Chapter 33
M arcus
Guilt, strong and unfamiliar, flavors every bite of the buttery branzino that is my main course. Emma got herself a Greek salad, and my chest aches as I watch her eat it, her manner unusually subdued.
She opened up to me.
She told me about her painful secret—and it was all I could do to let her carry on as if I was hearing it for the first time.
As if I didn’t already know about the whole ugly mess.
She didn’t tell me everything, of course—like the fact that her mother was once arrested for prostitution, or that she died in a car crash while being chased by a lover whose bank account she’d emptied earlier that day. But what she told me was enough.
Enough to know that her fear of turning out like her mother—the fear she’d talked about in her college essay—is still there, as much a part of her as her red hair and softly freckled skin.
And I, asshole that I am, used that fear against her, sending her expensive gifts so that she’d have no choice but to see me in person.
In a way, I am like her mother—willing to do whatever it takes to get my way.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly when she continues eating without speaking. “Emma, kitten, I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. Work can wait.
She looks up from her plate, blinking. “What? Oh, no, it’s fine.
My mother wasn’t abusive or anything, and in any case, she died in an accident when I was eleven, and my grandparents raised me from that point on.
I was just telling you all that in case, you know…
” She stops, pretty color spreading over her fair skin.
“In case we get serious?”
Her flush deepens. “I wasn’t—”
“It’s okay.” Fuck, it’s more than okay. I like the idea. Love it, in fact.
To my shock, I realize that I want her to think about getting serious, to picture us together in the future… because I’m already doing that myself.
Shoving the unsettling thought away, I focus on the topic at hand.
“Emma, listen to me,” I say when she resumes eating.
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your mother.
Well, I do—I’d love to go back in time and have you taken away from her long before you were eleven—but I don’t care what kind of woman birthed you.
That doesn’t determine who you are, doesn’t change my opinion of you in any way. ”
She puts down her fork, her lips curving in a faint smile. “You don’t think blood will tell?”
“No, I don’t.” How could I, with parents like mine?
I hesitate for a moment, then say bluntly, “My father was killed in prison when I was two—he was there for armed robbery and assault—and my mother was an alcoholic. Not the functional kind, either—a full-on, twenty-four-seven drunk. She died from liver failure when I was eighteen.”
I haven’t told anyone this in decades; in fact, I’ve gone to great pains to obscure my past from the media as soon as I had the resources to do so.
The only thing my current friends and acquaintances know about my childhood is that I was raised in Staten Island by a single mother, who passed away from a rare liver disease.
No ugliness, no drama, just your run-of-the-mill lower-middle-class upbringing.
For some reason, though, I want Emma to know everything—to understand what kind of man she’s dealing with. Because if there’s any kernel of truth to the whole “blood will tell” business, mine is far more tainted than hers.
Her eyes widen at my revelations, but to my relief, she looks neither put off nor disgusted.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, reaching across the table to lay her small hand on my arm.
“That must’ve been so hard for you, growing up that way.
Did you have anyone you could turn to for help? Grandparents? Other family members?”
There’s genuine sympathy in her voice, and I know that she, of all people, understands what it’s like to grow up essentially on your own, to take care of yourself from a young age.
To know that your mother, the person who’s supposed to have your best interests at heart, can’t be trusted.
“Neither of my parents came from a close-knit family, but I had a lot of support in school,” I answer, figuring she might as well know everything.
“My second-grade teacher, Mr. Bond, was particularly instrumental in guiding me through elementary school and beyond. It’s thanks to him that I chose to focus on my studies rather than making a quick buck on the streets. ”
“Oh?”
I smile at the curiosity in her gaze. “Money was tight, as you can imagine, so by the time I was eight, I was doing whatever it took to put food on the table—running errands for the local gangs, peddling weed on the streets, stealing school supplies. It’s the latter that got me caught and nearly expelled.
