25. Dont Let the Sun Go Down on Me
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me
Arden
C harlotte holds her head high as she looks back at me, but a pulse beats too quickly in her neck and her eyes show too much white.
She huffs a laugh in an octave that sounds like a lie. “If you can convince your security I’m not a cat burglar, I’d love to get a closer look at the exterior elevation of the mansion.”
I frown. “Of course.”
She nods, her smile unnaturally bright. “How about now? I could use some fresh air.”
Warily, I guide her through the house, and we emerge through the same door she entered last night.
After we’ve put the entrance twenty feet behind us, she stops walking, closes her eyes, and tips her face back to the sky. When she shivers, I shrug out of my suit coat, tuck it around her shoulders, then use my hands to warm her biceps.
For a split second, I’m struck by deja vu. Charlotte, needing air. Shivering in the cold. She’s escaping my home the same way she did the funeral.
I’ve been pushing too hard. Rushing to her the moment I got home. Kissing her in front of the staff. Wanting her to meet my parents.
I’ve never seen my own father do more than touch my mother’s hand or guide her with a touch to her back. Ariana only allowed me to put my arm around her in public to protect her from the press. I never had the desire to rush home to her with a kiss and a smile, but if I had, she’d have told me to act like a man, not a needy child. I’d have agreed with her.
Removing my hands, I put a socially acceptable distance between us, and arrange my features into something attentive but dignified.
She fidgets with the jacket’s lapel. “Will you be cold without it?”
“Not at all,” I say truthfully.
Kissing her would be the most natural thing in the world. Her face is tilted toward me at the exact right angle. I prop my hands in my pockets and pretend to be interested in our view of the grounds.
She slides my jacket off her shoulders. “I’m okay. Thanks.”
I take a slow breath, but don’t take it from her hand. “Do I need to reschedule my parents’ visit?”
She hesitates. “Would it be a problem? I didn’t bring the right clothes or . . .”
She doesn’t need special clothing to have lunch at home. But I don’t press the point. “I’ll tell them there was a mix-up with the schedule. You’ll meet them at the masquerade in a few weeks, anyway.”
She nods. “How did it go with Henry?”
I scratch the back of my head. “Surprisingly well. He was in a great mood after we left the doctor’s office.”
“Good.” She takes a breath and squeezes my hand. “I have to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.” My tone is utterly neutral.
“What exactly did Steve do for his job?”
I freeze for several critical seconds, thrown by the unexpected subject. Then years of experience in high-pressure situations takes over. I lift an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
Her mouth tightens. “Phyllis said something about him. She also mentioned some things about the Vinucci situation that didn’t sound like what the news reported. She told me a lot of your people died undercover.”
Phyllis is going to require a serious conversation about nondisclosures and consequences for creating what could be a major security breach. She likely assumed Charlotte knows more than she does. It’s not an acceptable excuse.
“I’m going to need your promise that you’ll keep the information you heard to yourself. There are people who would be put at risk if it were made public,” I say evenly.
Her brows lift in the center. “I swear it. But was Steve one of those people?”
I fall back on rote response. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of his employment.”
Fire sparks behind her eyes. “You do not use that lawyer voice on me. Don’t avoid the question or talk to me in fine print. He told me he was a clerk. Did he lie to me?” Her voice is low and slow.
I straighten. Not even my grandfather spoke to me in the tone Charlotte is using. Yet here she stands. Five-foot-seven if she leaves her shoes on. No family name or money to grease the wheels. No friends in power, if she doesn’t count me.
In short, she isn’t in a position to demand a damn thing.
But she’s Charlotte. So I answer the question. “He wasn’t a clerk. Steve’s official job title was Executive Protection Agent. He was trained as a security specialist to provide intelligence regarding threats to my family and, when necessary, other at- risk parties. He was part of a team that provided strategic risk assessment and intervention.”
She puts a hand to her stomach. “Undercover? Like your people who died in the war with the Vinuccis?”
“He wasn’t a state or federal employee. He was mine. But he came after that time, regardless.”
Her throat moves on a swallow. “Was what he did against the law?”
I frown . “Of course not.”
I guide her until her back is flush against the stone wall behind her. Her free hand lands on my waist, twisting in my shirt, and her eyes dilate. I’m close enough that the warmth of her breath strikes the skin beneath my jaw.
“Why did you ask me if it was illegal?”
She swallows hard. “Steve didn’t tell me about his job. He wanted to find evidence against Polford. I thought . . . it was stupid.”
“There are legal means of investigation. My team have done things that required creativity and, sometimes, a fine understanding of the letter of the law, but we haven’t crossed the line. There’s no excuse good enough for it. It makes us no better than they are.”
