Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle) (41 page)

Red.
Somewhere
in the crowd a woman was screaming, and cameras flashed from all sides, dozens
of them. Eliot shook off the arms restraining him and covered his eyes, but
still the lights flashed through the cracks in his fingers.
So much red
.
A security guard pulled the photographer out of the river and out of Eliot’s
sight. The roaring in Eliot’s ears stopped as soon as he looked up.

Brynn stood speechless, staring
at him as though he were a monster. He turned toward the exit and ran.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Eliot shoved well-dressed
businessmen aside on his way out the door of the restaurant. A plate clattered
to the floor as he bumped a waiter hard, but he did not even turn to see what
had happened. He knew what had happened. It was the reason he didn
’t
want to be in Hungary.

Clare
.

His feet took him down the
street, away from watchful eyes, until he turned onto the bridge and stopped
there, the icy floes of the Danube some thirty meters under his feet. He pressed
his palms to his eyes, willing away the memory, but still it came over him as
it always had, a furious, immutable wave of emotion that rolled him into its
current and back into the past, a decade back, when Clare was still his wife
and he thought fate was on his side.

They had been driving back from
one of Otto’s parties, and the roads glistened with the treacherous dark
patches of ice. Clare looked beautiful, dressed in an ivory sheath with pearls
wreathing her neck, her hair done up by the stylist Marta had recommended.
Eliot couldn’t help but look over every once in a while to take glimpses of his
angel, as he called her. A soft fall of snow was swept away quietly by the
windshield wipers. Eliot had maneuvered his way around the dark curves of the
mountain well enough until the paparazzi showed up. Two photographers on
motorcycles shot up until they were just behind the car.

“Get away from them, can you?”
Clare said.

“I’m trying,” Eliot said. One of
the photographers rode his motorcycle up alongside their car, then in front,
and began to shoot pictures from through the windshield. The light from the
camera was blinding, and Eliot didn’t know how he could be taking any usable
pictures anyway.

“I don’t understand it,” Eliot
said. “You would think they would be satisfied with the photos of us outside of
the party. Wasn’t that enough?”

“I can’t stand it. I can’t.”
Clare’s voice strained.

“Aren’t there usually more?”
Eliot thought the paparazzi normally traveled in packs.

“I hate these damned men,” Clare
said, shielding her face with her hand as the camera flashed bright white.
“Leave us alone!” She began to roll down the window.

“Clare, don’t—”

“Leave us alone!” she shouted
through the half-opened window, both her hands. Cold wind howled through the
car, and snowflakes flurried inside of the car. Eliot reached over to pull her
back, and the camera flashed, and then the road slid underneath them sideways
although Eliot had kept the wheel straight, or tried.

From then on the world existed
only in flashes of light and sound and terror. He heard the tires squeal, and
the motorcycle slammed into the hood, the ear-splitting sound of metal on metal
and shattering glass. Eliot slammed on the brakes and tried to pull the
steering wheel straight, but the rear end of the car swung back and then they
were flying off of the road and there was a tree in front and god, oh god. The
crash of branches through the windows came only a second before the jarring
shock of impact. The world stopped and Eliot saw the blackness rush over him as
he hit the airbag, the force knocking him unconscious for a brief second.
He felt something sharp tear across his chest and slice his face as he blacked
out. Then his eyes opened. Fir branches covered the interior of the car.

Clare. A soft whimper made him
turn his head, although his neck hurt terribly. Clare.

The tree branch had come through
the windshield and pierced her through the chest at a sharp angle. Her hands
touched the bark of the branch over and over again, as though she was unsure how
it had gotten there. Blood seeped through her dress, soaking into the ivory
fabric and turning it dark red.

“Clare. Don’t move. Clare.” He
coughed and wiped at his eyes, hoping that the scene before him would change,
turn into something else. The woman he loved sat next to him, dying, he was
sure. So much blood. How could there be so much blood? He touched his face and
brought his hand away covered in it.

