The Gamble

18. Lavender

“I’m not really cuttinghim off,” I say to no one in particular. In the confines of his fancy car that, yes, okay, contains just the two of us. And a suitcase bursting at the seams.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Raif asks in a self-satisfied tone.

“I’m just saying, I know I was mad at Tod, but given everything else that has happened this weekend, tearing his head off wasn’t high on my agenda.”

“But making him cry was?”

“Yes, because I’m petty and hate-filled.”

“That’s not true.” His tone is more amused than critical.

“Seriously. If I ever give up the gallery, I’m going to open a place where people can store their grudges. A grudge storage facility is an amazing business idea. I’d tend those grudges, prune and feed them. It would bring me such petty joy.”

“You’re not that person.” This time, there’s a note of censure.

“And Tod didn’t cry.” Though he looked like he might at one point, but then he stomped from the room like a surly teen.

He said nothing. Offered nothing.

Not congratulations.

Not how could you have forsaken me?

There was no noooo! Why wasn’t it me?

I might’ve felt something for him if he’d acted like he was sorry for his actions. Or like he cared about anything but himself.

It was all very disappointing.

“You sound disappointed.”

Dammit. “No. Why would I be?”

“You mean you weren’t waiting for him to prostrate himself at your feet? To declare his undying love?”

“I didn’t know you could read minds, Raify bear,” I snipe. Because 0kay, yes. I had hoped this stupid marriage might make Tod realize what he could’ve had. Made him fight for me, maybe? But he didn’t. And that is very annoying.

“We could still stuff him in a suitcase,” he says with a sly grin. “His allegiance to you, my princess, seems sorely lacking.”

“Oh, shut up.” But I briefly imagine that. Just for a minute. Those long limbs tied in knots while a cotton hanky muffles his protests. Or a pair of his own socks.

Yesterday’s socks.

Perhaps I’m also not completely over what he did to save his own skin.

“You’re thinking about it,” Raif drawls.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your fault I was so mean. You goaded me into it.”

“Oh no.” Raif’s answer is all low, sexual chuckle. “You don’t need my encouragement.”

I fidget a little in my seat. His assessment, his tone, feels like hot, caressing fingertips. I cross my arms over my chest because my nipples are far too obvious in their enjoyment. “Well, you should know, I can’t ever seem to stay cross at Tod for long.”

“He doesn’t deserve your care.” Raif’s fingers tighten on the leather steering wheel as he adds, “But I guess that’s not something you consider when you love someone.”

“What? Oh, yes.” I tip my lips, forcing them into a quick smile.

He was engaged. I suppose that might mean he knows what love feels like. I thought I did, but I’m not so sure. I do know you shouldn’t marry one man when you love another. Tod. Lovely, stupid, selfish Tod. Up until now, it’s been easy to discern my feelings for him. He looks at me like a puppy would its owner, and that makes me want to ruffle his hair and call him my good boy. I thought that might be love, but now, it seems more like… well, like, owning a dog.

Tod obviously doesn’t love me, or I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Then again, it’s not like I married Raif to protect Tod. Not exactly like that, anyway.

My gaze slides unbidden once more to my partner in matrimony and mendacities for the next twelve months. How I feel about Raif is not so easy to work out, especially when his cologne is so pervasive, filling every inch of space between us. His fingers work the steering wheel so deftly, his thigh continually tautening and relaxing just a few inches from mine as he drives.

How I feel about him—how I feel about him is maddening.

When I think about being in bed with him, I come over all hot and prickly with a sickening kind of elation. It’s like… when I was a little girl, I used to look forward to my birthdays with such anticipation. Like most little girls, I imagine. I’d work myself into a tizzy, thinking about my birthday party and the games we’d play, my cake, and the pile of gifts I’d be allowed to open when everyone went home.

But the reality of the day was somehow very different. I’d be standing at the front door, dressed in my party outfit, watching my classmates skip along the garden path. My stomach would get queasy, and I’d get this desperate urge to pull my hand from Dad’s, to run away and hide. Or maybe fling the front door shut in their faces.

It always seemed as though Dad understood. He’d tighten his hand on mine and remind me these were my friends—that they were here to see me.

Maybe that was part of the problem.

It’s weird, but just thinking about those experiences still makes me feel so intensely uncomfortable. I wanted a birthday party—I wanted it so badly. But on the day, I just couldn’t handle it.

