Shopping for an Heir (18 page)

He flinched, eyes stormy, changing color second by second as he reacted to her words.

“Yes.” He sighed. “I can explain.”

“You should have done that ten years ago.”

“I
couldn’t
.”

“You couldn’t trust me with the truth,” she said softly, her voice dropping, all her energy pouring out of her. “Nothing you could have
told
me would have been worse than what you
did
to me. Shutting me out was more painful than killing me, Gerald. It was its own death, only worse, because I had to live with the pain.”

He closed his eyes, cutting her off from the view of his emotions. “I know that now.”

“But you didn’t reach out. Didn’t try to reconnect.”

“I assumed you hated me after I ended things like that.”

“I did. For a long, long time. I knew something was wrong. You don’t come out of that hellhole without being screwed up in so many ways,” she said, choking back a sick laugh. “And I guessed it had to do with PTSD. Intrusive thoughts. Dreams. Nightmares.”

“Never intrusive thoughts,” he insisted, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I never had actual...images...or fantasies of....”

He seemed to need her to know that. She nodded.

“Just because you dream something doesn’t mean you want it to happen.”

“Jesus, Suzanne, it was the opposite. I couldn’t get the fucking dreams out of my sleep. So I stopped sleeping.”

“Which really helped,” she said with a wry smile. “I’m sure.”

“I went mad. Crazy. And the fleeting sleep I did have was filled with dreams of hurting you.” He looked at her with such rawness, such tender pain, that Suzanne felt the wind knocked out of her. Once in a while, during litigation, Suzanne had moments where every thought in her head drained out of her at once, abandoning her to a world of eyes and judgment. She would stand still, horrified by her muteness, completely incapable of putting together a coherent sentence.

Over the years she’d learned to weather those moments, and to trust that her brain’s hiccup would end.

She had no idea her heart could hiccup, too.

“You hurt me emotionally in unfathomable ways to prevent yourself from hurting me with your hands?”

“You could put it that way.”

“I just did.”

“Then yes.”

“I wish you’d told me. I wouldn’t have left.”

“I knew that. Which is exactly why I did leave. If I’d stayed, I would have dragged you through everything. Every crazy bit of it.”

“I had my own crazy, too.”

“Not like me, Suz. Not like me.”

Haunted men have a similar look. Their eyes go hollow and ragged. Women, too, except the look is more subtle. Muted. Trained from childhood to smile, to please, grown women who go through trauma have a pained friendliness that belies what’s underneath.

Men aren’t held to the same standards.

But Suzanne could still see the trauma in him.

“Has ten years been long enough?”

“For what?”

“To heal?”

“Yes. I have better tools in my coping toolbox. I know how to handle life. I didn’t at first.”

The isolation, the loneliness, the outright madness he must have felt all those years ago, driven to leave her in order to protect her, made her ache.

And pissed.

But mostly sad. So sad.

Another sliver of anger peeled off her, floating on the wind, carried far away like wood shavings in the hands of a fine woodcarver.

This was a breaking point. Years ago, he’d broken her. She’d put herself back together and gone on, but even now she had to admit to herself how much she hadn’t gotten over him. How the hole had remained, though she’d learned to live with it. His revelation meant nothing.

Truly.

“Do you know how hard it was to leave you? In my own twisted logic, I was sure I made the right decision. But people who aren’t thinking right are, by definition, unable to make good decisions.” His look was feral. “I was a lost cause. I was damned either way, so I thought that picking the one way that wouldn’t damn you, too, was the best choice.”

“And I hated you for it. All these years, I’ve hated you for it.”

“I understand.”

“And loved you, too. Not for making that decision. Just for being you. Just—”

“I know,” he said softly, respecting the space between them, not closing. She loved him for that, too. “I know.”

“Look at me,” she demanded, forcing his eyes to stay on hers. “You just told me your biggest secret. Your biggest fear. And I’m still here. Right here.”

His throat shook as he swallowed.

“See? Whatever you thought would happen, didn’t.”

He nodded, closing his eyes, the wave of emotion that coursed across his skin a kinesthetic sign of the emotional tsunami underneath.

“You never looked me up?” she asked.

“I knew you went to Michigan for law school. Then I stopped looking.”

“You had no idea I’ve been in Boston for more than seven years?”

He shook his head, then winced, holding his palm against his jaw. “No.”

“We’ve been in the same city for seven years and never crossed paths.”

