No Perfect Princess (34 page)

“Margaux! Dammit!”

She tossed up a hand, all flippy and full of attitude, but I didn’t believe a goddamn inch of it.
I
wasn’t the reason for this. Neither was anything or anyone in Julian. The mystery asshole who’d called her from the city was responsible for this.

Whatever the hell
this
was.

“Fuck!” I snarled. Then again. Helplessness wasn’t just my hot button. It was my red-pill-turns-you-into-a-goddamn-cretin button. As if those minutes in Mom’s room Tuesday night hadn’t served as a disgusting enough reminder, I stumbled through the same torture chamber of frustration now, actually thankful the knapsack was there for grabbing up and curling my fists into. Still couldn’t guarantee I’d make it out of here without dropping the shit and going to town on a tree, though.

Maybe it was best she had her space, then. For now.

I gave her that berth while we walked in silence back to the gate to the orchard, then through the apple trees. During our walk out here, I’d stopped to point out the different trees to her, also explaining what kind of fruit they’d bear in a little over a month: Red Delicious, Jonathan, Gala, Fiesta, Liberty. She’d listened with genuine interest, giving me hope that she drew the same parallel as I did: that over the last couple of days, we’d planted the seed of something damn good—and that perhaps, with a lot of care, the tree of
us
would grow healthy, strong, enduring.

Now, our sapling was dying. Because of some fucked-up root rot I couldn’t even identify, let alone target.

So I worked with what I did have. As we approached the house, I strapped on a mental watering can, preparing to douse her with what I’d stocked inside it—respect and kindness as the base for a hell of a lot of direct questions. I didn’t care if it took us hours. I’d get inside that shell of hers if it took flooding her out of the damn thing.

Or so I’d thought.

Like the fucking fool that I was.

Before fate chose the most ideal moment to boot me in the balls.

We’d barely stepped inside the house before the sound of a car on gravel echoed from the kitchen. When I looked out and spied the black 750i, with one disgruntled Jamaican unfolding himself out of the front seat, I dropped my jaw—and the watering can.

She’d really done it. I’d taken her words on the trail as desperate ramblings, not actual promises for action, but as stated, I was a fucking fool.

A fool who watched, stunned into furious silence, as she handed her hastily packed bag off to Andre then turned for the open backseat door. I went with the word loss, not trusting myself to say anything remotely diplomatic at this point. No way in hell would I approach her about staying for the tree now. Clearly, whatever had gone down in that phone call was more important to her. Wait; no. Withholding it from me was more important.

Trees couldn’t grow on secrets and shadows. I saw nothing except the combination, consuming her whole face, as she hesitated before entering the car and suddenly spun back toward me. Her body jerked a little, as if she sought clearance to come closer, but benevolence wasn’t mine to grant right now. I’d probably regret it later but right now, even the thought of her back in my arms was too brutal a kick in the center of my gut.

She was leaving our tree to die before it had gotten a chance to live.

But who was the idiot who’d let his heart twine into those roots, too?

That was the shittiest thing to grasp as I turned and reentered the house, forcing myself to keep eyes forward and mind numb. The first goal was a success, at least until I heard the car start up again and pull away. The second? My pounding head and screaming senses bore evidence to that massive fail.

You’re just as much to blame for this pain as she is, dumb fuck. Let yourself believe that two days without drama could grow into a lifetime of
“Ozzie and Harriet”
. Let yourself believe in her, period.

Lesson learned.

The ugly, agonizing, hard as shit way.

Only guaranteeing I’d never let it happen again.

Margaux

I
knew it
was going to be a bad day by the size of the rejected pile of outfits laying on the floor of my dressing room. The fashion dilemma was usually an accurate barometer of the direction my day would take, and from the looks of things, it had to get better from here. There were at least six or seven—or ten or eleven—ensembles down there. Thank God Sorrelle treated the care and of my wardrobe as a spiritual calling. Still, I’d make sure he received a little extra in his next paycheck to say thanks for the extra work.

Wait.
A little extra
? To
say thanks
?

