“You know more than you think,” she replied, thinking on her feet, and choosing her words to play to the same audience I am.
“And yet you still feel like a mystery to me,” I reply, and it’s in that moment the elevator slows and dings. Her gaze jerks toward the doors and I glance up and register that we are now on the fourth floor, rather than our destination. Not about to let a wall of human bodies give Emily a chance to escape, I close the distance between us, and by the time her gaze returns to me, I’m standing in front of her. She looks up at me, her lips parting in surprise, her gaze meeting mine, and there is no mistaking the flash of torment in her eyes that I want to understand.
The doors open and male voices sound, moving closer to us as they enter the car, crowding Emily and me, and in turn, forcing me to remove the step I’ve left between us, my hands bracketing her waist. She sucks in air with the contact, her hands wrapping my wrist, and I’m not sure if she’s holding me in place, or wishing she could move me and escape. The doors shut to my right and the car jolts into action, while Emily sways forward, catching herself with a palm on my chest. Seeming to be stunned by what she’s done, she tries to pull it away, but I cover her hand with mine, holding it to me. Her gaze seems to instinctively jerk from those spellbinding buttons to my face, offering me a glimpse of the confusion etched all over hers. She doesn’t know if she wants to hold on to me or push me away. In that, we are one, but I am not comforted by her conflicting emotions. She’s trapped by her own lies; what she does with the freedom I’m about to give her will speak volumes about who she is, and who we are together.
The car halts, and once again her gaze is averted, any answers I might find in it hidden. I’m hoping like hell she really does stay and that a table in the restaurant will offer her the security to tell me the truth, no matter how ugly it might be. I fight the urge to reach for her hand and hold on to her, instead stepping to the side and facing forward. She joins me, standing beside me to watch the doors open, as if ready to launch herself forward, and I remind myself that one way or another, I’m getting my answers, and despite my desire that she stay, letting her escape and following where she leads might be the easiest answer.
The two men with us exit, clearing our path, allowing us to walk into the corridor, and in that moment, I say to hell with making it easy for her to run. She lied to me. Leaving won’t be easy. I reach around her waist and snag her hip, aligning our legs as we walk, preventing her escape. “Shane, I—”
“It’s dinner,” I say. “You’ll have an audience to protect you.”
She digs in her heels and stops, turning to face me, her hand landing on my chest again. “I don’t need to be protected from you. You need to be protected from me.”
Red flags go up all over again. “Do you know how many ways I could read that? Are you trying to warn me here or what?”
“No. Yes. No. Not from what you are thinking.”
“What am I thinking?”
“You already told me you think I’m spying on you, and I’m not.” She presses her hand to her face. “This is not working.” She drops her hand and looks at me. “I have to go.” Abruptly she pulls back from me, and being that we’re in public I have to let her go, and we both know that.
She turns and takes a step, gasping and stopping dead in her tracks as my father steps directly in front of her. “Mr. Brandon.”
Tall, with thinning gray hair, his custom blue suit hangs on his now frail, cancer-ridden body like it belongs to someone else, but there is nothing frail in the way his gaze lands on Emily.
“Emily,” he states. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
She grips her purse with a death hold, her spine going ramrod stiff, and a wave of protectiveness overcomes me that says much about my instincts with Emily and my father. I step to her side, close; my palm settling possessively on her lower back. “Why are you here, Father?” I ask, the demand short and clipped by design. I’ve told him to get his damn mistress out of the Four Seasons, considering I’m in the residential side of the building.
His gray eyes, still so much like mine, cut sharply to me. “I came to see you,” he declares, reaching into his blue suit jacket and producing an envelope, which he offers me. “The deed to your apartment as requested. I’ve signed it over to you.”
Aware he has a self-serving motive of some sort, I snatch the envelope from him, stick it in my pocket, and disinvite whatever conversation he hopes to have. “Go home to your wife.”
“She’s occupied,” he says. “As she is far more often than you realize.”
Holy fuck, I want to ask what that means, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. “Do you blame her?”
His lips tighten, the only telltale sign that I’ve hit a nerve, but his reply is not what I expect. “No actually, I do not. I’m going upstairs to the apartment I still own, and will continue to own.”
“That’s not acceptable. I want you, and your plaything, out of my home.”
“Well then, son, you’ll be pleased to know that the doctors say you won’t have to tolerate it for long. I’ll be dead soon.”
A tight hot knot forms in my chest, tension tightening my body, and Emily’s fingers flex into my arm, her hip pressing ever so slightly into mine. “The dead-man-walking card doesn’t work with me.”
“We both know that’s not true, son,” he says. “If only it worked as well on your mother as it does you.” Instead of using this as more bait, he leaves us to stew, ending the conversation. “I’ll leave you to your evening.” He flicks Emily a look. “We’ll talk in the morning.” He steps around us and starts walking, but I make no attempt to move, nor does Emily dart away, which she well could in this moment. I stand there. She stands there. And much to my irritation, he’s right. He’s hit the human side of me, my emotional side, which is reacting to the promise he will soon be dead. I inhale, working to contain rather than reject what I feel, which is too damn much. Because you can’t control what you reject, and me having control is absolute survival for me, and perhaps my entire family. Perhaps Emily too.
My hand presses against Emily’s back, intending to urge her forward, when I hear my father’s voice again. “Son.” I stop but I do not turn and he adds, “Come by the house Sunday night. Derek’s coming. It’s time we finish that chess game once and for all.”