“We did indirectly. Who do you think drove Declan and Andrew to those family trust meetings?”

The space between them closed as she took a step toward him. “I had no idea.”

One step. He took one step, too.

The space was halved.

“I would never hurt you, Suzanne. Never. I’d die before I’d let anyone hurt you, including me.”

“I know.”

“And I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Could she do this? The funny part was that the dreams he had—hurting her?—didn’t matter. Not one iota. It was the secrecy. The shame he felt in telling her. Was that still there?

“Were you going to tell me? Before Kulli beat you to it?”

“Yes.”

She believed him, and not just because she wanted to believe him.

A soft laugh, sardonic and bittersweet, escaped her. “You’re in so much legal trouble for assaulting Kulli.”

Gerald gave a half smile. “I know a great lawyer.”

She groaned, the moment changing, the feeling in the air between them shifting to that sense that they lived in their own bubble, a place where the rest of the world whooshed on around them. Where balance came naturally and they were understood.

“I don’t take criminal cases.”

“I’m a criminal? Huh.” He stared at her. “Ever date a bad boy?”

“No. I only date good guys. Men in uniform.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

The kiss was tender, his lips bruised. She tasted copper, a hint of blood, and his mouth tightened.

“You have to admit, hitting him was cathartic,” she said, squeezing his hips.

His hand brushed her hair over her shoulder, the knuckles raw. “I was stupid.”

“We’ll get the charges dropped.”

“I love you.” Even when they’d been together, he’d said it rarely. To hear it now was unbelievable, like breaking the sound barrier with your heart.

“I love you too, Gerald.” He leaned in for another kiss, but instead she punched his chest.

“What’s that for?”

“For not trusting me. For wasting ten years.”

“How many punches do you want? I deserve it.” Braced for impact, he closed his eyes, then opened one.

Groaning, she reached for his hand and began walking. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“
Y
ou strike
me as the kind of man who wants to earn his success. Not have it handed to him. I admire that.” A week later, Gerald was working, driving James McCormick to a meeting at a venture capital firm on the 128 belt outside of Boston.

He’d just rejected James McCormick’s offer of seventy million for the relic.

“I’ll donate to the cultural institution of your choice—law permitting—on one condition,” Gerald offered, wondering if the old man would bite.

If James McCormick admired him, might as well go for the gold.

Er, so to speak.

“What’s that?”

“The Montgomery Foundation agrees to sponsor the Westside Center for the Arts in perpetuity. All programs, plus a to-be-determined number of camp scholarships.” He quoted their annual budget.

“I spend that on fine dining in a year, Gerald,” McCormick scoffed. “And you’re asking my sons to use Elena’s family money to support your center.”

James McCormick’s eyes met Gerald’s in the rearview mirror, one of his bushy white eyebrows cocked. He looked just like his son, Andrew, in that moment.

“Why should I care what you do with that artifact? And why would I stake charity money on your decision? If you wanted that kind of investment, you could have asked for it without the contingency.”

Gerald had just swallowed his pride to ask.

Now he swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Then it’s a done deal?”

James harumphed. “Talk to Becky tomorrow. She’ll arrange the details.”

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. You know I grew up in South Boston.” He didn’t add qualifiers to any of his comments or questions. Gerald admired that.

“Yes, sir.”

“I wish we’d had a club for arts and recreation. Instead, we used cans and sticks.” He gave a strange grin. “My children had fencing coaches and ski lessons.”

“We work to give our kids a life that’s better than the one we had, sir.”

“That we do. That we most certainly do. Do you have children, Gerald?”

He thought of Suzanne.

“Not yet.”

“We never planned for three.” James McCormick’s voice was unusually wistful. “Elena and I were surprised by her pregnancy with Terry. It’s not that he wasn’t wanted. Just, well...unexpected. A bit early, you might say. We didn’t have the time together that most husbands and wives cherish before focusing on building businesses and families.”

Gerald said nothing.

“And then Declan two years later, and Andrew after that. Blessed with three healthy boys, we used to say. Elena wished we’d had a girl—said I would have spoiled her rotten. That men like me needed a ‘daddy’s little girl.’”

Gerald watched covertly in the rearview mirror. McCormick’s stare was unfocused, his mind wrapped up in memory. “But no such luck. Three boys it was for us.”

“They are all fine men, if I may say so, sir,” Gerald said, meaning it.