I’m told I’d cry instead of blowing out my candles yet lose my ever-loving shit if anyone’s breath came near it. I’d put my hands over my ears when “Happy Birthday” was sung. Sometimes, I even yelled for them to all shut up.

Birthdays are supposed to be fun—at least they are until you become aware of the passing years, your lack of achievements, and your own marching mortality—yet I found them an ordeal.

At best, a disappointment. At worst, a traumatic tear fest.

But I wanted to enjoy them so badly, and the anticipation would make me feel so giddy. And that, I suppose, is how I feel about sleeping with Raif.

And by sleeping, I mean having sex with him.

Maybe I’m worried the reality won’t match my expectations.

I glance down at my lap, my ring glistening in the late afternoon sun.

Or maybe I’m worried it will.

I’m in such deep shit—oh! What if, like my childhood birthdays, I cry in the middle of the act? It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened.

“Lavender?”

I realize I’d made a noise—a tiny, dry sob.

“I’m fine. I mean, yes?” I thrust my hands under my thighs. I won’t bite my thumbnails.

“We’re just coming up to the house.”

“But this isn’t Chelsea.” Just call me Captain Obvious as I glance out the window.

“I don’t live in Chelsea.”

“Right.” I nod. “Got it. That’s just where your illicit party house is. I suppose if Daisy had been in the house, you wouldn’t have…” I turn to him, my cheeks suddenly burning hotter than a thousand suns.

“I wouldn’t have what?” he asks, all taunt and smirk.

“Hosted an illegal gambling den?”

“Right. That’s exactly what I thought you were about to say.”

“Good.” Damn his sharp gaze. Why is it he always seems to see and know far too much?

Maybe I should just get this wedding night over before I end up with negative brain cells.

As the electric gate opens slowly, I steel myself for what’s to come. I’m nervous. More nervous than I was saying I do—more nervous even than telling Polly I’d robbed her of a fancy wedding do. A party and stuff.

I’m sure she’ll look forward to Primrose finding love. Provided my sister can find someone stupid enough.

The thing is, you can’t fool kids. You can try, and you can tell yourself their brains aren’t big enough to decode what’s true and what’s not. But I think it’s exactly because their brains are working on limited software that their intuition is somehow elevated. Children are perceptive. They can work out if you’re telling porkies and are absolutely aware whether you like them, no matter how many smiles you dish out or lollies you magic out of your pocket. So yeah, you might say I’m worried as Raif pulls the car into the turning circle.

A house with a turning circle. In central London. This guy must have more money than sense. But then, he offered me millions to marry him, so I guess that story checks out.

Me. Why me? I usually frighten men off. I can’t even get Tod to notice me, and he’ll bang anything with a pulse!

I stare up at the historic mansion with its Italianate white stucco facade. Juliet balconies upstairs and imposing black-painted double doors standing beneath an imposing portico. A dozen steps lead to the entrance, flanked by iron railings and well-tended potted bay trees.

Suddenly, one of the doors opens, and a little girl pops out, all smiles and waves. An older woman stands dressed from head to foot in neutral shades with her hair pulled back from her face in a tight bun. She looks more like granny than a nanny.

“Uncle Raif!” Daisy presumably calls.

Unless collecting waifs and strays is his hobby.His house is big enough to be an orphanage. I give myself an imaginary slap around the head. Daisy might not be an orphan, but I remember how devastating it is to lose a parent.

“I’m so happy you’re back!” Her long blond be-ribboned ponytail bounces as she does.

Oh God. She’s perky like Primrose. Primrose is ultra-perky, but only when she’s not annoying me. Needless to say, I like her best when she’s giving me shit.

Oh well. I suppose there are only three hundred and sixty-four days to go…

“And you’ve brought a friend,” the little girl adds with what sounds like consternation.

“I have.” Raif smiles warmly as he glances my way.

I shake my head. Poor girl is going to be so disappointed. Hey, kid. I’m your new step… whatever. You can just call me Auntie Cruella.

Poor little thing. I hope Raif is a good substitute dad. Not that he’ll be as good as mine. He was the best. My heart does that little pinch when I think about him and how his death rocked all our worlds. But as Raif reaches for my hand, my thoughts move back to the present.

“Daisy can be a little hesitant around strangers,” he murmurs.

“Don’t worry, I’m better with kids than I am with grown-ups.”

