Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (3 page)

It had been weeks since she left Macfarlane, Schaal. Weeks since I had watched the Managing Partner Rainier Richardson eviscerate her in his office, questioning her honesty, her integrity, her very existence at the Firm. Weeks since she had watched her career crash and burn, a small bead of sweat running down the back of her neck.

It had been weeks since Abby and Marcus, their pride destroyed, their tails between their legs, had stepped into the elevator -- this elevator, in fact -- and, with the closing of the doors, left without a word.

And now here we stood, shoulder to shoulder.

"And you," she said, her voice cutting the silence. "Leaving for Greece soon, yes?"

"Yes, yes," I said, nodding.

"I hear the wedding will be a quiet affair," she then said, her eyes on the elevator doors as we descended in a rhythmic series of electronic dings.

"Yes, yes," I said again. And then, realizing I sounded like an idiot, added "That's kind of what Mikalo and I want, you know. No big fuss. Nothing too fancy."

She looked to me, a small grin on her face.

"How quaint of you," she said, her syrupy sweet tone belying her relentless condescension. "No doubt it'll be lovely nonetheless."

God, what a bitch.

"At the end of the day, though," I said, grabbing the metaphorical knife and aiming it toward where her heart should be, "I'll be Mrs. Mikalo Delis. Simple ceremony, over-the-top event, whatever. All that matters in the end is 'I Do'."

I turned to her.

"Mrs. Mikalo Delis," I said, my eyes on hers. "It has a nice ring, doesn't it?"

I could see her mind churning for a response, her red lips ever so slightly pursed as she thought.

"It's beautiful," she finally said. "And regardless what happens, you can always be Mrs. Mikalo Delis."

"I'll always be Mrs. Mikalo Delis," I shot back, my voice rising.

"Of course you will, darling," she said, putting on her Oh, I Didn't Mean to Offend You face. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise."

"But you did, Abby, and I have no idea why."

I turned to her now.

"I don't know what I did or who I did it to or where or when whatever it was that I did happened or whatever, but, seriously, I'm over your bullshit. You might find this kind of drama fun or something, but I don't. And I'm just not doing it anymore.

"So I'll be polite to you if we should run into each other on the street or whatever. But I'm not being nice. And I'm not going to try to be nice. And I'm not going to feel guilty about not trying to be nice. I'm just done. I'm done and you can just go and live your pathetic, stupid, pitiful life of drama and intrigue and trying to fuck other people's lives up somewhere else without me."

She paused, listening, watching me.

I finished with a huge sigh, releasing her and her negativity and just trying to let it all go. I was done with her. Seriously. Done. Finished. Over and out.

She spoke.

"No, I don't think so, Ronan."

I almost rolled my eyes. Almost.

"We'll be traveling in the same circles, you and I. Seeing each other all the time. You're far, far from being done with me."

"What do you mean?" I asked, more curious than anything.

"I hear Mara Byzan left Macfarlane," she said, ignoring my question.

I remained silent, not sure what to say.

She continued.

"I also hear she's buying Mikalo's companies -- "

"She won't be buying his companies. Her father won't -- "

"Her father can't tell her what to do. And Mara thinks the best way to get close to Mikalo is to own him, lock, stock and barrel.

"Or at least his companies," she then added, correcting herself.

"She'll fail. You know that. And suggesting otherwise, considering your past knowledge of her legal affairs, is incredibly unprofessional of you. Dishonest even."

"Says the woman who's fucking one of Macfarlane's biggest clients."

"Marrying, not fucking, Abby. There's a difference."

The elevator finally came to a stop in the lobby.

The doors opened, Abby stepping out, me following, the clip-clop of our heels echoing through the quiet of the cavernous space as we tried to distance ourselves from each other.

My cheeks were red, my heart racing, my teeth gritted.

Goddamn her. She still got under my skin.

Bitch.

"Oh Ronan," I heard her call out.

I turned.

She was walking slowly toward me.

"Not past knowledge," she said.

I was beyond caring what she meant. But still ...

"What?" I asked.

"Present knowledge," she said. "Present knowledge."

"I have no idea what you're saying, Abby. So spit it out --"

"Mara left Macfarlane. And she had to go somewhere for legal advice, correct?"

And then, a small smile on her glistening lips, she turned and walked away.

I was shocked at how empty everything felt, the sound of my own heels on the hardwood shocking in the quiet.

Here's where the couch used to sit, those stolen moments watching Mikalo, his legs stretched and bare feet crossed, hands resting on his stomach, his eyes closed as he quietly napped on a lazy afternoon.

And here, in the entry, this is where I stood when I came home and heard his voice behind me. That day, when our relationship was still new, our love still tender and delicate, when, after weeks away, he had shown up unannounced. Had "come home", as he put it.

And our love had truly begun.

Everything gone now, in storage. Heavy plastic hanging from the ceiling, the whole space now a barren mishmash of tools and boards and dust, the plans to take down that wall, the one over there, the one we shared with the neighboring building that Mikalo had purchased, and join the two homes into one definitely underway.

If all went well, the heavy lifting would be done by the time we returned from Greece.

As man and wife.

I exhaled, quieting my heart.

