29. Are You Gonna Go My Way
Are You Gonna Go My Way
Charlotte
A rden moves so quickly, I barely see it. One moment he's standing beside me, the next he’s twisted Ethan Jamison’s arm behind his back and slammed the man's face straight into the table next to us with a sickening thud. Arden holds him there, with Jamison’s face mashed into the black tablecloth, and pushes his pinned arm further and further up his back.
The crowd gasps, then a hush falls in the ballroom. Even the orchestra falters, then goes silent.
Ethan Jamison thought the public nature of this encounter would protect him. Arden McRae wouldn’t really do anything to him. Not Mister By-The-Book.
Arden is acting on instinct. He can't be thinking clearly. Jamison probably already needs to get checked out at a hospital, but Arden shows no sign of easing off. He’ll break his arm if he hasn't already. He’ll regret it later.
I reach out to touch Arden’s left shoulder. He turns his head to look steadily back into my eyes.
I was wrong, then. Arden isn’t out of control; he’s decided the consequences of his actions are a price he’s willing to pay in my defense.
“No,” I whisper. “Stop.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and I’ve never seen anyone portray Are you fucking kidding me?! more clearly without saying a word.
Arden leans down and mutters something to Jamison that I can’t hear. Then he straightens and releases him with a flare of spread fingers. The man scrambles backward and away, knocking over a champagne fountain in the process. Glasses crash in a tinkling cascade behind him, and the crowd murmurs in response.
Jamison straightens, attempting to play off the situation like he wasn’t momentarily scared for his life.
I turn my attention to the little weasel and heave a bored-sounding sigh. “Ethan, I can't imagine any sober woman choosing to spend time with you, which I suspect you already know. Otherwise, why would you be so desperate to try to get the women you come on to drunk?” I indicate Arden like I’m a hostess on a game show. “Meanwhile, I’m standing next to everything you’re not. He’s funny, kind, and intelligent. People respect him, Ethan. I realize it’s probably hard for you to imagine what that feels like. He's got a better body, better hair, more power and, no doubt, a significantly bigger dick than you. In other words, you can fuck right the hell off.”
A burst of feminine laughter, quickly stifled, sounds behind me.
Color rises in Ethan’s face to compete with the lurid bruise forming on his cheekbone. He lifts a hand to smooth his blond hair back, then straightens his bow tie and opens his mouth. He closes it without saying anything.
Finally, wavering bravado apparently fueled by too much alcohol and too little common sense, he looks around at the crowd and lifts his chin. “What a nasty little viper you’ve found, McRae. Good luck with her. You’ll need it,” he says in a hoarse voice.
“Go home and enjoy your evening. It's the last one you’ll spend in this city,” Arden says.
Jamison turns and bolts from the ballroom.
Arden leans down to speak against my ear. “ My nasty little viper.”
A curl of warmth forms in my pelvis, and goose bumps rise on my skin. “What happened?”
He lifts his head. “I needed everyone here to understand how far I’d go to protect you.” he rasps.
I flex my hands in a grabby motion. “Gimme your hat. I need to check the color.”
One side of his mouth kicks up in a sardonic smile. “Not wearing a hat, Charlotte.”
“We’re speaking in metaphor,” I say.
He tips his chin. “And I metaphorically took my hat off tonight.”
I search his eyes. He looks back, his gaze shadowed by the white mask he wears. When the staff begin to clean up the mess of broken glass and champagne at our feet, he places a hand on my lower back and leads me to the other side of the ballroom. As we walk, someone approaches on my left and tucks a hand under my arm. Turning, I come face-to-face with Rose McRae.
She appears to be about to speak when I feel an oddly familiar tug on the fabric just above my knee.
Startled, I look down into the freckled face of a girl who can’t be more than Bronnie’s age.
She’s in a rose-pink dupioni silk gown, complete with a train and a diamond tiara perched in her auburn curls.
“Daddy says I can say ‘hello’ to Mr. McRae’s friend. Hello,” she says.
Startled to see a child here, I glance behind her. I sincerely hope she didn’t hear or see any of the altercation five minutes ago.
A man in a tuxedo stands less than two feet away. His hair is salt at the temples, and wire-framed glasses perch on his nose. Neither he, nor his child, wear a mask.