This wouldn’t do. At all. Where was my page torn from the playbooks of Alexis Carrington, Blair Waldorf, Cookie Lyon? Screw that. Those bitches could take notes from
my
playbook, if they dared.

You believe that as much as a fucking fairy tale.

The fairy tale my life was never meant to be.

I looked at my reflection, eyeing the woman who now stood in head-to-toe Stella McCartney. The pantsuit won by default, since it best hid the pooch from the slab of turtle pie I’d shoveled in last night. Further, the slim black pants with a matching tuxedo shawl jacket, paired with a white button-front and subdued accessories, were the ideal meeting-at-the-boss’s-house attire. On my feet were a pair of my favorite four-inch Jimmys, lending a flash of silver sparkle—and hopefully, the confidence I was so desperately lacking.

So alert the damn press. Yes, I was having a confidence problem.

Could have had something to do with the new sign hanging over most of my mind now.

Pearsonville. The place that never lets you sleep.

Pathetic much? God, it was true. I was unable to think about anyone else—even when he was the last damn thing I actually wanted to be thinking about.

Do you really believe that at all, either
?

Not one fucking bit.

That afternoon in the meadow had been one of the best moments of my life—followed by one of the worst. Ugh…that fight. Messy was a good description. Ugly wasn’t half bad, either. But reengaging the Margaux ice queen had been my only, desperate defense. Without all the frozen walls back in place, he would’ve inched right under my defenses again—and God only knew how many secrets he’d find waiting in the shadows.

So yeah, I’d speared him with a few icicles, instead. And yeah, the blows had probably stung. But at least he was safe.

Safe…from me.

I’d tried to tell him that—in
several
desperate ways—but he’d seen through the ice princess and matched her by one angry ogre. He was too furious to see the conflict I went through before leaving with Andre, too hell-bent on brooding to notice the tears I’d blinked back. How could he have thought it was a decision I
liked
making?

Ass. Hole.

Right. And that was why I couldn’t stop thinking about him, right? Or block out his face every time I closed my eyes. Or stop hearing his voice in every brush of wind across the penthouse’s patio. And dammit, the songs on the radio…every stupid tune with sugary-sweet lyrics and an earworm melody taunted me all over again with memories of touching him, kissing him, squeezing my body around him…

Dammit.

I had it bad for Michael Pearson.

Bad.

Groundhog Day, anyone? Hadn’t I visited this exact moment before? And I was in no better situation right now than I was then, despite all those tingling, amazing memories. It was worse at night. Sleep had become a cold and restless battle, calmed only by the hope he was suffering the same fate. But that only eased the ache a little—because ultimately, it didn’t touch the true issue.

The whole mess with Michael was the mess I couldn’t share with Michael.

Trey.

I’d met his demand by only two million dollars so far, siphoning off a combination of my own bank account plus the funds I had access to at SGC. Every day that passed had me wadded in a huger ball of tension, certain someone would catch the missing money and I’d have some ‘splaining to do worse than Lucy Ricardo with a mouthful of chocolate. But hopefully, I’d be able to chop through the legal red tape on my trust fund soon, and replace the funds before they were missed.

In the meantime, Trey was getting impatient. He’d been back for another “visit” already, once more sneaking into my apartment, lying in wait for me after work one night. Fortunately, he didn’t leave any more “souvenirs” on my face, and the stupid sexual innuendos were left out of the conversation, too. He was all about the cash now, period. It was a little relief, but not much. The sooner this was all over, the better.

One thing in all this
was
crystal clear. It had been a damn good move to lock Michael out of this equation. Now that I’d seen ever more of his rampaging lion side, there was no doubt how he’d react to Trey’s bullshit. There wouldn’t be a corner of the world safe enough for Trey to hide in.

That didn’t assuage my guilt much. Yes, dammit—for the first time in my life, guilt was eating me alive. It was such an unfamiliar feeling I’d first thought it was bad sushi, but the shit persisted for days, especially every time I got near Claire or Kil. My stomach churned, my head spun, my whole body eventually wanted to bolt from the room. Neither of them wore sickening scents, so that wasn’t it.

