Once Upon a Dream (20 page)

“I had?” Gigi pursed her lips. “Did something happen to it?”

“Yes. Ask Summer.”

“That sounds rather ominous.” Jacqueline frowned. “Have you heard from her?”

“Yes.” Rosalind smiled ruefully. “The country escape didn’t go precisely as she expected.”

Jacqueline shook her head. “The poor dear. She had her heart set on that man.”

“You know, Mother”—Gigi turned onto her stomach, clutching a pillow under her—“I’ve never understood why you care for Summer so much. I love her, she’s our sister, after all, but you should have a different perspective.”

“The day I discovered Tabitha and Summer, I thought the world had ended,” she admitted quietly. “I was pregnant and so large, and your father was no longer speaking to me. He made it clear it was my fault that he didn’t have an heir.”

“Oh, Mum,” Rosalind murmured, taking her hand.

She squeezed it, grateful beyond everything for them. “When I saw him with Tabitha, I realized that he just didn’t love me. It hurt. I felt like a fool. But that was Reginald’s fault, not Summer’s.”

“I’d have stabbed him in his sleep,” Gigi said with a vicious gleam in her eyes.

Jacqueline smiled. “Yes, I’d expect that of you.”

“I hope you’ve warned Merrick,” Rosalind said with a grin.

“Merrick is as far from Father as any man could be.” Gigi waved her hand. “But I do make sure he knows that I have an ice pick near at all times.”

Merrick looked at Gigi as though she were the sun. Merrick would sooner cut his limb off than hurt her daughter, and for that Jacqueline loved him.

“Still.” Gigi shook her head. “I doubt I’d be that generous to my husband’s bastard.”

“I think you would be,” she said as she ran her hand down Gigi’s hair. “She looked just like the rest of you, with her heart in her eyes wanting him to notice her. How could I hold his actions against an innocent being?”

“So taking people in is in Mother’s DNA. She also took in the American,” Rosalind added with an amused glint. “The greatest part of that story? It’s Franny who finds him most objectionable, not Portia. Portia adores him.”

“Since Jackson, Portia has undergone a transformation,” Gigi said.

Jacqueline smiled. “She’s blossomed, hasn’t she?”

“So have you,” Rosalind said.

Gigi nodded, taking her other hand. “Ros is right. There’s a spark to you that we’ve never seen. It’s lovely, Mum.”

Unexpected moisture filled her eyes. She blinked back the emotions. “I’m trying,” she said, hoarse. “And for once, I feel hopeful.”

The girls were right: There was a spark in her life that hadn’t been there before.

Jacqueline smiled at herself in the mirror as she dressed to meet Declan at the café. It was from more than writing, though she was afraid to really think about it.

About him.

Perhaps Declan would kiss her again.

She shouldn’t think about that. She was going to write, not to grope like teenagers. He didn’t like her—he’d made that clear.

Hope was a terrible thing.

She was on her way to the tube when her mobile buzzed. Usually it was one of the girls, informing her of something.

This time it was Declan.
Meet me at my home,
he texted. The next text included the address.

Stopping at a street corner, she stared at the message. Why would he ask her to his home? So many thoughts came to mind, lascivious thoughts that belonged in her book.

Maybe she shouldn’t go. She stared at her mobile, hoping for some sort of divine intervention that would sway her to one decision or another.

All those lost years…. She knew that the likelihood that they’d still be together if they’d married back then was slim. The future was uncertain.

Then why not take what’s in the moment? At worst, they would just write. At best, they’d …

She closed her eyes, remembering his hands on her and wanting them again.

Why not, indeed? Lifting her hand to flag a taxi, she gave him the address and hoped for the best.

They arrived at Regents Park before she’d gathered herself. She paid the driver and slowly walked to the door.

It opened before she’d stepped on the threshold. Declan frowned at her. “You took your time.”

“I don’t have teleportation skills,” she said blithely as she entered. Was he going to kiss her?

He closed the door and frowned at her some more.

