Until I'm Yours (3 page)

I shift my attention to the special guest.

Everything in me goes still. My fingers freeze around my fork like rigor mortis has set in. My breath stalls in my throat. My heart refuses to beat for a matter of seconds, depriving me of blood to the brain. That must be why I’m lightheaded. Why my hands go cold and my feet go numb. It is circulatory, not long-buried fear. Not never-forgotten disgust. Not deeply embedded shame.

I want to believe the man at my mother’s side is not who I think he is. Is not who my body thinks he is, but he goes still, too, and makes me certain. He stops walking toward us, his steps faltering for a heartbeat and his eyes widening when they tangle with mine. We share memories, memories that tortured my dreams into nightmares. Memories that, even now, as he regains his composure and continues his steady pace toward my table behind my mother, twist his lips into a smile.

W
ho is this girl?

Obviously, I know who she literally is, but what stirs beneath that polished, placid surface? When Harold told me Sofie Baston would be here tonight, I expected to be impressed with her physical beauty, but I didn’t expect to be…intrigued.

Even though I saw her on a billboard earlier, that colossal image a hundred feet in the air is somehow dwarfed by this woman in the soft, silky flesh. My preconceived notions of her have been broadened and lengthened by what appears to be a quick wit and sharp intelligence.

I’ve been fighting myself not to just stare at her ever since she and that punk-ass quarterback walked in. I mean, yeah, Rip’s got a great arm, but he hasn’t
fully
lived up to the promise he showed in college when he won the Heisman. Okay. He
was
MVP last year. I gotta give him that. Let’s face it. I’m just sour because he’s with her. I’ve never been one to go after another guy’s girl, and I won’t start with this one. But I’d trade places with him, even if just for a night.

In the high-risk ventures that have made Harold and me richer than we ever imagined when we walked away from our Princeton scholarships, I sink or swim on my instincts, on my gut-level assessment. Based on what I see, Rip bores her. He has no idea how to handle a woman like Sofie. That silver-blond hair, those bottle-green eyes, that pale gold skin—all make you think she’s an icy goddess, but even our brief exchange showed me the truth. There’s fire beneath that perfectly cool façade. She isn’t feisty or sassy. Those words are too girlish somehow for what I sense in her. She is…bold. And I’ve decided that I like her.

I’ve been rationing glances, allowing myself to look over at her only every so often. I don’t want her to think I’m one of those idiots who run behind her with their noses wide open. I’m not that guy. Harold and I have been so focused on building Deutimus over the last decade that there’s barely been time for dating, relationships, or any life really outside of creating these entrepreneurial incubators all over the world. But even I haven’t been so far under a rock I don’t know a gorgeous woman when I see her.

Okay. I’ve waited long enough. I’ve earned another look.

I turn in her direction, ready for more flirting and to tease out that fire I sense hiding, but everything about her is now frozen. Her smile has hardened into an icy curve on her face, and I watch it splinter into a thousand icicles that leave her lips a straight, dead line. Her hand is a cold claw on the table in front of her. And her eyes, frozen over like a winter pond, fix on the man approaching with her mother.

Walsh leans across me, touching Sofie’s hand and tugging until she shifts her glance to him.

“I had no idea, Sof.” His eyes and whisper are urgent. “I didn’t know he would be here. I don’t know why he is, but I’ll find out. I’ll handle this. I promise. Are you okay?”

This is the softest I’ve seen her so far. Not in a magazine, not on that billboard, not tonight has she been less than certain. Less than the runway moniker I’ve heard they call her—the Goddess. But for a second, in a flash, she looks completely, humanly lost. Those icy eyes melt when they meet Walsh’s, and she bites her lip hard enough that when she releases it, blood rushes to the surface, color flooding the lips that had gone white around the red lipstick.

“I’m fine, Walsh.” Piece by piece, she reassembles herself, layering confidence and dispassion around her like veils. “I promise I’m fine.”

She slides her eyes to me like she’s just remembered that I’m there, between them. I was never supposed to see that weak, lost moment. She is naked on the Times Square billboard, but I just saw her completely exposed, and she doesn’t like it. She pulls her brows into a V, her soft lips tightening.

“I’m fine.” This time she aims the words and the hardening-by-the-second eyes at me.

“Walsh and Sofie, here’s the surprise guest I mentioned,” Ernest Baston rises from the table to give a quick kiss to the gorgeous woman I know is Sofie’s mother. He slaps the surprise guest on the back. “You both remember Kyle Manchester, right? You were at Hanover together, right?”