It was me.

And it was hateful.

I
was hateful.

I’d stolen from them.

Of course I tried telling myself that it was all a bit silly. Even if I wasn’t a biological Stone and due some of the company’s wealth anyway, Killian had enough money to wallpaper every room in the Rancho Santa Fe house three times over. And if I had the true balls, I’d have come clean from the start, informing him what was going on with his dickhead brother. But I wasn’t just having the guilts. I was battling the
holy shits
. Trey was getting desperate, and many times, that meant dangerous. I didn’t have the guts to drag Claire and Kil into this, not after everything they’d already suffered at the hands of Trey—and frankly, me, before I’d gotten a clue that the way to a man’s heart wasn’t necessarily through entrapment.

Yes. Killian and Claire deserved more than a split second of happiness, the white lace and promises they’d fought so hard for.

Freaking. Gag
.

Right?

I’d decided then and there to go see my brother and stepsister-slash-sister-in-law after work. While sending Kil a message via inter-office chat to make sure they were still free, I’d noticed Claire was out sick again.
Hmmmm
. This was at least the third time since they’d returned from their honeymoon. Was something up in terms of buns in ovens?

I’d rolled my own eyes at myself.
How’s the trampoline holding, jumping to those conclusions, girlfriend
?

Besides, she was out—but not slacking. Our latest marketing partner had turned into a giant pain in the ass, meaning she had a lot of on-site handholding with their company president. That was likely where she was. Claire wasn’t the best at inputting details in her shared calendar.

The sun was long-gone by the time Andre pulled up the drive of their monster house. I’d called during the journey and received a thorough chew-out from Big Brother about my “nasty” habit of working past hours. I’d promptly replied with creative new vernacular. Had his workaholic ass really tried that? Besides, what the hell did I have to go home to except another piece of turtle pie that was literally the size of a turtle? My point exactly.

Kil’s valet, Alfred, welcomed me with a warm smile and showed me to the family room. Killian and Claire had made some great changes to the home’s décor since they moved in, warming up the rooms with lighted crown molding, some new area carpets, and a breathtaking shot from their wedding day centered over the mantle.

After I walked in to embrace Claire, I sat with her on the plush leather couch, exclaiming. “Sister mine; the place looks magni—” I stopped myself while catching a new look at her. “But whoa,
you
really don’t.”

She lifted a wan laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you know the paste that the gross kid in third grade always made a small meal out of?”

She raised a hand. “
Stop
. Please. I can’t.”

Shit. She really couldn’t. Now that guilt and I were on close personal terms, a wave of it hit when her complexion turned from white to green. “Oh, little bear.” I clasped her hand. “I didn’t know you were
this
bad. Why didn’t Killian just cancel with me?”

“Be—because I wanted to see you.”

“Gutsy girl,” I quipped. “Even when you look this shitty.”

“Thanks, Mare. You have such a way with words.” She suddenly rose. “Excuse me. I’ll be just one second.” She dashed by me to hit the bathroom just in time. When I tried to follow, she slammed the door in my face.

Left with little choice but to stand sentry, I leaned against the wall until Alfred reappeared. “She may be a while, Miss Asher. Come. I brought your favorite.”

“A while?” I punched back. “Well, how long has she been as bad as this?”

“A while.”

Fume.
“What? And Kil hasn’t taken her to a doctor?”

“Oh, a doctor’s following up with her.”

I pivoted and advanced on the man.
Don’t fuck with the girl in the five-inch Jimmys
. “Okay, listen Yoda. You want to elaborate on—” I lowered to the couch again. “Oh hell, that latte smells good.”

The armor of Alfred’s face finally cracked a little. “I’ve picked up a few clues about how you like it.”

He certainly had. It was the best damn latte I’d ever had. I seriously needed to send Sorrelle over here for a few days of boot camp. Maybe he could lose some of his poodle attitude and gain some starch in his step, Alfred style. The thought of it made me almost snort latte foam.

“What’s so funny?” Claire came back and quickly curled up on the sofa again, pulling a luxurious faux-fur throw around her.