Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
GRACE
It’s amazing how long an hour can feel when you’re waiting for the phone to ring.
Make that two days, and I’m in purgatory.
I’m no actress, but even I was impressed with the part I played on Wednesday.
Christian bought my reasoning for suggesting a marriage of convenience, and I know he’ll have spent the last forty-eight hours going over the pros and cons of my proposal.
If he doesn’t take the bait, I’m not sure where we go from here.
Whatever the outcome, he’s getting married. The only question is whether it’s to me or to some rich girl chosen by Daddy dearest.
Surely my argument stands up to scrutiny, If I take out the personal nature of my part in this, it makes logical sense. He likes me, he’s attracted to me, he kisses me like I’m the best tasting thing he’s ever had on his tongue. That’s all got to count in my favor.
My stomach flips at the memory of his mouth on mine. I am far from immune to him physically, and maybe that’s a good thing. Letting my thoughts take over and gagging every time he kisses me wouldn’t help my cause. All I have to do is separate mind from body, and I’m golden.
Easier said than done. My greatest worry is my body will take control and hypnotize my mind into forgetting the real reason I’m doing this. For Mum and Dad. For Arron. For Uncle Daniel. And me. Especially for me.
I miss my mum. She wasn’t just my mother, she was my best friend. Dad, too. They didn’t deserve what happened to them. What they do deserve is for the truth to come out, and I’m here to make sure it does.
“Heard anything?”
I almost jump out of my skin. “Jesus, Arron. Make some noise before you enter a room.”
He grins, flopping onto the couch beside me. “So? Any news?”
I shake my head. “Not a peep.” Grimacing, I hitch a shoulder. “I couldn’t have done more.”
He pulls himself upright. “Of course, you couldn’t. No one is blaming you, Grace. If this plan doesn’t work out, then we’ll have to find another way to get to the truth.”
“You and I both know there is no other way. Oakleigh Hall is sealed up tighter than Buckingham Palace. The only way we’re going to find out what really happened to Mum and Dad is for me to gain access to Christian’s private quarters.
His office. His car. His phone and computer.
You’ve tried to break into their systems, but it’s impossible. ”
Arron heaves a deep sigh, the worry lines around his eyes and mouth deepening. “I hate that you’re having to spend time with that bastard. I hate the whole marriage idea.”
“I know it wasn’t our original plan, but we had to pivot or risk losing our one chance to find out what happened. I’m going into this marriage with my eyes wide open. Our parents deserve the truth, and so do we.”
“I just wish there was another way to get it,” he mutters.
“There isn’t, and if Christian bails on this idea, that’s it, Arron. We will never know what really happened. I don’t know how I’ll live with that.”
He squeezes my fingers. “Have faith, Gracie. He told you he doesn’t want an arranged marriage where he’ll have to give up his bachelor lifestyle. That’s the winning ticket. You’re offering him a way to fulfill his familial duties and screw anyone he chooses. He’d be crazy to refuse.”
Arron’s right. All I need to do is have some patience and wait for him to call. Even if he calls to refuse my offer, that will give me one last chance to persuade him. This isn’t the end. Not by a long shot.
Sitting round here waiting for the phone to ring is driving me insane though. I leap up from the couch. “Going out for a run. I can’t stand sitting around for another second.”
“Take your phone,” Arron yells as I head upstairs to get changed.
I change into athletic gear, stuff my phone in the pocket at the back of my sweats, and shove my feet into my running shoes.
Running is one of those activities I used to do regularly, but since my parents died I’ve let it slide.
But when my mind is spinning and I can’t stop thinking about a particular problem, I’ve always found it enormously helpful.
I get a mile in, and I know it isn’t going to work this time. Thoughts of Christian fill my head, and the most concerning thing of all is that each one is either of him kissing me or doing something kind, like sending me the dress and jewels, or making me laugh and forget who he truly is.
Maybe I am doing the wrong thing. Mum wouldn’t want me to get myself into a dangerous situation for her and Dad.
It’s unsettling, but before I met the guy, I found it so easy to hold hatred in my heart.
Since that first meeting at the ball, where he showed me the gardens and shared stories of his childhood, I have to keep reminding myself who he is.
And when he kisses me, I forget to breathe.
The last thing my parents or what’s left of my family need is me being subsumed to the dark side and forgetting the entire reason I’m there in the first place.