“Well, now I have high hopes.” He smiles at my unhappy expression. “Because you’ve already charmed me.”

I try very hard not to chuckle as we make for the stone steps. “I reckon you must be a bit of a masochist.”

“Just for you.”

“My bag,” I begin, my evasion aborted as I glance back to find a guy in a dark suit already pulling it from the car. One of the door goons from the Chelsea house.

God, how could that have been only Friday when it seems like a lifetime ago?

“My room,” Raif directs over his shoulder.

My heart does a little jig, and my cheeks sting as they pink. It doesn’t exactly help as my gaze catches that of the nanny-granny person, and I imagine I see disapproval lurking there. Nope, not imagining it. Not as she takes a thorough inventory of my outfit, her thoughts as clear as the pinch of her mouth.

“She seems cheery,” I mutter, not bothering to reach for that sentiment.

So what if a stranger doesn’t approve? She wouldn’t be the first. When have I ever given a fig for what people think? Outwardly, at least. If she doesn’t like Raif’s choice of wife, that’s not my problem. It’s all legal and above board, and my bag is going to his room because that’s what we agreed upon.

For a not inconsiderable sum.

“That’s Maria, my housekeeper.”

“Oh.”

I’m glad he wasn’t in the market for a tradwife—a traditional housewife—even just the influencer kind, because that is not my vibe. Me and Suzy Homemaker will never see eye to eye. There must’ve been a glitch in the matrix because I’m hardly the billionaire wife type either, I think next as I glance down at my heavy boots.

What the hell was he thinking by choosing me?

“What’s funny?” he asks, turning his gaze my way.

“Oh, you don’t want to hear the nonsense running through my head.”

“You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, one more glancing away.

“Buenas noches.” The woman’s hand folds around Daisy’s shoulder, the kid looking up and stepping back. Like a well-trained puppy.

Raif returns the greeting, adding something in Llanito, the not-quite-Spanish language. The woman’s smile comes with a subservient inclination of her head. Her dark hair is flecked with gray, I see, and I suppose I’d describe her expression as austere. Fitting, I believe, as I glance up at the house. It looks like something that could’ve been plucked from a gothic novel.

Raif scoops up the little girl, who throws her arms around his neck with her eyes screwed tight as though hanging on for dear life.

“Come.” He takes my hand, and I trail him into the entranceway. “Where is Anita?” He directs this Maria’s way, who bursts into a flurry of Llanito, the gist of which isn’t too hard to follow. Anita, whoever she is, is in the doghouse.

Raif makes a gesture, and the woman’s words cut off.

“Anita had to go back to Sweden,” Daisy says. “Her boyfriend is sick.”

“Is that so?” He kisses the little girl’s cheek and sets her down, and I notice how she’s dressed like a little doll. Her dress is teal-colored dupion silk with tiny puffs sleeves and, if I’m not mistaken, is hand smocked. White ankle socks and T-strap sandals complete a look that says I’m ready for church… in the summer of 1950.

“You’re not angry, are you?” she asks, all solemn-eyed.

“Well, I’m not happy,” he admits, though he fondly touches her head. “But we’ll work something else out for next week. Don’t worry.”

He turns to Maria and begins to ask if she knows when Anita will be back, but I can’t move my attention from the look on Daisy’s face. She looks troubled, her expression working through a mix of emotions as, by her sides, her fingers fidget and flick, an outlet for her anxiety.

I recognize that energy.

“Hello, lovely.” I find myself a little shocked that I seem to have adopted my own mother’s turn of address as I drop down and offer my hand. “My name is Lavender.”

“Hello,” she replies quietly. She tries for a smile, but it doesn’t hide how she seems to be carrying the burdens of the world. “I’m Daisy,” she says, slipping her hand into mine.

Kids don’t usually playact—they act up. I’ve never known one to hide their emotions so well. They usually amplify that shit. Or maybe that’s just my nephews and nieces. And me.

“Yes, I know,” I say as I give her tiny hand a delicate shake. “I’ve heard lots of wonderful things about you.” Ack! I just broke my own advice about the fruitlessness of lying to children. Worse, she doesn’t look convinced. I glance up at Raif’s back. Something tells me it isn’t him who makes her feel less than precious. “And I know they’re all true,” I add, digging my hole deeper, “because you’re named after a flower. Just like me.”

This earns me a genuine smile. And, ah, my heart! It’s like winning a game of bingo.