Mr. Bond stepped in at the last moment, vouching for me, and then he sat me down and told me about some legitimate ways I could make money—starting with the tutoring of kids whose math skills weren’t as good as my own.
He also gave me several issues of Forbes magazine and told me all about the rich people on the cover, about how they got there and how I could get there too. ”
A soft smile curves her lips. “And you did, didn’t you?”
“I did.” I don’t try to hide the satisfaction in my voice. “They wrote a feature on me shortly after I made my first billion.”
“Wow.” Her smile widens, revealing those cute dimples. “Mr. Bond must be so proud of you. Do you still keep in touch with him?”
“I did. Unfortunately, he passed away a few years ago. Pancreatic cancer,” I explain, my throat tightening.
I did everything in my power to help him, but neither the world-class doctors I hired nor the experimental treatments I paid for could arrest the deadly disease.
It was the most powerless I’d felt as an adult.
Emma’s smile disappears. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been a terrible loss for you.”
“Thank you,” I say evenly. “He was a good man.”
My only consolation is that his children and grandchildren will never have to struggle financially, thanks to the seventy-million-dollar trust I set up in his name, explaining it to the lawyers as a lottery he’d won shortly before his death.
The waiter comes by to clear our plates and bring out the dessert menu, and I use the distraction to push away the lingering grief. I’ve never spoken about this with anyone, but somehow, it felt right to confide in Emma, to have her know the real me, not the sanitized mask I show to the world.
The waiter leaves, and Emma glances at the dessert menu for a second before setting it aside.
I smile wryly. “Let me guess. Not hungry?” Now that I know she’s trying to keep her portion of the check to a minimum, I can pretty much predict what she will and won’t order.
“I actually had dinner—well, half of it—before I got your latest gift,” she says. “Speaking of which—”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to get the baklava,” I say, as if I didn’t hear her. She’s going to try to refuse the books again, and I’m not about to let that happen. “It’s amazing here, the best I’ve ever had.”
She blinks. “Of course, go right ahead.”
I smile wider and motion to the waiter. “The baklava, please,” I tell him when he hurries over. “And bring two plates. We’ll share.”
“Oh, I’m not going to—” Emma starts, but I hold up my hand as the waiter rushes away.
“It’s only fair. I shared your ice cream, so I owe you at least a bite of my dessert,” I say with utter seriousness.
“But—”
“No buts. And I’m getting the dessert on my portion of the check. You’re not the only one who believes in fairness.”
“Oh.” Her small white teeth worry her lower lip. “Okay then, I guess I can try a bite.”
I conceal a satisfied grin. This might be a small thing, getting her to share my dessert, but it’s a step in the right direction. Before long, I intend to be paying for all our meals, as well as anything else she might want or need.
First, though, I have to cure her of her fear of being like her mother, one bite of baklava at a time.
The waiter returns, bringing the dessert. Before she can say anything, I cut a piece and put it on her plate. “Try it,” I urge, pushing the plate toward her, and she forks the honey-layered pastry into her mouth.
It doesn’t get the orgasmic reaction that the halloumi did, but my cock still hardens as she chews and swallows with a blissful expression on her face.
Fuck. I really have to get her to my place before I attack her in public like the sex maniac I’m turning into.
The baklava is small, so we make quick work of it, and then I motion for the check. Emma grabs it again, and I let her, though it pains me to see her carefully count out the bills for her portion.
In the investigator’s report, there was a section on her finances—the miserable state of which makes it even more insane that she’s doing this.
Finally, the bill is paid, and I lead her out of the restaurant, my hand resting on the small of her back.
“Where’s Wilson?” she asks, looking around for the car. “Or are we taking a cab?” Then her eyes widen, her cheeks flushing as she realizes what she’s implied. “Never mind, I forgot you live nearby. I’ll just take the subway home and—”
“We’re less than four blocks from my place, so I gave Wilson the rest of the evening off,” I say, turning to face her. Capturing her small hands in mine, I gaze at her upturned face. “Emma, kitten… I want you to come home with me.”