The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club) (5 page)

“Okay,” I said, even though I would have liked to have stopped and looked at the huge sarcophagi he led me past. I had read about ancient Egyptian burial practices, of course, but I had never seen the grave goods in real life: the elaborately carved figurines, the coffins big as bathtubs. I wanted to pause for a while and think about the people who had made these things, and why, and why they had stopped.

But Carter was on a mission, and he had said we could linger on the way back. I could wait. He took my hand and guided me through the winding hallways, the series of nested rooms, and I let myself be led along. It was nice, in a way, to let him take over. I didn’t have to make any decisions or try to figure out where I was going. I could just let him do all the work. It was freeing.

At last, we came out into a huge room with windows all along one side, and Carter said, “There it is.”

It didn’t look so big as we walked toward it, skirting the reflecting pool; but then we climbed the steps onto the low dais where the temple sat, and I realized that only the cavernous size of the room made the temple look small.

“Wow,” I said.

“They shipped it over from Egypt in the ‘60s,” Carter said. “The whole thing, block by block. It was going to be flooded when they finished constructing the Aswan Dam.”

“Can we go inside?” I asked. People were lined up to do that, and I wanted to go into the inner sanctum and see the carvings on the walls I could barely glimpse from the outside.

“Of course,” Carter said, and we got in line.

It moved quickly. People were being courteous, maybe, and not spending too long inside. As we approached, I noticed the graffiti carved on the outer walls: a name, halfway eroded, and “1891 OF NY US.” I pointed it out to Carter, and he grinned.

“There’s actually quite a bit of graffiti,” he said. “Testosterone makes a person do strange things.”

We got inside, finally, into the tiny innermost chamber of the temple, and I looked straight up through the open ceiling, at the hazy light filtered through the glass. It was lovely and peaceful, even with all the people waiting to come inside. I could have stayed there for hours, looking at the carvings and the tiny headless statue, trying to decide if it was meant to represent a man or a woman. But I didn’t want to prevent other people from getting inside the temple, and so I said to Carter, after just a few minutes, “I guess I’m ready.”

“Okay,” Carter said. He ran one hand through my hair and kissed me, and then said, “We can sit outside and look at the map.”

We took a seat in front of the reflecting pool and spread out the map. The museum was huge and more overwhelming than I had realized. There was no way we would be able to see everything in one day. Some of it I had little interest in, like “Arms and Armor” or “European Sculpture and Decorative Arts.” I wasn’t even sure what “decorative arts” entailed. I liked old things, and things that had meant something to people, that they had made not to put in a museum but to use in their lives, to celebrate or go to battle, or to put someone to rest.

“What do you think we should see?” I asked. I didn’t know where to begin.

“We can see anything you’d like,” he said. “I took the afternoon off. If you want to spend the next four hours sitting in front of Monet’s water lilies—well, I might fall asleep, but I’ll sit there with you.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about a billionaire skipping work to spend the afternoon escorting me around an art museum. Flattered, and happy, but also guilty. There were other things he could be doing that were far more important than keeping me entertained. But I wouldn’t say anything to remind him of all the work that was waiting for him. If he wanted to spend the day with me at the museum, I wasn’t going to complain.

“I don’t really know anything about art,” I said. “What do you think is worth seeing?”

“Well,” Carter said. He leaned over the map. “Everyone should see a Van Gogh in person at least once, I think. His use of impasto is incredible, and it can’t really be captured in pictures.”

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t know what
impasto
meant.

“The contemporary art collection here isn’t worth the trouble,” he said. “Which I understand; they’ve made a curatorial decision. But we’ll be better off sticking to the classics.”

“Okay,” I said. I folded my map and stood, looking down at him. “Where do we go?”

He led me back through the Egyptian wing and up an oddly-placed staircase. I looked back over my shoulder regretfully, wishing I’d had time to look at more of the artifacts. Carter had forgotten his promise, too excited by the prospect of Van Gogh to linger.

