Games People Play (24 page)

“Max is turning your studio into a garage for his motorcycle collection,” he said, his tone dry. “He’s not selling the estate after all.”

“He . . . what?” She stared at him, her lips parted. “What is he doing with motorcycles?”

“Gazing at them lovingly, I suspect.” Hans set the canvas against a nearby wall. “It’s sad, really. He’s a sad man. He spends a lot of time alone these days, but seems to prefer his own company to anyone else’s.”

Sydney wouldn’t allow herself to feel sorry for him, damn it, any more than she did for Colm.

Hans didn’t wait for her acid response before he added, “I was clearing out the few items remaining, and found this painting in the studio closet. It occurred to me you may have accidently left it behind.”

She approached it with some reticence, already guessing what it was, and carefully stripped the brown paper away. “It was no accident,” she said softly.

Colm gazed back at her, pale green eyes alive, skin luminescent, face half in shadow, displaying both sides of him: the Colm she had known, and the dark truth she didn’t all those months ago when her brush stroked the paint on the canvas.

“Take it back,” she told Hans when she found her voice. “I don’t want it.”

“I’m sorry, but no,” he said in a staunch voice she’d never heard from him before. “Pardon me for saying so, but I think if you keep it for a few days, you’ll change your mind. It’s some of your finest work.”

Sydney turned away from it, wrapping her arms around herself. “We’ll see.” Then, because she knew the two men had developed a friendship, she asked, “How is he? Colm, I mean.”

“His name is James Hanford.”

She waved a hand as if the truth didn’t matter, as if that name didn’t race through her and quicken her heart.

“Filled with regret,” Hans went on. “Destroyed by it, frankly. But then, I’m sure you knew that.”

“I truly don’t believe it.”

“Sydney,” he said gently, “The time for lies is over, I believe.”

She heard his double meaning, dropped her head, and closed her eyes. “Does he tell you this, Hans? That he’s unhappy?”

“The few times I’ve seen him, no. But I can read it in him. He doesn’t look good.” Hans stared her up and down. “And if you won’t take offense, I would say the same about you.”

His comment stung. “And the fact that I don’t look good means I should throw aside my . . . my betrayal and run back to him? I don’t think so. He’s a prostitute, Hans. Did you know that when he was out at the estate?”

“I did not,” Hans replied. “Only after you left did Max mention it. He actually admitted to what he’d done. The only reason I remain on with him is that he doesn’t really have anyone else. Clients he represents, certainly, but no one to call family.”

“What Max did was evil.”

“Yes, Sydney. And James was a pawn, as were you. The difference is that he’s right to regret his actions, and you’re not. You did nothing wrong in your relationship with him.”

Who was this brutally straightforward man standing before her? She loved him as much as she hated him. He was indeed a friend.

She cleared her throat, her words caught in confusion and sadness. “Thank you for the painting, Hans.”

“It was my pleasure, Sydney.” He glanced at the rendering of Colm’s face and added, “If you don’t mind my saying so—and despite everything—I found him to be one of the finer men I’ve known. His error was enormous, and he’s paid a heavy price by losing you.”

She merely looked at him, so he went on. “I don’t know how to reach him any longer. After the last time I saw him, he moved on from his, ah, former place of employment, but to where, I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I won’t be seeing him.”

Hans merely smiled and stepped out into the hallway. “We all make mistakes, Sydney. All our lives. It’s only forgiveness that gives us the impetus to continue on.”

“Thank you, Hans . . . for . . .” Tears burned her eyes and choked her words. “Thank you.”

He nodded, and she gently shut the door after him.

Chapter Twenty-six

F
or a full week, she kept the portrait turned to the wall. She painted, created new works, participated in a show, and returned home to find the picture waiting patiently for her. At some godforsaken hour, after a restless night, she climbed out of bed and crossed the living room to finally look it over. Holding it gingerly, she turned it around and lifted it to her easel.

The painting remained undone, but the outline of the pose was there, the utter seductiveness of him, the way he had looked the last time he’d been in her studio out at the estate—the first time she’d put her hands on him and brought him pleasure.

She snatched it up, ready to toss it aside in a fit of frustration . . . but then she stopped. He looked at her from the depths of the canvas, the way he used to watch her when she painted him. Deeper, even. Deeper. Nostalgia speared straight through her and she sank to the floor holding it before her, cursing the man in the portrait and reliving every moment between them, because she hadn’t forgotten a single second.

“Truth or dare, Sydney?” she murmured, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her nightshirt. Truth.
You want to find him, to start over, to forgive, to give both of you, as Hans said, the impetus to continue in this
life.

She would find him, but how? Hans didn’t know. Sydney had long since deleted his cell number from her phone, and she knew he wasn’t listed. Not long ago, on a dark, lonely night when she couldn’t sleep, she’d spent a few pathetic moments perusing the phone book for his name. Just for curiosity’s sake, she’d told herself at the time, but had come up empty.

There was only one way to track him down.

Hopping to her feet, she crossed to the kitchen and rifled through a drawer to pull out her address book. Tucked inside the book, in all its engraved glory, was Azure Elan’s card, the one Max had given her on that awful night so long ago.

