When Empires Fall (57 page)

“
They were,
” he said simply, darkness hollowing out his voice. She hesitated, a quick release of breath escaping her lungs as her throat clenched again, his causal admission shattering the cold stone of her hardened heart to pieces. Damnit, she couldn’t let him do this, not again, not now when she was already weakened, damaged…

But when he spoke again, the pain in his voice haunted her.

“
I love you, sweetheart. That hasn’t changed.
”

She let the phone fall from her cheek as she hung up on him, permitting only a single tear to fall.

The funeral was
held on a cool, March day, clouds shadowing the sun as rain threatened to fall. In the distance, thunder rumbled, ominous and dark.

It was, as if by fate, a day that suited the man being laid to rest flawlessly.

Madison stood with Grant and Linc before the dark ebony wood casket as it hovered over the hole that fell six feet deep, her hands grasping a cluster of calla lilies. Her grandfather would have brutally scolded her for even daring to put flowers over his casket, but in her mind it was her last and final way of paying him back for withholding from her. Childish, maybe, but it gave her an odd sense of closure.

The entire family was there, crowded around the grave like a mass of black clothed statues. The preacher who read consoling words on death from the bible in his hands must have found it peculiar that not a single one of those present was crying.

It said something dark and sinister about a man who could die and no one would shed a single tear at his funeral.

Quinn stood solidly beside Grant, her hand in his, her eyes casually taking in the family members surrounding her. She had briefly been introduced to a few of them before the service, but there were just too many for her to keep track. Linc hadn’t been lying when he had told her his family was huge.

There were people of all ages, shapes and sizes surrounding her. Some spoke only in French while others clung to their cell phones restlessly and still others looked bored enough to die. It bothered Quinn to understand then that the rest of the Vasser family, at least those of the younger generations, seemed to care a lot less about the family empire than Grant and his siblings did. Most of them, she figured, had probably only shown up to find out how much inheritance they were getting. It was a tragic shame.

Those who were clearly of the older generation, notably Marshall’s four remaining brothers, appeared the most respectful and saddened. Cyrus had been their father, after all, and had given them each a hotel for their own to manage, a legacy to give their children. There was Clark Vasser from the Los Angeles Vasser Hotel, Duke from Las Vegas, Lyndon from Paris, and lastly Walter from London. Quinn noted the way they stood proudly beside their oldest brother, Marshall, in a show of support and unity.

They, at least, knew the real power that came from standing together in tragedy.

Grant’s youngest sister was also there, hovering awkwardly beside Charlene. Quinn watched Kennedy curiously, noting the dark shadows under the girl’s eyes that were so very much like her father’s had been. She seemed to have the same poetic innocence that had made Win Vasser seem so childlike and kind. From the brief introduction they had shared hours before, Quinn got the impression that the girl was the only one of Win’s children to inherit his free spirit. She just had to hope that Kennedy would make better decisions in her life than Win had made in his.

Charlene had been evasive and rude, but Quinn had expected that. After all, Grant had somewhat inexpertly alluded to his mother that very day that he was now seeing his secretary, causing her to nearly faint with shock in the hotel lobby. Quinn had tried to brush off Charlene’s obvious disapproval of her, but it still hurt.

She knew what she was and where she came from, and never for a minute would she allow some Upper East Side elitist to cause her to feel badly about herself. But the fact still remained that Grant could do better, at least by society’s standards.

Quinn knew she would live with that nagging at the back of her mind for as long as he chose to live under the delusion that she was good enough for him.

Linc stood on Grant’s other side, Lynette curled up against him as he held her close. As he stood there in the graveyard, surrounded by death, it was no longer possible for him to avoid thinking about his father. He supposed regret was at the forefront of whatever was going on inside of him, regret that he had let a grudge keep him from rekindling a relationship with the only father he was ever going to have. Regret that he had let a wicked, asinine woman get between them, and that the last words he had spoken to the man had been ones of disgust and hate. He couldn’t take any of that back now, just like he couldn’t change the fact that his grandfather had been a cold-blooded killer. It was, to say the least, a collection of sickening truths that only served to weigh down his very soul.

He shot a quick glance over at his brother, noting that while there weren’t tears in Grant’s eyes, there were certainly storms of complicated emotions. Anyone watching would have assumed that he was waging a silent war within himself over whether or not he hated or loved the man being buried. But, hell, weren’t they all feeling that way?

The man they had known and loved was now suddenly something else entirely. He was a murderer, and would forever be, in their eyes, just that.

When the service ended, a dozen or so of the family remained to pay their respects one last time as the casket was lowered into the ground. It was then that Madison looked off into the distance and spotted Wyatt, lingering beside an old, knotted oak tree, waiting for her.

