Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
brUNO
The veranda is dark enough. That’s something.
I stand at the railing watching the white lines of surf break against the shore, trying to get ahold of myself.
I am not a man who gets emotionally involved. I have organized my life around not being that man. I live on a boat in the ocean, for God’s sake.
I have a system. I have a yacht that runs with perfect precision and a climate-controlled workshop where I build things with my hands that keep perfect time.
Yet somehow, I keep reacting to Kelsey’s family as though they’ve done something to me personally.
I wanted to destroy that uncle. Make him sorry for opening his mouth. Pushing him against that tree felt cathartic.
I should have taken that as a sign to go to bed, but what did I do instead?
I stepped back into the tent, and when I saw Kelsey standing there, so alone, so hopeful, and beautiful, all smooth skin and champagne bubbles and those powerful legs, my judgment apparently stopped functioning.
Maybe it was the scotch, but I haven’t had much.
I find myself wishing I had, to have that as an excuse for my behavior.
And once my hand settled at her back, once we started moving together, things began slipping. She followed me, but not like other partners do. There was a reckless trust in the way she moved with me. Responsiveness. Fearlessness. And suddenly I was inside the dance instead of controlling it.
I felt wild, frankly.
And that is not me.
If I charted my self-control since arriving here, the line would be heading decisively downward. Plunging, I believe is the word.
Meanwhile my foolishness is breaking records, along with my willingness to forget why I avoid entanglements in the first place.
I should leave tonight. I could leave tonight. I didn’t love the fact that half the wedding appeared to be filming the dance while I quietly unraveled in public, but if my brothers care to follow up on things here, they’d be convinced. To say the least.
The door opens behind me. I don’t have to look to know she’s standing there, to feel her, as though we’ve gotten linked up in some powerful and primal way.
I shouldn’t turn, but I do.
She’s still in the dress, feet bare, carrying two glasses of something with ice. She holds one out without a word and I take it.
The glass is cold on my fingers. There’s a lemon slice in mine and a maraschino cherry in hers. Water. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“We both put in our time. We got what we needed.”
She settles into one of the chairs and draws her feet up beneath her. The wedding rolls on below us. The quartet is doing a cover of something modern that I can’t quite place. Bursts of laughter drift up.
I lean against the railing and look at her instead of the view. My self-control notches down a bit more. I study my glass of water.
“What did you need from all this?” she asks. “You never said.”
I consider not answering. I’m good at not answering. Instead, for some reason, I ask, “How much do you know about my family?”
She tips her head. “Rich. Old money. I’m thinking you have a collection of sunglasses with the little strings on the back and maybe even some cravats. A top hat or two.”
“My family is not as wealthy as it once was. Most of my money came from a process I developed. I was trying to stop my watches from losing twelve seconds a year. I developed a thermal hardening process to do it. As it turned out, the aerospace industry had been trying to solve the same problem.”
“So you sold your process?”
“Licensed it. Lots of industries use it these days. My two younger brothers sank what money they had into making the estate into a vineyard and event space. There was actually a working vineyard there decades ago, but things have fallen into disrepair. Let’s just say it is a grand, sprawling money pit, and it’s not profitable.
Which is fine—I was happy to give them what they need.
Recently a production company approached them about a segment.
American Spotlight. Apparently it’s a documentary show. ”
“Oh, I love American Spotlight. They did that thing on that circus guy who had ten wives who didn’t know about each other.”
“Yes, they love a nice juicy human-interest story. They approached my brothers about doing a spotlight on my family’s history and the vineyard project. My brothers said yes.”
She tilts her head, baffled. “Huh.”
“They led the American Spotlight people to believe that all three brothers would be on-site.”
“Oh.” It doesn’t take long for her to put it together. “You think it will be about you.”
I sit. It’s strange, talking to another human about it all. Strange to hear the words. “I’ve lost count of the number of people who have tried to get me on camera for an interview since that piece ran in the Sunday Ledger.”
“You do inspire curiosity,” she says.
“And I’m not that precious; I’d bite the bullet and appear in the thing to give them a boost if it were only about that, but it’s more.
Splashing our family stories onto screens across the nation and the world...
let’s just say things about the Blackwood family could get unburied.
Things my brothers don’t know. Things that they’re better off not knowing. ”
She’s quiet for a moment. “And if you don’t appear, you think that kills the documentary?”
“Nobody wants a documentary about a vineyard.”
“Fair.”
“This is the weekend for shooting the thing. I told my brothers all along that I wouldn’t appear, but they never understood how committed I am to that position, and they were unhappy when they realized I wouldn’t be giving in.
One of my brothers decided to play legal hardball.
I won’t bore you with the details, let’s just say I need a legitimate scheduling conflict.
Something unmovable. Something more than me being an asshole. ”
“You’re not an asshole.”
“Oh, don’t let this weekend confuse you.”
“It would be bad if they found out?”
“Devastating,” I say. “It would unmake them. Trust me.”
“You’re protecting them.”
I sip my water. “You know those maraschino cherries are full of chemicals and dyes. They’re not even a fruit.”
“So they say.” She reaches over and touches the back of my hair. “You have this sprig of hair that won’t go down.”
“I’m aware.”
“It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
“Your bar is a bit low.”
She looks serious. “You’re not going to tell me the secret.”
“No.”
She moves her fingers to my collar. Lust shudders through me—I can’t remember the last time I had such a fierce need to touch a woman. To explore a woman. To fuck a woman. I take her hand and press it between mine. I kiss her thumb. My self-control floats up into the dusk along with the music.
“If I guess, will you tell me if I’m right?”
“No.”
She narrows her eyes. “So you won’t confirm or deny.”
“Correct.”
She considers this with great seriousness. “Is it cannibalism?”
“No comment.”
Her eyes go wide. “No comment. Meaning it could be. Meaning your family’s legacy is built on a foundation of—”
“No comment.” I kiss the tip of her pointer finger, a bad idea on so many levels.
She’s grinning now, snuggling in next to me. “Dear diary. Bruno Blackwood will neither confirm nor deny that his family’s historic fortune is rooted in cannibalistic practices.”
I chuckle, and then, almost involuntarily, I reach over and pull her onto my lap, enjoying the press of her body against mine far too much.
She’s laughing, startled, one hand landing on my chest to catch herself. Below us the wedding goes on. The music is something slow now.
“I’m sorry you have to carry that.”
I draw one finger along the side of her neck, noting the way her breath changes, finding the beat of her pulse under her skin. I’ve never known anybody who’s such an open book, just flung open to the world.
I don’t know if it’s bravery or foolishness.
She looks at me straight on. And the way I see her right now, she’s not fragile or confused, or even in need of any protection. She’s a fucking marvel.
And I have spent so long being an island.
I put my lips to her ear. “We cannibals always start with the earlobe. It’s a delicacy.”