Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
GRACE
When I turned thirteen, I started having these recurring nightmares, where I was sure I was losing my mind.
I’d wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, and it would take me forever to drop back off to sleep.
It was only after I fell asleep in class and the teacher called my mum in that I admitted what I’d been going through.
Mum took me to the doctor, and I distinctly remember him saying it was stress related.
As Christian’s car makes its way through the streets of London, I feel as though I’m having the same nightmare, except this time I’m awake.
Back at the theater, swathes of time passed where I forgot the man sitting beside me was the enemy. The way he spoke to me, touched me, introduced me to a hero of mine, showed a side of him I hadn’t expected to see.
During our conversation before the concert began, when he’d joked about whether I expected him to have horns, I had to admit that on some level, I did. Not actual horns, but metaphorical ones. I expected him to live up to his name, the devil in disguise.
It’s worrying me. I can’t let his obvious charm suck me into his web of deceit. If he can make me forget what I’m here to do, then it’s all over. I’ll have failed before I’ve begun.
And now, I have the added complication of Lumiére to cope with.
I can’t believe he’s taking me to the same restaurant where I watched him have dinner with that older man a few weeks ago.
A man I now know is the Secretary of State in charge of the Health and Safety Executive.
The same department who, three days ago, produced a report built on lies and subterfuge.
Now I know what that conversation was about.
The two of them were cooking up how to protect the guilty and make the innocent suffer.
Knowing my luck, the waiter who cleaned up the glass I broke will be working tonight and he’ll remember me.
Although Christian looked right at me that night, it was only for a few seconds, and that’s why, I believe, he hasn’t recognized me.
But that waiter, he came over asking to take my order on at least four occasions, and each time we conversed because I had to explain why I wasn’t ready to order.
The truth was, I couldn’t afford a side salad at Lumiére, but I couldn’t tell him that.
When Uncle Daniel came up with this madcap idea, it seemed so easy. On paper. The reality is completely different. I can sense the danger of it all closing in, caging me in a labyrinth of lies. One tug on a thread and it’ll all unravel, and we’ve barely started.
Deep breaths.
If problems arise, I’ll have to deal with them. There’s no point in worrying about something that hasn’t even happened and may never happen.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
I startle. Shit. I had been lost in my thoughts. How long have we been in the car? I force a smile. “If I took your money, you’d be overpaying.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He angles his head to one side. “I’d pay a lot more than a penny for a glimpse inside your head.”
Same. Not that I have the money.
“Mindreading not on your list of attributes, then?”
“I wish. It’d come in handy during business negotiations.”
“I’m sure you have many other tools in your arsenal to turn to in order to win.”
He flashes me that perfect smile of his, all straight white teeth and twinkling eyes. “I do like to win.”
Before I can respond, the car pulls into the curb directly outside the restaurant. Butterflies swarm my stomach, and my palms are clammy enough to draw attention. Luckily, when we step onto the pavement, Christian sticks out his arm rather than taking my hand.
When we approach, the doors open, the smell of herbs and garlic filling the air. The ma?tre d’ greets Christian like he’s the messiah—beaming smile, sycophantic diatribe, lots of hand and arm gestures. It’s all I can do to hold back a laugh that threatens to burst out of me.
We’re swept inside to what I learn is Christian’s table. Like they literally keep it free for him on the off chance he stops by. How crazy is that? Then again, with the money the De Vils have, it’s probably the equivalent of me subscribing to a streaming service but only watching one show a month.
Christian sits on the same side of the booth he did a few weeks ago.
I slide along the bench across from him, sitting exactly where his companion had sat.
A thick, leatherbound menu is handed to me, and I peek up at the server.
Thank God it’s not the same guy. I sweep my gaze around the restaurant, unable to see him anywhere.
Doesn’t mean he isn’t here. He could be in the kitchen or on a break, but for now, I’m safe.
“Why so nervous?”
