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He’d said he’d been falling in love with her. Falling in love. Not in love.
But Adrian’s texts were relentless. He does love you. I know it. You know it. Remember when I talked about a man like him, a billionaire, that he must have black marks on his soul?
Saskia nodded as she typed back. I remember. But Clay didn’t have any black marks.
Adrian’s next text echoed her thoughts. I was wrong. He’s one of the good ones. So clean up this mess. Talk to him. Refuse to back down, even if he tries to push you away.
Her thoughts telegraphed themselves right onto her phone screen. That’s exactly what he’ll do.
Adrian’s words flowed. But isn’t true love worth everything?
Saskia didn’t hesitate even a second. Yes, dammit. Why couldn’t I see it sooner? None of this would have come crashing down around me.
Adrian’s next words soothed her. You had your reasons. But now you have a better one. If I were a betting woman—which I am—I bet the two of you make it to the other side of this, even if it’s ugly for a while.
Saskia held her phone in her hand, read the words again, mulled them over. Then finally, she typed, Bet it all.
It was obvious those two needed a little help.
Saskia had already said she loved the guy. But Adrian knew that if she didn’t do something, they’d never have the talk they needed. Saskia might kill her for what she was about to do, but she was convinced it was the right thing.
Sitting in her snug flannel pajamas on the sofa in her elegant Nob Hill flat, she sent Saskia’s address to Clay. Her friend had never told him exactly where she lived—just in case Clay decided to pay her a visit. And saw her studio.
She waited for a return text. It didn’t come.
Nevertheless, Adrian went to bed knowing she’d done all she could.
For now.
Chapter Twenty
Clay had caught the proverbial forty winks, but that was about it. He could think of nothing but Saskia—her touch, her luscious kiss, her sweet scent, her beautiful eyes, her luxurious hair he loved to run his fingers through.
But then he’d think of her lies. She hadn’t told him who she was, the first lie. When he’d outright asked her more than once if she was an artist, she’d lied again. She could have helped Dylan immensely if he’d known who she was. His mind brushed over how much she’d helped Dylan even wearing her Saskia persona.
More than just think it through, Clay needed to talk it through.
It was early. But Fernsby was an early riser even on a Saturday.
The moment the man answered, Clay unloaded on him. “Where are you? I need to talk.”
In his cultured British drawl, Fernsby said, “I’m wherever you need me to be, sir, as always.” Then he added, “I’m walking Lord Rexford by the marina.”
Clay got there pronto. Despite the early hour—just past eight—the path along the bay was filled with joggers, bikers, and dog walkers. Ducks paddled in the pond, bobbing for their morning meal.
Clay got right to it the moment he reached Fernsby’s side. “She said you already guessed who she was, even before Hugo Lewis’s press conference.” He’d sent the link to Dane, which meant, naturally, that Fernsby would have seen it too.
The dog stretched his flexible lead to its max, running here, sniffing there, piddling his scent in different spots. But as soon as Fernsby clucked his tongue and said in a stern voice, “Lord Rexford,” the dog was back at his heel. Fernsby had a way with animals and people.
Then he answered Clay’s implied question. “It was in the way she described Charlene Ballard’s sculpture. It’s what an artist would say. When the two of you had your tiff over how to handle criticism of an artist’s work, again, the things she said didn’t come from an assistant but an artist.”
Clay smacked his forehead and muttered under his breath, “I should’ve seen it. I’m an idiot.”
“You were falling in love, sir. Lovers see only what they want to see.”
Maybe he should have argued, insisted he wasn’t falling in love. But why bother? It was the truth. “But she lied to me.” He couldn’t help feeling the betrayal yet again.
Fernsby sidestepped a bicycle ridden by an older lady. “I’m sure that’s the way you—and even the lovely Saskia—see it. But I believe it’s more of a gray area. She omitted.”