“Thank you. I agree. It does a man good to know he’s built something with a strong foundation. From the ground up. And while the result is never perfect, neither is the journey, Gerald. All we can do is our best.”

Our best.

“You decided what to do with that relic long ago, Gerald. That’s evident. Eleven years ago you made sure it made it to safety. I never thought you’d actually sell it to me.”

“What—you—you knew? You knew that I was the one who...”

“Who smuggled the relic into the U.S. from Afghanistan? Yes.”

“How?”

“Background check.”

“Background check? No background check would reveal that part of my life,” he argued.

“The kind Anterdec does most certainly would. And did. You weren’t hired to be a chauffeur, Gerald. You’re part of our crack security team. And when I found out what you did, and how Hopewell ended up with the relic, I decided to hire you on the spot.”

“I always wondered why Anterdec hired me.”

“In spite of your shaky past, you mean?”

McCormick hit the bullseye.

“Yes.”

“I’ll admit, hiring an ex-Navy SEAL who’d spent nearly two months on an inpatient psych ward was not my vision of the ideal candidate as security detail for my company,” McCormick said. Understatement of the year. McCormick was a judgmental bastard. Gerald knew it.

So did the old man.

“And if that were all we dug up, you never would have made it to the first interview. Fortunately, our team knows that I have a nuanced view on people.”

Gerald struggled not to snort, smirk, snicker or guffaw.

“And when I learned you violated federal and international law for the sake of a higher good, I knew you needed to be on Anterdec’s team.”

“Good to know.” He frowned. “If you already knew I was the one with the relic, why did you call Suzanne and ask?”

The old man’s eyes clouded with confusion. “That’s funny. I asked Suzanne to come to my house because Declan recommended it.”

“Declan?”

“He never mentioned you were the heir.”

“I never told him.”

“Then why would he suggest I call Suzanne and...”

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror.

James McCormick chuckled. “Declan as matchmaker. I never would have thought it.”

Good thing Declan wasn’t Gerald’s boss anymore.

Because he was a dead man.

* * *

“
Y
ou have
to give Declan McCormick credit. It worked, right? He got me to show up and run into you at his father’s house.” It was morning, and she was at his place, her friend Kari promising to walk Suzanne’s dog while she spent the night here. His place wasn’t much compared to hers, but it was home.

His home.

Soon they’d have
their
home.

But no one was in a rush.

“James was in on it, too, in his own way. He’d known about the relic all those years.” Naked and sleepy, they took their time under the covers, talking and playing, the casual way she let the sheet slip off her breasts a simple pleasure. He hadn’t been this intimate with her
ever
. They were in new territory now, and so far, both had taken to it with such natural grace that it seemed too good to be true.

Gerald loved the access he had to her body. Couldn’t wait to make her his muse.

Again.

The long, pale torso had always fascinated him, her ribs stretching out in a line of gridded perfection, as if she’d been given more bones than usual. Strong, lean legs that felt perfect around his waist at just the right moments. Arms with the right tone and slim surgeon’s hands. Her hair was honey and her eyes were ocean. She’d always hated her freckles but for him they were a map, points on a canvas, a speckled layering of character.

When she smiled, she lit the world.

“It’s all good,” Gerald said with a sigh. “I got McCormick to fund the arts center forever.”

“And paperwork shows McCormick had been trying to buy it from Hopewell for ages. Maybe he saw an opportunity.”

“We already had a meeting set up for that day! And Declan hates when other people meddle in his and Shannon’s lives. I’ve heard him grumble about it in the back of the limo for years. His wife and mother-in-law are Olympic champions in Meddling.”

“They medaled in meddling?” she joked.

He groaned at the terrible wordplay.

“Meddling got us here.” Her hand moved from his knee between his legs, the slow quality of her journey reassuring, sensual in its timing. She knew how to hold him, stroke him, make him feel a rising urgency that was tempered now.

Calibrated by the knowledge that this wasn’t going away.

And that she wasn’t a dream that would soon end in nightmares.

Since they’d reunited, the dreams had faded again, consigned to a back corner of his subconscious.

“It all worked out for the best. The Afghani officials are over the moon about the relic. You donated it, and now your hands are washed of it. No charges against you, and Kulli’s being investigated for antiquities fraud.”

“Plus there’s the clause in the will,” Gerald reminded her.

