Page 90

Pulling my hand away from him, I watch his face fall and the divider rolls down slowly; it’s the only sound in the cabin.
“Is this all right, Mr. Thatcher?” Marcus, the driver, asks. I can’t look him in the eye. I swallow thickly, watching thesparkling gowns flow by as women walk past. I know many of them, or at least recognize their faces. Tonight is a fundraiser for diabetic children. Nearly three hundred people will be in the grand ballroom, bidding on donations lined with spotlights and making small talk while sipping champagne and gossiping or bragging.
It’s how these functions run. Who you know and who you talk to can be different, so long as you’re seen with each group of individuals accordingly.
My role has changed from socialite sweetheart who brings the press to that of devoted arm candy. The to-do list hasn’t changed, though: look pretty, smile and be charming. It didn’t seem so bad all these years I’ve been doing this. Even my father used to bring me to events like this as a teen. I loved it. I was proud to come and be a part of the social scene especially when they involved causes like this one.
“This is fine,” Mason answers Marcus and I grip my Chanel clutch as if it will protect me and save me from having to walk out there. “I’ll open her door; thank you.”
“I don’t know that I’m ready,” I whisper to Mason, turning to him and leaning in, acutely aware that Marcus is watching. I don’t have to look up to see his eyes in the rearview mirror assessing the situation to know he’s taking it all in. Everyone is always watching.
Mason searches my face for something, and then the corners of his lips twitch as he reaches his arm around my waist and pulls me in closer to him.
His strength and heat and proximity all make my blood temperature rise, and the anxiety and fear are replaced with something else entirely.
“You’re definitely ready,” Mason sats before leaning into me for a kiss. A split second passes before I even question it. It feels so natural, as if I’m the one who intended for it to happen.
As if nothing ever happened. As if the envelope had never been opened and this part of the tale ceased to exist.
I pull away suddenly, sucking in the hot air and pushing back against the leather seat. My eyes flicker to the mirror as I regain my composure, to Marcus’s ever-prying view and immediately the divider begins to move back into place, granting us privacy.
Mason’s hand splays on my back before I can move any farther. “Please stop,” I say. He must know what he’s doing to me.
“Stop what?” he asks as if he doesn’t know that his kindness is worse than anything else. That craving his affection only makes me hate myself more.
I look up through my lashes, not bothering to face him as I hold the clutch tighter with both hands.
“I can’t do this, Mason,” I blurt out with my voice low and pleading. “I can’t pretend.”
He rests his hand on the back of my neck, gripping my nape but running his thumb back and forth ever so gently. Each action sends mixed signals, and that’s the very crux of my position.
“You could ignore me all night,” he suggests with a sad smile. “It would be better if you did that … if we were to split in a month anyway. Wouldn’t it?”
His words are accompanied by a shadow, the night already darkening. Three weeks. I don’t correct him, but it’s three weeks that are left, not a month. Swallowing thickly, I glance at the entrance rather than entertaining his suggestion.
“Either way,” he continues, “we have to attend. We can’t appear to be hiding and no one is going to hurt you here.”
The lights from the massive crystal chandelier just inside the auditorium’s foyer sparkle and blur in a beautiful dance as two more couples enter. I ignore it and stare at the shrubbery that’s barely visible.
It hurts to hear him plan a split between us. I didn’t think his compromise, promise, whatever it was, was even a real possibility. Yet here he is, speaking it into existence.
Mason opens his door and leaves me without another word. I simultaneously fear him and love him, but worse, I hate myself for having any emotion toward him other than revulsion knowing he’s a murderer. That’s what I can’t get past. It’s easy to put a smile on your face and be what everyone else wants you to be when you know who you are and you’re happy as that person. When you have faith in yourself.
I’ve lost that. It’s a new low that’s left me shattered and scattered into small pieces on the floor. I don’t even know where to start picking them up. I only know the sharp edges will leave me bleeding out as I do.
Cool air drifts into the limo and the light shines just a bit brighter as Mason opens my door. With the wind comes his scent, a natural masculine scent mixed with a clean fragrance from his cologne.
“Don’t deny me, sweetheart,” Mason says just under his breath as I stare at his outstretched hand. His statement makes my eyes lift to his and I get lost in his swirls of gray and silver. I never had a chance with this man. A tortured soul lies behind those eyes that makes me weak for him. He needs love so desperately; he needs someone, and my very soul craves his.
He was my downfall. Created to destroy me. I slip my hand into his, comforted by the warmth as he wraps his fingers slowly around mine and supports me as I rise from the limo. I keep my eyes down and don’t look forward. I can hardly focus on breathing as my heels click on the pavement and Mason leads me forward.
I pull my black bolero shrug tighter around my shoulders and attempt to hide from the harsh weather while ignoring everyone around me.
The doors open and the mix of chatter and the soft melody of an orchestra carry through the air and envelop me as though it’s home, as though it’s safe. But I’m very much aware that I’m in danger. I scan every face for the one I saw only days ago. The man holding a gun.
At the thought I grip Mason’s hand tighter and he pulls me in closer to him, walking in time with me, our steps in unison as the lights get brighter and the air warmer. A small smile slip onto my face, although inside I’m screaming.
I’m dying from the hypocrisy, but intensely aware it’s my only chance of survival.