Clare looked up at him, but her
eyes were glazed over. Her mouth opened as if to say something, but she could
not speak.

“It’s okay, Clare.” Eliot
reached over to take her hand. Her fingers slipped against his skin, slick with
blood.

“Eliot…”

“It’s alright. You’re going to
be okay.” He reassured her even as part of his mind rebelled, going into a
crazed state. He saw himself in the seat as if from a distance, watching both
of them sit next to each other. Watching Clare die. Would he die too? He looked
down. His shirt had been torn by a tree limb, his skin opened up across his
chest. His stomach turned at the sight of so much carnage.

A roar of noise from engines
made his gaze turn from her to the half-opened window, still intact. In the
rearview mirror he saw a half-dozen silhouettes of men on motorbikes. The rest
of the photographers. He cleared his throat and cried out.

“Help!” he shouted weakly. “My
wife needs help!”

A man came to the side door, his
helmet still on, and took a step back when he saw Clare. Another man joined
him, then another.

“Jesus,” the first man swore.

“Please,” Eliot said. “Please help.”
His hand shook as he caressed Clare’s face. Her eyes stayed fastened onto his.

Then the cameras began to flash.

Clare closed her eyes, and Eliot
tried to shield her face from the cameras. His hands dripped with blood.

“Stop!” he cried. “Help! We need
help!”

Clare moaned, her eyes still
closed. Her hand relaxed its grip on Eliot’s hand.

“Clare?”

She coughed weakly, and a spray
of blood misted the deflated airbag in front of her. One hand at her chest, she
drew a shallow, ragged breath. The harsh glare of the camera flashes, one after
another, illuminated her face, and Eliot saw in bursts of light her head
lolling back on the headrest.

“Clare? Clare, look at me.
Clare!” Eliot squeezed her hand, but there was no response. He panicked, his
voice rising to a scream.
“Clare
!”

A drop of blood slowly trickled
over her lower lip and dripped down onto her chest, which had ceased to rise
and fall.

The cameras kept flashing.

Dizzy
with champagne, I was completely unprepared for Eliot
’s breakdown,
for his attack on the photographer.

My head had been swimming nicely
in bubbles as Eliot danced with me, and then he kissed me, or I kissed him, I
couldn
’t tell. All I knew was that it felt right to be held by
him, to press my lips to his, and I could feel the need inside of him as he
pulled me tightly into his arms. Everything was perfect and right and good, and
then he exploded and security guards swarmed around us and Eliot turned and
left me alone. I remember the photographer coughing as he helped the man out of
the river, his teeth chattering with cold.

I held out my hand to stop
Eliot, but he was already gone. Tipsy though I was, I remembered to get my
purse and coat before following him out the door. People around me stared and
talked in Hungarian, and I had no idea what was going on.

I stumbled down the street, my
heels slipping on the icy sidewalk, and almost passed by the bridge where Eliot
sat crouched fifty feet away, huddled against the cold granite. Shaking his
head, he clutched his arms around his knees.

“Eliot?” I called out to him
from across the street, but he did not hear me. I waited until the cars had
gone, then made my way across to him.

“Eliot?”

Eyes tightly closed, he muttered
something under his breath, his head still shaking from side to side. I leaned
down, but the words were Hungarian, and I could not understand. I touched him
on the shoulder and he started backwards, hitting his head against the side of
the bridge.

“Nem!”

I knew enough Hungarian to know
what that meant—
no.

“Eliot, it’s me.” Eliot’s eyes
were wild, terror still written on his face.

“Clare.”

“It’s me. It’s Brynn.”

The light in his eyes dimmed to
a frown. He refocused his gaze on me.

“Brynn.” He rubbed the back of
his head. “Brynn, I—” He went to stand up and tottered, his arm shaking
under my grasp.

“Easy, there.” I helped him
stand up and looked around. A crowd had gathered at the end of the bridge,
waiting. Watching us. I saw a cab turn onto the street and darted to the curb
to hold my hand out. The cab pulled over.