Apparently no kisses. She smiled deprecatingly. At least now she knew.

“Some tea?” he asked, almost grudging.

She didn’t want anything except his hands all over her. “Yes, please,” she replied politely, unwinding her scarf from her neck.

“Make yourself at home.” He strode down the hall, presumably toward the kitchen.

Jacqueline set her purse next to the door and roamed around the living room, trying to get her equilibrium. It was larger than she expected, posh but comfortable and without pretensions. She wandered to a bookshelf that held some of his books. Smiling, she touched the spine where is said in block letters DECLAN MAXWELL. On the other shelves, there were other books of all shapes and varieties.

She moved on to the mantle above the fireplace, which held knickknacks. She wondered if they had significance or if they were just decoration. She looked around for something of the past, something that hinted that she’d made an impact somehow on him, carrying into his future life.

But there was nothing, and it hurt.

She folded her arms, strolling through the room to the next. She couldn’t blame him. The only place she had evidence of him was in her heart.

The next room she wandered into was obviously his office. It looked more lived in, tidy and messy at once. There was a chair and ottoman in the window, with a table piled high with books and a mug. On the desk, there were mounds of papers, notebooks, and notes of every color posted all over. There was an organization behind everything there even though it wasn’t apparent to her. She imagined that he knew where everything was.

She wandered closer, not meaning to intrude on his privacy, but then she noticed her manuscript. She picked it up, turning it over, opening it, searching the pages. It was wrinkled and gone through, but there were no bleeding slashes of red ink on the page or any comments. The only thing she noticed was the occasional straight line down the right margins, highlighting passages.

Declan walked into the living room, pausing when he saw her holding the manuscript in her hand. He slowly joined her in his office.

She held it up. “You’ve read it?”

He hesitated before answering. “Yes. Once.”

“Are you planning to read it again before you make comments?”

“No.” He held out the mug.

She frowned at it. Tea was the last thing she wanted right now. “Are you going to make comments?”

“You’re not going to want to hear what I have to say.” He set both mugs on his desk.

She’d already known he was going to be exceptionally critical, but based on the way her soul sank she’d still had hope that he’d be encouraging. “I want to hear your opinion.”

“Now?”

“As opposed to when?”

He frowned. “If you hear it now, you won’t want to stay.”

“That bad?” she tried to joke.

“Worse.”

“And here I thought you might not be honest, Declan,” she said sardonically.

“It was superficial,” he said without preamble.

“Superficial.” She tried to think of something that’d have sounded worse, but it wouldn’t have hurt more even if he’d said she had no talent for writing.

He put his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t believe a word of what you wrote. The characters weren’t dimensional. Their situation wasn’t interesting. Why were they having sex? They didn’t seem to like each other.
You
didn’t even seem to like them.”

“I like them,” she protested.

“I didn’t believe it. It felt tired and bored. The writing was fine, but the content had no heart. It felt like you were writing an assignment, not something you cared about. It was dry.”

Like her. She sat up straight, trying not to feel withered and old. She told herself that she was still a passionate woman, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it.

“If you don’t care about them,” he continued oblivious to her distress, “why would a reader? Why would anyone spend their time reading this?”

“All good questions.” She nodded. She tried to digest the words, but they’d filled her too full.

“Writing isn’t in everyone’s skillset,” he continued. He shrugged. “Maybe you shouldn’t bother doing this.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“If you want sex in your life, you went about it the wrong way,” he said calmly, walking toward her. He slipped his arms around her waist. “Maybe you should shift your focus.”

She gaped at him as he began to lower his lips. Then she shook her head and said, “No.”

Pushing him back, she glared at him. “I’m writing, period. You of all people should know how important it is for me to own something finally.”

He crossed his arms. “Jacqueline, not everyone is good at writing.”

“But I can be.” Anger bubbled in her. “For once I’m doing something that I care about. I’m not going to just give up. I just need practice and a few pointers.”

“Writing is more than just a few pointers.”

“You said my writing was fine.”