Man and wife.

In our home.

Together.

I smiled, willing away the worry, the fear.

Things were good now, I told myself. The past far behind. The you you are now is much different than the you you used to be.

From behind me, he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me near, his breath warming the back of my neck.

Followed by his lips.

My arms wrapped around his, holding him close.

"There are thoughts, yes?" he asked, his voice a whisper, the words lost as he snuggled his nose into my hair.

I nodded.

"Is there worry?" he asked. "Fear?"

Holding him tight, I didn't respond. Didn't nod or sigh or breathe or anything. I just waited for the question to go away, hoping he'd move on and change the subject.

No such luck.

This was Mikalo we're talking about, remember?

"This is a yes or a no question, I think, yes?"

Giving up, I nodded.

"And so there is fear maybe?"

I nodded again.

"My Grace," he said, continuing as he turned me toward him. "Let me hear your voice. I love your voice. Let me hear you speak. About this worry, this fear. Whatever is in your heart, tell me. Talk to me."

Biting my lip, I waited. Tried to let the thoughts sort themselves out before saying anything, well aware he was watching me and waiting.

I looked up at him.

God, he was beautiful.

His dark eyes, patient and kind, his dark brows arching to meet in the middle as he watched and waited. And his lips, so soft, so sexy, so luscious and kissable. The lightest bit of scruff on his chin and cheeks and upper lip. His strong nose. And the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

I reached up and ran my fingers through his thick hair, moving close as I pressed my face into his chest, deeply breathing in his masculine scent. Of soap and skin and warmth. Of a beating heart beneath strong, firm muscle. The memory of sun and sand and sex locked into his pores.

Again, he was beautiful. Just beautiful.

And he was mine.

"You do not like the change, I think."

I lifted my head from his chest to look at him again.

"All of this," he continued, glancing at the thick sheets of plastic and tools and dust. The temporarily quiet chaos of our lives being ripped to pieces.

"It is only for now, my Grace," he reminded me. "This here, this mess, it is not forever. It will be a home again. Your home. And my home."

His hand reached to cup my chin, his eyes crinkling as he smiled, his teeth white in the dark of the dusty room.

"It will be our home," he then said. "It is our home. Already."

He pulled me close again, my cheek finding his chest again, his arms squeezing me tight for a moment.

"This I already know," he continued, the words rumbling through his chest against my ear.

I moved away, leaving his embrace with a quick squeeze and a small smile.

I wanted to ask about Mara Byzan. If this horrible little woman was really buying his companies. If Abby was really her lawyer.

But doing so would open up a can of worms I just didn't want to deal with. Remind me and him, in a roundabout oblique way, just how little I had to do with the planning of anything regarding the wedding, the decisions left to Mikalo and his family, their insistence on following tradition, of doing things "just right", effectively leaving me out of the process.

I didn't care, though. I'd still be his wife regardless. None of it mattered. If there was a dance we needed to do to cement our bond, well, we'd strap on our tap shoes and dance.

I just didn't care.

But I did.

In fact, it was all but obsessing me. Quietly, silently, sticking in my head.

I had no idea what kind of dress I'd be wearing. I suspected it'd be, I don't know, some couture creation or something. Or maybe not. Perhaps it'd be an heirloom passed down?

Again, no clue.

And, again, I was trying not to let it matter.

But it did.

Still.

He was watching me, Mikalo. His ability to read my thoughts so easily becoming frustrating and annoying.

I moved away, wandering over to the stairs to look up to where the bedroom was. Where my bedroom was and still would be.

My hand on the banister, I climbed the stairs.

I could feel him follow me.

At the top, I turned toward the bedroom, aware he was close behind.

The room was empty, of course, the bed packed into storage long ago. We had discussed getting something new, but Mikalo refused.

"This bed has our history," he insisted. "It knows you and it knows me and now, after this time, it knows us."

And I agreed. It was fine. He was right. It did know us and there was no need to change it.

The room looked empty without it.

He stood in the doorway watching me.

I moved into the bathroom, glancing over my shoulder at him as I stepped through the door.

Mischievous grin in place, he followed.

His lips touched mine, gently, lovingly. Almost a whisper of a kiss.

I responded, breathing into him, and then holding my breath as I felt his arms wrap around me, his fingers on my waist, and then moving lower. Kneading and gripping, all of it gentle and slow as I raked my fingers through his thick hair.

Our lips still touched. Lingering close, we held still, not quite a kiss, but not yet parted.

Below I felt the familiar, distant thump-thump-thump as I grew wet, my body, my sex, craving him.

Another kiss.

I opened my eyes to see him.

He was watching me, his eyes not yet hooded with lust.

My hand moved lower. Tracing the back of his head, feeling the soft skin of his strong neck, down the muscles of his back, and finally around the front to his zipper, my fingers wrestling with the button on his pants.

He stopped me.

"No," he said, his voice gentle and kind.

My hand gripped in his, he brought it up to his lips, lightly kissing my fingers and then holding it firm.

I grinded my hips into him, my appetite for him growing.

His lips found mine again.

I eagerly kissed him back, my tongue pushing past his lips.

He playfully refused, teasing me.