“Come on,” I said.

Eliot looked back over the side
of the bridge, to the icy river below. I came over and took his hand, and he
swallowed hard. When he turned back to me, his face was glassy with sorrow, his
jaw set in a hard line.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The cab driver was silent the
entire way back, although when he drove up to the estate entrance he let out a
low whistle between his teeth. I gave him a big tip and thanked him as best as
I could in Hungarian. Eliot didn’t say a word as we entered the house, but when
we reached the top of the stairs where we were to part ways, he paused.

“Brynn,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said, not knowing
what he was apologizing for. Running away? Freaking out over the photographers?

“I don’t—I can’t explain…”

“It’s okay,” I repeated.
“Really. You don’t have to.”

“This is my fault,” Eliot said.
He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “All my fault. To bring you here, to
take you out to this party. Brynn, it was a mistake.”

No
. I didn’t
know if I whispered the word, or if it was just my mind that was screaming it.
This wasn’t a mistake. My first kiss, that I had thought so perfect, broken to
pieces. I wanted to cry.

“Please, Brynn, I’m sorry.” He
looked so forlorn, so unhappy. I wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him and
hold him and tell him that everything would be alright. I wanted to caress his
dark hair and smell his cologne. Instead I wrapped my arms around myself and
tried to keep from shattering.

Eliot reached out and
pressed his hand on my shoulder. It was not unkind, but now I wanted so much
more from him.

“Forget this, please,” he said.
“All of this.” His face was dark with sorrow, and I nodded. With those words he
turned and left me in the dim corridor at the top of the stairs. I saw him turn
into his study and look back, and my body ached to scream, to run forward to
him, to do anything. Calmly I walked the few steps to the guest room and closed
the door behind me. I sat on the edge of the huge canopied bed and watched the
bedroom door, as though if I willed it hard enough the door would open and
Eliot would be there, arms wide and ready for me.

Soon I undressed and got into
bed. I clutched my pillow hard to my chest and tried not to let my sobs escape.
Stupid, so stupid. I was a poor girl, and he was a prince. I scolded myself for
all of my desires, telling myself not to think about him. For hours I lay there
and listened for his step outside the door and cried, so many tears that I
thought there would be no more for the morning, and I could escape back to the
apartments, and perhaps leave altogether, leave Hungary, once I had visited my
mother.

Forget this.

I might never be able to have
Eliot take me in his arms again, but there was no way that I would ever forget
that kiss.

The
kiss, that
’s what changes everything. In fairytales, that
is. The prince kisses the princess, and suddenly she is awake after all these
years, or brought back to life, or gets her voice back. Or the princess kisses
the prince, and he is transformed from a hideous creature into a handsome man,
waiting to dash her into his arms.

I had never been kissed
before Eliot. In kindergarten a boy pressed his lips on my ear and nearly
deafened me, and it was all downhill from there. I grew up in the most awkward
way
—sometimes pudgy, sometimes geeky, never popular.
In high school, the most guys would do was gawk at my cleavage. One time in
college—well, it was the last time I let myself be dragged to a party.
I’d say my resume was lackluster in the romantic department, and that was being
generous.

And then Eliot kissed me.

While it changed me in some
ways, it wasn’t as dramatic as being woken up from a coma or transmogrified
from a frog, and when he told me it was a mistake, I cursed myself for thinking
that it could be anything more. In some ways, his kissing me made me even more
withdrawn, self-conscious. I didn’t get my voice or life back; what I got was a
crippling sense of unease whenever he walked by, knowing that we couldn’t be
together. The kiss didn’t help with our secret. It just made it worse. Here,
Brynn: here’s something you can’t have, something wonderful and beautiful and
perfect that you can’t keep.

But it did something else,
and maybe that’s the part that they talk about in fairy tales. It woke up a
feeling inside of me, an emotion that I didn’t think I had. An emotion I didn’t
know I was
capable
of having.

Desire. Fiery, erotic desire.