Speak (The Voice trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

Chapter 1

              “God Damn It!”

              “What is it, Son? Must be serious to call upon God.”

              “Sorry, Da, just a complication. Have you looked over the financials for Viktor? I am anxious to get this done. Nadja is becoming something of a liability.”

              “I have, Son, I trust your instincts. If you need to pass it on to your team to wrap it up, then by all means, do so. We have done all we can for him. He dug himself this hole. You owe Viktor nothing.” He runs his finger along the rim of his scotch, a habit he has fostered since I can remember. He is waiting, waiting for me to volunteer more information. Tossing back the last finger of scotch, he eyes me with a growing curiosity. “Does your complication have a name?” His fatherly stare shoots straight through me, like only he can. “Come now, Son, I know that look. I have worn that look, more times than I care to remember. Only a woman can provoke a look like that.” He is shrewd and dead on. “A man’s eyes can only be made hollow by a woman who has stolen his heart.” The burn of the scotch reaches my nostrils and I choke at his sentiment.

              “It’s not as serious as that.”

              “Isn’t it now?” He smirks and raises a knowing eyebrow. Clearing his throat, he motions to the petite waitress who stands at the end of the bar with her eyes fixed on our table. “Son, I will leave you to sort your…..complication. I have an early meeting and then I am off to Philadelphia. Check your calendar. I had Nina add a few functions, fundraisers that you and I must attend over the next month. I will see you in a few days.” He stands and commands the room, like he always has. Distinguished, handsome, rich and charismatic, my father is the only man I have ever looked up to. Even the youngest women in the room cannot help but sneak a peek at the legendary and solitary Michael Slate.

              “Good night, Da.” I look down on the page six clipping that Sophie has forwarded me and anger, deep, dark, hot anger pools in my gut. I dial Sophie and it goes straight to her voicemail.

                                          ***

              Quick and cold, just like that I cut him off. I cannot, will not go back. I will never again be the girl that I once was. I deserve respect. He showed me that. Now he will eat his words. As if he really cares. I suspect that he doesn’t. It was all a game to him. Hours become a day and nothing. The days stretch into a week with no sign from him in the slightest. And I know that it is over. A cold ending to something that never really was, now it never will be. Like a common thief, he stole from me, leaving nothing behind but his indelible fingerprints to haunt my memories.

              Scotch and water, scotch and water. Sleep. I have developed a taste for the rich man’s drink. One night blends into the next. One week becomes two. I pick up a second job to fill my time, cocktail duty for a high end catering outfit. And before I know it, a month has passed and I am comfortably numb. So much so that even the occasional specter of Rhys’ scent or touch doesn’t burn as it once did. At least, not to my core like it used to. Of course, it is easier to see him alone. He has been conspicuously single in every tabloid rag and paparazzi print. Ever the masochist, I find myself searching for images, a taste, a reminder. Another hit to keep the pain just below the surface, a dull niggle that I can just live with.

              His body and his lips are tattooed upon my mind, but my body has almost forgotten. Forgotten how sinfully perfect we fit together. How he could make my blood hum with the slightest brush of his fingers. Almost forgotten, I will keep telling myself that.

              Another night, another black tie event.  A five thousand dollar per plate dinner and auction for Children’s Hospital. The work is tedious at best, but the tips can be ridiculously high. A sea of faceless penguin suits, glittering arm candy and more money than any reasonable person would know what to do with. I work a rich room, and my savings benefit immensely. I line my tray with crystal champagne flutes, and fill each with sparkling, golden Cristal. I have gotten good at the mindless ritual of handing out hundred dollar glasses of champagne to unaffected party goers. Able to glide through a room with casual ease, twelve glasses of bubbly excess propped upon my shoulder, roughly a thousand dollars of champagne per tray. Last weekend, I watched two bored, exquisitely beautiful young women slug down the equivalent of a monthly mortgage in champagne.

             
“Sophie!” A shrill boom pulls me from my internal reverie. “Hello? Ms. Noelle, are you here?” James, in his too tight, white dinner jacket and pale gray slacks motions for my attention, snapping his pudgy fingers in front of my face. My boss aspires to be polished and professional, but falls short with his flaming cheeks and the shrill rupture of his voice when he gets upset. But he is a shrewd judge of a room, and a domineering brute, for such a short man. “The guests have begun to arrive. Please line up. And whatever is clouding your head, leave it at home, please.” He motions to the rest of the cocktail staff to fall in line before his boring speech about how these people are VIPs and we are to treat them as such, no fraternizing or addressing the guests, always keep your tray stocked and be receptive to any special requests. He walks down the line straightening any askew waistcoats, checking for flaws, before he sends us out into the fray. Like a well-oiled machine, we pour slowly into the ballroom in a single-file line and quickly take our cues to go left, right or center, covering every inch of the opulent room, filling every empty hand.