She’s flanked by two obvious bodyguards who stand within arm’s reach.
Arden has security here, but they’re on the perimeter and blending in.
Ignoring my disquiet for the child’s sake, I smile and crouch down to her level. “Hello. Are you having fun?”
She sighs. “No. But Daddy had to make an appearance, so here I am. He’d be sad without me.” Her r’s sound like w’s.
My smile turns a little wooden. Maybe his babysitter fell through at the last moment, but it’s after eleven at night. It seems odd to bring her here.
“Well, I’m happy to meet you,” I say.
“My name is Clare. I like your dress.”
“Thank you, Clare. I like yours too. My name is Charlotte. I have a little girl I’ll bet is just your age.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Yup.”
“I like books and sparkles and kittens. Does she like kittens?”
“She loves cats and dogs and pigs and cows.”
Clare giggles. “Cows?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You look like Barbie.”
I take it for the compliment she clearly intended. “Thank you. You look like a princess.”
Clare fluffs her skirts. “I know,” she sighs. “But it would be better to pet a cow.”
From the tone and quiet laughter of the conversation happening above us, I’d guess Arden and Clare’s father are friends. Which of Arden’s friends has a daughter?
It must be Marcus Harcourt.
Clare turns to tug her father’s pant leg, and I rise to my full height.
When Marcus picks her up, she rests her cheek on his shoulder. “I’m sleepy, Daddy.”
The man’s lips curve upward, but there’s something broken in his eyes, as if he’s holding on to the only thing left that matters in the world, and he’s convinced she’s about to be torn from his arms at any moment. He rubs her back. “I know, Clare-Bear. You can close your eyes.”
I force my face to remain neutral. When he and Clare walk away after a brief conversation, I send Arden a concerned look. “She was the one who was kidnapped?”
He nods.
“Is it normal for him to take her everywhere with bodyguards so close?”
Arden’s mother smiles. “Does it concern you? That a child in this life requires protection? Clarissa Harcourt will one day inherit the Harcourt empire. Compromises must be made.”
“Compromises, yes. But you don’t think that his behavior goes a little far?”
Arden frowns. “There’s no such thing as too far when it comes to safety for our children. We hire the experts, they perform risk assessment, then we trust their recommendations.”
“Her kidnappers died more than two years ago. I doubt it’s the team’s recommendation to flank her every step in a place like this. If so, why wouldn’t he leave her safe at home? He’s using her as a security blanket.”
“You were in his presence for less than five minutes. He loves his child, and she needs him around for her to feel secure as she recovers from her trauma. You’re making snap judgments without all the relevant facts,” Arden says.
The exact thing I hope Arden never does to me. “That’s fair.”
Arden’s mother tucks my arm into hers. “Walk with me, Charlotte.”
When Arden steps forward to join us, she lifts her chin. “Don’t hover, Arden. I’ll bring your friend back to you after we’ve made our rounds.”
Arden catches my eye in silent question.
I force a smile. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Rose guides me across the ballroom. To my surprise, she heads straight for the doors. Maybe we’re headed for the restrooms. Nope . We walk right past them.
Rose has her own security officer, subtly present behind us. Rose doesn’t speak as we walk down the corridor. Finally, the man opens a door, then ushers Rose and me inside.
The room we enter appears to be some kind of parlor with a fireplace and expensive leather seating arrangements. The guard stays inside the room, standing like a statue in front of the closed door.
Rose indicates a chair. “Let’s get to know one another.”
When we’re both seated, she leans forward, her hands clasped loosely together. “You strike me as a straightforward, practical woman.”
“I suppose,” I say.
She smiles. “I like you. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to.”
“Thank you?”
Briefly, she brandishes a fist. “You’re salt of the earth. Loud and tacky, but very entertaining.”
Lovely.
She leans back. “This is a complicated situation. My son is fascinated by you, and I can see why.”
Suddenly, the mask on my face feels like a cage. I take it off and place it on my knee. In this light, the gemstones look like blood and tears.
She plucks several tissues from a wooden box on the table beside her and passes them over.
I accept, but frown in confusion. “What are these for?”
“I’m going to explain some things to you, and they may hurt,” she says gently.
I straighten my spine. First Phyllis, then his mother? These people are starting to tick me off. “This event was a one-time thing for us, so if you’re going to warn me to keep my tacky self away from your parties, don’t bother.”
