Counsel (Counsel #1) (24 page)

"You should at least try some of mine to see what the fuss is about," I challenge when our food arrives.

"Perhaps, but I'll have you know I was five or six years old the last time I tried it. I spat it out into a napkin," she responds playfully, but then her eyes turn sad.

"Angelique? Did I say something to upset you?"

"No… I… I just realized that was the last time I remember Dad, Mom and I being out together. It was before he got sick."

"I'm so sorry; tell me a happy story about him," I ask in an attempt to lighten her mood.

She smiles wanly and takes a deep breath. "The Bains, well our branch anyway, were originally from Scotland, but Dad refused to acknowledge he was anything other than Irish. He was a proud, fifth generation Irishman and the reason I chose Boston." A pained expression crosses her face before she looks up at me with a tiny smile.

"Boston is the most Irish city in the U.S. of A, A Stór," I remember him saying."

I laugh at her attempt to deepen her voice to emulate a male’s. "A Stór?"

"It's what he called me; it means treasure or beloved in Gaelic."

"Very fitting," I say pointedly and then watch as color suffuses her face.

"He used to call me A Stór or Angel; in fact, Mom calls me either of those too at times."

"I heard Mandi call you Angel."

"She got it from my parents when we were little. Tell me something about your family?" she asks, and I oblige because it’s obvious she wants to avoid becoming emotional.

"Well, Thorne is supposedly an English name, but my family originated in Scotland too. They moved to Ireland in the sixteenth century, according to my dad so, realistically, I can claim a much longer Irish heritage than you."

"Ah, but does your family like colcannon? According to my Dad, one isn’t truly Irish unless you like colcannon," she challenges.

"Colcannon?"

"It's potato mashed with cabbage," she says, giggling at my expression of distaste.

"I've never liked cabbage," I admit.

"If you don’t like colcannon, you're not really Irish."

"I’m not; not really," I concede, feeling a pang of regret at the memory of my true heritage.

"What's the matter?" she asks, and as much as I hate talking about Adam Winston, I want to be honest and open with her.

"My mother was a Mannering, that's the name I was born with; it’s English. My biological father was a Winston, also English, I've been told. Not that I've personally checked," I add disdainfully.

"You don't like your biological father?"

"I didn't know him. He abandoned my mother when she was pregnant with me," I say matter-of-factly.

"Adam, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be; I'm not. He wasn't half the man Callum Thorne is. I consider myself lucky not to have known him. Anyway, let's talk about brighter things. Did you have a good time with your friend the other night?" I ask.

"I did," she says, "Amy’s very entertaining."

Angelique relates stories about Amy’s exploits at the community dance school where, she tells me, she met her and Sarah Warne. She does try some of my huevos rancheros and offers me a taste of her eggs Benedict in return. We laughingly agree to disagree about which is better. I'm thrilled that she’s relaxed so easily, and it appears that she enjoys my company almost as much as I do hers. I decide to take the bull by the horns then.

Here goes nothing, I think, taking a deep breath. "There's something I'd like to discuss with you, and I ask that you keep an open mind."

Her smile drops instantly, and I hasten to reassure her. "It's nothing bad; in fact, I fervently hope you decide it’s a good thing." She doesn't respond; she simply pins me with those damned expressive eyes as I continue.

"My family and I are setting up a charity focused on a community center for underprivileged children. I’ll be on the board, but I won't be involved in the day-to-day management. My mother, Emma, will be in charge," I stop, allowing her time to absorb what I’ve said.

"That sounds wonderful, but why are you telling
me
this?" she asks, that endearing furrow back between her brows.

"Well..." I pause in an attempt to steady my suddenly jangling nerves. "I want to include a ballet studio, and I'd like you to be involved."

"I was just starting to believe you were different…" she accuses, looking visibly upset.

I reach for her wrist as she moves to get up. "Please…
please
just hear me out. I would
never
proposition you in that way; I've already told you this." I will her to see my sincerity. She stares at me for long moments before settling back in her seat. I'm still not sure she won’t run.

"You're a trained ballerina, you teach, and we need a teacher for the studio. You’d be working for my mother, not me; she’s a respected psychologist and social worker, Angelique. Do you really think I'd involve my mother in a nefarious proposition?" I ask, lowering my tone to avoid being overheard.