Azure would know where to find Colm.

It was one o’clock in the morning.

Sydney didn’t care if she woke the woman from a coma.

To her amazement, Azure picked up on the second ring, her voice not sleep-fogged, but crystalline, smooth.

“Ah, Sydney,” she cooed. “What a joy to hear from you after so long.”

Torn between a surge of old anger and new relief, Sydney said, “I’m sure you wonder what I’m doing calling at this late hour.”

“You don’t wake a child of the night.” Azure gave a pointed pause. “Tell me, darling, are you calling for Colm?”

“I don’t know how else to find him.”

“Much to my regret, Colm has left Avalon. Had you heard?”

“I’d heard.”

“I see.”

“Do you know where he is, Azure?”

“Hmm.” Sydney could imagine Azure tapping one crimson fingernail against her lips. “I believe he’s hung out his shingle as an architect. Does that help?”

“Yes.” Sydney released the breath she’d been holding. “But do you . . . have his phone number?”

“Let me see what I can do.” Azure laid down the phone with a soft thud and didn’t return for a long time. The low murmur of voices reached Sydney’s ears through the phone. Time ticked by, second after painful second. Just when she was ready to give up, Azure returned. “Forgive me, darling. We’re busy at this time of night.”

“Of course. I’m sorry for my timing.”

“Don’t apologize. But you do know, Sydney, it’s against policy to give out a companion’s contact number, no matter that he’s no longer employed with us.”

Sydney gritted her teeth. “How much do you want?”

Azure laughed, a light sound that trickled down Sydney’s spine. “Oh, Sydney, there’s no charge. I just want you to be aware that what we’re doing is a no-no. And I’m assuming you deleted his cell phone number from your records in a fit of rage, so you’ve had it before.”

“That’s right.”
Please, God, get on with it.

Azure gave her the number at last.

“Thank you,” Sydney said, loathe to talk to the woman any longer. “I do have one more question.”

“What’s that, dearest?”

“The night you confirmed that Colm worked for you, you said he was there with a client and couldn’t come to the phone.”

“I hardly recall.”

“Was it a lie?”

Please tell me it was a lie.

“Maybe a tiny one,” Azure said. “At that time, I was trying to protect him. Will you forgive me?”

Never. Sydney didn’t reply.

But Azure wasn’t finished. “Forgiveness is a lovely thing, isn’t it? And Colm is so deserving, darling. Good luck to you both.”

Sydney hung up and stared at the phone. What in God’s name had she just done to herself?

* * *

B
y Saturday afternoon, she’d nearly worn a groove in the living room floor from pacing. She crossed the expanse of her loft a few more times, then stopped, and in a fit of courage, tapped out the cell phone number she’d played and replayed in her head for the last month like the lyrics to a song. Her heart threatened to leap through bone, muscle, and skin as she listened to the ring.
One. Two. Three.

On the fourth ring, to her disappointment, his voice mail picked up.

“You’ve reached James Hanford. Leave your name and a brief message. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

She nearly missed the beep as that wonderful voice washed over her. Clearing her throat, she said, “James”—it was so strange to call him that—“this is Sydney.” Her gaze darted to the unfinished portrait. “I have something that belongs to you. Give me a call if you can. I’m home tonight.”

* * *

S
ydney had just stepped out of the shower when the phone rang. She grabbed a towel and dashed, dripping and shivering, to snatch it from the living room table. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

“Hello, Sydney.”

Colm. No,
James
.

She couldn’t speak, so she waited, her eyes closed, trembling as water slid down her back and legs to pool on the floor.

“I got your message,” he said, his voice huskier than she remembered it. “You said you have something that belongs to me?”

“That’s right.” She bit her lip to keep from telling him what it was.

“My toothbrush?” he asked solemnly, and she almost laughed. Almost.

“I’d rather see whatever it is in person,” he added. “I’ll pick it up.”

“No,” she said.

He hesitated. “No?”

“I mean, I’d like to bring it to you.”
See where you live. Meet James Hanford without the lies and pain between us.

“I live in Silver Spring,” he said.

“I remember.”

“It’s a hefty drive for you.”

“That’s my problem,” she said archly. She heard him blow out a breath and quickly tempered her tone. “I mean . . . I’d rather just bring it out to you, if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine. My address is 4212 Kepler—”

“Hold on, I need to find something to write on.”

She skidded naked and wet across the floor in search of a pen and pad, found them, and jotted down the information when he gave it again.

“Got it?” he asked.

“I’ve got it.” She drew a breath and released it, the heat of memories thawing her despite the draft. “James?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Just wanted to try it on for size.”

His smile softened his voice. “What do you think?”

“It feels strange.”

“The truth feels strange between us.”

“Yes.”

“Not all of it was a lie.”

Here came the trembling again. A mixture of remorse and lingering doubt threaded through her, but she would battle it with the courage Hans had instilled in her. It was time to set her life right again. “When should I come?”

“How about tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock?”

She straightened, her gaze straying to the kitchen where they’d made love the first time. “That will be fine.”

“It’ll be good to see you again, Syd,” he said.