Harold and I met Manchester last week. I wasn’t impressed then and remain unimpressed now. He’s an opportunistic cretin who pretends to care about the issues of the moment that carry weight on a ballot. He’s social tofu, absorbing the flavor of any cause that will gain traction with voters. If he has any personal integrity, I didn’t detect it. Somehow he has convinced the American public he’s the best thing since the DVR, and he is so incredibly popular, he’ll probably be New York’s next senator. Coming from a powerful, wealthy family probably doesn’t hurt.

Kyle splits a cautious glance between Walsh and Sofie, seeming to gauge their reception of him. Walsh’s jaw is locked tight and hard as diamonds. He glares at Kyle and looks at Sofie, concern softening his expression.

What the hell is going on here? And am I the only one feeling this tension?

“Yes, Daddy.” Sofie passes one hand over the silvery fall of hair caressing her shoulder. “Don’t you remember Kyle took me to the prom?”

“That’s right.” Ernest Baston narrows his eyes at Kyle like he’s seeing him for the first time. “How could I have forgotten that? Well, he’s come a long way since high school, huh?”

“Haven’t we all.” Sofie’s eyes linger over Ernest’s hand on Kyle’s shoulder before dropping to the table. She reaches for her glass of champagne, only to find it empty. Without missing a beat, she grabs mine.

“Oh, that’s my—”

She holds my eyes with hers, gulping back the bubbly, intoxicating liquid like it’s water before slamming the delicate flute so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.

Screw it. She obviously needs it more than I do.

“You’re looking at the great state of New York’s next senator.” Ernest motions Kyle to the empty seat made available at the last minute for him.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Kyle settles into the seat, snaps open his linen napkin, and lets it float over his knees under the table. “There’s an election to get through.”

“Oh, that’s a formality, my boy.” Ernest gestures that everyone should resume eating.

“Your support means a lot.” Kyle glances at Sofie again, who doesn’t look up from the fingers tangled in her lap. “It’s a long road ahead. I just hope I can hang in there.”

“You will, son.” Ernest studies his daughter, with that same look on his face as when he talked about the schools Sofie didn’t attend. “We respect quitters about as much as those who never even try.”

Sofie’s shoulders stiffen and she raises her eyes to meet her father’s. She reaches for my glass again, but it’s empty now, too. Her eyes scan the room, almost like she is looking to escape. Her fingers open and close around her small purse, a compulsion of which she seems unaware. Her eyes collide with Kyle’s across the table, exchanging some message I wish I could decode, but it’s garbled and embedded in whatever secret they harbor between them.

“I hope our future senator can count on all of your votes.” Ernest smiles around the sip he is taking and looks around the table.

An awkward silence falls over the group. I glance at Sofie, who rolls her eyes and sits back in her seat, folding her arms under her breasts.

“Kerris, the women’s vote will be crucial.” Ernest softens his shark grin for Walsh Bennett’s petite wife, who has seemed distracted much of the night.

Walsh frowns, shooting a protective glance his wife’s way.

“Oh, well.” Kerris lays her phone in her lap, but looks down once more at the screen and nods before speaking. “I…I’m not really very political.”

“Understandable.” Manchester’s smile condescends.

“But I do wonder where you stand on equal pay for women.”

I hide my grin behind a napkin, wiping away something imaginary. This should be interesting.

“Ah, well…I didn’t think you worked, Mrs. Bennett.” Manchester’s smile slips a little.

“I’ve been in the work force since I was fourteen years old.”

“Yes, but you no longer work, correct? Maybe we should talk about my stance on charter schools or—”

“I
do
work.” Kerris raises both brows and rests her elbows on the table. “I’m a business owner, and I would never pay a woman less than a man or a man less than a woman doing the same job.”

Never able to resist a scrimmage, I add my two cents.

“It’s a great question, Manchester. I’m interested to hear your answer.”

The look he aims at me is loaded with quickly veiled malevolence. We haven’t known each other long, but it didn’t take long for us to dislike each other.

“What are you, Bishop?” he asks. “A feminist?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?” Manchester’s brows elevate.

“By definition, a feminist is someone who believes in social, political, and economic equality between the sexes.” I pause, giving him the condescending grin he gave Kerris a few moments ago. “Surely any reasonable person in this millennia, in this hemisphere, certainly at this table, would be a feminist.”

Harold clears his throat, the “shut your damn mouth” signal we’ve worked out between us. He thinks Manchester could be an ally. I don’t believe in keeping my enemies that close.

Sofie stands up without another word, drawing questioning eyes from everyone at the table.

“Powder room.” Her voice comes out strong, but I’m close enough to see the mad pulse thumping at her throat. “I’ll be…I’ll be back.”

