Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
REBEKKA
The Beckett annual Christmas ball is the highlight of the season—for anyone that isn’t obsessed with their youngest son—or perhaps even those who are.
Not for me though.
It’s another test of my endurance.
Another chance to see all that I long for.
Another chance for me to fleetingly touch it, yet never fully taste it.
Patrick eases the Audi to a stop at the foot of the wide stone steps leading to Beckett House, Rian’s parents’ house.
Even from inside the car, the place glitters.
Trees on either side of the grand front doors are wrapped in white fairy lights.
Branches dusted with frost catch the festive glow.
A thick, plush crimson carpet runner climbs the stairs towards towering oak doors. Christmas music drifts from within.
Anthony glances at me through the moonlight. ‘Try and behave yourself tonight.’
My eyes narrow. ‘I’m not the one who’s misbehaving.’
‘That’s not what Paul said.’ He cricks his neck, slowly and deliberately, the sound of clicking bones sending a shiver down my spine.
‘What did he say?’ I whisper, the memories of him watching Rian escort me into the lift and up to the penthouse. Did he pick up on the chemistry pulsing between us?
He pushes his dark-framed glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. ‘He said last time you went out drinking, you got so smashed that my friend had to hold on to you and escort you up to the penthouse.’
I exhale the breath I’d been holding. ‘I’m certain you’ve done worse in the course of our marriage,’ I spit.
He doesn’t flinch. ‘Just don’t let me down tonight. Everyone who’s anyone is going to be here. I’ve known the Becketts my entire life. They’re probably the most respected family in this country.’
‘Probably because they behave like gentlemen and treat their wives with respect.’ I jut my chin out. ‘Maybe you could learn a thing or two from them.’
‘I saved your family. Took you in. Signed my life over to you.’
‘Ha. You “took me in”? I was hardly homeless.’
‘You would have been, if it weren’t for me.’
I roll my eyes. I’ve heard this a hundred times during the course of our marriage. I’m well aware of how much he thinks I owe him, and that he expects me to spend the rest of my life indebted to him, and putting up with his shit day in and day out. It’s exhausting.
Patrick steps out first and opens my door with his usual quiet efficiency.
Cold air spills into the car, scented faintly with pine and woodsmoke.
I gather the folds of my winter-white wrap closer and step onto the carpet.
Laughter and the distant clink of crystal float out through the air. The festive spirit is in full swing.
Except tonight, I don’t feel remotely Christmassy.
My head is full of everything except tinsel and goodwill.
Problems at Remington Publishing have been simmering for a couple of weeks.
An author is threatening to defect, and a marketing campaign has gone wildly–and expensively–off-track.
My mother is incessantly hinting about flying over for Christmas, each call thick with expectation I don’t know how to meet.
Anthony’s bullshit—parading around his latest fling—his young, likely impressionable PA who probably thinks she’s discovered her own personal fairy-tale prince.
And my heart continues thrumming like a bassline that I’m incapable of ignoring, while thinking about Rian Beckett.
Try as I might, it’s been impossible to get his face, his lips, his touch out of my brain after our soul searing kiss. I spent the past few weeks scrolling through every society column, every tabloid, searching for signs of him, of any clue of what he’s up to.
There’s been nothing.
No photographs of him leaving his nightclubs. No breathless write-ups about a new model on his arm. The silence fills me with hope—and dread. Hope that he hasn’t gone back to his old ways. Dread that maybe he’s found someone worth staying home for.
Not that it matters.
It’s not supposed to matter.
I square my shoulders, plaster a smile on my face, and lift my gaze to the huge doors ahead.
I pause at the bottom of the steps and smooth my hands over my dress—a column of midnight silk that skims every curve before falling in a clean line to the tips of my heels.
The neckline dips just enough to whisper rather than shout.
A single thigh-high split offers a flash of leg when I walk. I wish I felt as composed as I look.
Anthony steps out behind me, immaculate in his black tie.