“Yes, but—”

She grabbed his shirt, glaring at him. “You doubted my passion, too, remember?”

Pulling him to her, she kissed him with every thing she had in her. She felt him respond to her, growing hard against her hip. Satisfied, she stepped back. “I’m going to prove to you that I’m a writer. I have it in me, and I’ll show you.”

She strode to get her bag and scarf.

“Where are you going?” Declan said, following her.

She glanced at him as she rewrapped her scarf around her neck. “Home. I have work to do.”

He scowled, but he said nothing.

It hurt. Of anyone, she wanted his approval most. Or, at the very least, his encouragement and support. She thought so much of his talent. He mattered more than anyone.

Only she wasn’t going to get anything from him. Nodding, she slung her bag in the crook of her arm. “I understand.”

“But you’re still leaving.” He glared at her like she’d been to one to call him superficial.

“I told you I have work to do. I want to prove to you that I’m a good writer.”

“I’m not important, Jacqueline.”

She wanted him to be.

She stuck her manuscript in her purse and strode out, head high. She had some thinking to do. She wasn’t going to give up this time. It was her last chance. If she gave up, she might as well die.

Chapter Twenty-three

The last thing Jon expected when he returned to his room was to find Summer sitting on the bed.

Seeing her made his chest swell with pleasure, but then he noticed the look on her face and pleasure turned to wariness. He closed the door slowly, wondering if he shouldn’t turn around and run.

She gestured to his bag. “You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

He wasn’t, but it shouldn’t have been apparent. “You don’t know that,” he said, setting his to-go cup on the dresser.

“I do now.” She nodded at his face. “Your eyes are flat.”

He frowned. “I don’t have a damn tell.”

“It doesn’t matter any more, does it?” Her lips pursed into a pout. “You weren’t going to tell me that you found evidence against Ryan, either.”

He opened his mouth to automatically spin a story but the look in her eyes stopped him.

She shook her head. “You should have told me. After everything, you should have told me. This was
important
.”

Because Huber was her “prince”—Jon got it, and if he heard it one more time he was going to throw the man out the window. “Look, Summer—”

“No.” She stood, pointing at him. “I can’t even look at you. We were in this together. I know you’re going to say we weren’t, that you were acting of your own agency and I was just a pest, but you can’t tell me that after last night things weren’t different.”

It was true, and the thought terrified him. He’d never been responsible to anyone, except Trudy, and she wasn’t the same as Summer at all. Trudy was a tough girl—she could take care of herself.

Summer was entirely like her name implied: everything that was warm and good and sweet. Summer had dreams that would have been unrealistic for most anyone.

But she deserved to have them, and he was crushing her most important one, one her mother had passed on to her.

His mother hadn’t passed anything down to him except distrust and anger. He knew how rare it was for hope to be given. It was a gift, and he was crushing the one lasting gift from her mother.

He was Scrooge.

Summer put her hands on her hips. “Aren’t you going to say anything? I’m upset, and you’re just standing there.”

Because there wasn’t anything to say. She had feelings for Huber, and he was destroying all chances she had of being with him. Even though the man was an ass and, really, he was doing her a great favor.

“You really don’t care, do you?” she said.

“I care.” More than he could ever say.

She stared at him, her thoughts guarded in a way he’d never seen. Something that felt like panic rose in him seeing her visibly withdraw. Then she shook her head. “Your voice says one thing and your eyes say another. I don’t know what to trust.”

He stepped forward, reaching for her, wanting to tell her to trust
him
.

But she deserved more, and he was leaving anyway. He let his hand fall, putting them in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her again. “I told you Huber wasn’t a good man. Look at this like tragedy averted.”

“Tragedy averted,” she repeated incredulously. Then she laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re an idiot. Yes, that’s exactly how I’m going to remember this moment.”

Instead of going to his flat, he went directly to the office to lock away the ledger and call Bradley, to get everything set in motion. The sooner he wrapped this up, the sooner he’d be on a plane to Thailand.

The sooner he could leave everything behind.