Broken Prince: A New Adult Romance Novel (14 page)

"Nobody," I said. My fingers hurt from clutching the phone so tightly and I switched ears, stretching my fingers out and trying to relax my muscles.

"Nobody? Not even a friend? Not even Dr. Herceg?" She was skeptical.

"Nobody," I repeated. "I'll be down there soon."

The phone screen went dark and I closed the window shutter, turning away from outside. I hadn't told anyone, and I should have. I shouldn't keep all of this bottled up inside of me. It wasn't fair to anyone, least of all to Eliot. He didn't deserve that.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Eliot

“As for everything else, so for mathematical theory: beauty can be perceived but not explained.”

Arthur Cayley

The cafe near the Academy was tucked away into a tiny corner of one of the alleys near the Danube. It wasn't the sort of place Marta would normally come to meet him for lunch, but Eliot had decided that he valued his privacy more than his sister-in-law's reputation. She was late, but then again she was always late.

Eliot finished his last run through of the typed-up proof, and, on a lark, wrote at the bottom in large letters: "QED." His pen blotted on the final letter and he laid it down on top of the papers.

Quod erat demonstrandum
. That which was to be determined. Well, he had determined it, alright. He'd gone through the whole damn thing four times now, and he couldn't find any holes. This was the proof he'd been working towards
determining
for—lord, for years now, and he was finally finished with it. The long slog through equations was over, and these last few pages of cleaned up mathematics represented the whole of his effort. The mathematical community would be thrilled with the result. He'd likely have invitations for new papers, lectures, guest fellowships. It was the kind of culminating achievement that most people spent their lifetimes struggling towards, and he had achieved it before turning forty.

Then why did he feel so unfulfilled?

Brynn had been distancing herself from Eliot and from the math over the past few days, and there was only one possible explanation that he could come up with: she had fallen out of love with him. She slept in his bed still but he had quit making any sexual overtures during the night, which seemed just fine with her. The end of the semester was nearing and the deadline for her graduation application was coming up.

"What is this? Still working?" Marta bent over Eliot's shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. She sat across from him and slung her purse over the back of the iron-wrought cafe chair.

"Just a final pass through," Eliot said. "The presentation with the board is at noon."

"Well, thank you for keeping close with your non-genius family members," Marta said. "I hope you'll remember us all when you're rich and famous." She smiled, tossing her perfectly coiffed hair over one shoulder.

"Speaking of rich and famous," Eliot said, "how is Otto doing?"

"That's why I wanted to meet with you," Marta said. "I have no idea what to do for his birthday coming up." The waiter came over and she ordered a mimosa.

"You must be in a terribly good mood," Eliot said, after the man had left.

"Why's that?"

"You didn't complain about the brand of champagne," Eliot said, smiling faintly.

"Oh, come," Marta said, fluttering one hand in the air. "I'm trying to be less picky."

"Why is Otto celebrating a birthday? He hates birthdays, and he already has everything he wants."

"What do you think about throwing a golf charity tournament for his birthday? He enjoys golf."

"Do you want to be in charge of waking him up for tee time on his birthday?" Eliot asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, you're right," Marta said. The mimosa came to the table and she lifted the glass, frowning at the water spots on the rim. To Eliot's relief, she set the glass back down on the table and didn't mention anything to the waiter. "Then what do I do?"

"You could have a quiet get together with just you and him," Eliot said. "A romantic birthday?"

"Ha!" Marta threw her head back to laugh. "He would kill me. Are you trying to get me killed by my husband?"

"Otto doesn't do quiet very well, does he?" Eliot said, cupping his chin in his hand.

"He doesn't do romantic well," Marta said, her eyes losing focus off in the distance. "That's more your territory, Eliot."

"Hardly!"

Eliot laughed once, a bitter laugh. He tried to catch himself, but Marta's attention caught on his tone.

"How is your girl?" she asked more seriously.

"She's not my girl," Eliot said. "At least, she isn't anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't think she wants to stay with me."

