Chapter Nineteen
Dominic
Two evenings later, I walk through the marine walls and partitions of La Mer, Elizabeth’s choice of venue.
I’ve never been here before. The restaurant is owned by one of her cousins and is famous for seafood prepared in a million fancy ways. I don’t care for frou-frou cuisine, preferring burgers and fries washed down with an ice-cold beer, but you gotta eat the part to fit in.
In addition to the food, the place is known for its customers wrapping themselves in luxurious fabrics—silk, satin, chiffon—and shiny precious metals and gems. I have on a charcoal Armani suit and burgundy tie.
A hostess in a fitted black dress takes me to a private booth in the back. The walls are actual aquariums full of tropical fish. They stare at the diners with cold indifference before flicking their tailfins and darting away.
Elizabeth’s already seated, nursing a glass of white wine. She’s in a pink sleeveless raw silk dress with a scoop neck that somehow shows off her full breasts and small waist while still managing to appear modest. Pearls shine from her delicate ears and throat, and her unbound hair tumbles down around her shoulders and back like a golden waterfall. With minimal makeup, she looks young and freshly scrubbed—a typical American next-door sweetheart.
Except that the sweetheart next door doesn’t have millions of dollars…nor does she purposely try to ruin a young man’s life.
My brain repeats that point as my dick says hello, perky and happy to see her. That’s her fatal weapon—an ability to stir something soft and gentle in me, clouding my better sense with pheromones.
Steeling myself, I sit down, tell the hostess I’ll have whatever Elizabeth is having, then dismiss the woman.
Left index finger tapping the table, I lean back and wait.
“Dominic,” Elizabeth says finally.
“Elizabeth.”
“I thought about some other place, but decided maybe La Mer would be best. I hope you don’t mind.”
Her voice is polished and warm. She had the same warm voice, sans the polish, when she spoke to me and my sister a decade ago.
People probably call it the voice of an angel. I call it the voice of a schemer. But my heart responds anyway, knocking my ribs a tad faster.
“I don’t,” I start, more curtly than I should. “Customers in expensive clothes and jewelry, classical music nobody’s listening to, food and drink whose price would cause working people to gasp in horror. I would’ve been disappointed if you’d picked somewhere else.”
Resignation and mild annoyance cross her expression, but her face almost immediately returns to its warm pleasantness. Before I can process that, our server shows up with my wine.
I take a sip. Although I’m too aware of her to notice much, this wine is one of the best I’ve ever had. “Is this the kind of stuff you usually drink here?” I ask.
She nods. “Mark—the owner—knows his vintages. He sends me recommendations when I ask.”
“I don’t know how you choked down the swill I fed you back then.” I snap my fingers. “Oh, wait. You were underage! So you probably didn’t know any better.”
She drains her glass, tilting her head away so I can’t see her expression. “I wanted to tell you everything. I just couldn’t find the right moment.”
“I’m sure plotting with my aunt took up most of your time and energy.”
She lets out a frustrated breath, the pleasant façade cracking. “I’d never met your aunt until five years ago.”
Her gaze is so direct and open, I start to nod, buying into her alternative reality before I catch myself. God. She must’ve taken tons of acting classes.
This explains why I never stood a chance back then. How could I? I’ve never met anybody who can lie this convincingly. I didn’t know it was possible to lie this convincingly.
Elizabeth will never accept the truth about our past. It’s time to move the conversation to something more productive.
“Why the letter?”
She blinks, but regroups almost immediately. “You seem very eager to donate. And contrary to what you said, your money is just as good as anybody else’s as far as the foundation’s concerned.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“The fund is specifically for children who are so poor they can’t afford to go to school. There are communities in Africa and parts of Asia where families rely on their children’s labor to survive. And those kids grow up and live in the same poverty that their parents did. It’s a vicious cycle.”
Her tone is firm with conviction. What she’s doing is so damn noble and admirable. She isn’t helping people who can directly benefit her one day. She’s helping those who need it the most and who’ll experience big, measurable improvements in their lives from the assistance provided.
Although my head admires what she’s trying to accomplish, my heart hates her for it.
How dare she play the good guy? How dare she do things that cause others to call her an angel? It should be someone else doing the work—someone who’s actually worthy of accolades and praise—not her.
“So you never wanted to be an artist or an interpreter for UN,” I say, barely managing to keep my voice from sounding bitter.
She pales a little, and her lips twist. “Things…didn’t work out the way I wanted.”
“No. They didn’t, thank God.”
If they had, I would’ve rotted behind bars, then been labeled a sex offender and shunned. No matter how far from schools I lived, I would’ve been driven away by angry parents and disgusted neighbors…businesses would’ve avoided hiring me…and decent people wouldn’t have wanted me around them.
Hurt pinches her face, causing me to feel like scum. Jesus. This has to be another manipulative play.
