Million-Dollar Amnesia Scandal (14 page)

“I'll get the concierge to take your bags to my car.”

“No,” she said, voice breaking.

He drew in a controlled breath through stiff lips. “We're both going back down to the city. I'll drive you.”

“Seth, let's just say goodbye here. Please.” She'd already said goodbye to him too many times—yesterday at the lighthouse, this morning in her bed, and now again, here in his suite. She simply wouldn't survive another parting.

He must have read something of her desperation. His face closed down and he dropped his arms to his sides. “Let me call you a car.”

Grateful, she nodded. If she had to tell someone over the
phone to order a cab to leave this place, leave Seth, she'd probably burst into tears.

He picked up the handset of the hotel phone and pressed a button. “Good afternoon, Anna, this is Seth Kentrell. Please book a limo to New York, to leave as soon as possible. Charge it to my account.”

Seth watched April as he hung up the phone, his stomach in knots. “They said they should be able to have one here within the hour.”

She frowned. “You didn't have to pay for my trip.”

“It's done,” he grated. “I'll have the piano shipped as soon as you're settled. Let me know.”

Her eyes squeezed shut for the briefest of seconds. “Leave it here, in the ballroom. It belongs at this hotel.”

Damn it! She wanted to refuse that, too?
He rubbed a hand over the tense muscles at the back of his neck. She wouldn't take the piano, or a ride back to the city.
Or him.
“It belongs with you.”

“You forget that I still intend to claim this hotel. But regardless of who ends up with ownership, I'd like to think of the piano still here,” she said, voice thick, “being played by other pianists, enjoyed by audiences of hotel guests, the way it was when my father was here.” Her eyes met his with a wistful sadness. “I'm not going to accept the piano, Seth. But I will accept the ride. Thank you.”

His gaze locked on hers but he didn't reply. Couldn't find the words to say her decisions were fine with him, because they weren't.
It was all wrong.
And even if he had the words, his throat was so tight, he wouldn't have got them out.

“If you don't mind,” April said, looking down at her shoes, “I'll wait for the car down by the ocean. I'll miss that view.”

He nodded and she came over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Seth. For everything.”

And then she was gone and the room was empty. He stood, arms at his sides, confused. He'd won. The hotel was safe, and he could move, full steam ahead. So why did he feel as if he'd lost?

 

Three weeks later, Seth sat in his penthouse apartment, looking out at the night sky and the iridescent moon that had risen high. He ached for April, wanted to talk to her about tonight's stars, see what she knew about them. He rattled the ice in the Scotch, then threw it down his throat and plunked the glass on the table beside his armchair. His eyes roamed the room and he wished there was an interconnecting door to lead him directly to April. He could almost hear the faint strains of her piano on the breeze.

Would she ever visit the Lighthouse Hotel after she lost her unwinnable case? It'd be a damn shame if she didn't. The heart of the place would always belong to her.

And then it hit him, why he felt like he'd lost the battle since she'd walked out the door of his suite twenty-two days ago. The hotel should have been April's. It meant too much to her to take it away.

A vision of her at the top of the lighthouse—eyes shining with appreciation of the view—filled his mind. A slash of pain tore through his chest, and he pounded a fist on his breastbone to dislodge it. Then an image of her sitting on the grass near the water, her legs tucked up under her skirt, hair blowing in the breeze. Then, in his arms, looking at the stars above. Underneath him on the piano. Watching the video of her father. Walking along the dock to meet him. Opening the interconnecting door to her suite, rumpled from sleep. Regaining her memory… He squeezed his eyes
shut, trying to block out the visions, but that only made them more vivid.

Breath coming too fast, he strode to the kitchen and poured another Scotch. What was this pull she had over him? Was this
love
—the insatiable need to be with her, to have her in his bed, to listen to her talk, make her happy?