I blink, dragging my attention back to Christian. His hands rest on top of his menu, his eyes trained on me, assessing, searching for an answer to his question. Fortunately, it’s an easy answer.
“I’m not used to these kinds of places. If I chip a glass, do I have to wash pots for a month?”
He chuckles. “God, Grace, you are so fucking refreshing. Where have you been all my life?”
“Um… Cumbria.” Look at me, remembering where my alter-ego comes from.
He laughs harder. “Well, Cumbria’s loss is my gain.” He sits back while the waiter pours us both a glass of water. Christian orders a bottle of wine I’ve never heard of, then gestures to me to open the menu, although I note he doesn’t do the same.
The choices on offer are astounding. I haven’t even heard of half these dishes. Oh, Coq-au-vin. I’ve heard of that. I snap the menu shut.
“What are you having?”
“Coq-au-vin. If that’s okay?”
“Grace, you could order every single item on the menu, and it would be okay.” He beckons to the waiter. “One coq-au-vin and one duck.”
The waiter departs, and another approaches with the wine.
He shows the label to Christian, who nods.
The customary tablespoon of wine is poured into Christian’s glass.
He sips, nods again, then mine is filled before his.
The pomp of it all is highly amusing to me, although I keep my grin contained.
Imagine your life being filled with this crap day and night.
Give me a greasy burger and a fizzy drink from a roadside van any day of the week.
Christian lifts his glass and holds it toward me. I pick mine up, and he touches the rim of his glass to mine. “Thank you for coming tonight. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
He sips, eyes on mine. I do the same. A sip or two won’t put me over the limit to drive home.
I hardly touched the champagne at the theater.
Too nervous. Those nerves are still there, simmering beneath the surface.
If I don’t keep reminding myself who this man is, I’m in deep trouble.
In other circumstances, Christian’s manners, attention, and, yes, charm, would suck me into a vortex I’d never want to leave.
Everything about him is what I’d seek in a boyfriend.
On the surface, that is. Underneath, I know the truth.
Didn’t the Devil disguise himself, only showing his true being when it suited his purpose?
Or did I dream that up? Either way, the fact a government body has succumbed to covering up the deaths of two people is enough evidence of what he and his family are capable of.
I bet they all know what happened. I can’t see him celebrating getting away with murder all by himself.
“Grace?”
I blink. For fuck’s sake, I’ve done it again; disappeared off into my head.
I have form for doing this. I process everything internally, and when I’m spiraling, a bomb could go off next to me and I wouldn’t hear it.
If I’m not careful, he’s going to smell a rat.
I give him a dazzling smile that I hope reaches my eyes.
I knew I should’ve taken drama classes in school.
Instead, I chose music. I don’t regret my choices, but they sure are coming back to bite me.
“Sorry. I’m just overwhelmed with it all.
I’ve never been to the Royal Albert Hall.
Never met one of my greatest idols. Never dined in a fancy-pants restaurant.
” I dip my chin and glance up at him through my eyelashes in a move Princess Di would’ve been proud of.
“Never been on a date with a man as attentive as you are.”
“Their loss is my gain.”
There he goes again, and the worst of it is, I don’t think he’s faking it.
I think he genuinely likes me. I should be happy—it’s what we planned for—and I am happy, but I’m also confused.
No, not confused. Ashamed. Because I like it.
I like all the attention he’s showering me with. It’s addictive—and dangerous.
While I scramble for something clever or interesting to say, Christian reaches into his inside pocket, withdrawing a vibrating phone.
“Excuse me, Grace.” He answers it. A few words are exchanged. When he hangs up, he leaves it on the table rather than putting it back in his pocket. My gaze flickers to it. If only I could get hold of that phone.
There isn’t a chance, though.
“It’s my mother.”
I blink, returning my attention to the man opposite. “Sorry?”
“The picture on my phone. The one you can’t stop staring at. It’s my mother.”
