Chapter Nine
Hunter
When I’d invited Char to Hilltop, I’d told her it was so we could get to know each other a little better. That’s what I’d said, but I was glumly aware that my motives weren’t quite that pure.
The darker truth was that I really wanted to impress her. I wanted her to see all the things I could offer our daughter—an impeccably decorated house, the best food, exposure to fine art and music and literature. I might be a felon, but I was a billionaire felon, damn it.
I laughed grimly at myself. In a way, I was no better than my father. I’d admitted that he probably would have wanted to take Diana away so she could have the better things in life. I didn’t want to take her away from Char, but I wanted her to have those things too.
Which was ridiculous. She was happy with Char and her family. A mansion with an army of servants wouldn’t make her any happier.
As a child, it had never made me happy. As a teenager, I’d hated it and longed for a simpler life on one hand, while enjoying the privileges being a Kensington gave me on the other. I’d looked in at the Evans’ house with hungry eyes, longing for the sort of warmth and family life they shared—yet I’d looked down on them too.
I didn’t know what I wanted for my daughter, but I did know I didn’t want her to grow up to be the sort of arrogant, entitled asshole I’d been. I wanted to be a better father than my own dad had been. Most of all, I wanted Diana to be happy.
Even so, I showed Char around the house, starting in the marble-floored foyer, then showing her the living room filled with French antiques, the dining room with its dazzling Baccarat crystal chandelier, the media room styled like an Art Deco theater right down to the red velvet seats, and the long hallway that ran between the original part of the house and a newer section, which served as an art gallery. It was lined with statues ranging from Greek and Roman originals to my father’s prize, a bronze Rodin. Original paintings adorned the walls, including a Warhol and a Picasso, among lesser lights. Char must have taken an art history class or two, because her eyes grew wider and wider as we walked through the long hall.
At the end of the hallway, I pushed open the heavy maple door to the library. “And this is…”
I broke off as Au rose to his feet from behind the desk. He quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Do we have company, brother?”
I felt my teeth draw back in a snarl despite my best intentions. Au held my future in the palm of his hand, and as such I knew I needed to treat him with respect and courtesy. But he was just so annoying. Everything about him irritated me, from his contemptuous tone to that goddamned eyebrow.
“Clive told me you would be in New York tonight.”
“Yes. I was just heading out.” Au ran a hand through his golden hair, artfully tousling it, and moved toward us. He wore yet another suit, this one navy with a subtle pinstripe pattern, with a deep burgundy tie setting off his gleaming white shirt. He spoke in his most formal voice. “Perhaps you would care to introduce me to this charming young lady?”
The absolute last thing I wanted was for Char to meet Au right now. Everything I’d told her must still be fresh in her mind, and I remembered how outraged she’d been on my behalf. If she blurted anything out—
But no. She’d sworn she’d keep my secret, no matter how angry the situation made her, and I trusted her. In fact, I believed in her much more than I’d ever believed in anyone. Which was strange when I thought about it. But in the last twenty-four hours, my faith in her had somehow become absolute.
I could trust Char with my life.
“This is Charlotte Evans,” I said at last. “Char, my brother Austin.”
She offered her hand rather half-heartedly, and Au took it in his and lifted it to his mouth, kissing the back of her hand as if she were a princess. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said, releasing her hand and meeting her eyes squarely. There was a sincerity in his voice that made her blink in surprise, and I was somewhat taken aback as well. I was so used to Au being a snarky, sarcastic jerkwad to me that I’d forgotten he could be very charming to the rest of the world.
The truth was we were both assholes. He was just better at hiding it.
“You too,” she said and looked right back at him with a steady, assessing gaze. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Au didn’t flinch, didn’t betray concern by a flicker of an eyelash. “Well,” he said, his cold brown gaze shifting to me, “I’ll leave your precious room to you, brother. I need to get to New York and settle in before a business meeting tomorrow. Some of us have important work to do, after all.” He looked back at Char, and his eyes softened. “I regret that we won’t have time to talk tonight, Miss Evans. I hope to get to know you better eventually.”
He turned away from us and strode from the room. The door shut behind him, and I stood there feeling bewildered. He’d been his usual asshole self to me, but he’d treated Char with respect and courtesy—far more than my father would have under the same circumstances. Nothing in his bearing had suggested that he thought Char was inferior. My father would’ve treated Char like something he’d just scraped off his shoe. Au had treated her precisely the same way he would have treated a socialite or a world-famous actress.
Was it because he knew Char was the mother of my child? Or was he just more decent than I’d imagined?
