Seducing the Enemy (13 page)

The worst had happened, and she couldn’t feel…anything.

She took a step back and missed the stair behind her. She would have fallen, but she grabbed the railing.

Part of her was aware Harrison had reached out as she stumbled. Then he stopped.

She heard someone on the stairs below her and looked blindly down at Gordon. He was asking if she needed assistance.

She almost laughed at the irony. She might have declined his help. She wasn’t sure. Her legs began to move.

Then she achieved a great victory.

She found her way back to her room.

Chapter Eleven

“I’ve got to tell you, man,” Benjamin Damon said, finishing off the last of the beer in his bottle, “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Harrison muttered, stretching out his legs to get comfortable in the one chair in the room.

Benjamin’s apartment was small and Spartan, with an open concept and a tiny bedroom. There was one couch, one chair, a television, and a cluttered desk. Other than piles of books against the walls and a collection of architectural magazines and unopened mail, there were no other furnishings in the room.

Benjamin had ignored his calls when Harrison arrived in California, so he had just shown up at his cousin’s front door. He’d convinced an annoyed Benjamin to let him in, and then he’d told him the truth about Michael.

Benjamin hadn’t appeared surprised. He’d barely reacted at all—just said Michael had always been reckless, and that the family could handle the situation however they wanted.

With his familial duty accomplished, Harrison could have gone home. But he didn’t want to. Not until he pulled himself together. Marietta would be gone, and he didn’t want to face a house where every room would remind him of her.

So he’d stayed the night at one of the Damon properties in Los Angeles and pretended to take care of business there. This evening, he’d returned to his cousin’s place in hopes of feeling like he had something worthwhile to accomplish.

“You don’t look all that great yourself,” Harrison responded. He sipped the Scotch he’d poured himself after Benjamin had made a vague gesture toward the kitchen, the extent of his hospitality.

Their uncle would definitely not approve.

Benjamin appeared healthy but as different from a Damon as was possible. He’d grown a full beard, and his hair needed trimming. He wore faded jeans and a ragged T-shirt with a crude slogan on the front. He had a large tattoo across one inner forearm, but Harrison hadn’t been able to get a good look at it.

“At least I don’t look like someone stomped my heart into the mud,” Benjamin replied. “What was her name?”

Harrison tensed at his offhand tone.

“She dumped you?”

If the mood had been serious, Harrison never would have answered. “No.”

“Well, that’s your third drink since you got here, and you look like you haven’t eaten or slept in days. It might be time to reconsider dumping her.”

“I didn’t dump her,” Harrison said automatically. That was a lie. He’d never made any sort of commitment to her, never even asked her out on a date. But he’d broken her sweet heart all the same. She’d cared about him. Given herself to him. Trusted him. Believed he was worth something.

He gulped the last of the Scotch, the pungent liquid burning his throat.

It wasn’t strong enough to forget the sight of Marietta’s face as he’d forced out his final words. He’d been desperate to get away from her and hadn’t known any other way to do so. To hold on to the decision he’d made.

She’d been devastated. Broken. By him.

“Who is she?” Benjamin asked again, his tone still casual, but not as intrusive.

Harrison didn’t know why he answered. “Marietta Edwards.”

It took a moment, but Benjamin’s expression transformed beneath his beard. There was a moment of understanding, almost sympathy. Then it shifted to anger.

“You fucking Damons are all alike,” he bit out. “You and your damned anachronisms. Michael is dead. So is the Edwards girl. They’ve been dead for fifteen years. It’s terrible. It’s
terrible
. But it’s done.” He was almost shaking with fury, a long history of bitterness spilling over into his tirade. “So you’re miserable now. And I’ll bet you all the cash in my pocket that she is, too. For nothing.”

Harrison stared at him, fuzzy from both surprise and too much Scotch.

“They’re dead,” Benjamin repeated, his voice softer. “You didn’t do it. None of you did it. They’re just dead.” Silence followed the blunt words, giving them an inexplicable poignancy.

Harrison got up from the uncomfortable chair and poured himself another glass.

And he wondered if Marietta was as miserable as he was.