Regardless of its label, he was having none of it. His mother had often told him that “true love is worth any sacrifice,” but she'd been dead wrong. Giving someone any measure of control over yourself was more than a sacrifice—it was dangerous and demeaning. Nothing good could come of it, only opportunities for pain, humiliation and becoming a fool for a woman.

He downed the drink and discarded the glass, wishing the burn on his throat was stronger, to wipe out every other thought and emotion. If
this
was love, he wanted no part of it.

But—he pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples—there was one thing that needed to be done. He knew it bone deep.

Palms damp, he reached into his pocket for his cell, dialed Angus Jackson's number, and for the first time in his life, he did something without caring about the repercussions on his career. He bought the Lighthouse Hotel from Bramson Holdings from his personal funds and arranged to have it signed over into April's name.

Seemed he was making a fool of himself over a woman after all. He'd never see her again, but he was giving her his hotel.

A
pril looked in the illuminated mirror and surveyed the makeup artist's and hair stylist's work. It would look good onstage tonight, under the spotlights—dramatic up close, yet soft and romantic from a distance.

“Thanks, Sharon, Jody,” she said to the team with genuine warmth. These women had been making her look the part since long before her accident, but they had new jobs to go to starting tomorrow. They wished her well as she slipped through the door.

There was under an hour left till she was due onstage. She'd done the sound check, had spoken to the backup band and finished in hair and makeup. The last thing to do was dress in her costume—a silver-sequined sheath that reminded her of the stars twinkling at night—and do her vocal warm-ups with the keyboard in her room.

She headed down the corridor, catching a glimpse of a promo poster for tonight's performance. It had been billed
as her “farewell” concert, but she planned to do more, just nothing in the foreseeable future. Perhaps in a few years she'd reconsider. Almost six weeks had passed since she'd left the Lighthouse Hotel behind. And Seth. And her heart hadn't healed. Sure, it had developed scars, so the pain wasn't quite as fresh; but when she was all alone she yearned for him so much she didn't think she'd ever be whole again.

Her legal team had agreed with Seth's—that there was no point asking a court to validate the contract signed with Jesse. She'd told them to go ahead anyway, but she had next to no optimism about the outcome.

She pushed open the door to her private dressing room, needing the space alone to center herself. On her dressing table was a letter, addressed to her, care of her new agent. The handwriting on the front reminded her of Seth's and that made her smile.
Everything
reminded her of Seth—yachts, the moon in the sky, blueberry muffins, lighthouses, New England, the business section of the paper, pianos.

Especially
pianos—shiny, black baby grands.

There was one waiting for her onstage, and she knew she'd created a challenge for herself tonight—to keep her mind on the concert and not let it drift to Seth leaning her back on a similar model, then prowling over her, taking her. Owning her. A prickling heat slithered across her skin and she laid a hand over her heart, as if that could tame the hurtling beat. She was appearing onstage in forty minutes—not the time to be distracted by her longing for the man she loved, body, heart and soul.

She picked up the envelope and slit it open. A letter fell out and a thicker packet of folded papers. She opened the letter first.

April swayed then fell back into a chair as her knees buckled. She read the words again, trying to force her mind to process the note's meaning. Then she picked up the deed and read every word on that.
It was true.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, holding back the tears that would ruin the makeup that had just been meticulously applied.

That sweet, foolish man—he'd given her his
hotel.

 

Seth slid into his seat in the rear of the darkened theater, his gut clenched tight as though he was about to jump from a plane. April's beautiful voice filled the hall, touching his soul. Touching his heart.
Torture.

The concert was nearing its end. When he'd bought his ticket, he wasn't sure if he'd attend. He'd even made other plans for tonight. But like an addict getting his fix, he'd ended up here anyway.

His breathing was irregular as he looked down on the stage—April sat at her piano so far below, but large screens on either side of the stage showed close-ups. She was spectacular—hair shining like strands of gold and bronze under the lights, smile wide and engaging as she sang the Louis Armstrong tune he'd seen her play on the video as a thirteen-year-old. Her dress reminded him of a galaxy of stars that sparkled almost as brightly as her eyes.