“I couldn’t tell you.” In the event that Gerald did donate the relic, Harold Hopewell had set aside a $100,000 inheritance for him. Suzanne wasn’t allowed to mention the clause—per Hopewell’s instructions—until or unless Gerald decided to donate.

“I know. A happy surprise.”

“You’re keeping it, right?”

“Some of it, sure. Enough to get out of debt and donate a little to the center.” It wasn’t enough for Gerald to retire on, but it would accelerate the timeline for him to be able to just be an artist all day.

“Nice,” she said.

“But the McCormicks already funded the center and some camps, so...”

“What’s it like to work for the McCormicks?” she asked, making Gerald vibrate with amusement. Completely nude, their limbs twisted against each other, her smooth thigh found his, the delight of hair against bare skin a sensory buffet. He couldn’t stop touching her, hands caressing, eyes absorbing. He was readying for an art project.

Later, he thought.

Later she would pose.

“You know what it’s like. You work for them, too.”

Her own eyes took him in, hungry for more. What did he look like to her? He’d bulked up these ten years, his shoulders bulging with strength, legs built like cabled powerhouses, thick and sturdy. Veins bulged over well-defined, taut skin. He was smiling, his cheeks red, his morning stubble coming in a cinnamon red that had always surprised her.

She sat up on one elbow, head propped in one palm, her face a delight. “I sit across from Declan, Andrew and Terry McCormick once a year. It’s hardly the same as what you do. You probably run period errands for their wives and girlfriends.”

The bed convulsed as he shifted, staring at her in shock.

“How did you know?”

She just laughed. “I assumed. Plus, you have no shame. Remember that time at the BX when you bought lube and a dozen donuts and asked the poor clerk about proper technique?”

“That was on a dare.”

“A dare you won.”

He shrugged.

“You
do
know what they’re like, though,” he insisted.

“Once a year I sit across an enormous boardroom table and drool at those hot, gorgeous, smart, intense men who—hey!”

He pinched her ass.

“I don’t need to hear that,” he growled.

“You asked,” she said in a low, chiding voice. “If you don’t want to hear the truth, don’t ask.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “I’d forgotten that about you.”

“What? My pinchable ass?” She rubbed the spot where he’d zinged her.

“No.
That
I could never forget.” His feelings deepened. “You tell the truth. Always. But you also face it.”

“Can’t live any other way, Gerald.”

His entire body tensed, like a stadium of sports fans doing the wave, one muscle at a time, in sequence. It was a slow motion shiver.

“I know. It’s what captivates me.”

“It scares the hell out of most men.”

“I’m not most men.”

“No,” she said, in a voice that was half sigh, half regret. “You’re not.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

“You ruined me for other men.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. The gesture seemed intended to be casual, but it broke something inside him.

His hands slid up from her shoulder to cup her jaw.

“I wish I’d understood back then how your unflinching willingness to face the truth in any situation could have saved us.”

“It
would
have saved us.”

“And I’ll regret not connecting that to reality for the rest of my life.”

“I don’t want your regrets about the past, Gerald. I want you here. Now. In the present. And I want to talk about how we’re going to be in the future. Together.”

“C’mon, Suz. Don’t be shy. Tell me how you’re really feeling.” He kissed her then, an awkward, sudden move that she broke, eyes blazing.

“You always used to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Cover up talking about feelings with sex.”

“Sex
is
a feeling.”

Her eyebrows shot up, then curled down, like a silky beige caterpillar being tickled. “What?”

“Sex is a feeling,” he insisted. “It’s how I express feelings.”

“I want you to express your feelings with your mouth.”

He began to crawl under the covers, prowling toward her body. “Yes, ma’am....”

“Gerald!” He could hear the laugh in her voice as she struggled to stay serious. Soon, though, she stopped.

This
was
serious.

He needed to have as much of him touching her, and not just through sex. The affinity they shared transcended the pain he’d caused her, the confusion he’d lived through, the emotional muck and mire of so many years lost. As he kissed her, so many thoughts raced through his mind, most of them fragmented and nonsensical, soon replaced by instinct, by touch, neurons firing as he used his hands to find her, to find them.

The feel of her hands on his hip, curving around to find a better grip, the sharp sound of his reaction, the dull blade of need inside making the wound of separation bleed a little more. All these pieces of pain co-existed inside him, shards of himself he’d collected over the years, tossed in a small bag he wore on his back.