"Why me, why would you, or your mother for that matter, want to employ
me
. Does she know my background?" she asks, shame marring her beautiful face.

"She does," I say, and she covers her trembling lip with her hand.

"Angelique…" I grasp her wrist lightly. "Don't be ashamed. That's all in the past; don't let it define you. My mother’s the most understanding and compassionate person I know; she doesn’t and wouldn’t judge you,
ever
."

"
You
did," she says, and when she withdraws her hand, the stab of disappointment I feel is like a knife to my chest.

"I was an ass. Forgive me."

"You still haven't answered me. Why me, why would your mother be so understanding, and why have you suddenly changed your opinion of me?'

My breath shudders in my chest. I feel apprehensive; about her response, but also because I’m dreading having to open old wounds. "Because I've come to care for you, and because my birth mother, Eleanor, was forced into prostitution."

"Your…
mother
? What do you mean?"

"Eleanor Mannering, my birth mother…" I swallow to dispel the lump lodged in my throat. This is so goddamned hard.

"Adam?" Angelique’s voice sounds as distressed as I feel. "I can see this is hard for you, you don't have to tell me …"

"I want to… so you understand that I'm not looking to take advantage of you. It's just hard for me to talk about her."

"You don't have to tell me things that make you uncomfortable, Adam, but I need to know I'm not making another mistake." She looks away, pain etched on her face. I reach out to touch her, but think better of it.

"Would you answer some questions… to help me understand why you’d want to involve me in something so important to your family?" she asks, almost pleads.

"I'll do anything to make you feel comfortable about the center… about me," I tell her.

"Your mother…she…was forced to be an escort?"

"Not an escort, a prostitute," I say more bitterly than I intended. She blanches.

"I didn't mean it like
that
…" I apologize, leaning across the table. "What I mean is that it was so much worse. When she couldn’t pay the rent, a man, the landlord I think, blackmailed her into sleeping with him. He later made her sleep with other men. They hurt her sometimes… I couldn’t do anything about it…"

"Adam, you don't have to," she interrupts. "I'm sorry, I thought you were …" She stops talking and lifts her arm, to place a hand over mine, I think, but she drops it. Disappointment stabs at me once more, but I hold her gaze, wanting her to see the depth of my contrition.

"Who can blame you for thinking I was insulting you. I've been judgmental, and I'm so sorry, Angelique. It's no excuse; but your situation, for some reason, rekindled emotions I’ve spent over two decades trying to bury."

She nods, and I hope it's both an indication of her understanding of my screwed up mindset and acceptance of my apology. "Was the man responsible for her death?" she asks, her voice tight with emotion.

"Yes. According to Mom…Emma, my adoptive mother, Eleanor became depressed and started drinking. She told Mom he introduced her to drugs to cope better. She died of an overdose."

"How did she…Emma…know?"

"Mom was Eleanor’s social worker, that's how they came to adopt me."

"Oh!" Her eyes widen in understanding.

"That's how I know she'd never judge you…"

"Can I get you anything else?" a waiter asks. I've been so caught up in our conversation that I almost forgot where we were. By Angelique’s startled expression, so did she.

"Angelique?" I defer to her.

"Umm, no, thanks," she replies, her attention wandering to something behind me. Her face suddenly flames with color, and I turn around to see two women staring at her. I’m angered by their open disdain. I reach for my wallet and removing several notes, hand them to the waiter. "Keep the change," I say, standing up.

"Are you ready?" I ask Angelique, giving her a reassuring smile.

"Yes," she says, her voice low and tight.

I can't resist the need to comfort her. I rest my hand on the small of her back as she walks ahead of me and glare menacingly at the women in passing. Shock at my barely contained anger registers on their faces, and I think they may also have recognized me. At this stage I don't give a damn; all I care about is the effect their behavior has had on Angelique.

She turns to me outside the restaurant, head bowed. "Thank you for brunch, Adam," she says almost timidly.

"Are you all right?" I ask, knowing full well she isn't.

"It's what I've come to expect," she says, her obvious shame piercing my heart.

"It won't always be like this." I stoop down to look into her eyes. She’s deeply hurt and humiliated, and I don't want to end our time together like this.

"Would you like to take a walk?" I suggest.

She glances around the street nervously. "You shouldn't be seen with me, people will think…."

I reach for her hand, thankful when she doesn't object. "Look at me... please." I want so badly to take her in my arms, but I try to find words instead, words that won't scare her off.