He strained forward in the seat, blood storming through his veins, aching to be closer, to touch her. Which was precisely the reason nothing would ever happen between
them again. And why it'd been a blessing in disguise when she'd turned down his offer to keep seeing him when she moved back to New York.

He felt too damn much for her.

He completely understood why his mother had let his father make a fool of her for years—if he and April were together, she'd have him wrapped around her finger in no time, and he'd wind up not being
him.
He'd be a weakened version of himself, one without complete control over his own actions, open to making bad decisions.

He might have given her the hotel, but he wasn't sticking around to be her fool.

And what if she ever left him? Nausea roiled in his stomach just thinking about it. It simply wasn't a situation he was prepared to put himself in.

He'd take this last hit of his addiction, and then go cold turkey. Afterward, he'd find a nice, uncomplicated relationship, where the woman didn't make him feel too much, where she stayed in the mental compartment he assigned for relationships, and couldn't blend into all aspects of his life.

Where she wouldn't be April.

The song ended and the audience around him erupted. Smiling in acknowledgment of the applause, she stood, took a microphone from a stand and came to the edge of the stage.

“Thank you,” she said several times. When the din died down a little, she went on. “I need to introduce you to the best backup musicians in the business.” Another roar went up from the crowd, and April individually named each of the people who'd played with her.

After waiting for silence, she spoke again. “I'd like to finish with a different song than the one we had planned.” She turned to her musicians, who looked at
her expectantly. “It's new—I haven't even shared it with my band yet, so you'll have to put up with just my piano accompaniment.”

The audience clapped as the musicians behind her all lowered their instruments and waited like everyone else.

Seth began to rise. He'd seen enough to appease his morbid curiosity. Too much. He needed to get out.

“I wrote this song for someone who helped me once. When I was vulnerable and facing my greatest challenge, someone stepped up to the plate and gave me the shelter and support I needed. This is for him.”

Seth froze, heart in his mouth. Could she mean…?

He sank back into his seat.

April returned the microphone to its stand, sat back at the baby grand and played a few introductory notes. Then he heard his name. It was whisper-quiet since the microphone was no longer close, and most people would have missed it, but there was no doubt in his mind.

Seth broke out in a cold sweat. She'd written a song for him. Was playing it for thousands of strangers. Was exposing herself for no good reason. What was she thinking?

April began to sing, and the haunting melody rose into the room, curling around his heart.

The other people disappeared from his vision, the distance between them shrank, and it was just the two of them in all the world. Her voice filled the auditorium, and it was beautiful, so much more than he deserved. Without realizing it, he was on his feet and out the door.

 

Drawing on her last reserves of energy, April sang the ending of the new song, and as the final note faded away, the audience gradually stood and broke into loud applause. Her backup band clapped, too, with honest appreciation.
This, its first performance, had ripped her chest open and exposed her fractured heart to the world. Surely it would never be as hard to sing as tonight?

It was a good song, she could feel it in her bones, and knew it would become a single. Unfortunately, that meant she'd set herself up for requests to sing about Seth whenever she chose to perform in the future, stopping her pain from healing.

If she'd had any doubts about the strength of the song, then the reaction of the people in the auditorium had just erased them. The applause was still going. She appreciated it, but truth was, she was emotionally overwrought after that finale. It was a song straight from her heart, and singing it had taken every drop of emotion she had inside her and squeezed tight. She had nothing left. If there hadn't been thousands of people watching, she would have slumped into a ball and slept for a year. Actually, she might just do that when she got home.

She bowed, and the musicians behind her took up their instruments again, playing the exit music as she left the stage. She gave a wave to the people who'd paid to see her perform tonight and escaped into the wings. Her mother—whom she had a fledgling attempt at a fresh relationship with—her agent and Emerson were all waiting just offstage. Too exhausted for anything complicated, she headed for Emerson, who wrapped her in a bear hug. “Congratulations, sweetie.”

