Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dominic
I finish the birthday cake, scanning the area to see where Elizabeth is.
Hot annoyance surges when I see her laughing with some brown-haired man. His swim trunks’ design is based on the Texas flag—red, white and blue with a lone white star front and center.
“He’s a cutie, isn’t he?” Shishi, Ming Ming’s cousin, leans over and says in a low, conspiratorial voice. We were introduced half an hour ago.
“Hard to say. I don’t play for his team.”
She giggles. “Then take my word for it.”
“And suitable,” another girl says.
I don’t have the faintest clue who she is, but she looks like she might be related to Shishi.
“He’s the son of the governor of Texas,” the girl says. “The oldest.”
“His papa isn’t what makes him charming,” Shishi says, waving her red-tipped fingers. “Mmm. Just my type.”
“Every cute guy is your type,” the girl says.
“Of course. If you have to have a type, it might as well be a good-looking guy…preferably rich and romantic, too.”
While they laugh, I look beyond and scowl when I see Elizabeth and the guy are gone. I don’t think she went off with a guy she just met, and that possibility is not why I’m looking for her. I’m doing this to make sure she’s all right.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
“Dominic, are you enjoying the party?” Ming Ming says, coming up.
“Yes. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. I plan to enjoy every one of my birthdays until I’m too old to give a damn. Are you looking for Elizabeth?”
I nod.
She pounces as though she’s been waiting for the slightest hint of encouragement. “I saw her heading back to hotel not too long ago. I think she had a headache or something. I’m sure she’s just lying down, the poor thing. But she might want something…you know, like aspirin?” Her smile is entirely too winsome. “You might want to check up on her.”
From her mischievous self-satisfied expression, I know what Ming Ming is thinking. I guess Elizabeth didn’t tell her how we broke up ten years ago. Or Ming Ming knows everything and is trying to see if we can have another go at it.
She’s going to be disappointed.
I start to turn toward the party crowd, then stop. Maybe Elizabeth really is feeling sick. If so, I should go and see how she’s doing. That’s the least I can do.
And I have a vested interest in making sure that she’s well enough to travel in two days. My schedule won’t allow me to spend more than a couple of days in Hawaii.
That’s the only reason I’m going to grab a bottle of aspirin and see how she’s doing.
I go to the hotel and ask the front desk clerk for Elizabeth’s room.
After checking her computer, she gives me a funny look. “Um—you’re both under the same reservation. I have you up in the suite—”
“What are you talking about? We’re not in the same anything.”
“I’m looking at our reservation records, sir, and—”
“Find me a different room.” There’s no way I’m spending the night with Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry, but we’re fully booked.”
What the hell? This better not be Elizabeth’s doing. Seething with an almost violent need to confront her, I demand the key to my room. The front desk clerk gives it to me after checking my ID.
I grab the freshly magnetized plastic and head straight for the suite. I barely hear the clerk telling me that my bags have been already delivered.
Maybe looking shaky and unwell was just an act. She fooled me spectacularly ten years ago, and now she’s had an extra decade to practice her acting skills.
What the hell is she playing at? She said she wanted something of hers from me. Trapping us in a same suite won’t make me give it up…even if I knew what it was. The pieces aren’t fitting neatly, and it leaves me unsettled and furious.
I stick the key into the slim slot, and the lock disengages with a click. I wrench the door open, marching into the darkness. I hear a soft gasp and a thud.
Blinking, I run my hand along the wall for the light switch, and the recessed bulbs in the ceiling glow a warm yellow. I spot Elizabeth huddled on the couch, shaking. Between her feet is a glass, its contents spilled all over the floor. Only the thick rug prevented it from breaking.
“You scared me,” she says, her voice hoarse and tight.
Her eyes are wide and glassy, and she’s entirely too pale, except for her cheeks, which are slightly flushed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was on some drug. But the table in front of her is clean except for a bottle of vodka. And I know her tolerance for alcohol.
“Jesus, are you okay?” In spite of myself, concern causes my tone to soften.
She starts to shake her head, then catches herself. “I’m fine.”