When Harold and I were last in Kenya, we went on safari and saw a ravenous lion pursuing an antelope. There had been no hope of safety for the beast. The kill, inevitable and savage. The lion, a beautiful predator, greedily devoured the prey before our eyes, not even acknowledging his rapt voyeurs. As I watch the slim, vibrant line of Sofie’s body fleeing the room, I have no idea why, but I feel that same guilt. Like I’d stood by and watched something awful without raising my hand or voice to help.

I
study my reflection in the bathroom mirror, but I don’t see a polished, poised woman with sleek hair, a pop of matte red lipstick, and lash extensions. Instead another girl, younger, with smudged lips, hair spilled around her shoulders, and angry, red welts at her wrists stares back at me. I hear her jagged inhales, the way her breaths drag over her quivering lips. The stench of her fear churns the dinner in my stomach, and nausea floods my mouth. I swore I’d exiled her for good. She was handled. She was dealt with, but now she’s back.

Weak bitch.

I thought I had gotten rid of her once and for all, but it only took him slithering back into my life to open the door for that weakling child to come out whimpering. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. When I open them, I am determined she will be gone.

I open my eyes and jump a little when I find Kerris’s amber-flecked gaze reflecting back to me in the mirror over my shoulder. The last time we were in a bathroom together, we weren’t exactly sharing lipstick and tampons. She’d told me that Walsh was hers and she had no plans of letting him go—ever. I hated her that night, but maybe I also respected her a little for the first time.

“We have to stop meeting this way, Kerris.” I tug at the plunging neckline of my dress. “Walsh sent you?”

Kerris leans against the wall by the door and bites her bottom lip before speaking.

“He was worried about you.” She clears her throat and a path for the next words. “He’s outside in the hall.”

I check my hair one last time.

“He has nothing to worry about.”

“You seemed…I don’t know, disturbed. Was it that Kyle guy?”

“Kyle Manchester does not disturb me.” I turn to face her, propping my backside against the marble counter. “Why would he? You can let Walsh know I’m fine.”

“Or you could come out and tell him yourself.” Kerris doesn’t look away from my steady, blank stare.

I’m just now realizing that what I took for timidity in Walsh’s little wife might be quiet strength. Our lives couldn’t have been more different. She spent her early years in foster homes, bounced around and abused. I was cultivated like a pearl, protected from harm and born to rule. She doesn’t know we may have more in common than she would assume. More in common than I want to share.

In the six years since I first met Kerris, a lot has changed for us both. I had so much to prove to the world, to myself, to my parents, most of the time I didn’t care who I trampled to prove it. With Kerris, looks like I tried, but didn’t trample her. There’s a confidence in her now that has little to do with the money that comes with Walsh, and a lot more to do with the way he loves her.

“Tell Walsh I’ll be out in a minute,” I tell her.

With a quick nod she turns to go, but I surprise myself by stopping her with, of all things, a compliment.

“That’s a fabulous necklace, by the way.”

With her hand on the door handle, Kerris goes stiff and looks at me over her shoulder like the Wicked Witch of the West just gave her a Christmas present. She must think my compliment might explode at her feet.

What made me stop her? Maybe it’s a diversion, a distraction from what’s out there. Or maybe I just love fabulous jewelry. It could really be a little bit of both.

“Um, you mean this necklace?” She runs her fingers over the rounded stones strung together like pearls around her neck, but colored a distressed teal.

“Yes, it’s unique. Where’d you get it?”

“It’s one of mine actually.” A small smile tugs at Kerris’s lips.

“Obviously it’s one of yours, but where’d you
buy
it?”

Maybe she
is
slow.

“No, I mean it’s from my Riverstone Collection. I make the jewelry myself.”

Oh, so
I’m
slow. I forgot about her jewelry line. I wasn’t in the city when it launched, but I’m sure I wasn’t invited. We don’t exactly socialize outside of Bennett functions.

“Nice.” I wave my hand like a scepter toward the door. “You can go now and tell Walsh there’s no need to wait. I’m fine.”

I should have let her go when I had the chance; now she’s lingering. Hesitating. Grappling with her misplaced compassion.

“That’s the closest to a moment as we’re likely to have, Kerris.” I plasticize a smile. “You should probably go before the full moon comes and I turn bitch again.”

She must believe me because she leaves without so much as a chuckle. I need the quiet, the space she left behind, to pull what remains of my shit together. Mentally, I reach for the affirmations my therapist taught me all those years ago. Those words that empowered me to, day by day, reconstruct myself, but I’m empty-handed. It’s been so long since I needed them. Now that I do, they elude me.

“You haven’t needed them.” I turn back to the mirror to tell my reflection. “And you don’t now. They’re just words. I don’t care who’s out there.”