She hugged him back, appreciating his support, but Emerson's arms weren't the arms she ached to have embracing her. After singing about Seth, she was too raw, too fragile to cope with all the well-wishers who were crowding around. Her pulse still raced, and if anyone asked her who the song was about, she was liable to burst into tears.

She leaned up and whispered into Emerson's ear, “I need
to get out of here. Can you get me back to my dressing room?”

An enigmatic smile stretched across his face before he nodded and turned, keeping her tucked tightly to his side.

Within minutes they'd broken free from the throng, Emerson clearing the way with his booming voice and an outstretched arm. When they reached the door to her dressing room, Emerson turned her to face him and kissed the top of her head. “You did well tonight, kid.”

She looked up at him, surprised. When he attended one of her concerts he usually came in with her afterward to share a bottle of Champagne. Perhaps he'd understood from her body language that she needed to be alone.

She took a step back to see him more clearly. “You're not coming in?”

“Not this time,” he said, grinning. Holding her elbow, he turned her, opened the door and pushed her through before quickly shutting it behind her.

She blinked. The room was overflowing with roses, lilies, gerbera daisies and balloons. That often happened after a concert—fans and friends sent flowers and gifts, like chocolates to be placed in her room during the performance. What didn't normally arrive while she was onstage was a man.

She blinked and blinked again but Seth was still there, standing across the room, motionless as he watched her, his face taut. Her heart tripped, missing beats, hammering too fast against her ribs. The magnetic pull of him was almost too strong to resist, but unable to read his expression, she stayed rooted to the spot.

“Hello,” she finally managed.

“Hello,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “I saw some of the concert.”

His eyes burned with intensity, but his face was so closed, so contained, that she couldn't identify what emotion it was that his gaze held. Her chest filled with a hoard of butterflies. Had he heard the new song? He was such a private man that even though she hadn't named him, he might be offended that she'd spoken publicly about their time together and her feelings.

Throat parched, she reached for the glass of water that always awaited her and drank deeply. Then she looked at him over the rim. “Did you like the concert?” she asked tentatively.

He nodded, but his feet stayed firmly in place. “I heard the new song, too.”

Her stomach somersaulted. “Do you mind?” She nibbled her bottom lip. “I know I should have checked with you first—”

“I didn't mind,” he said, still not moving or showing which emotion he was feeling so vividly.

She breathed out a relieved breath but couldn't relax—not with her body screaming for him. And not while she didn't know why he was here. She glanced around the room and saw the deed to the hotel still sitting on a table, surrounded by bunches of carnations. Her heart squeezed tight as it had when she'd opened the envelope. “You gave me a hotel,” she blurted.

“Yes.” He shifted his weight to the other leg.

It was the most staggering thing anyone had ever done for her, and even though she couldn't take it, she'd treasure the gesture forever, adding it to the precious memories of their time in Queensport.

She crossed to the table and picked up the deed, took one last look and passed it to him with trembling fingers. “I can't accept it.”

He didn't make a move to take it from her, and his forehead puckered into a frown. “Of course you can.”

Her hand dropped to her side as she considered how best to refuse his gift. Giving back a huge asset like the Lighthouse Hotel was hardly like giving back a pair of earrings. And he'd need it—he spent all their time together trying to get it back because it was so important to his career. Which was the perfect point to convince him.

“Won't this affect your place on the board?”

“No.” He shrugged one shoulder casually, belying the rigidity of his stance.

“No? But when I signed that contract with Jesse, you were so desperate to get it back.”

“Because the contract you had with Jesse meant our income from the sale was far below the market valuation. This time Bramson Holdings sold it to me for a fair price. There's a difference. The ramifications are nothing I can't deal with. I'll still win over the board, no question.”

He was serious.
Her mouth opened and closed twice before she could get her voice to work. “You
personally
bought me an entire hotel?”

Seeming uncomfortable with her reaction, he waved her concern away with a flick of his wrist—the most movement he'd made since she entered the room.