…

“Welcome to Le Vieux Oiseau,” Marietta said to the middle-aged couple who had entered her grandfather’s restaurant. She gave them a practiced smile. “Just the two of you? Let me show you to your table.”

She walked the couple to a cozy table in the far corner of the dining room, offered them menus, and gestured toward Jeanne, their server, who chatted with André across the room.

On her way back to the hostess station, Marietta crossed paths with Jeanne, and the older woman squeezed her shoulder.

It was a silent gesture of sympathy, and Marietta appreciated it. She was trying to act normal—as composed and friendly as she’d always been. But she was pretty sure her act wasn’t convincing.

She’d thought returning home—to the charming town, fragrant hills, and glowing sunshine of Provence—would be comforting, like a blanket sheltering her from the world. She’d always felt safe here, cut off from all that might hurt her. But the familiar setting and much-loved faces didn’t offer as much solace as she’d expected.

She’d flown in two days ago and spent the first hibernating. She’d insisted on returning to work yesterday, hoping a normal routine would help ease the suffocating ache in her chest.

It didn’t. Somehow, it felt even worse.

Her grandfather emerged from his office for the sixth time in less than two hours. He pretended to read the reservation list, but Marietta wasn’t fooled. He was really checking on her.

“Good crowd for so early in the day,” he said, eyeing the tables in the main room.

“Yes. Looks to be mostly tourists.” Her voice, her smile, her posture all felt stiff and awkward. She was already exhausted from pretending to be fine so people wouldn’t worry, and it was only her second day back.

Her grandfather’s eyes lit on her face. She knew she was paler than usual and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She hadn’t slept much, but at least she’d stopped crying.

To distract him, she asked, “Did you hear from Mr. Damon again?”

Grandpapa nodded. “They’re planning the trip out here for next week.”

“I hope—” She cleared her throat. “I hope you’ll listen to what he has to say. He really wants to make amends.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

Her grandfather’s shoulders stiffened. “One of his nephews killed Melissa. Another of his nephews broke your heart. You think I should make peace with this family?”

Marietta’s throat closed up, but she pushed her words through it. “But none of that was Mr. Damon’s fault. He’s been hurt by all of this, too. And my heart isn’t…”

Her grandfather gave her a sharp look but said nothing.

“I’ll be fine.” She smiled again, but not faking as well as she had earlier. “Really. Every girl gets her heart broken at least once. We survive.”

Her grandfather seemed relieved by her matter-of-fact tone. She was glad she’d convinced him that losing Harrison wasn’t the end of the world.

She wished she could convince herself.

…

A few hours later, Marietta was returning to the hostess station after seating a family of six when she halted abruptly.

A tall man in a business suit stood with his back to her, looking out the big front window of the restaurant. He had broad shoulders, long legs, and short, dark hair.

Marietta’s heart pounded. She could barely catch her breath, but she managed to stumble back to the station to put down the wine list the family hadn’t needed.

The man must have heard her, because he turned. His cheerful smile and blue eyes were like a kick in the gut.

The man’s smile faltered as she gaped at him.

He was a complete stranger.

“Good afternoon,” he said, “I’m waiting to meet someone for lunch.”

“Of course,” she replied hoarsely. “Would you like to wait here or at a table?”

“Here is fine. Especially with such appealing company.”

Marietta felt shaky after the dramatic rush of excitement and the sharp letdown. But she plastered on a courteous smile and made small talk, sidestepping the man’s attempts to flirt. He was nice enough and seemed intelligent. Certainly, he was good-looking. A month ago, she probably would have found him very attractive. Maybe one day she would again.

But for now, she was relieved when another patron showed up for what was obviously a late business luncheon.

She kept her composure as she seated them and walked back into the office. “Do you mind taking the front for a few minutes?” she asked her grandfather, feigning a casual tone. “I feel like I need a rest.”

He agreed with alacrity, obviously happy to do something to help her. After he left, she closed the door and turned the lock. Then she sank into the soft leather sofa.

She struggled to take a deep breath.

For a few moments, she’d thought that man was Harrison. She’d let herself hope that he’d changed his mind, that he’d come for her. She’d allowed her heart to believe what her mind told her would never happen.

And then it was all ripped away at the sight of a face that wasn’t his.