“I see you’ve met.”

I look up at Raif’s voice and notice Maria’s retreating form. “We have,” I say, standing.

“Was Gib sunny, Uncle Raif?”

“The weather is always sunny in Gibraltar.”

“Have you visited Gib?” Daisy turns her enthusiastic question my way.

“Er, yes.” My eyes drift to Raif’s and widen as I try to convey, help! What am I supposed to say?

“Uncle Raif has a house there. I like it better than the one in Monaco.”

“Monaco?” I repeat, my brows edging their way into my hairline.

“Florence, New York, and Sydney, Australia,” he says like he’s talking about hotels on a Monopoly board.

“Show-off,” I mutter in good humor, though.

“Did Maria order rocky road ice cream this week?” He takes the little girl by the hand and, half turning, gestures me along.

“Yes. I was allowed a scoop after dinner last night. Why?”

“I was thinking I might like a scoop myself.”

From behind, I shake my head. Smiles, lollies, or ice cream. It won’t make the news any easier.

The kitchen. Just wow. It’s huge, dark, and kind of sexy with dark gray cabinetry and a smoky-colored marble. At one end, a butler’s pantry stands open, at the other, is a glass behemoth built-in wine room, and between, a long kitchen island with a row of sleek velvet-covered stools.

“Sam, how are you?” Raif greets a twentysomething man dressed in jeans, a white tee, and a gray beanie as he appears around the open door of a Sub-Zero fridge. He moves the Beats headphones from his ears before wiping his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband before he meets Raif’s hand.

“Mr. Deveraux. Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Sam. What’s on the menu tonight?”

He has a personal chef? Not even Whit has someone to cook for him.

“Sea bass in a glaze of honey, chili, soy, garlic, and ginger,” Sam answers, his hands moving through the air as though he’s nervous. “Served with sticky jasmine rice and vegetable ribbons, which Daisy helped prepare.” At this, the man’s larger hand meets Daisy’s tiny one in a crisp high five.

“Sounds delicious.” Raif opens the freezer door, pulling out a couple of pints of fancy-looking ice cream. “Rocky road or salted caramel?” He proffers both options in a seesaw motion.

“Rocky road for me, please!” Daisy says, clambering up onto a stool.

“Can I just have a cup of tea?” I’m stuffed from Polly’s Sunday roast. I wasn’t expecting to have to eat anything else today.

“Boring,” Raif playfully chastises, putting the choices down on the island. He looks at Sam. “Do we have a kettle?”

“Course,” he replies with a chuckle. Then he preempts Raif’s efforts by adding, “I’ll make it.”

“Honestly, that’s fine,” I put in. “Just point me in the right direction.” I suppress a sigh. I’d better get used to where everything is seeing as how I’m going to be living here.

Raif seems amused and the younger man almost offended.

“No, let me.” He moves toward the pantry. “We have Darjeeling, Lapsang, Earl Grey, and green.”

“Do you have any regular stuff? Tetley or maybe Yorkshire Tea.” My words curl up at the end, my shoulders lifting with embarrassment. I am the basic bitch of teas. Nowhere near sophisticated enough for the inhabitants of this house. “You know, funeral tea—the stuff strong enough to knock your socks off.”

“I’ll see what we’ve got.” He shoots me a quick smile. “One cup of tea with…”

I quickly fill in the blanks. “White. Two sugars. And strong enough to stand the spoon in, please.”

“Coming right up.”

“Two sugars?” Raif questions with his eyebrows.

“Yep.” I take a seat next to Daisy as I pop the p. “You look like you can afford it.”

“Might as well have a bowl of ice cream,” he says, opening and closing drawers on the other side of the island.

“Except my mouth asked for tea.”

Daisy giggles, covering the adorable sounds with her hand.

“Okay. I give in. Where are the ice cream dishes?” he asks with a touch of exasperation.

The little girl points at the bank of overhead cabinets.

Who the heck doesn’t know where the bowls are kept? In a kitchen in the house that he lives in. A man with as many homes as I have pairs of shoes. And a personal chef, I suppose.

Bowls retrieved, he finds a couple of spoons and a scoop, depositing a symmetrical portion into one bowl.

“There you are.” He slides the bowl over the marble countertop before picking up the second tub and popping the lid. Not ice cream but gelato, I notice by the label. Not that I’m sure of the difference between the two. “Daisy, do you remember when you asked me why I wasn’t married?” he begins, his tone conversational.