"Why? She's head over heels for you! You're still living together, yes?"

"Yes."

"Still sleeping together?"

"Marta—"

"What? I have a vested interest in my brother-in-law's happiness. And I like Brynn. She's a good girl."

"I like her, too," Eliot said, bending his forehead to his clasped hands. "But it's all falling apart. Maybe it's all the work I've been doing. I haven't been focusing on her."

"Why would she stay with you if she didn't love you?" Marta asked.

Eliot's throat closed up at the question and he bent his head down, his eyes burning. No. He would not show that sort of emotion in public. He swallowed and looked up.

"For all the normal reasons," he said. The irony in his voice was forced.

"Maybe she's not mature enough for you," Marta said. "She's young. She might just want to date around."

"I'm too much of a romantic, then," Eliot said. "I thought that we were meant for each other at first. That it was true love."

"She's not romantic enough for you," Marta said. "Is that it?"

"Romance is dead," Eliot said. "Romance leads to heartbreak."

"No," Marta said. "You don't believe that."

"She needs something more," Eliot said, continuing on. Now that the dam had cracked, all of his insecurity came out in a flood. "Somebody to make her forget her past. To help her heal. Especially after what happened. I don't know if I can do all that."

"It's not your job to save her," Marta said.

"I'm not trying to—"

Eliot's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to turn it off, but the call was international. From America.

"I have to take this," he said to Marta. She nodded and sipped at her mimosa gingerly.

"Hello?" Eliot said in English.

"Hello? Dr. Herceg?" The voice was older, a female voice.

"That's me," Eliot said.

"Are you in charge of the mathematics internship program at the Budapest Academy of Sciences?" the woman asked.

"Yes, I am," Eliot said. "Who is this?"

"I'm trying to get in touch with a—ah, Brynn Tomlin."

"She's part of the program here," Eliot said, worry creeping into his voice. Maybe Brynn had talked with somebody about her relationship with Eliot. He certainly didn't want any more trouble. "Who is this?"

"I'm a dean at Pasadena University," the woman said. "There's a family emergency."

"Family emergency?" Eliot's stomach jumped at the words. "What emergency? Is it her grandmother?"

The dean paused.

"I'm sorry, but I need to talk personally with Brynn."

"You have her cell phone number, don't you?"

"She's not answering her phone."

Eliot looked at his watch. There was only a half hour before he was supposed to meet with the board.

"I'll find her," Eliot said. "Can you call me if you get in touch with her before I do?"

"Of course," the dean said. Eliot hung up. Marta had a quizzical look on her face.

"Sorry," Eliot said. "It's something to do with Brynn's family."

"Her grandmother?" Marta asked.

"Her grandmother is sick," Eliot said, dialing the number to the Academy. His fingers hesitated over the numbers, his mind clouded with emotion. "I hope everything is alright. Hello? Professor Martin? I'm looking for a student of mine."

Eliot waited while the professor left the phone to look for Brynn. Marta sat graciously in silence. She was the perfect diplomat's wife, Eliot thought, calm and unruffled under any normal circumstances. He thought about the fire in the salon, about how she had panicked. A long way from the stylish, poised woman sitting in front of him.

Strange, that. Women went through hell and patched themselves up so that you wouldn't even notice. Eliot wasn't sure whether to be impressed or put off by their resilience.

"Hello?" The voice on the phone was not the professor's.

"Who is this?" Eliot said.

"It's Mark." The voice resolved in Eliot's mind as the name came into his ear.

"Mark? Is Brynn there?"

"They said you were looking for her. I think she's probably at the police station. Csilla just told me there was another murder."

"A murder?"

Marta's ears perked up at Eliot's conversation, and he shook his head helplessly.

"They think it might be the same person who did it."

"Who did what?"

"Killed Brynn's mom. Do you want me to call her?"

"She's not answering," Eliot said. His mind was buzzing.
A murder?
"Maybe she has her phone turned off. I'll go find her."