“See you tomorrow, James.” She pushed the End button and drifted back to the bathroom to dry off and brush the tangles from her hair, to study the woman in the reflection with the flushed cheeks and uncertain smile. She didn’t know her, but she wanted to.

It was this same strange woman who drew on sweats and curled up on the sofa with cell phone in hand to make another call, this one to information. And when she had the number she needed, she dialed without hesitation, her pulse hammering.

The voice that answered sounded only vaguely familiar.

“May I speak with Hannah Watson?” she asked hesitantly.

“This is Hannah. Who is this?”

Sydney closed her eyes. “Hello, Mom,” she said.

* * *

T
he redbrick house on Kepler Street was a bungalow, its landscaping winter-dry but immaculate. Sydney pulled into the driveway behind James’s SUV, then changed her mind and backed out to park on the street, arranging for an escape if need be. She turned off the engine and sat in the silence for a moment, breathing deep and trying to calm her nerves. Flipping down the visor, she checked her appearance in the mirror and found she looked fresh and relaxed, almost soft. For a woman whose heart was in her throat, it came as a surprise.

Her knees felt weak, her stomach a little light and floaty as she crossed the recently swept sidewalk and climbed the stairs to the small front landing. She gave the door a polite knock, which sounded preternaturally loud, and waited, clutching the wrapped portrait, hardly hearing the sweet song of winter birds in the front yard’s maple tree.

She waited.

And waited.

Knocking again lightly, she stood there and bit her lip, doubt filling her. This was a bad idea, a sign from God to get out of there while the going was good. But before she could turn and flee, the door swung open, and there he was. James Hanford, regarding her with that old, faint smile and those pale, beautiful eyes.

Colm Hennessy was gone. Here stood someone she didn’t know. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing about her as his gaze searched her face and he said, “Sydney Warren.”

She cleared her throat. There was no more room for untruths. “It’s actually Sydney Watson. I renamed myself when I moved to Washington as a teenager.”

He stared at her for a moment before his smile widened. “I see. Well, then, Sydney Watson, would you like to come in?”

She stepped past him and into the living room, where a crackling fire lent a comforting warmth. The room held a beige chenille sofa and two overstuffed chairs in patterns of tan and brown. A bit monochromatic but handsome, not so different from his apartment at Avalon.

Sydney didn’t want to think of that awful night. The man standing before her wasn’t the same person any longer. She found him watching her with mild amusement curving his mouth when she finished her examination of the living room.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s lovely. I mean, you know, masculine.”

“My sister left and took all her girly-ness with her, thank God.”

The sister in the wheelchair, the one he’d given himself away to protect? “Where did she go?”

“She’s moved in with the man she’s going to marry.”

Sydney’s eyebrows went up. “How wonderful for her. Does she still have the same care you provided her?”

“Her fiancé is a millionaire. How’s that for kismet?”

She laughed a little. “The universe works in mysterious ways.”

“And she’s crazy-happy.” He looked down. “I’m finally happy for her. For a while there, I didn’t trust the guy she’s marrying. They were involved before the accident and after she was injured, he left her. And then this winter, he came back. After everything with you, I realized . . . who am I to judge him?”

Sydney stood there with the portrait hugged to her chest, not trusting herself to speak. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to drink him in, this stranger. He looked like Colm, and yet he didn’t. His face was leaner, as though he’d come through a terrible storm, but his eyes were the same: unique, deep searching.

“Come this way,” he said, when he seemed to figure out she wasn’t going to respond to his statement.

She followed him past a short corridor and into a surprisingly spacious kitchen.

“And this is where I nuke my frozen dinners,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee? Shiraz?”

She found herself laughing, something she’d begun to think would never happen again, and certainly not with James. “Bad things happen when I drink Shiraz.”

He glanced at her as he withdrew a glass from a cabinet. “Good things, too.” Before she could react, he held up the glass in question.

“Just water.” Her stomach was too knotted to handle anything else. She watched him move to the refrigerator, taking in the deep brown Henley shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, the smooth fit of his jeans faded in all the right places. He was barefoot. Something about those naked feet sent a spiral of desire twisting through her.

God, she needed to talk, to move, to do something and distract herself from the delectable sight of him. Leaning against the counter, she laid the portrait atop it and said, “I have your painting.”

He turned to hand her the glass of water. “My painting?”

“Your portrait.”

She couldn’t read his face as he studied the wrapped frame for a moment, then slid it closer and carefully removed the brown paper.

For a long time he looked at it, his lashes moving as his gaze searched it, and she waited, her breath caught in her throat. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were unnaturally bright. “This is someone from forever ago.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten him by now.”

“No. There’ll be no sweeping him under the rug.” He pushed a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “I’ve forgiven myself for the mistakes I made, but I’ll never forget them.”

“I’ve done the same,” Sydney told him. “The past is behind me, but just a spark of it stays with me. A kind of warning, I guess.”

“I blame myself for that,” he said softly.

“Don’t. It will always be that way, even if I hadn’t met you.” She braced her elbows on the counter and drew a breath. “I did something really scary after I talked to you the other day. I called my mother. After fourteen years, I talked to her.”