Daisy nods, and covering her rosebud mouth with her hand, she asks me politely to pass her a napkin from a nearby silver dish. I do, and she pats her mouth delicately, like a miniature little lady. Odd for a girl of her age. My nephews and niece are much younger, and it doesn’t seem all that long ago Polly was complaining to either Primrose or me for talking while munching at the dinner table. She’d say she could see the food in our mouths moving around like clothes in a washing machine.

It’s not a great visual, now that I think about it. But Polly did raise a brood of hooligans.

“Yes,” Daisy eventually says, smoothing her napkin out. “You said you don’t have a wife because you haven’t found the right lady yet.”

Lady.I snort, turning it into a fake cough. “Excuse me.”

“That’s right.” He opens his mouth, but Daisy beats him to it.

“And then when I asked why you didn’t have a girlfriend, you said it was because they are expensive.”

“I said that?”

She nods earnestly. “But then you brought Celine home for dinner, and she looked like she cost a lot of money.”

“Celine wasn’t—”

“Maria said she was a puta.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sam appear from the pantry. Then he does this thing that reminds me of the Homer Simpson meme where he backs into the bush he just emerged from. He takes my tea with him. Can’t say I blame him as I press my elbow to the marble and cover my smile with my hand. Puta is not a nice word.

“Did she really?” Raif asks. And Daisy nods again.

“Well.” He sighs and taps the contents of his tub with his spoon. “I can’t say I completely disagree with her,” he mutters.

I wonder if Celine was the fiancée. I’d rather eat my own feet than ask.

“What is a puta?” Daisy asks. “I asked S?nora Marta in my Spanish lesson, and she crossed herself like she was at Mass. She said if she heard me say it again, she would wash my mouth out with soup and water.”

A snicker slips free of my lips. Nothing I can do about it this time, but I still clear my throat. “Gosh, I’m so thirsty. I can’t wait for my cuppa to arrive.” Hear that, Sam? Now might be a good time for us all.

“I think that was mean, don’t you?” she asks her uncle. “I only asked her a question.” She turns her expression my way. “And watery soup doesn’t sound very delicious, does it?”

“Sounds rotten,” I agree.

“I don’t even like regular soup,” she says, picking up her spoon again. “Especially gazpacho. It’s cold, and it has tomatoes in it.”

“She has a point. Soup is never going to rock anyone’s world,” I say.

“Here we go.” Whether hearing my plea or taking advantage of the pause in our conversation, Sam delivers on his second attempt.

“Thank you.” I smile up at him as he places a white cup paired with a slightly elongated saucer next to my elbow. On the saucer sits a couple of tiny but very fancy pistachio-speckled biscuits.

“The petit fours were made fresh this morning,” Sam adds. He looks to his boss. “What time would you like dinner served, sir?”

“The usual time would be fine.”

Sam nods. “I’ll be down in the cellar if you need anything else.”

His sneakers squeak as he leaves the room. Raif puts down his ice cream, the spoon jutting from it like Excalibur in the stone.

Crunch time, I think, as I pick up my cup and bring the fragrant steam to my nose.

“Well, the thing is, Daisy. I have found the right woman to marry.”

The little girl’s spoon freezes midair.

“And I wanted you to be the first to know that I got married at the weekend.”

“Oh.” She lowers the spoon and, swapping it for a napkin, dabs her ice cream-free lips as though stalling for time. She brings the napkin to her lap, her fingers turning white as she begins to twist it. “Is she very nice, your new wife?”

My heart aches at her quiet question.

“I think so.” Something warm blooms inside me as his eyes seek mine. “She’s exactly what I need,” he adds smokily.

“Does that mean I have to go and live with him? With Daddy, I mean.”

“No, lovely girl.” I know it’s not my place, but I can’t seem to stop myself from sliding my arm around her small shoulders. “Nothing is changing, I promise. You’ll still have Uncle Raif here, like always. I won’t get in the way of anything.”

“Oh.” Her head drops. I think she’s looking at my Doc Marten boots. Her head lifts slowly, taking in my jeans, my cardigan, and then my eyes. Her head tilts like a puppy trying to work out a new training trick. Something flickers in her expression; a decision made, it seems. She turns to Raif and makes me laugh so loud as she says, “So who did you marry?”