I glanced down at Char to find she looked just as bewildered as I did.
“He isn’t what I expected,” she said slowly, as if she were turning the encounter over in her mind. “The two of you obviously don’t get along, but that’s not all that unusual for brothers. But even so, I thought he looked at you with—I don’t know, respect.”
I snorted.
She went on stubbornly. “And he was really polite to me. Overall, he seemed like a nice guy, Hunter. Are you absolutely certain he was the one to embezzle those funds?”
Something in my chest went cold and hard. My heart, I thought, freezing into ice. Ten seconds in my brother’s company, and she’d switched sides. So much for trusting her with my life, I thought bitterly. “Are you suggesting that I—“
“No.” She placed a gentle hand on my upper arm to stop me. “Of course I’m not suggesting you did it, Hunter. You already told me you didn’t, and I believe you. What I’m wondering is, are you sure Au was the one who stole that money? Is there any chance it could have been your father?”
“My father?” I uttered a short laugh. “My father’s net worth was over ten billion dollars, Char. What could have possibly been his motivation to steal a few hundred thousand from the Kensington Foundation?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her brow furrowing in perplexity as she looked at the closed door through which Au had disappeared. “I just don’t know, Hunter. But…”
“Look,” I said impatiently, “you don’t know Au like I do, okay? He’s very good at pretending to be a decent guy. But he’s not. He’s always been…I don’t know, smarmy.”
“Being smarmy isn’t the same as being a criminal. Mmmmm.” She seemed to be mulling it over. “I noticed something else, you know. He was limping.”
“Yeah. He mentioned at breakfast the other morning that he’d strained his leg playing racquetball.”
“Mmm-hmmm. But…well, remember the guy who mugged me the other night? I kicked him pretty hard.”
I definitely remembered that. She’d landed a hell of a blow, all right, and the guy would probably still be limping from it. Even so, I couldn’t quite reconcile the two thoughts in my head, and I cocked my head, looking down at her in confusion. “Are you suggesting Au, of all people, is wandering around Pinecone at night, grabbing pretty girls and dragging them into alleys?”
The thought of my brother as an embezzler was one thing. He’d always been a little sneak as a kid, and now he was generally acknowledged as a genius at business. He could have easily stolen that money and not left a trace behind. Really, the only wonder was that he’d been caught.
But imagining Au—refined, pretentious, pompous Au—as a thief or a rapist was another thing entirely. True, since I’d been back he’d gone out nearly every night, but I was sure he was simply doing what he claimed to be doing—going to the opera or the symphony or art gallery openings in Richmond and Washington. That was the sort of thing he’d always loved. And he had even more reason not to stay at home now too. After all, I was here.
The thought of my prissy little brother straying out into dark alleys and preying on innocent young women was a concept I couldn’t wrap my brain around. But before I could argue the matter, she shook her head.
“Not girls in general. I haven’t heard of anyone else getting mugged in recent days, and people gossip in the diner, you know. If women were getting mugged, I’d have heard about it. All anyone’s been talking about lately is you coming back to town. What I’m suggesting is that Au grabbed me, specifically.”
“Why the hell would he do that?”
“I have no idea.” She shrugged, dismissing the topic. “I guess it was a silly notion. He probably just hurt himself playing racquetball, like you said. Don’t worry about it. Is this the library? It looks just like the library in Beauty and the Beast! How many books are in this room, anyway?”
The two of us spent at least half an hour surrounded by books while she marveled over the many older, leather-bound tomes and the tall rolling ladders, and offered suggestions for rearranging by subject and author so individual volumes could be found more readily. Considering that the library consisted of thousands and thousands of books, which my father seemed to have randomly scattered around the shelves, it was a good idea, and I resolved to start working on it tomorrow. Even if I didn’t have a real, paying job, at least I could begin to organize my favorite room. It was better than nothing.
She looked through the family photos scattered around the shelves too and smiled at the silver-framed pictures of me clad in my leather jacket, scowling at the camera like James Dean.
“It’s no wonder I had a crush on you back then. Look how gorgeous you were.”
I thought I looked like a young and obnoxious idiot, but I kept that thought to myself. It was nice to know that she’d had a crush on me, even way back then. I must have been her first crush, and I’d been her first lover as well. That made something inside me glow, something oddly possessive.
“Thanks,” I said gruffly.
“But there aren’t any of you and your father together,” she said, looking puzzled. “There are plenty of pictures of you and Au, and Au and your father. But didn’t you and your father ever spend time together?”