"What did you need her for?" Mark said. "I heard you guys were almost done with the proof. Is it done?"

"What? Oh, the proof." In the midst of everything, Eliot had almost forgotten about the proof. "Yes. Yes, I'll be presenting it today. I have to go."

He hung up as the boy was in the middle of saying goodbye and stood up from the table.

"I have to go," he repeated, picking up all of his papers and stuffing them into a pile under his arm. "I'm sorry, Marta—"

"Not at all," Marta said. She threw a bill on the table; Eliot knew it would cover their whole bill. "We can talk later about Otto's party. Eliot?"

"Yes?" Eliot was tense, ready to run.

"Take care of yourself," Marta said, tucking his pen into his jacket pocket. "And don't stop being a romantic."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Brynn

I had not understood this part of being an expatriate, and an American expatriate to boot: that my nationality would be questioned near daily. I had never quite been an extrovert, and this was all the more incentive for me to retreat into hermitage. I stayed indoors and rarely ventured out into the world. This world had proved dangerous, and it was hard for me to trust again that fate would lead me the right way. Eliot had promised to protect me, but he stayed away from me, retreating into his work. My fault, to love a brilliant man? Or his fault, not to cut me loose once he had stopped loving me?

When I did go outside, it was to the Academy, and I stayed close to Mark and even to Csilla, who had iced her attitude towards me so that we spoke in mathematics to each other and little else. She seemed to delight in proving me wrong, and although at first it was frustrating, I began to realize that the faster she proved my incorrect avenues of inquiry wrong, the faster I could move on to the next one. She grew ever more visibly frustrated when I accepted her criticisms enthusiastically, but she pushed me to burn through the proof mechanisms at a faster pace. .

The police station was swarming with people when I arrived. Before, Csilla's mom had led me through the station quietly. Now, though, dozens of policemen talked loudly, the Hungarian words swarming in the air around my ears. I pulled my red hoodie over my head and tried to muffle the sound of the crowd, all foreign and aimed at me, or so the paranoid side of my brain would have me believe. But I swore I heard the name Herceg more than once, and American - that was a word I knew all too well.

It was only when she called me for the third time that I realized Mrs. Deveny was standing in the doorway of an office, calling my name.

"Brynn!"

"Yes?" I walked forward amid the strange gazes of strangers who had seen my picture somewhere and recognized me. Did they know me as the girl whose mother had been killed thirteen years ago? Did they know me as the girl hanging around with the notorious Dr. Eliot Herceg? Or worse, did they know me as the person who was there to be questioned, the only person with any ties to this recent murder?

"Come in," Mrs. Deveny said. The coolness in her voice reminded me of the first time I had met her, in her apartment. The glaze in her eyes confirmed my suspicions—she had been drinking, and recently. She turned away from my eyes as though she knew what I was seeing.

"These men want to ask you some questions," she said. "Can I have your phone and any other electronics you might have?"

"Um, sure," I said.

"You don't have any recording equipment?" she asked.

"No," I said, growing more confused as I handed her my phone.

"There you go," she said. "They're ready for you."

There were two officers standing inside next to a table. One of them was tall, middle-aged, with a pinched face and angry eyes. The other one was fat and kept rubbing his cheek with one hand like he had a toothache. The tall man said something in Hungarian that I couldn't understand, and Csilla's mom replied quickly. She left and closed the door behind her.

The door shut with a hard clang, and the loud chatter of the office outside was muted in an instant. I was all alone with the two officers. The tall man said something else, this time to me, still frowning.

"Sit down," the fat officer said in a heavy accent. I took a step forward and pulled out the chair. The metal legs scraped over the tile floor, and when I sat down the chair was chilly against my back. The fluorescent light overhead was so bright that it made me squint. I realized that I was going to be interrogated. The tall man said something else.

“Sajnálom, én nem beszélek jól magyarul,” I said slowly, careful to pronounce the words correctly.
I'm sorry, I don't speak Hungarian very well.

The tall officer looked up in surprise and then spoke quickly to the fat man.