"I'm nowhere I don't want to be, and I'm not doing anything I don't want to do."

"Why…"

"As I’ve said; I've come to care about you." She bites her bottom lip as she silently stares back at me. I hold her gaze unwaveringly, willing her to see my sincerity. She averts her gaze to glance around nervously once more.

"We can't talk here, and I don't want to leave you like this," I say before she can bolt. "Let's not end a day that started out so well like this," I plead, and she thankfully doesn't argue. I'm quick to take advantage.

"What would you like to do? We could go for a walk or go to the movies if you'd like?"

"I don't want to be in public…at least not right now…"

I want to tell her I don't care, but I need to make her feel comfortable, and it's patently clear that she won't be while out in public. I release her hand reluctantly to check my watch. It's one-thirty.

"Please don't misunderstand what I'm about to say…but if you don't have anywhere you need to be, we could go to my place.

"I'm expecting my family to join me at three o'clock." I hurriedly add at her shocked expression. "We plan on discussing the center, and Mom and Cait are bringing dinner. It would be a good opportunity for you to find out more about the ballet studio."

She looks up at me wordlessly. I have no idea what she’s thinking, but I feel reassured that she hasn't dismissed my invitation out of hand.

"You've already met Cait and Matt, and Mom was planning on meeting you anyway…" I add persuasively.

"Okay," she surprises me by saying. My breath leaves my body in an audible gush of relief.

Angelique’s lost in contemplation on the short drive, and nervous, I can tell by the constant flutter of her eyelashes, their sweeping movement reminiscent of the flapping of a butterfly's wings.

She’s still apprehensive when we enter my home, so I offer to give her a tour of the downstairs areas. She admires the large open-plan spaces as I relate the history of the old building, and she’s intrigued when I tell her that Cait and Matt are moving in next door. She appears more relaxed when I finally invite her to take a seat in the living room where, once we’re both settled, I explain my plans for the center. I emphasize that it will be a family effort. She asks why I decided to establish the foundation, and I tell her simply that I inherited money I don't really want or have use for. I don’t reveal that my desire to help her had been the catalyst for the idea. I don't intend to keep it from her forever, but she's not ready to hear it right now.

By the time I stop talking, she knows as much as everyone else in the family. She doesn’t say so, but I can tell by looking into her expressive eyes that she's excited. We settle into the same ease we first shared over brunch as we discuss Mom's work and her passion for ballet. She asks about Cait and Matt and what Dad does, so I tell her. She studiously avoids discussing her own life, I notice, and she doesn’t mention my earlier declaration that I care for her. As much as I'd love to ask how she feels about me, I don’t; satisfied for now that she's willingly spending time with me.

Her nervousness returns when I tell her my family should be arriving soon. "Do you mind if I freshen up?" she asks, and I show her to the guest bathroom. She returns to stand in front of the expanse of windows overlooking the area where I told her the garden would eventually be.

"It’s going to be fine," I murmur, moving to stand beside her. She turns to me, her eyes wide and vulnerable, so expressive and always, it seems, with the uncanny ability to either strike me dumb or make my heart leap into my throat. "You already know Cait and Matt, and there’s no reason to be anxious about meeting Mom and Dad. Come and sit down," I urge just as the doorbell sounds. I wait until she's seated before moving to let them in. The bell chimes more impatiently.

"Took you long enough." Matt, his arms full, pushes past me when I open the door.

"Why didn't you use your key?" I ignore him to ask Mom.

"Because I knew you'd be home and it would be impolite. Hello, darling, how was your day?" She enters, similarly laden down.

"Mom, you're not feeding an army, what's with all this?"

"We spent the morning cooking to stock up your freezer, ingrate! You owe me tons of babysitting to make up for all of this," Cait remonstrates on her way to the kitchen.

"You'll have to change diapers, Son." Dad laughs. "Oh!" he exclaims in surprise when he sees Angelique. "I didn't realize you had company." Of course, those in the kitchen hear and scurry into the living room. Angelique looks so alone and vulnerable that I hurry over to place my hand on her arm in a show of support.

"Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet Angelique," I say, eyeing him challengingly. I know he'd never be rude, but I haven't quite forgotten his and Matt's comments. Mom smiles as she approaches.

"Angelique… it's lovely to meet you. I was going to ask Adam to arrange a meeting between us," she says warmly.