“I tried to avoid him most of the time,” I admitted. “The old man and I—we didn’t get along. You know how I was as a kid…well, you probably don’t remember the worst of it actually. In high school, I got busted a few times for misdemeanors. A little vandalism, a couple of fist fights. Dad’s lawyers always got me out of it, but…well, I had a pretty tough adolescence. I guess I was rebelling against the old man, truth be told.”
She looked at me curiously. “Why? Was he abusive?”
“Not exactly. Cold. Cruel, maybe. Not that he ever lifted a hand to us, even when we were kids, but he could cut you to ribbons with a tongue-lashing, or make you cry with that icy glare of his. He wanted to mold me into the perfect son, and I—well, I didn’t want to be molded. Eventually I guess he sort of gave up on me and turned to molding Au instead.”
“Huh. Who’s this?” She showed me a photo of a woman—older, but still very handsome, her abundant brown hair piled on top of her head in an elaborate style that Princess Leia would have been proud to wear. “Your mom?”
“No, that was taken long after Mom died. That was one of Dad’s many girlfriends. That’s Rose Ambrose, the one who stuck around the longest. I used to call her Cruella because she was always flouncing around in a fur coat. They dated at least three years—in fact, she was still dating him when he died. She was a rich widow who moved in the local social circles, and I think she had the optimistic belief that eventually Dad would make an honest woman out of her. He didn’t, of course. And eventually he started cheating on her the same way he’d cheated on my mother.”
I could hear the bitterness in my own voice.
Char looked at me with sympathy. “So you were rebelling against your father because he kept trying to replace your mother?”
“I don’t know.” I thought about it then shrugged. “Maybe that was part of it. Who knows what goes on in a teenager’s mind, anyway? All I knew was that I hated him and loved him, and it was all just a big, confusing tangle in my chest. I guess it made me do some stupid, crazy things.”
The lawyers had managed to finagle a way to get me out of all my little messes, and even if they hadn’t, those records would have been sealed anyway since I’d been a juvenile. But everyone in Pinecone and Richmond had seen the news articles about my unfortunate peccadilloes, and I was sure that even if I’d pleaded innocent, a jury would have decided I was guilty. In the eyes of the world, I’d been a lost cause for a long, long time.
And, I thought sorrowfully, in the eyes of my father as well.
Far too soon, the old grandfather clock in the corner struck seven, and I took Char’s arm and led her back toward the dining room.
“François is making us seafood,” I told her. “Dinner will be served in a half hour or so. In the meantime, would you care for a drink?”
She chuckled, as if the notion of a before-dinner sherry was mildly absurd. It occurred to me belatedly that it probably wasn’t the sort of thing normal people did. “Maybe, but I haven’t seen the kitchen yet.”
“The kitchen? I don’t go in there very often.”
“Not even to grab a Coke?”
If I wanted a Coke, I ordinarily rang for one of the servants to bring it to me, but I decided it was best not to say so. I thought that would make me look like a spoiled, pampered rich brat, and it very likely did. For the first time it occurred to me that it was really rather ridiculous to have an army of servants dedicated to pleasing my every whim. There was no good reason why Au and I couldn’t simply walk to the kitchen and grab our own damn sodas if we were thirsty.
“François doesn’t like us to get in the way while he’s cooking,” I explained.
She paused, her arm still in mine, and looked up at me. “What about you? Don’t you ever do your own cooking?”
I gave a soft huff. “The sad truth of the matter is I can’t even boil water.”
“Oh, my God.” She looked horrified and amused all at once. “We can’t have that. Come on, show me where the kitchen is right now.”
She tugged on my arm, but I dug in my heels. “Why?”
She looked up at me, her blue eyes dancing with humor. “I’m going to teach you how to make meatloaf.”
***
Charlotte
François—a solemn, dark-haired young man in a chef’s hat, who didn’t look that much older than me—wasn’t entirely happy about being interrupted, but I coaxed him into putting the lovely dinner he’d already prepared for us into the fridge. Hunter then gave him the rest of the night off, which made him crack a smile.
The kitchen was beautiful, designed to look like a rustic kitchen in France with wooden beams on the ceiling and a huge brick fireplace. The countertops were distressed tile, and the floor was made of wide wooden planks, probably pine judging from the wear and tear they’d received over the years. Shining copper pots dangled from a rack hung from the ceiling, and near the fireplace stood a long table in the French Provincial style with gracefully curving legs and off-white, timeworn paint.