It’s an “I’m not really okay but I don’t want to talk about it” fine. A phrase every woman uses, but this is the first time I’ve heard it from Elizabeth. And I don’t like it. It makes me worried.
I walk toward her, keeping my steps brisk to hide my feelings. Then I notice the corkscrew in her hand. She’s clutching it like a weapon, the twisted metal sticking out between her index and middle fingers.
“Elizabeth…?”
She follows my gaze, then drops the corkscrew as though it’s burning. “I was…thinking about getting some wine.”
I stop for a second. She’s lying so badly, I want to press her for the truth. But then I take in her rapidly blinking eyes and quick, shallow breaths. She’s trying very hard to cling to control, and I want to let her preserve that bit of dignity.
She looks away, her cheeks still slightly flushed. My eyes narrowed, I raise my hand to her forehead, wanting to check in case she’s feverish. But before I can touch her, she flinches as though she’s expecting a strike.
The reaction is insulting and alarming at the same time. Shouldn’t she know better? I’ve never used physical violence against her.
Or maybe things happened to her in the last ten years… Ugly things that cause her to flinch like that.
My gaze drops to the corkscrew on the floor.
The drinking and her reaction both point to fear. Probably some kind of abuse. I recall how she abruptly stopped dating five years ago. Something must’ve happened back then…
An abusive boyfriend? Or worse? My throat tightens and sudden sympathy stirs. Maybe she isn’t the innocent wonder woman she tries to project, but nobody deserves to be hurt like that.
“I just want to see if you have a temperature,” I say, my voice gruff.
She relaxes slightly, and I touch her forehead. Her skin is slightly cool, almost clammy. Her stomach growls, then I remember that she didn’t eat anything on our flight. And I don’t recall seeing her eat at the party either.
“When was the last time you ate?”
She blinks. “I don’t know. Breakfast?”
Exasperation worsens my temper. “No wonder you’re not feeling well. You should’ve had something. Didn’t you see that huge birthday cake?”
“No. I can’t eat.”
“I’m not your mom. Nobody else here is, either.”
She stares up at me. “What?”
“Stop with the not eating.”
Confusion still clouds her eyes.
“I don’t care how ‘wide’ you get.” Her damned mother told her she’d better stay thin when she was only a teenager. Mother of the Century. “You’ve lost weight since our dinner at La Mer.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth rubs her face. “I’m not…it’s not about my mom. I just can’t eat. Food is going to make me sick.” Her warm, perfect composure is completely gone now, her shoulders drooping and her gaze unfocused.
Standing over her, I glower. I should get another room, but that’s not happening now. I can’t leave her like this—pale and hungry. A cynical part of me says she’s gotta be faking it, but I know better. There’s no way this is a ruse. Nobody can affect clamminess or force their stomach to growl.
“When I checked in, the front desk said this is the only room available. I’ll take the couch,” Elizabeth murmurs.
What kind of man does she think I am? I should just carry her to bed, dump her there and order her to sleep. But I can’t.
I consider ordering room service, then change my mind. Mom used to get the most horrible indigestion when she forced herself to eat when she wasn’t feeling well. Elizabeth’s probably the same.
After getting two fresh glasses, I pour us more vodka. Anybody else I wouldn’t serve more alcohol, but I know how well she can handle her liquor. She’s one of the few people who can drink me under the table.
She immediately takes hers and throws it back.
After a moment of silence, she asks, “Shouldn’t you be getting back to the party? There are a lot of people who could help your business. And your…cousin’s there, too.”
“I’m done.”
Her tongue runs over her lips. She isn’t doing it for sexual effect. “Are you close to Andy?”
“Yes.” Then because I don’t want to sound too abrupt, I add, “He’s a decent kid, hardworking, although he can be a bit awkward from time to time.”
After exhaling softly, she finishes her drink.
I turn, placing a knee on the couch so I can face her fully. She looks at me with raw, anguished eyes. I can see her bleeding. Hurting. And instead of her pain giving me satisfaction, I ache for her. And suddenly it occurs to me that maybe the last ten years weren’t as great for her as I assumed. Something horrible—something truly painful—is haunting her.