I hover, expecting him to offer his arm, to play the devoted husband for the photographers hovering near the entrance.
He doesn’t. Instead, he adjusts his cufflinks, mutters something about catching up inside, then strides straight up the stairs, leaving me half a pace behind.
Patrick hesitates, still holding the car door, his expression carefully neutral but not enough to hide the flicker of sympathy in his eyes.
‘Would you like a hand with the steps, Mrs De Courcy?’ he asks quietly, offering an elbow.
‘It’s Rebekka,’ I remind him for the millionth time.
‘Yes, Ma’am. I’m beginning to get that.’ He shoots my husband a disapproving look, and a wry smile tugs at my mouth. I take his arm for balance on the carpeted rise, more grateful than I’ll ever admit.
‘Thank you, Patrick.’ For all the pomp and sparkle waiting at the top, this part—walking in alone—is the loneliest stretch of all.
Warmth hits me the second I cross the threshold—heat from the magnificent marble fireplace, and from a hundred bodies swarming the room sipping on champagne—probably Beckett’s own brand.
This place might be a mansion, but it’s clear to see it’s also a home.
A sea of smiling faces fill the room as the swell of a string quartet floats down from the gallery above.
The entrance hall gleams with garlands and white roses. It’s opulent, yet understated.
As I shrug off my wrap, a blur of tulle and Jo Malone perfume barrels toward me.
‘Beks!’ Ivy squeals, wrapping me in a hug, flooding me with the first genuine affection I’ve felt since I returned from New York a couple of weeks ago.
A heartbeat later, Avery swoops in from the other side, looping an arm through mine and pressing a flute of champagne into my free hand.
‘You look incredible,’ Avery says, giving an approving sweep of my dress. ‘Like, dangerous levels of incredible. You must be on a promise tonight,’ she winks knowingly.
My smile freezes on my face.
The only thing I’m promised tonight is another night alone in my bed while my husband slips back to his office to “work late”. But while I’m here, surrounded by these stunning creatures, the sting of Anthony’s indifference fades beneath their easy warmth.
‘Apparently, I’m not supposed to drink too much tonight,’ I murmur, lifting the glass.
Ivy’s brows shoot up. ‘Anthony said that?’
‘Of course he did,’ Avery says, rolling her eyes. ‘Because she’s on a promise.’
‘Oh ladies.’ I sigh before taking a mouthful of bubbles. ‘You know my marriage wasn’t born of love.’
‘But you are happy, aren’t you?’ Avery pries, her eyes darting over my face, scanning for any telltale signs. ‘He is good to you, isn’t he?’
Ivy shoots Avery a warning look, but Avery stares at me obliviously.
I bite my lower lip and glance at the floor, anywhere but at their faces.
I refuse to be pitied. If they don’t already know about Anthony’s stream of affairs, it won’t take them long to find out, especially not the way he’s parading this one around.
Besides, they’d only have to ask their men.
‘Avery,’ Ivy scolds, swatting her arm. ‘Watch your mouth. Not everyone wishes to discuss the nitty-gritty details of their relationship!’
‘Hello—that’s rich coming from you!’ Avery laughs, and Ivy blushes, and thankfully the attention is diverted from me. ‘Sorry, Rebekka, I should think before I open my mouth.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I say, ‘Now, let’s get lit!’
They eye each other in confusion. ‘What do you Irish call it? Drunk? Hammered? Bananas?’
‘Shit-faced!’ they squeal in unison.
‘Yep! That’s the one.’ I raise my glass and clink it against theirs. ‘Where are Scarlett and Layla?’
‘Probably having a sneaky shag,’ Avery snorts.
My head whips up.
‘Not with each other!’ She guffaws. ‘Scarlett and James are notorious for sneaking off for a sly one—he can’t keep his hands off her. And given Layla and Sean are late, I can only presume they got delayed for a very decent reason, if you know what I mean.’ She winks again.