If this was my house, I thought, no one would ever be able to drag me out of this kitchen. It was absolute perfection, and it struck me as very unfortunate that no one seemed to venture into the space other than the chef.
With François safely out of the way and unable to be horrified by the dinner we were about to prepare, I dug around in the fridge—which was absolutely enormous; you could easily have fit three of Mom’s fridge into this monstrosity. I located some ground chuck and eggs, and found some old-fashioned oatmeal, along with everything else we would need, in the equally vast pantry. I told Hunter to find us a bowl, and he rooted around helplessly, looking befuddled, but by searching through various cabinets he eventually located a large, stainless steel mixing bowl. I couldn’t help laughing at him.
“I can’t believe you don’t know where to find a bowl in your own kitchen!”
“I’ve been gone a couple of years,” he muttered defensively.
“True, but could you find a bowl in here two or three years ago? Did you ever even try?”
His scowl gave me the answer.
I laughed and shoved the meat toward him. “Wash your hands, then take this out of the packaging and dump it in that bowl.”
He did so, and I added the oatmeal, eggs, milk, and the spices my mom used.
“Okay,” I said. “Now we have to mix it up.”
He looked around as if he were eager to be helpful. “There’s a spoon over there,” he volunteered, pointing to a canister full of metal spoons near the stove.
“Yeah, but we’re not using a spoon. We’re using our hands.”
“Our hands?” he echoed, sounding mildly horrified.
“Yup. Come on, dig in.”
The two of us used our hands to mix it all up in the time-honored, traditional way of making meatloaf. At first Hunter looked revolted by the coldness and texture of it, but by the end he was working with the mixture just about as confidently as my mom did.
We put the resulting substance into a loaf pan, spread the sauce of ketchup, brown sugar, and Worcestershire sauce over the top, and put it into the huge oven to cook for an hour.
“There,” I said with satisfaction, scrubbing my hands off thoroughly at the beaten copper sink. “Dinner will be late, but at least now you know how to cook meatloaf any time you get a craving for it.”
“I should have written down the recipe.” He scrubbed his hands too, his forehead puckering like he was genuinely worried.
“It’s okay, I’ll text it to you.”
He reached for a paper towel to dry off his hands and looked down at me. “I know I texted you earlier, but I felt kind of weird about it. Are we going to be texting each other now?”
“Well, we do have a daughter.” I hopped up onto the counter facing him. “Besides, my boss told me to keep drama out of the diner, so you dropping by every time we have something to talk about really isn’t going to work. So yeah, overall I think texting is a better system to communicate, don’t you?”
“I just…” He blew out a heavy breath. “It’s still hard for me to accept that you’re willing to let me be a part of Diana’s life. Or your life.”
I reached out and put a hand on his cheek. “Hunter, you became a part of my life that night we made love in the alley. I don’t think I could change that now even if I wanted to. And…I don’t want to. I want you to be part of our lives. Forever.”
His eyes went wide, and then he slowly bent forward, brushing my lips with his own, softly, tenderly, like I was the most important thing in the world to him. His kiss was so gentle, so reverent, that tears sprang to my eyes.
“Char,” he whispered. “While I was in prison, I thought about you all the time. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
The words made my heart pound in my chest, but I couldn’t quite believe them. I shook my head. “I know you, Hunter. You’ve been with plenty of other women. Why would you think about me, of all people?”
“I don’t know.” His lips trailed over my cheek, a soft caress. “After that night, after we made love…it was like you were the only woman in the world, as far as I was concerned. If I hadn’t been arrested that night, if my life hadn’t gone to hell…” A long pause. “I didn’t go to jail right away, you know. I was out on bond for a while. But I didn’t sleep with anyone, didn’t even try to date. Once there was you…there was no one else.”
It was hard to believe he really meant it, that he wasn’t just telling me this to get in my jeans. But there was a ringing sincerity in the words that was difficult to doubt. More tears burned my eyelids, and I tried to blink them all away without too much success. I turned my head and brushed kisses over his cheek, trying to figure out how to respond.
Having Diana had forced me to grow up faster than I might have otherwise. But I didn’t want to tell him that because I didn’t want him to imagine I regretted Diana or our night together. I didn’t. But it had definitely changed things. It had changed me.
“I’m not sure I was ready for anything serious back then,” I admitted. “I was so young, barely twenty-one, in the middle of college. I’d had a crush on you for a long time, and I loved that we shared a night together, but… I wasn’t ready for anything serious. Not then.”
He pulled back just a little and looked straight into my eyes. “What about now?”
I drew in a deep breath. “I’m ready.”