The Fancy European Paintings collection was packed with tourists, many of them speaking Chinese and taking pictures of the paintings with their oversized cameras. Carter moved through the gallery with complete assuredness, and I followed him, trying to look at paintings without falling too far behind.

Carter stopped in the doorway of a room and said, sounding satisfied, “There.”

I peeked over his shoulder. I recognized a painting on the far wall: a spindly, dark green tree, and blue swirls of sky.

The room was crowded, but we were able to move directly in front of the painting once an older couple stepped away. I bent in close, amazed by the thick layers of paint rising from the canvas. It must have taken days to dry.

“I know it’s a cliché,” Carter said, “but I love Van Gogh. There’s no one else like him. The color palette, the brush strokes, the deep communion with nature. I’ve seen this painting dozens of times, but I’m always struck by the fact that Van Gogh touched this canvas—that he stood in front of it, just the way we are, and that we’re connected to him because of it. It’s almost like time travel.”

His hands moved as he spoke. I gazed up at him, the excited light in his eyes, and felt a chasm opening between us. He cared about this painting so much that he had imagined a personal connection with the artist, and to me, it was—a painting. A nice one, sure. Not hideous. Pleasant to look at. But I didn’t have Carter’s vocabulary to discuss what I was seeing, or his deep understanding of art to place it in some historical context. It was a painting. That was all.

I imagined his childhood, coming to these museums with his mother, learning from her about the famous painters, and maybe also the ones who weren’t famous but should have been, the ones who were forgotten by history.

The only art I saw, growing up, was my mother’s faded portrait of Jesus on the cross, tacked to the wall above the kitchen sink.

I had known, from the very first time I met Carter, that we came from different worlds. I had seen the evidence of it over and over again: the car, the penthouse, the phone call with the President, the casual way he mentioned having dinner with famous people. I had been telling myself it didn’t matter, that people from different backgrounds could be friends, and even, possibly, fall in love.

But it
did
matter. I couldn’t deny it anymore, not seeing the rapt look on his face as he gazed at the painting. In some ways, at least, we would never be able to understand each other.

“There are some very nice Renoirs here, too,” Carter said, touching my cheek.

I forced a smile. He was trying to be kind. “I can’t wait,” I said.

My voice sounded hollow, but Carter didn’t seem to notice. He took my hand and led me into another room.

I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat. We would look at a few more paintings, and then I would tell him I needed a drink, and we could go somewhere else—Renaissance tapestries, Greek sculpture, something safe. Although he probably knew all about those things, too.

I just needed to get over myself. I told myself sternly that Carter didn’t expect me to know anything about art, and he wasn’t judging me for it. It was something he enjoyed, and he only wanted to share that enjoyment with me.

It didn’t really make me feel any better.

S
aturday was a slow night at work—slower than usual, anyway—and around 10, I found myself in a sudden lull, with nothing to do. My customers were all happy with their drinks, and nobody was looking around for me. I used my reprieve to step behind the bar, chug a glass of water, and check my phone.

No text messages from Carter, which didn’t surprise me—he was at a charity gala that evening—but still made my heart sink a little. But Sadie had texted me:
girl bring that man 2 dinner 2morrow

I felt my eyebrows crawling up my forehead. I texted back:
not sure that’s a good idea

My phone buzzed.
I want 2 meet this hottie. Ben says he’ll cook. please!!!! it will b awesome

I sighed. One of my customers had finished his drink, and so I slid my phone back into my purse and went back out onto the floor. And then I had three tables seated in a row, and by the time I had a chance to look at my phone again, it was 3am and I was on the subway home.

Sadie had left me a series of text messages, each using more exclamation points than the last, trying to convince me to bring Carter to her place for dinner. She had been bugging me about him since the first time I mentioned him, and I knew she just wanted a chance to be able to interrogate him about his intentions, like we were living in a Jane Austen novel. I didn’t think Carter would appreciate being subjected to that.

does he like Indian food? u know Ben makes good curry

we can play scattergories

I promise I’ll b nice 2 him

I rolled my eyes. Once Sadie got an idea into her head, it was basically impossible to talk her out of it. I wouldn’t try; I would let Carter do it for me. If I told her that he didn’t want to, or that he was too busy, she wouldn’t be able to argue with me about it.