‘Lucky them.’ I sigh, forcing a smile again.
It’s been over a year since Anthony tried to touch me, and while I’m grateful, because it was awkward, stilted and I lived in fear of him giving me more than just his mediocre penis, there is a part of me that misses the intimacy of having a man between my legs. Just not him.
They exchange a look that assures me I’ve said too much, yet nowhere near enough.
Avery can’t seem to help herself, despite Ivy’s warning. ‘You and Anthony do have sex?’ she asks in a whispered tone.
‘He has plenty of it, by all accounts.’ A bitter laugh leaves my lips. ‘Just not with me.’
‘That’s awful,’ Ivy’s eyes crinkle. She clutches the space over her heart like she feels my pain acutely.
Avery’s expression turns positively murderous. ‘Do you want me to have him killed? It can be arranged,’ she assures me with a grimace, her huge eyes flicking towards her fiancé, Killian.
‘I’d need to check the prenup first,’ I joke dryly. ‘Knowing my husband, he’d find a way to screw me in death, instead of life.’
The silence that falls between us is heavy. ‘Sorry, ladies, I came in and verbally vomited all over you. Anthony would be so angry.’
‘Fuck him,’ Avery exclaims loud enough for a few of the guests to turn our way. She links an arm through mine, and motions for Ivy to flank the other side of me. ‘Let’s get lit, as you say. It’s a party. We can worry about everything else tomorrow.’
‘I’m done worrying. I’ve made my peace with the situation. I married an asshole.’ I shrug.
What I’m truly worried about isn’t the man with his back to me, shmoozing his billionaire buddies. What worries me is the man turning his back to the girl who looks like a model beside him, and is now making his way towards me with unmistakable intent.
I stop still in my tracks, abruptly enough for Ivy to spill a little of her drink.
She looks at me questioningly, but my entire focus is on the dark-haired, god-like creature striding towards us.
In a fitted tuxedo, there is no missing Rian’s raw, masculine appeal.
His large shoulders are sculpted sublimely by a wool-silk blend that’s almost the same shade as his huge dark eyes.
His bow tie is already undone, slung loosely around his neck.
The top two buttons of his crisp white shirt are open, revealing a tiny smattering of deliciously tempting dark hair.
But it’s his expression that really sets the butterflies in my stomach soaring.
His eyes home in on me like I’m the only woman in the room.
The only woman in the world even.
And the fire burning in them is so bright, it’s blinding.
Half of me needs to look away before I get scalded; the other half can’t bear to miss a second of staring at this beautiful man.
‘Ladies,’ he says, but his eyes never veer from mine.
‘Baby Beckett!’ Avery exclaims, patting his arm.
He grimaces for a split second before plastering on a smile. ‘For the hundredth time, Avery, do not make me get my dick out just to prove a point.’
Avery and Ivy dissolve into peals of laughter while my mouth runs dry, imagining him opening his suit trousers. Remembering the feel of him pressed against me that night. Lust courses through my stomach—and lower. I lift the champagne glass to my lips and drain the contents.
‘Someone’s thirsty tonight,’ he says, then drops his face down to press a kiss to my cheek.
His lips are full and hot and delicate all at the same time.
‘You look absolutely stunning, as usual.’ His warm breath breezes over my neck, and his familiar intoxicating aftershave surrounds me like a silk blanket.
It takes me a second to compose myself. To find the words to even form a coherent response. ‘So do you.’
Chemistry pulses between us so powerfully, I’m surprised we haven't attracted the attention of every single guest in the room. We have, however, attracted the attention of my two friends either side of me. Avery and Ivy gawp at each other like the proverbial goldfish.
Finally, after what feels like hours rather than seconds, Ivy grabs Avery’s wrist. ‘Let’s go get a refill.’ She turns to me then. ‘We’ll bring you one back in a second, Bek.’
And then they leave me alone with the only man I see when I close my eyes.
And I don’t know if it’s the best Christmas present ever, or the worst.