Her shoulders shook as she suppressed the rising emotion. It would be easier if she believed Harrison didn’t really care for her, that he’d used her for a good time, like he’d intimated in their last conversation.

But he had cared for her—just not enough.

And that made it worse.

…

Harrison stared blindly at his computer monitor, pretending to read an e-mail.

He’d landed in London at midday and arrived at Damon Manor a few hours later. Andrew was out, and his uncle was on a conference call, so he’d dropped his bags in the hall and gone into his office.

He was bone tired after not sleeping for too many nights. His head hurt with a dull pounding that wouldn’t go away. His inbox was flooded with e-mails. Gordon had given him a silent, disapproving look when he’d greeted him at the door.

And he ached for Marietta.

Harrison willed his eyes to focus on the screen so he could type up a reply. But it was hopeless. He needed a shower and a cup of coffee. He needed a good night’s sleep. He needed…

He needed Marietta.

He couldn’t let himself think about her. For distraction, he checked and saw his uncle was still on the call.

When he returned, he discovered Gordon had been in his office. On his desk was a hot cup of coffee.

Beside it was a leather-bound journal.

Harrison flopped in his chair and stared at the familiar book, now over twenty years old. Then he let out a huff of bitter, self-directed laughter.

The journal hadn’t made an appearance since Michael died. Harrison must be a pitiful wreck if Gordon thought he needed it now.

He was far too old for journaling, but he opened the book anyway—just to look at what he’d written before. He swallowed over an ache when he read the lists he’d scrawled at twelve years old. It hurt. Even now. The memory of how scared and confused and lonely he’d been when he first arrived at Damon Manor.

He flipped through list after list of things that were wrong with the world until he got to the first list of what he’d do to make it better. The first item on the list:
Make sure airplanes don’t crash anymore.

He kept turning the pages until he got to the most recent. At twenty, he’d thought the journal was utterly stupid, but he hadn’t wanted to hurt Gordon’s feelings, so he’d scrawled a couple of to-do lists. Most of the items were things he needed to take care of in the aftermath of the accident. They conveyed little of his grief and guilt.

At the very bottom of the last list he’d written something vague enough to reveal nothing to anyone except him:
Do a better job.

He’d tried to do a better job ever since.

Andrew was right. Marietta was right. He couldn’t hold his world together just by trying.

And he’d sacrificed too much in the attempt.

A tap on the door broke into his disconnected thoughts. Gordon entered with a fresh cup of coffee.

Harrison hadn’t even started on his first cup, which was already lukewarm.

Gordon made no mention of the journal as he offered the mug to Harrison and nodded benignly at his thanks.

If he were going to make another list today, Harrison knew what he would write.

Marietta
.

Over and over again.

Maybe he couldn’t fix the world, but there was one thing he could fix.

“Your uncle’s conference call has concluded,” Gordon said. “I’m sure he would like to see you.”

“Yeah.” Harrison swallowed the coffee and rubbed his temples. Maybe he could call Marietta tonight to explain what happened. See if there was any hope.

“Should I have someone make flight arrangements for you?” Gordon asked in the same placid tone, his inflection rising like Harrison’s affirmative response was a given.

Harrison stared at the butler. He’d just gotten back from a transatlantic flight and wasn’t about to travel for more Damon business. Not this week, anyway.

“To France,” Gordon prompted. “Shall I have someone make the arrangements? Or would you prefer to take the train?”

It took a moment for Harrison to process the question. Once he did, there was only one answer. “Yes.” His mind whirled with all that the decision implied.

“Yes,” he said again, a rush of excitement and determination driving him to his feet. He couldn’t call her. He needed to go get her. She’d cared about him. He was sure of that. She might still forgive him and take him back. He didn’t deserve her, but he’d never put things right if he didn’t try.

Gordon’s face relaxed enough to be noticeable. “For tonight?”

“Yes.” Harrison gulped a few more swallows of coffee that was so hot it burned his throat. “Wait—no,” he added, and put the cup on his desk so fast the liquid slopped on his hand. “I need to talk to my uncle. It might be…hard. Better make it tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir.”

And with that, Gordon left the room.