              In and out of the kitchen, tray after tray of champagne, I keep their hands and glasses full, never once seeing any of their faces.

              “Excuse me, young lady.” A silky voice pulls my eyes from the ground. I look upon the chiseled face of an older man, mid-fifties, maybe, very handsome, with kind green eyes. Shining silver curls top his head, faint lines around his eyes betray his obvious penchant for smiling. A slight crooked grin pulls at his full lips. He is familiar, but I know I have never seen him before. I would remember such a glaring example of a distinguished older man. He is polished, refined, yet his eyes are kinder than any others in the room. His eye contact is exact, penetrating but gentle. “Could I bother you for a scotch?” His green eyes twinkle in the dim light of the ballroom, gold flecks picking up the light of the crystal chandeliers that hang above.

              “Certainly, sir, how do you like it?” I am captivated by the planes of his face, by his warm eyes.

              “Single malt, two fingers, neat. Thank you.” He tips his chin to me and turns back to the dapperly suited men who eagerly await the return of his attention. I head to the bar, baffled by the sense of familiarity. I watch intently as Derek, the bartender, pours two fingers of Dalwhinney. The scent coils in my nostrils, twisting my belly in a tight knot. The sweet peat wafts from the glass, bringing a rush of memory sensory overload. I step away from the growing pit of loneliness that has threatened to swallow me for weeks. The pit that I thought I had thoroughly filled and buried. I close my eyes willing the smell to vanish. But as a cruel joke, it grows and twists into a smell so familiar, so laced with vibrant physical memories. Heat simmers in my veins and my stomach twists into a tight knot. I smell him before I see him and my heart sinks.

Chapter 2

              Musk and citrus, the smell of being fresh from the beach, I feel his eyes and the heat he is pushing in my direction. I turn and watch him move through the crowd in all his black tie glory. His hair has been closely shorn, his face clean and freshly shaved, he is stalking toward me with an arrogant grin and a humor-filled twinkle in his eyes. His crisp white dinner jacket fits like a glove. What he does to a tuxedo is something to behold. It should be illegal. His broad shoulders and nipped waist were made for a suit. Seeing him like that does a funny thing to me. I can barely hear my own thoughts, or feel my own body. His mere presence and physical perfection roar in my ear. He shines like a perfect gentleman, and I immediately hate him for it. He is so at ease, so sure of himself. Long fingers tug at his black bow tie, loosening it slightly as he steps towards me, the architect of my heartache. Before I can turn and run, he locks me in his sights and holds me hostage.

              I have to swallow the urge to bolt from the room. I have to stand and face him. What is he doing here? As he makes his way towards me, I decide that looking busy is my best defense. He wears that damn crooked grin that cuts me to the quick. I step around him and make towards the older gentleman to deliver his scotch. He follows me, a few paces behind, silently. I do not turn back, but I feel him there, the familiar pull of his orbit, the sweet smell of his skin. Damn it! Why is he here? Squeezing between two very eager fundraisers, I make room for the scotch on the small table the men huddle around, hoping that if I bury myself in the crowd, in my work, he will back off.

              “Thank you, young lady.” With a gut-wrenchingly familiar smile, he picks up the crystal glass and sips the heady liquor, looking over my shoulder with a grin. “Ah, Son, glad you could join us. This is Marcus Phillips.” He pulls Rhys to the table, effectively shuffling me out of the way, and I am dumbfounded. “Marcus, this is my son, Rhys. He will be taking over for me someday, and he is far more shrewd than I. You will have to watch out for him.” He slaps Rhys on the back as the two men shake hands. I am stuck to the floor, entranced by the whole exchange. “I think we are fine for now, young lady,” he prompts, pushing me out of my head and away from the table. I look into his kind eyes as he dismisses me, bewildered. I take the cue and turn so quickly that I almost take out another server with my tray and I stumble over myself trying to get away.

              “Actually, I think I would like a drink, Father. Excuse me please, gentlemen.” Rhys makes his apologies and follows me silently through the crowd.  I speed up, begging for the sanctuary of the kitchen. Pushing through the kitchen doors like they are some sort of a security gate, I let out the breath I have been hoarding only to turn and see Rhys, sauntering through the swinging doors, unaffected by the barrier that is supposed to separate
us
from
them
. When I turn to face him, he shines like a beacon. A beacon of hope that I know offers no real hope at all, a mirage, a lie in the desert that tricks the dying man into drinking sand. I steel myself, square my shoulders and look him in the eye.