The server brings our first course. It’s some kind of white fish cooked in a light green sauce. It’s probably delicious, but I can’t taste anything anymore, all my senses hyper-focused on Elizabeth.
And the rest of the dinner passes in the same fashion. The quiet is expected. We don’t have much to talk about. Even if Elizabeth were to say something, I wouldn’t believe her, so silence is preferable to meaningless chatter.
Still, a small and foolish part of me remembers how we used to be able to talk about anything and enjoy each other’s company, touching and kissing and holding each other. Did she know how she affected me, watching me with shining eyes full of faith and trust as I talked about my dreams?
It’s sad we have nothing to say to each other during the long dinner…and we do our best not to touch each other, not even accidentally brush our legs under the table…
No, I decide forcefully, my jaw tightening. It’s not sad. It’s better this way.
When the server brings out dessert, I quit eating. I’m not consuming empty calories when I can’t taste anything.
“You spent the last ten years making sure we never crossed paths,” I begin. “Now you want my money. You don’t mind having dinner with me in public. What’s next? PDAs?”
She gives me a measuring look. “Is that what you want?”
“I’m curious about your motives. You know mine. It’s only fair you share yours.”
“If I do, will you believe me?”
“Try me.”
She places her fork on the table, her chocolate mousse barely touched. “All right.” She crosses her legs, leaning back in her seat. “You have something that belongs to me. I want it.”
I blink. I didn’t keep anything of hers ten years ago…
Oh, wait…
Julian. Did he call her to gloat and imply he gave me the painting?
“Let’s suppose you’re right and you need to be my best friend. How about you cut support to Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Chuck?” My uncle is currently a congressional representative in Washington, D.C., and receives tons of support from the Pryce family. I want both of them finished. I’ll never forgive her—or Elizabeth—for doing their best to put me in a cage.
“That would be up to the family to decide, not me,” Elizabeth says.
“You and I know you’re the one in charge of such things.”
“I manage political donations because the family’s always had the person responsible for the foundation take care of it. If you don’t want your uncle to win, put your money and support behind his opponent. That’s how it’s played in the political arena.”
“If you’re going to continue to support Dorothy and Chuck, what good are you?”
“I can open certain doors for you. Potentially profitable ones.”
“That’s what my money’s for.”
“Sometimes money isn’t enough. I understand that some of your ventures are stalled at the moment.”
I narrow my eyes. I have a few that are experiencing the usual bullshit, mostly in Asia, but I doubt her influence extends that far. Still, it’ll be amusing to watch her fail. “Then show me, and we’ll see.” I glance at my watch. “When is the server coming with our check?”
“It’s been taken care of.”
Annoying. I prefer that she buy me nothing. “One lousy dinner won’t even the score.”
“I never expected it to.” Then she adds something that sounds like “You’re an expensive man to appease.”
A retort rises to my lips, but I bite it back. I’m not stooping to her level and arguing about our past in public. And I’m certain she picked La Mer specifically to avoid a scene.
We walk out together, the tension thick and ugly. Right outside the main entrance, we almost run into a couple.
I start to apologize, then stop when I see it’s Marcella, the green-eyed brunette who brought Elizabeth to the bar ten years ago. I haven’t run into her since then…but I could never forget her.
She’s still ordinary, although her lips are fuller, most likely due to the help of a surgeon. Her eyes have gained a harder, more brittle edge. They flare with envy as they take in Elizabeth’s clothes and shoes.
Marcella’s black cocktail dress and pumps aren’t the most fashionable or luxurious, but they’re certainly acceptable. But I suspect that isn’t enough—just like it wasn’t ten years ago.
But the envy is erased in a flash. “Elizabeth!” Her mouth curves into a smile.
“Marcella. So good to run into you,” Elizabeth says warmly.
They hug, placing air kisses. Elizabeth pulls back first. “I haven’t seen you in ages. How have you been?”
“Great, of course. And you’re also doing fantastic, or so I read online.” Marcella gestures at her date. “Have you met Syd Burton? He’s a junior partner at Washington Lowe.”
“I don’t believe I have.” Elizabeth shakes hands with the clean-cut man, her manners exquisitely cordial. She turns to Marcella again. “You remember Dominic, don’t you?”
Marcella’s left eyebrow twitches briefly, but her smile doesn’t falter. “Of course. Wow! Look at you! I almost didn’t recognize you.” Her eyes catalogue my clothes and watch with precision.
Cynicism tugs at my mouth. “Why would you? We haven’t seen each other since my bartending years in college.” Did she just turn pale?
“Right, right.” She gestures at La Mer. “Well, we have a reservation. So…”
“Call me,” Elizabeth says.
“I will!” Marcella wags her fingers, and almost forcibly drags her date inside.
Elizabeth turns away, the warm friendliness gone now. “I hope your schedule’s clear next weekend. If it’s not, clear it.”
“Why?”
“Because”—she shoots me an enigmatic look—“I’m going to show you how I can open doors money can’t buy.”