She closes her eyes and nods. When she speaks, the words are a whisper. “Why didn’t Steve tell me about his job?”
“Maybe he would have.”
“When?”
“He was planning to move to full-time hours in January,” I say.
She scowls. “He was supposed to go to law school. He made that sacrifice without asking me if I even wanted him to. I’d have told him to stay in school.”
“When Steve took the psych profile as part of the interview process, he presented with a strong protective instinct, and a very clear sense of right and wrong, which I agreed with. He also exhibited a certain . . . flexibility. When the letter of the law conflicted with his morality, he chose not to be a rule follower.” I smile ruefully. “He would have found a career in law frustrating.”
Her gaze pierces straight through me. “And you don’t?”
“Sometimes,” I say.
“He shouldn’t have made the decision without talking to me. If he changed his mind about law school, that’s one thing, but we were supposed to talk about these things as partners.”
“Didn’t you do the same thing to him?” I ask gently.
She glares at me.
“You didn’t ask his opinion before you abandoned your degree to work in a grocery store. You decided you’d go straight to work after the baby was born, so he could stay in school. You made a choice about what you thought was best. So did he.”
She lifts her chin and narrows her eyes. “I was about to become a mother.”
“He was a father.” I step backward to give her the space she’s clearly craving. “I’m not saying he did the right thing by not talking to you about it, but he was trying to do his best for you and Bronnie. You were ready and willing to sacrifice on his behalf, even when he didn’t want you to. The day I met you, you were putting yourself through hell for a man who didn’t even know you were there. If he had, Steve would’ve been the first person to tell you to stay away from Polford and that church.”
“You make it sound like Steve and I were in a competition to win the prize for Biggest Martyr,” she snaps.
I take a deep breath. “I admire you. So much that I don’t have words to explain it. But you have to admit you’re hell-bent on putting yourself last.”
Her eyes glint with fury. “That’s ridiculous.”
“When have you ever willingly let someone else put you first?”
She huffs. “Steve’s parents disowned him in high school because he wouldn’t stay away from me. I asked my brother to let him move in his senior year. The only reason he could afford college was because his grandfather paid for it. Rochelle”—she shakes her head—“she was there for me when the easiest thing in the world, the smartest, would have been to run in the other direction.”
“Steve gave up his family because he knew what they were doing was wrong,” I say.
“He missed them. All I had to do was break up with him. But I was selfish, Arden. Just like I was with Rochelle when I didn’t tell her to run instead of defend me. So don’t tell me I haven’t allowed other people to make sacrifices for me, because you are dead wrong.”
“They made choices as teenagers to remain loyal to you because it was the right thing to do. It shows their character. I guarantee they didn’t regret their decisions. Why do you?”
“I don’t regret them. I owe them.”
I lift my hand, then close it and drop it to my side. “That’s not how it works. Love doesn’t keep score.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”
”Then move past the things that are holding you back, because they’re just as over. If you move to New York, I’ll be here to help you with Bronnie. I could get you a job at the best architecture firm in this city. If you asked me to do it—if I thought you’d accept it—I’d buy you your own firm when you graduate. You stay in a place that you’ve told me doesn’t feel like home. Why?”
A sob rips from her throat. “You don’t understand.”
“No.” I lift my hands to her face. “I don’t. Explain it to me.”
She shakes her head.
I press my forehead to hers. “Why did you come here?”
She grabs my wrist and gives it a small shake. “You needed me. I couldn’t ignore that.”
The words are a knife to the heart. “So this time you’re sacrificing yourself for me because you thought I needed someone to hold my hand.” I laugh, but not a thing about this is funny.
“It’s not a sacrifice. It’s my excuse. It’s safe for the weekend. The masquerade works because I’ll cover my face. It’s about making compromises,” she says.
“Because of the press? Or because you’re worried about danger? I can’t deny you’re safer under the radar in a small town, but I can protect you and Bronnie in New York. A security detail isn’t fun, but you’d adjust.”
“I have responsibilities in Blackwater, and I can’t have the press digging into my past and following me around.”
They made Ariana’s life living hell. She drowned her anxiety in drugs and alcohol. If Charlotte says they’re too much for her, it’s the one thing I have no argument against.
“I need to think, and I can’t.” She pushes away from me. “I have to process my feelings. About Steve lying to me. And you. And all the locked doors in this place. When I came outside by myself, your security looked like they were one step away from putting me in a room with a metal chair and a single lightbulb overhead.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “Why would they do that? You’d never give them a reason to.”
Her laugh is thick with tears. “I need to go.”
“Will you come back for the masquerade?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”