Angelique smiles hesitantly. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Thorne."

"Call me Emma, please," Mom tells her as Dad walks over.

"I'm Callum, Adam’s father, as you've probably gathered," he introduces himself with hand outstretched, and I'm pleased to hear no hint of censure in his voice.

"Mr. Thorne," she acknowledges him, blushing deeply.

"Call me Callum, you make me feel ancient," Dad responds, and she returns his smile with a shy one of her own.

Cait steps in to hug her, and Matt greets her with a warm hello, telling her it's good to see her again. With introductions out of the way, Mom bustles off to the kitchen to make coffee to have with her freshly baked cookies. While Cait and Angelique chat, Matt suggests that Dad and I accompany him to check on their renovations.

"She's not at all what I expected," Dad remarks as we enter what will be Cait and Matt’s living room.

"That's what I thought when I met her. She's not at all like a…" Matt adds.

"Shut your mouth!" I cut across him angrily.

"What
did
you expect?" I turn to ask Dad tersely.

"Adam, calm down." I can tell he’s angry at the way I spoke to him.

"I only meant that I thought she'd be more confident. I can see how you feel about this young woman, Adam, but you can't lose your temper whenever you think she's being insulted..." He shoots me a warning look when I’m about to interject.

"You need to find a better way of dealing with your protectiveness, otherwise you'll only attract unwanted attention."

"I know, and I’m sorry for speaking to you so disrespectfully, Dad, but I’ve witnessed people treating her badly once already today; and Matt’s disrespected her
twice
now." I turn to glare at him.

"I’ll heed your advice, Dad, because you're right; but I won’t have Angelique made to feel unworthy, especially in my home. Whatever your problem is, you'd better drop it or you and I are going to have a problem," I warn Matt.

"Hey, I don't have a problem...okay, maybe I
had
one," he admits, seeing my expression. "I was just looking after your interests, but I get it, okay? I can see how you feel, and I don't know her story, so I won't judge."

"Good. Now, what did you want to show us?" I ask, closing the subject because Matt and I have always been able to settle our differences without any lasting rancor.

Cait and Angelique are still chatting when we return, so I go and help Mom. She's busily rearranging my refrigerator and, seeing me, instructs me to place the coffee pot on the tray and then carry it into the living room. I let her know that Angelique prefers tea.

"She's beautiful, Adam, and so sweet. But it’s obvious that she’s been hurt and still wary; you need to be careful," Mom comments as she prepares tea for Angelique and Cait.

"I'm trying not to rush things, but…"

"You're smitten, I can tell, sweetheart. It'll work out just be patient. Did you raise the center and the job offer?"

"I did, and I think she may be receptive, but it will need to come from you, Mom. She's worried about being taken advantage of again."

"All very understandable. Let's have the family discussion so she can see everything’s above board. I'll arrange to meet up with her during the week to discuss her role."

I hug Mom appreciatively before carrying the laden tray into the living room. Cait and Angelique have their heads together, and I smile at seeing how natural they appear in each other's company.

"What news on the foundation?" Dad asks once we’re all settled with our cups, and Mom’s served everyone with oatmeal and raisin cookies.

I bring them up to date on the requirements for establishing a charitable foundation and briefly discuss the three premises that Mom, Dad and I will, hopefully, be viewing in the coming week.

"What about names?" Cait interjects. "You said you had some ideas?"

"I do."

"Well, spit it out," she demands.

"I’d like to call the charity The Thorne Foundation if you and Mom don’t have a problem," I address both of my parents.

"We'd be honored, wouldn't we, sweetheart?" Dad asks Mom, who suddenly looks tearful.

"We
would
be honored, Adam, but don't you think it should be called the Mannering Foundation?"

"No, Mom." Disappointment clouds her face. "I thought we could call the center Eleanor’s Place." She stares at me in silence, her tears spilling over, and then she throws herself into my arms

"So you approve?" I ask casually in an attempt to hide my own emotion.

"It's a
wonderful
name," Mom sniffs.

We spend another hour or so discussing the center. Angelique shyly adds her views about the ballet studio when asked, but otherwise, listens quietly to what everyone else has to say. Mom finally declares that she's going to get dinner and enthusiastically accepts Angelique’s offer of help.

"Do you have any siblings?" Mom asks her when we’re seated around the table.