Who’s in the mirror? The leather-tough, butter-smooth woman I’ve spent the last fifteen years creating? Or that sniveling girl who used to wake up screaming and shivering and sweating because of
him
?

It’s me. The version of myself that did whatever it took to survive. I marshal all my forces and step into the hall. Walsh straightens from the wall and approaches me, concern all over his face. How did he end up such a good guy? With Martin Bennett as a father? I really want to know, because I haven’t figured out how to escape my DNA. It must have been Walsh’s mother who tempered that ruthlessness that lives in Martin. And in my father. And in me.

“I had no idea Kyle would be here.” Walsh shoves his hands in his pockets. “I haven’t seen him since high school. I didn’t know we had any business with him.”

“Daddy’s buying himself a senator.” I lean against the wall Walsh just abandoned, flexing my toes in the beautiful shoes that are just starting to hurt. “Think of all the legislation we can corrupt with a senator in our pocket.”

Walsh huffs a heavy breath and runs one hand through his dark hair. He knows I’m right.

“We should have handled this years ago, Sof, when you told me what happened.”

I focus on the span of floor between our feet. I can’t look at Walsh right now without seeing that girl, without feeling her shame and despair. And with that monster only a dining room away, I cannot afford those emotions. They’ll cost me, and I need every advantage at my disposal.

“We did handle it, Walsh.”

He tips my chin up with a gentle finger, his green eyes dark and tortured.

“I’ve never forgiven myself for not turning him in.”

“By the time you found out, it was too late. It was my choice, not yours, and it was the right choice for me.”

“But he never
paid
. He never
answered
for what he did to you. He—”

“Don’t you dare say it.” My voice is an outraged hiss in the confines of the hall. “Don’t you ever give him that much power over me again, Walsh.”

“But, Sof, he’s about to become a damn senator. We could still tell the truth about what happened and—”

“I didn’t want to fifteen years ago, and I certainly don’t want to now. If it hadn’t been for a drunken night in Paris, you wouldn’t even know.” I rest my fists on my hips. “It happened to me, so it’s still up to me, right?”

“It’s not right to—”

“You don’t get to determine what’s wrong or right
for me
.” Anger and frustration, maybe fear, sharpen my tongue and dull my discretion. “You have your perfect life. Bennett Enterprises will be yours soon. You have your perfect wife. Your perfect kids with another perfect child on the way. Why do you give a damn what I do or don’t do?”

Walsh’s eyes narrow and his jaw hardens the way I know means he’s about to sort my shit out, but a small motion behind us grabs our attention. Kerris stands there, eyes wide, gripping her phone.

“Speaking of your perfect wife,” I snap, rolling my eyes. “Here she is now.”

Kerris doesn’t know what to make of me. A few minutes ago I was complimenting her taste in jewelry and acting the closest I’ve ever come to being nice to her. Now the bitch is back. My head is spinning, too, honey.

“Um, the sitter just called.” Kerris trains her eyes on Walsh, ignoring me. “The girls have a fever.”

Walsh squeezes the bridge of his nose, something I’ve seen Uncle Martin do a thousand times. He palms his neck, head bent toward the floor, and looks up at me.

“I have to go.” He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder, a gesture I don’t deserve after the vitriol I just spewed at him. “We still need to talk about this. If your father knew—”

“Don’t bother.” I jerk back from his hand and press my shoulders into the wall. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Kerris hovers just down the hall, wearing the anxiety for her little girls between her eyebrows and around her tightened lips.

“Go to your family, Walsh. I’ll be fine.”

He hesitates, but after a few seconds moves down the hall and grabs Kerris’s hand. He kisses her fingers, wrapped around his, like he can’t help it. Like when he’s that close to her, he can’t resist expressing how much he loves her. It is salt in a wound that shouldn’t still hurt. I don’t love Walsh anymore, if I ever really did. It’s so hard to sort out the imaginations of our youth from what’s real. When we’re young, we feel things so deeply, how could it not be real? How could it not be right? But as I look at them, hands twined, walking so close even light doesn’t intrude, I know what right looks like.

“Hey, Walsh,” I call out against my better judgment.

He stops and looks back at me. So does she.

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

Walsh grins, that rakish slash across his handsome face that has grabbed more than one heart. That once held mine.

“You know I know that.” He keeps walking, but waves over his head at me. “You want me to make your excuses so you don’t have to go back?”

“Yeah, send Rip here and we’ll leave through the back.”

I don’t have the energy to wriggle on a hook for that prize-size fish Trevor Bishop. He’s the kind of man who requires all your wits, and mine are scattered all around me. As handsome as he is, as intrigued as I am—I can’t tonight. Daddy can catch his own damn fish.