              “Rhys.” My tone is terse, clipped, anything not to jump into his arms, not that he would welcome that anyway.

              “Sophie. What are you doing here?” He takes a step forward and I step back.

              “Working,” I snap, holding my tongue and concentrating on slowing my heart.

              “Right, of course,” he shakes his head, his long fingers raking across his closely cut hair. Oh, how I miss those curls, wrapped around my fingers. Stop! “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you.” He waits for a reaction, but I offer none. I am reeling on the inside, but outside I am cool as a cucumber. At least I hope that is how it seems. “I am so sorry about what happened. I wanted to explain, but you wouldn’t take my calls.” He steps closer to me, backing me against a prep table. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to run. I grasp the sides of the table with white knuckles, willing the strength to rise and fill my chest, encase my heart.

              “There was nothing to explain. You don’t owe me anything, Rhys.” The sweetness of his name passing my lips burns.

              “Yes, I do, Sophie. I want you to know the truth. I have been going crazy thinking about you. I am sorry.” Remorse fills his eyes and his hand reaches out for mine. I pull away from him, knowing I cannot withstand the force of his touch. He will burn me, I can’t let him. He puts his hands up in response and backs a step away. “I am sorry that I hurt you. You have every right to be angry.”

              “I am not angry. That would imply that we had something, which we clearly did not. I am not angry. I am… indifferent.” Fury and passion mingle in my blood and my hands tremble as I clench them into tight fists, my fingernails sinking violently into my palm squeezing the reaction back.

              “Ms. Noelle! What are you doing? Get back on the floor and circulate.” James is stalking towards me with a surefooted purpose until he eyes Rhys. Quickly and seamlessly, he slips into ass kissing mode and shines his dark brown eyes and wolfish grin at Rhys. “Ah, Mr. Slate, I am James, it is lovely to meet you. I hope that Sophie is not bothering you.” He turns his eyes on me, all traces of civility gone. “Sophie, is there a problem here?”

              “Um.”

              “No, James. Thank you. There is no problem. I would just like a moment to speak with Sophie here, would that be alright?” Rhys’ commanding, charming demeanor diffuses James almost immediately, at least on the surface. His eyes are full of disapproval as he looks me up and down, I can read his expression. It reads
No fraternizing with the guests!
He tugs at the bottom of his dinner jacket, brushing phantom lint off his lapel. He does not fill a suit the way Rhys does, his stubby arms and wide neck are almost too much for his cuffs and tie to contain. And the buttons on his jacket are clearly working overtime, holding in a little pot belly. His pale skin is flushed and splotchy, exasperation betraying him.

              “Of course, Mr. Slate.” The way he changes from ass kisser to ass kicker is fluid and unnerving. “Sophie, you may take your break.” And he dismisses me with a curt wave. “Please, Mr. Slate, if there is anything I can do for you this evening, do not hesitate to ask.” He pushes through the swinging doors, into the ballroom. Rhys wraps his strong fingers around my elbow and leads me out of the kitchen, across to the far corner of the ballroom and outside to the stone patio.

              “What are you doing here, Rhys?”

              “My father and I are generous benefactors to the Children’s Hospital. Why wouldn’t you take my calls?” Swinging me around to face him, his steely resolve has dissipated into an unsure panic. His eyes are urgent, begging for an explanation. Why does he care?

              “I changed phones, changed numbers. I never got a call.” Now I am just cutting him to cut.

A heavy sigh heaves in his chest, deep and full.

              “Sophie! I have been going out of my mind.”

              “It has been three weeks, Rhys, why do you care so much? Why does any of it even matter to you?” Anger blooms in my chest, replacing the uneasy sorrow that I was so afraid of. I stand with my back straight, feet firmly planted in reality. He may be bigger than me, but I am bigger than this. His grip tightens around my arms and he shakes me slightly, anger angling to replace whatever it was that he was feeling as well.

              “Why do I care?” Fury sparks in his dark green eyes, as his fingers dig into my flesh. “I care about you!” He releases me in a rush and I fall back on my heels. “I care about you, Sophie. I did not want to hurt you.”

              “But you did!” I snap back before I can run it through my filter. He steps into my space and cups the back of my head. Oh, the exquisite feel of his hands in my hair, his strength holding me close. I have to fight the urge to curl into his grasp, the pull to wrap myself in his arms. He steadies me, his finger pressing beneath my chin, tilting my head. Our eyes meet and the pain reflected in his face is almost too much to bear. Why am I crumbling so easily? Where are those defenses I have been working on? They are scattered across the stone patio, blowing in the breeze fifteen stories above the city.

