Chapter 1 #2
He runs a slender finger over his lower lip. “I returned at fourteen, when my parents died, leaving me with a sizable inheritance.”
Though I know how the story goes, I help out those who haven’t read the book. “How long did you stay?”
“Just eight months.” His manner becomes reserved.
“You bided?1 with your legal guardian—your mother’s cousin?”
“Aye, till one day when I was gone a burglar broke in and beat him to death with a clock.” He clasps his hands, stroking one thumb in the crook of the other hand’s thumb and forefinger.
“Och, I’m sorry.” I shake my head, frowning.
What must it have been like to find your sole remaining relative brutally murdered?
“Aye, well, I took off again. My wanderlust hadn’t been sated yet.” He cocks a wry smile. “So I sailed to Argentina, where I worked and learned Spanish till I was sixteen. From there I went to Hawaii and made straw hats and other knickknacks for tourists as instructed by the old man I lived with.”
“Even though you didn’t have to make a living anymore with the fortune you’d inherited?” I’m curious about his relation to money, after so many years without it.
“I couldn’t touch that till I was eighteen.” A half-smile lifts his lips. “Forby,?2 by then I preferred living on the edge.”
I consult my notes. “At eighteen you applied to study law at University of Glasgow?”
“Aye, and after taking the required tests, I got in. I finished with a first after writing a dissertation in contract law during my third year.”
“Wow. You must be brilliant.” I venture to meet his metal-grey eyes head-on, reading in them grit, fire, and sense. “Why contract law?”
A flicker of some unreadable emotion flits across his face. Like the questions of why he initially left home and why he left Glasgow, this question gave me pause as I read the book because it seemed he was glossing over the truth and glamorizing it.
He looks at me through hooded eyes, daring me to challenge his report.
“I found I was good at drawing up contracts as early as age eleven, when a fish vendor got into a heated argument with a couple of fishermen over how much he’d promised them for their daily catch.
I mediated and wrote up a contract they both agreed upon concerning how many pounds of fish represented how many kuna. ”
His imposing presence makes it hard to focus. “This certainly seems like your calling. And you worked for a few years in this field?”
“For five years I worked as in-house counsel for several corporations, including the energy provider Ener-Werx.” He rakes a hand through his thick hair, pulling my gaze to his sexy quiff. “But I grew restless working in corporate. I longed for something new and interesting.”
I smile, noting how our crowd has swelled in ranks as more female readers spot Leith. On my phone, hearts explode from women tuning in across the globe. “Your old wanderlust kicked in?”
His eyes dip to my lips, heating my cheeks. “Something like that.”
I wish I’d brought water. “And at twenty-six your best friend Kenzie hooked you up with two of the Syndicate bosses, whom you successfully defended in court?”
“That’s right.”
“And the rest is history.” I smile into the camera, then turn back to him, deciding listeners will want me to probe deeper. “What about the Syndicate appeals to you?”
“I’m well compensated, the challenges exceed any other law job, and the situations are far more interesting,” he replies succinctly.
I sense a let-me-throw-you-my-panties-or-bra vibe from the women in our audience.
Glancing at my notes, I shift to broader questions. “How is it that the Syndicate allowed you to publish this book?”
“I masked everyone’s names, for one.” He touches a finger behind one ear. “For another, the story is of my life before the Crew.”
“Why does working for the Syndicate suit you so well?”
His storm cloud eyes skip between mine. “I’ve seen so much I might as well put my experience to good use.”
Under his intense gaze, I go off script. “What’s one passion few people know you have, Leith?”
He opens his palms, taking in the whole convention. “Reading. Books. The written word.”
A man after my own heart.
Apparently other women think so too because an amorous sigh breezes through our audience.
“Favorite genre?” I quiz.
“Detective fiction.”
A brainiac lawyer.
“Is it true they’re planning on making a film of your memoir?”
A quiet smirk teases his lips as he passes a hand over his scruff. “Possibly.”
I can’t help ribbing him at that. “Spoken like an author who doesn’t have to make any more money.”
“I’m filthy rich,” he states frankly. “I enjoy what I do, and I lack but one thing.”
I lean in slightly. “What’s that?”
He flashes his perfect, white teeth. “A wife.”
My heart flutters, and dreamy murmurs hum through the crowd. “Why is that?”
I can’t imagine why a man like him wasn’t swooped up long ago. Witness all the attention women have given him since he’s been sitting here and the hushed breaths awaiting his response now.
He props his chin in his long, elegant fingers. “Till now, ambition has outweighed amatory pursuits.”
“Who will the lucky lady be?” I inquire, nosy.
His eyes search mine, boring deep into my soul. “A woman I didn’t choose but whose actions demand I take her as my wife.”
Ah, a true romantic. “You must believe in fate.”
He chuffs a derisive laugh. “I assure you, Iona, if there’s one thing my memoir proves, it’s that everything happens by chance. Nothing is fated.”
I twist my lips in thought. “Doesn’t that mean your hand is forced by chance?”