I knew he was probably asleep by then, but I texted him anyway. He would see it in the morning.
My friend Sadie wants to have us over for dinner tomorrow night. I know you’re probably too busy so I’ll tell her no.

To my surprise, my phone buzzed with a reply a few seconds later.
I would love to. What time?

My plan had backfired.
She’s really nosy so maybe it’s not a good idea
.

Carter replied,
I would love to meet any and all of your friends. Please tell her yes and thank you. ;)

His little winking emoticon made me smile despite myself. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who used emoticons, and yet there it was.

Maybe dinner wouldn’t be that bad. I would get Ben on my side, and he would help me keep Sadie under control. Ben, Sadie’s boyfriend, was a white guy she’d met at her spinning class. They’d been together for a couple of years, and every time I saw them, they seemed even happier than the time before. I liked him. He was good for Sadie. He was steady and unassuming, and he balanced out Sadie’s wilder tendencies.

Before I met Carter, Sadie and Ben gave me hope that true love still existed in this world. And now—well. I wasn’t going to use the word “love” in conjunction with “Carter” anytime soon. But now Carter gave me hope.

The train slowed as it pulled into a station, and I glanced up to check where I was. Still a few more stops. I typed,
I hope you don’t regret this! I’ll text you details tomorrow.

Great. Sleep well.

I tucked my phone back in my purse, smiling. Carter wasn’t a secret, but he felt like one—a good secret, the kind that you wanted to carry close to your heart, like it wouldn’t be as special if other people knew about it.

I let my head fall back against the window and looked up at the subway map above the seats opposite me. I knew the route by heart, but I liked maps, and it gave me something to look at while I let my mind drift.

There were a few other people in the car, enough that I didn’t have to feel nervous. They all looked like they were coming home from work, like me. One woman had fallen asleep. I wondered if I should wake her up so that she didn’t miss her stop.

I wondered if Carter had ever ridden the F train in the middle of the night. I wondered if he’d ever ridden the subway at all. It was actually quite possible that he hadn’t.

I hadn’t seen him since that afternoon at the museum. He had asked if I wanted to go for dinner after, but I’d made up some lame excuse about having to run errands and had gone home to sit on my sofa in despair. I regretted it. I was afraid, and my response to fear was to run away. My childhood taught me that bad things happened all the time, and the only way to avoid them was to hide under your bed and hope that your drunken father found another outlet for his rage. Carter wasn’t drunk, or angry, but he scared me, and so I fled. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was the only one I had.

And he did scare me: his charm, the strange hold he had on me, the way I wanted to be with him all the time. I spent a few hours with him and visions of the future started dancing in my head. He was my ticket out of the life I’d been trapped in for so long, and that was what really scared me. The idea that I was relying on a man to save me. It wasn’t safe to rely on anyone but myself.

Carter was seductive. My body responded to him like it had been made for his use, and that was terrifying enough, but worse than that was the way I wanted to fling myself wholeheartedly into the world he offered to me, that life of wealth and security. It wasn’t real. It wouldn’t last. He would get tired of me, or realize, too late, that I wasn’t who he thought, and then he would leave me. And if I let myself get in too deep, I would be destroyed when he left.

I had to maintain a careful distance. I had to keep myself from falling for him, and it was so hard, like tearing my own heart out of my chest. I wanted to let go and love him. That word. If I let go for one second, if I slipped up and relaxed my iron control, I would lose myself. There would be no turning back.

The safest thing to do would be to end it. I should tell him that I couldn’t see him anymore. But I’d tried that once already, and it hadn’t worked. I’d let him charm his way back into my life. He hadn’t even had to work very hard. I’d welcomed him back with open arms. I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to refuse him again.