A ripple of excitement rolls through my abdomen. “May I see?”
“Of course.” He slides the phone across the table.
I pick it up and tap the screen to bring the wallpaper back up. Immediately, it asks for Face ID. So much for that idea. I almost laugh. As if it would be that easy. I could hardly sit here scrolling through his emails and texts, even if the phone had been unlocked.
“She was beautiful. You look like her. You have her eyes.” I slide the phone across the table. This time, he puts it back into his pocket.
“Thank you.” His features soften, then fill with a sadness I understand all too well. Considering his mother died more than two decades ago, it tells me the pain I feel at losing mine is never going to wane. Nor is the determination to uncover the truth.
Speaking of… “So, Christian, what is it exactly that you do?”
“Besides wining and dining beautiful women and attending masquerade balls, you mean?”
I grin. “Yeah.”
His fingertip circles the rim of his glass, and his eyes don’t leave mine. “I manage my family’s extensive property portfolio, as well as invest in new properties. I’m particularly interested in developing brownfield sites in urban areas badly in need of investment.”
Like Nexus. Here’s my opening.
“That’s philanthropic of you.”
His lips quirk up at the sides. “Not all billionaires are self-serving.”
Nor are they murderers.
“Some of us do want to make a difference in the world. Lend a hand. Give people in need a leg up.”
And bury others under the rubble.
My knee trembles, and I almost lose my nerve, but I may not get a chance like this for a while. Gut up, Gracie.
“It must’ve been hard on you, then, when that building collapsed.”
I immediately know I’ve made a colossal mistake. Christian’s expression switches from genial and open to enraged in the time it takes me to blink. A muscle ripples along his jaw, and his fist tightens around the stem of the wine glass.
“That subject is not up for discussion.”
Backtracking, I stumble over my words. “I-I’m sorry. That was crass. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I’m not sure whether the waiter choosing that moment to bring our food is a good thing or a bad thing.
I half expect Christian to ask for the bill and leave the food untouched.
He stares at it for a few seconds as if he is considering that as an option.
Then he picks up his knife and fork and cuts off a slice of duck.
“Eat, Grace, before it gets cold.”
“Christian, I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
His lips close around the tines, and he chews, swallows, then sets his fork on the side of his plate.
“That was a difficult time for me and my family, and we’re still dealing with the repercussions of it.
Not to mention two people lost their lives.
I would rather not dwell on it if it’s all the same to you. ”
His mention of my parents is like a punch to the gut. Somehow, I hold myself steady when every instinct in me wants to pitch me forward, to clutch my abdomen and rock in place at the pain coursing through my entire body.
We lapse into silence. I pick at the food, my appetite vanishing as fast as Christian’s mask of civility and charm. He has no such trouble, polishing off the entire plate. After dabbing his mouth with his napkin, he drops it on the table and rises to his feet.
“It’s late. I’ll see you home.”
“I drove in,” I say, my voice small. “My car is parked by the Royal Albert Hall.”
“I’ll take you there. Shall we?”
“Don’t you need to pay?”
“They’ll put it on my account.” He doesn’t wait for me, beelining for the exit as if the place is on fire. My shoulders droop as I trail after him. This time, I truly have done it. There’s no coming back from this. Idiot. I’m a fucking idiot.
I’m not a fan of silences at the best of times, but when they’re as uncomfortable as the short journey back to the Royal Albert Hall, I consider throwing myself out of the moving vehicle just to escape the agony that is this car ride.
As we approach the theater, I mumble directions to my car. His driver pulls in behind me. I hesitate, scrambling for something to say that will fix this.
“Thank you for a lovely evening.”
Lame, but I’m not sure there’s anything I could say right now to piece this disaster back together.
“Drive home safely.” He’s like a robot, all staccato pronunciation and a face that hardly moves.
I climb out and shut the door behind me. His car moves away, leaving me standing on the street with my plans in tatters.