I stop on the corner by a traffic light and wait for it to turn red. I’ve got a stitch, which serves me right for going at it so hard when I haven’t run in months. The last time was the day before Mum and Dad passed away.
My heart clenches, grief coming at me like a steamroller. I brace myself on the nearest lamppost and wait for the wave to pass. The light changes to red, and still I can’t move. My vision clouds, stomach cramping, and I double over, clutching one arm across my abdomen.
The cars move off again. Slowly, my vision restores, my breathing returns to normal, the episode passing and leaving in its wake an emptiness that sends a rush of tears to my eyes.
Grief is the oddest emotion. Sometimes days pass where I only think of my parents fleetingly, and always with joy—memories that bring a smile to my face or make me laugh.
Other days, like today, it’s as though I’ve been run over, and my body aches from head to toe, mimicking what it would be like if one of these cars zooming past actually did barrel into me.
I have to make this thing with Christian work.
The light turns red again, but instead of crossing, I reverse course and head back the way I came. I’m halfway home when my phone rings. I almost break a finger trying to pull it out from my pocket. Christian’s name scrolls across the screen.
Keep calm. Breezy. Friendly.
I hit the answer button and lift it to my ear. “Christian, hi.”
“Grace.” His smooth voice, with that sinful tone, sends a shiver running down my spine. I choose to blame it on the sweat cooling on my body rather than accept the fact it’s him. It’s all him.
“How are things?” I roll my eyes. Small talk is something I’ve always found challenging.
“Where are you?”
“Me? I’m… um… I’m out running.”
“Give me the address. I’ll swing by and pick you up. I want to talk to you about your proposal. I’m outside your place right now.”
Pick me up. Nope. Not happening. I’m too close to my house and too far away from Juliet’s, which is where he thinks I live and where he is right now.
“Not a good idea. I’m sweaty. Go get a coffee somewhere and let me get changed. There’s a half decent café on the high street called Duttons. I’ll meet you there.”
He chuckles. “I don’t mind a bit of sweat. In fact, I quite like the idea of you glowing.”
“Trust me, it’s not an attractive sight.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Come on. Let me pick you up. I’m trying to be chivalrous here.”
He isn’t going to back down. Goddammit. I’m a good five miles from Juliet’s place. I’ll just tell him I’m a long-distance runner, even if I did get a stitch after a mile.
“Grace, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry. Lost you for a second. I’m…” I glance up and down the street. This is too close for comfort, but I’ve backed myself into a corner. Or rather, Christian is the one backing me into it. I can’t refuse without looking like I’m hiding something. I mean, I am, but that’s beside the point.
“I’m close to the King’s Arms on Bardolph Road in Brackley Combe.” Just saying the name of my town brings me out in hives. “Do you know it?”
“No, but my driver has a satnav that probably does.” He chuckles again. “Go and wait inside the pub. I don’t want you catching a cold.”
“It’s summer. I think I’ll be fine.”
“Even so. I’ll be there shortly.”
He hangs up, and I must spend a good five minutes staring at my phone while my emotions vacillate between abject panic at having the man I’m lying to in my neighborhood, and rising hope that he’ll accept my idea and give me and my family the foot in the door we need to get to the truth.
Even then it won’t be easy, but desperate people do desperate things. And make no mistake, we are desperate.
The smell of beer greets me as I enter the pub. It’s quiet, with only a couple of old guys in the corner playing dominos, and another man propped up by the bar nursing a pint, looking glum, as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
Buddy, I feel you.
The guy serving wanders over, and I order a coffee, which gets the usual side-eye reserved for anyone who doesn’t order alcohol in a pub, but he trundles off and returns with my drink, half of which is spilled in the saucer.
I pay him, even throwing in a thanks, which gets me a grunt in return.
Suppressing a roll of my eyes, I pick my drink up, choosing a table with a view of the door.
Lord only knows what the billionaire Christian De Vil is going to feel about a town center pub. I bet he’s never set foot in a place like this in his life. I can picture him now, one foot on the threadbare carpet, his nose wrinkled in distaste.
Shows what I know, because five minutes later, he appears and does none of those things. Instead, he strolls inside like he belongs, his bodyguard about a foot off his right shoulder, and he smiles at the bartender who, get this, fucking smiles back, and then Christian makes his way over to me.
“Would you like to stay here or go somewhere else?”