He drags his gaze over my features, seeing into the heart of me. “I’ll get what I want. I always do.” He cocks his head. “I could have you as my wife, if I wanted.”
The fizz simmering low in my belly throughout the interview bubbles up to my chest. Why does this statement not come across as arrogant, only matter-of-fact?
I’m nonplussed to the point of speechlessness. There’s too much truth to his statement to laugh it off as nonsense.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cargill,” the older lady interrupts. “Sorry to cut in, but our photographer is here, and she wants to get all the pictures done now.”
He lifts a finger and a brow. “Are we done, Iona?”
“Aye,” I husk.
“Wait here for me. I have a few more things to speak to you about.” Unfolding himself from his chair, he saunters off with the bustling lady. Even his gait is intimidating
I turn back to my phone camera. “Thank you all for tuning in. That’s it for today’s Ramble. Please drop your comments and responses to the questions and look out for our next book choice, coming up on Tuesday.”
I stand and press pause. Immediately my phone chirps with a text from my baby sister Skye.
Skye: That was brilliant, sis! I couldn’t have kept my focus with that hunk in front of me. But you asked him really probing questions.
Me: That was the tip of the iceberg of what I wanted to ask.
Skye: You make me want to read his book!
Me: You and hopefully thousands of others.
Skye: Are you free for a drink now?
Me: No, he asked me to stick around. I’ll call you when I’m through.
Skye: Love you.
Me: Love you too.
As I fold up the tripod and pack it and my notes in my bag, Stennis, the publicist for Horizons Publishing Company, the press for Cargill’s book, strides toward me through the thinning crowd of women.
Chestnut-waved, pale, and well-manicured, he wears a buttoned-up, high-collared shirt with a blazer and pointy-toed brogues.
Since a lot of the books I review and authors I interview are with Horizons, I frequently deal with him.
He enters my personal space, and I take a step back, trying to regulate my breaths. I’m still not used to a man getting close, another reason I walk or ride a bike instead of taking the train during rush hour.
I want more than anything to recover from That Night, but in four years it’s proven next to impossible.
Stennis’s gaze roves over me, landing on my chest. “Nice job, Iona. You did miss several opportunities to show him up as a liar, however.”
I force myself to remain in place, though I’d like to back up another few steps. “What do you mean?”
He scoffs. “A, no one could do in a lifetime all he claims to have done in thirty years. B, he clearly lied about his reasons for doing things like leaving home and joining the Syndicate. I would’ve held his feet to the fire.”
“The interview was about getting people to read his memoir?—”
“Fictionalized memoir.”
“And sparking more interest in the subject,” I conclude. “We’ll leave it up to readers to decide what they think was embellished.”
Stennis narrows his eyes. “You’ve fallen under his spell just like all these lassies”—he waves a hand at the space where my onlookers stood—“and that hogwash about loving to read, that was just good marketing on his part.”
“Don’t you want his book to do well?” I side-eye him.
He steps into me, and I do battle with myself to stand my ground. His breath reeks of stale coffee and strong cheese. “You’re hiding something too, Iona. Something you’re desperate for people not to find out.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I fumble.
“No?” He fingers the strap of my handbag on my shoulder. “Prove it by going out with me.”
I flinch at both his nearness and touch.
Don’t step back, Iona. I take a small step back, banging my backside into a book stand full of Cargill’s memoirs and nearly knocking the books out.
Stennis shouldn’t frighten me. I should be able to stand tall and beg off.
But it’s as if he knows my damning secret and is issuing a veiled threat to tell it if I don’t agree to a date.
“Ehm, I’ll give it some thought,” I hedge.
I won’t. He sets my teeth on edge, and there’s something creepy about the way he’s always assumed we’re meant to go out.
“I’ll call you on Thursday.” His eyes skitter over my features, landing on my clavicle. He taps the tip of my nose. “Remember, if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”
Again with the not-so-subtle warning.
Needing to take a full breath, I side-step him, my chest heaving and sweat breaking out on the back of my neck. “Right, well, I should just . . .” I trail off, casting my gaze from side to side.
Don’t have a flashback now. Don’t recall That Night.
As I stare straight ahead, focusing on the here and now the way Dr. Hsu instructed me to, Leith Cargill fills my vision, swaggering over with the easy grace of a panther. His knotted brow and twisted lips suggest disapproval and annoyance.
Seeing him is enough to jolt me out of panic mode. I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to keep it together. In a few seconds, the wave of anxiety has subsided, and I can speak again, though my voice is hoarse. “I’ll talk to you later, Stennis. I have something to conclude now.”
He twists to see Cargill sloping against a pillar, hands plunged in his pockets, giving Stennis a stony glare.
Stennis clears his throat. “Mr. Cargill, your book is magnific?—”
“Iona, a word. Alone.” Cargill ignores Stennis, lasering in on me.
Stennis slinks off, wisely heeding the note of authority in Cargill’s voice.
“Come with me.” Cargill tips his head toward the entrance.
Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and follow him as he turns and leads me out.
1?stayed
2?Besides,