Chapter 18
18
Samantha
Just as quickly as Matthew had appeared in my life, he left. I had to wonder if it had anything to do with the seeming tension between him and that man, Ramone. Had he sensed my attraction toward the ebony-haired stranger? The connection between us had been so strong I’d suspect it was visible if such a thing were possible. My skin sang when he’d touched me, electrified by a mere whisper of the touch of his flesh.
The scent of him clung to me whenever the memory rose in my mind, but I hadn’t seen him again despite his previous intention toward the books he’d been looking for. I solved that issue this morning, a couple of weeks after the opera, by arranging to have them delivered to the main offices of Fulgere Industries. Perhaps I’d been too forward in doing so, but he was the reason we’d ordered the material to begin with.
I told myself I wasn’t hoping he’d personally thank me. His unnecessary warning to stay away from Matthew echoed in my head. Matthew took care of that himself, becoming a ghost.
The night of the opera was an odd one for me, between Matthew’s imagined interest, my racing heart, the encounter between the two men, my divulging of personal information to a stranger, and then the creepily thorough decimation of my roses at home. Whoever had taken the time to turn the flowers into near dust had been remarkably dedicated. The untouched vase now sat in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, idly hoping for a fresh bouquet to fill the hollow in the crystal.
Stay away from rose quartz. Stay away from Matthew. The beautiful man was a bossy stranger. And yet, I’d listened to him. I hadn’t touched one of the pink crystals since his directive. Would I have stayed away from Matthew if he hadn’t disappeared on me? Probably, if I had to hazard a guess. But then again, maybe not. Ramone was already taking up too much space in my head and he hadn’t stated any intentions for me, just warnings.
Footsteps sounded across the entry foyer. “Samantha?”
Timothy entered the living room where I waited, staring at the wall. “Hi,” I greeted him, standing up and smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt.
“Are you ready to go?” He looked me up and down, appraising my outfit and appearing to find it satisfactory.
I sighed. “Yes,” I muttered. His eyes flickered with irritation. My tone.
How did Timothy end up back in my life? The transition was seamless, my parents manipulating situations, gatherings, outings. The man was always there, lurking, finding his way to my side, inviting me to events in the presence of my mother and father, knowing full well I would acquiesce. My life truly was not my own. I was more than ready to scream, and loudly, just as I’d told the man I was irrevocably attracted to.
He held open the car door for me and I settled on my seat, the leathery new car smell wafting around my head in his new, full-size Mercedes Benz. He possessed an extra measure of confidence that hadn’t been present before, his shoulders a little straighter, the seams of his clothes a little tighter, the watch gracing his wrist a bit shinier. He'd reached his goals, made partner, and owned a share of an elite law firm while I supposedly floundered adrift in candle wax, incense cones, and a sea of fragrant snake oil.
The new home wasn’t as fancy or pricey as my family’s, but it was nice, and I was happy for my ex-fiancé. He was still my ex, my old engagement ring biding its time in his pocket. I didn’t want to marry the man; the ring could stay where it was. We pulled into a parking space, and I let myself out of the car, scanning the yard and gardens.
He stood watching my face carefully after I followed him inside. Obligingly, I glanced around, taking it all in while he waited for my approval of his new home. The decor was classic New England with the neutral tones and hints of old-fashioned fabrics and fixtures so common in Massachusetts.
“This is nice, Timothy. Congratulations.” He beamed at my sincere words.
During a tour of the house, I noticed familiar products in the master bedroom’s attached bathroom. The brands I used sat alongside the products he’d always preferred for himself. A sinking feeling entered my belly, I was drowning in a rip tide and losing more of my autonomy every day.
Downstairs, Timothy retrieved a bottle of wine, and struggled with the cork before pouring the liquid into two long-stemmed glasses. Too dry, I thought, taking a first sip just as the lights flickered. Snapping sounds resonated throughout the home, plunging us into near darkness. The sun was almost fully set, long shadows covering the walls. Tim scowled and opened a drawer, turning around with a flashlight.
He grabbed his wineglass, taking a swallow. “I’m going to find the breakers.”
“That sounded like broken bulbs.”
His glass clinked against the marble counter. “You’re right,” he said, and disappeared for a minute, opening and closing a door in the distance.
I watched while he replaced some bulbs, climbing up and down a short ladder he’d fetched. “Flip the switch, please.”
Darkness was closing in quickly. I fumbled around, not familiar with the walls and controls, trying to hurry while he did nothing with the flashlight in his fist to help me. Reaching the right spot, I pressed the lever back and forth.
“Crap,” he muttered. “I should’ve trusted my first instinct.”
“It wouldn’t have worked with broken bulbs.” He ignored me, as expected.
Timothy narrowed his eyes, signaling his displeasure. “I'll be back, wait here."
Where was I gonna go? Defiantly, I picked up my glass and shuffled to what I’d hoped was the living room with an arm outstretched, grasping at whatever I could find to lead the way. It was ridiculous the man didn’t have a back-up generator or any type of emergency lights.
My fingers found the edge of a wall and I sidestepped it, throwing my hand out so I didn’t walk into anything. I’d expected dead air but found something hard, and moving, instead.
Stumbling backward, I think I made a squeaking sound. A smooth hand suddenly gripped my arm, pulling me against a warm, solid body. I heard an intake of breath right before I felt silken strands caress my cheek. Familiar hair, familiar scent. “What did I tell you?” he whispered. “Naughty girl.” He took the wineglass from me and placed it down somewhere.
Ramone. I couldn’t say his name; I couldn’t say anything. My heart thumped in my chest, fear overtaking me at his unexpected placement in my ex’s new home. Why was he there? What was he doing with Timothy? Silently, he led me to the sofa, somehow able to see in the pitch-black tar that now enveloped us both.