Her brow knits. “I would never be so crass. But the truth is, your behavior is appalling. Your laugh is too loud. You trip around the dance floor like a toddler. Your accent is atrocious. When you take your seat, you wiggle like a fish in a net. You squatted to speak to Marcus Harcourt’s child like an umpire behind home plate.”
“Okay, that’s not fair. I absolutely kept my knees together,” I say.
She continues as though I didn’t speak. “My bigger concern is the behavior you’ve inspired in my son. In one evening, Arden was driven to risk his career—more, his reputation and convictions—to defend you.”
She shakes her head. “You drew conflict to you like a moth to a flame. You weren’t one of us, so they pushed and prodded and poked. At the very least, Arden should have had your teeth fixed before bringing you into the lion’s den.”
An agony of humiliation roars through me. “It sounds like you’re blaming me for the bad behavior of your guests,” I say coolly.
She shakes her head. “It’s an explanation of cause and effect. These men can’t compete with Arden in any other way. Not that my son feels he’s in a competition. They’re no one to him, which, I suppose, is the point.”
She adjusts in her seat in one graceful motion, shifting her weight from her left hip to her right, knees together, one ankle tucked behind the other. “When my son brought you here, those men recognized you as a chink in his armor. If they could embarrass him by using or humiliating you . . . they’d consider it scoring a point.” She takes a deep breath. “This is where you leave me conflicted. You stood beside him, rather than cower behind. I admire that.”
She waves an elegant hand. “The people who heard you speak will relay your words as fact, even the parts that were supposition.”
“No offense, but it hasn’t been my experience that folks take what I say as gospel.”
“You combined things you had no way of knowing with undeniable truth.” Genuine mirth briefly lights her eyes. “Arden does have much better hair. In the end, Mr. Jamison’s reaction clinched public perception. You humiliated him in spectacular fashion. No one who hears of it will risk joining his ranks by crossing you. You’re no longer a viable path to torment Arden. That’s no easy feat. His late wife never achieved it.”
“I don’t like bullies,” I say.
She nods. “If you’d needed to rely on my son to defend you, he’d have had to spend every moment rushing to protect you. If you’d laughed it away, it would have been taken as tacit approval of their behavior.”
She gives me a stern look. “I do wish you hadn’t chosen that moment to refer to the male organ or use foul language. There are ways to handle these situations with class.” She lifts her fingers to her pearls.
Heat rises into my face.
She allows me to regain my composure, then continues. “You say you won’t be back. Is that true?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably.”
Her lips press together. “You don’t strike me as a woman who would be unkind without provocation.”
“I try not to be,” I say.
She nods. “I believe you. But sometimes people become so caught in personal strife that they’re oblivious to their own selfish cruelty. My son has waited for you. He doesn’t see other women socially. His sons have no one to call stepmother. And they won’t as long as you remain in the background. You’re an invisible chain, trapping him, alone and in limbo.”
I take a shuddering breath, my chest tight, my throat full.
“I don’t know what your reservations are. If you’re concerned you wouldn’t fit in here, you’re right. You’d always be an outlier and a bit of a spectacle.” She lifts a shoulder. “But Arden doesn’t need you for political games, and he’s no longer interested in using his relationships for their business advantages.”
“It’s more complicated than that. I can’t explain it.”
She shakes her head. “As long as you trust Arden enough to share your reasons with him, that’s the only thing that matters.”
I dab the tissue to my wet face. I don’t know when I started leaking, only that I am.
“I suppose you find me stiff and formal. I’m aware that neither you, nor Arden, agree with the way I raised him. We’re not a . . . demonstrative family. But I do . . . love . . . my son. If you care for him at all, then enter his life in truth, or set him free to find someone else. Either way, I’m asking you to stop torturing him with hope.”
She glances at the diamond watch on her wrist and rises from her chair. “It’s midnight.” She indicates a door to our far right. “Inside the ladies’ retiring room, you’ll find street clothes waiting for you. Scrub your face. Put your hair under the hat. Stuff your beautiful gown and jewelry into the suitcase, and allow my people to assist you from the hotel through a side exit. Or”—she indicates the door where her guard stands—“leave the mask off and claim your place beside him.”