the job, and had refused treatment for his alcoholism, so my father had to put the safety of his other employees first and fired my uncle.

Even though my father financially supported Uncle Lyle for the rest of his life, my uncle ranted against him incessantly to Aunt Rose (who knew the truth) and to his son (who did not, at least not until he was much older). Uncle Lyle was not a mean drunk, but he was a bitter one.

Michael grew up believing that my father had cheated his father out of his rightful share of the profits from a drug Uncle Lyle helped research when he worked at HR Labs, a blood pressure medication which showed a profit for a few years and then was superseded by better medications. My father had devised the idea of giving Uncle Lyle a sort of sham royalty for the drug as a way to take the sting out of the handouts he was giving my uncle and his family. Unfortunately, my father’s thoughtfulness was turned against him, and was used as an excuse by Uncle Lyle, who believed he was owed more than he was being given.

Michael grew up wild and resentful, though he was capable of great charm when it served his purpose. When he was a teenager and Uncle Lyle was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver, Michael became even more difficult to control. By the time Michael was 21, no donations from my father were sizable enough to convince another college to accept Michael.

He disappeared for weeks on end, frightening and worrying Aunt Rose. She was also trying to deal with my uncle’s illness, which was growing worse in spite of the best health care. She needed support and someone to love her, so when she became enamored of an orphaned 13-year-old girl in her church who needed a home, my father helped Aunt Rose qualify as a foster parent.

My aunt was convinced that providence had brought the girl into her life. Mostly, this was because of the girl’s name: Lilly. Rose and Lilly, two flowers. Lilly and Lyle, too close to be coincidence, or that was how my aunt saw it.

I know you’re wondering about this, Nonnie. The girl’s full name is Lilly Smith, and yes, she is the same girl you met weeks ago and who took you to Private Residence for the first time. I’ll write more on that later.

Aunt Rose and Lilly settled in well together, and she was a great comfort to my aunt. Michael bounced in and out of their home at will. I was busy with Roundtree Holdings, and did not see any of them often.

Two years later, my father had a stroke and passed away. He left my aunt and uncle well-provided for, and left trust funds for Lilly and Michael. The bulk of the trusts could not be touched until they turned 25, a situation which angered Michael greatly, since he never managed his allowance well, and always complained about lack of funds.

Less than a year later, Uncle Lyle died, but not from the cirrhosis. It was a car crash that killed him, and left my Aunt Rose with a severe head injury. She never fully recovered from it.

Michael returned home, and to my great surprise, insisted on caring for his mother, with the help of Lilly and a squad of home nurses, of course. I was pleased that he was doing the right thing by being near his mother, and so I supported his efforts by adding to his income, and assuming the household bills. I also provided a sort of nanny/caregiver for the teenaged Lilly.

When Michael turned 25 the next year and claimed his full trust fund, I expected that he would take over the financial responsibilities of his family. This did not turn out to be the case.

I was on a trip overseas when I got a message to call Lilly. She was crying. She told me that Michael put Aunt Rose in a nursing home, and tried to turn Lilly over to family services for placement in a new foster home. Rather than let him do this to her, Lilly ran away, and was on the streets with nowhere to go. She was 17 years old at the time.

I arranged for Xavier and Paulina Martin, the trusted caretakers of my father’s (now my) estate, to take Lilly into their home until I could return to the country. When I arrived, I found my aunt and quickly discovered that it was impossible to convince her to leave the filthy and ill-run nursing home where Michael had placed her.

Michael had convinced Aunt Rose that she was to wait there for Uncle Lyle to come get her, and that she wouldn’t see her husband again if she left before he got there. Aunt Rose was an eccentric in the best of times, and her head injury only made her more so. She went wild when I tried to get her to leave. I eventually purchased the facility and rebuilt it around her.

Lilly wound up staying at my estate, finding a good home with the Martins.

Michael had cleaned out his trust fund and was gone. It was clear that he had only stayed with his mother to use her as a meal ticket, had stripped most of her personal funds, and once he didn’t need her anymore, he disposed of her as cheaply as possible. I did not search for him.

I didn’t see him for more than two years, until one day when he showed up at my office carrying a stack of papers. He threatened to sue me and HR Labs for the money he said was owed to him for his father’s development of the blood pressure medication back in the 1970s.

We had been through this before, in the past, usually when Michael had blown his quarterly allowance. I knew his renewed complaints meant he had managed, somehow, to lose the money my father had left him. This time, I wasn’t in the mood for his dramatics, so I called his bluff. I told him I’d sign over all the rights to the drug, and he could shop it around to whoever he pleased since it would be his.

Michael knew the drug was worthless. He wasn’t a child anymore, and knew that his father’s claims were unfounded. He told me not to bother with the rights for the drug, that he was sorry for everything, and that if I would give him one last loan, he’d never ask me for anything again. He wanted to start his own business, a media production company. He named a figure and I agreed, on one condition: that he sign a statement releasing me, my father, and HR Labs from any further claims regarding the blood pressure medication.

It may seem odd that I did this, since the drug was useless. But I wanted it over with, once and for all. Michael agreed to my condition. He signed off on the drug, and I gave him the start-up money he needed, not as a loan, but as final payment for a drug that he never had any right to claim.

I began to see Michael around the city after that. He was often in Private Residence, and a few other clubs I occasionally frequented. We met politely, if not cordially. I thought that even though he continued to ignore his mother, at least he had used his money to start a business which to all appearances was growing successfully.

Then, two years ago, when Lilly was not quite twenty-one years old, the Martins came to me and told me that Lilly was in trouble. Unknown to any of us, she had been involved in a sexual relationship with Michael for months. She said she was in love with him, and that he said he loved her, and that he had trained her to be his submissive partner.

This news was disturbing enough, but Lilly had more to tell. Michael convinced her to allow him to photograph her and videotape their sexual encounters. He told her the photos and film were only for his personal use. When Lilly learned that he was actually selling the pictures and videos on the Internet through an adult Web site Michael owned, she became upset.

According to Lilly, Michael calmed her down, said that he was saving her share of the profits for her, and then he talked her into signing release papers. Later, though, Michael began pushing her limits too far, forcing her to do things she didn’t really want to do, and all of it was captured on video.

Lilly was upset and confused, and finally, after a particularly bad scene, she came home to the Martins and confessed everything.

I couldn’t have been more appalled that Michael had done this, couldn’t imagine how he thought it could ever be okay. I still don’t have any answers for that.

It took some time, but eventually, thanks to the Martins’ love and patient care, Lilly recovered and mostly got past her feelings for Michael.

Because Lilly refused to take any legal action against him, I was limited in how I could punish Michael. After much discussion, he agreed to remove all videos from the site and destroy all of Lilly’s files and contracts in exchange for Lilly’s share of the profits from previous sales. It was not a satisfactory conclusion, but Michael knew Lilly wouldn’t attack him legally, and I didn’t want to distress Lilly further by ignoring her wishes. Michael had all of the advantage.