              “I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “Please give me a chance to explain.” He is pleading. Looking into his eyes, I cannot lie, or pretend. The truth hurts, looking at him in his perfect tuxedo while I am in a cocktail waitress uniform, makes the truth that much more painful. Words rush from my mouth, a flurry of insecure thoughts and misguided judgments, a stream of consciousness that has been nagging me from the start.

              “Nadja is a fucking model. Your friends are Ivy League educated. I am serving drinks. One of these things is not like the others.” I step back, out of his grasp, out of the cloud of confusion and longing that he creates with just a touch. “We don’t belong together. I do not belong. It was never going to work between us. Seeing that picture of you and Nadja just reminded me of the truth.” I stare at the grain in the stones beneath my feet, pushing back the deluge of trapped emotions. Feelings I have been pushing back and drinking down since I first realized how stupid I was to believe we could be anything other than a torrid weekend romp. “This was never going to end well for me. You need a woman to challenge you, not fall flat on her back. You would tire of me quickly.” His arms circle me and pull me into his chest before I can protest, and I am grateful. The charge between us is stronger than I remember and my head presses into his chest without a thought. My body has surrendered so easily. But my mind…my mind is reeling and ready for a fight.

              “You don’t challenge me? That is all you have done from the moment I set eyes on you. Believe me, I could find a woman to follow me around and warm my bed. That is not what this is. You have character and strength. You are genuine and good hearted. You could easily be on the arm of any one of these men. But I will tell you now, if you were on anyone else’s arm, I would not, could not accept it. I would hate it, a white hot, blinding hate. Just thinking about you with someone else makes me seethe with jealousy. I am sorry I did that to you.” His heart flutters into that familiar, steady rhythm and my mind zeroes in on it. He tips my head to the heavens and bites his lip before kissing me lightly at the corner of my scowl. My lips flutter and turn, unable to resist him. He pulls me into a deep, needy kiss, our tongues tangle, stroking one another. A deep sigh escapes my chest and he becomes more heated, his hands twisting in my hair. Just as I am about to completely lose my breath, we are torn from each other by the shattering of pottery. James is standing on the threshold of the patio, a large pot that held a ficus behind the French doors, scattered about the stone. The doors flung open in his fervor to stop the fraternization, no doubt.

              “Ms. Noelle!” he roars, stomping towards me. Now his buttons really do look as if they are about to burst. His barrel chest is puffed and his face is stern. Rhys pulls me into his chest, a protective reaction to James’ aggressive approach. “This is unacceptable, Ms. Noelle. I am so sorry, Mr. Slate. Ms. Noelle will be dealt with, I assure you.” He goes to grab my arm and Rhys reacts so quickly my head spins. He swings me behind his back and squares his shoulders to James. Rhys’ lean frame looms high above the stocky, middle-aged build of James.

              “There will be no need to deal with Ms. Noelle.” Rhys leans into James.

              “I am sorry, Mr. Slate, but we have a strict policy against fraternization and Ms. Noelle has clearly violated that policy.” He puffs his chest at Rhys, trying to match his power, but he cannot.

              “That is perfectly fine, James, because Ms. Noelle quits.”

              “What? Wait, no I don’t!” I step around Rhys. “Rhys, what are you doing?” I slap his hand away and step away from him. “James, I am sorry, please. I don’t quit.”

              “Yes, you do!” Rhys declares, his stern face a clear indication of his determination. He turns back to James. “She quits. Come along, Ms. Noelle.” His tongue curls around my name like a snake, strangling its prey. He tugs my hand and pulls me into the ballroom, knowing that the scene from outside will not follow us in. I rip my hand from his and turn to him in a fit of rage, ready to unleash the fury of this woman, when his father steps up behind him.

              “There you are, Son. They are getting ready to seat everyone for dinner and the auction.” He looks from Rhys’ face to mine and smiles. Stepping between us, he takes my hand. Watching my eyes, he slowly raises my hand to his mouth, planting a gentle kiss before revealing a slightly crooked grin that melts my heart. “I am Michael Slate. And you are?” He doesn’t release my hand, running his fingers along the ridge of my knuckles, he waits, eyebrows raised.

              “I am Sophie. It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Slate.” His lips curl into a knowing smile and he places my hand back at my side.

              “Ah…Sophie, of course. It is lovely to finally meet you. I have heard a lot about you. Please, let us dispense with the stuffy formalities.” He leans in close and whispers in an amused tone, “You can call me Michael.” His eyes glimmer with humor as he looks from me to Rhys. “Son, I think I can handle these vultures.” His clever dismissal frees Rhys’ conscience and he smiles. They share the same disarming crooked grin, the same kind green eyes, and the same twisted sense of gallantry. “I hope we meet again, Ms. Noelle,” he calls after us, as Rhys practically drags me across the ballroom and out into the hall.