Grant noticed her stiffen and followed her gaze. Disapproval flashed in his eyes even as acceptance settled uneasily into his gut. Wyatt would be able to comfort Madison, he knew that much. He may have despised the man, but no one had ever been able to reach his sister quite like him.

“We’ll wait for you,” Grant murmured, pressing his lips to the top of his sister’s head as she turned to look up at him.

Her eyes met his for a long, quiet moment and understanding passed between them as it often did between siblings. She nodded once and stepped away, her hands digging into the pockets of her black coat, her heart shuddering once in her chest.

When she reached Wyatt, she stopped a few feet away and stared at him, her face free of emotion and ice cold. “What are you doing here?”

He leaned back against the trunk of the big oak tree, a cigarette in his hand that he drew a long, slow pull from. “I could lie to you, sweetheart. But I won’t.”

He finished the cigarette and tossed it into the grass, snuffing it out with the toe of his designer black leather boot. “I wanted to see you. It’s that simple.”

“Nothing is ever simple with you,” she countered, her eyes measuring him frostily. “You always have something planned, Wyatt. What is it this time?”

“I should be asking you the same question. Especially after last night.” He smirked at her, crossing his arms over his chest casually. “That little seduction act was cute, but kind of a new low for you.”

Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she stepped towards him, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “If I wanted you, Wyatt, you’d be in my bed by now.”

He started laughing, though there was little amusement in it. “I didn’t come here to go to blows with you, sweetheart. I came to make sure you were doing alright.”

“I’m fine,” she replied haughtily, coolly, a refined edginess replacing the out and out hostility in her voice. “You can run along back up to Maine now, or wherever it is you’ve been hiding out for the last eight years.”

Wyatt shook his head, a dry smile curving his lips. “You know, when I was in Atlantic City last night, I came across a cute little wedding chapel. It reminded me of us.”

Her glare became deadly as she sneered at him. “Don’t you dare bring that up, not now. Not here.”

“Why not?” he asked, his voice laced with dark humor and resentment. “We
were
married, sweetheart.”

“I had that annulled,” she hissed.

“I never signed any annulment papers.”

She let out an irritated huff of breath and in a sudden wave of fury lashed out to slap him across the face, only to have him catch her forearm and hold her back, his eyes dangerous as he brought her closer. She struggled, her eyes ice cold and mean.

“That was the biggest mistake I ever made, marrying you,” she murmured, her heart rioting inside her chest as he brought her closer, his face inches from hers. The steel in his eyes heated and softened as he watched her, his lips curving into a grin.

“Like I said, I can never believe a word that comes out of that pretty little mouth of yours.” With a movement that was both swift and possessive, he pulled her in and crushed her mouth with his, his hands gripping her coat to keep her close until he could feel her giving in, loosening up, letting go.

“Damn you,” she gasped, her lips hard on his while her teeth nipped and her heart ached. “I hate you.”

“I know.” His own heart thundered in his chest as he lost himself in her, until he almost forgot that they were enemies now, that they were at war. And until he found a way to settle this with her, to convince her to let him back into her life, they would remain in a constant battle of fire and ice.

He broke the kiss and pulled away from her, his eyes dark and haunted, his mouth set in a firm, grim line. “You should go. Be with your family.”

She let her hands that had been roaming over his back fall to her sides, her cheeks flushed and her eyes dark and unreadable. When she spoke, her voice had the depths of satisfaction that only came from a woman who’d gotten what she’d wanted, and enjoyed it.

“I don’t give a damn what the state of Nevada thinks, Wyatt. You aren’t my husband.”

With one last, deadly glare, she turned on her heel and headed back towards her brothers, damning Wyatt Bailey to whatever place there was that was worse than Hell.

“I have no
need for Lake Pontchartrain.”

“Why the hell not? It’s great,” Linc countered, eyeing Lynette dubiously across the butcher-block island in her kitchen. When she only lifted one copper eyebrow doubtfully and pursed her lips, he started to laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve got something against Louisiana.”

“Of course I don’t,” she insisted, turning back to dicing a ripe and juicy tomato, her slender hands diligent and graceful as she worked. He marveled at how she made even the simple act of chopping vegetables look beautiful. “Us southerners stick together, dear Yankee, and don’t you forget it.”

Her accent thickened as she said the words, which only amused him more. “Then what is it?”

“I don’t care much for lakes, if you must know,” she said primly, her eyes glued to the task at hand instead of meeting his. “I prefer the sea.”

“Ah. Well, I can buy us a house on the coast if you’d like.” He leaned closer to her over the counter, his eyes sparking with the idea. “Cute little beachfront, white siding with bright blue shutters. A dock with a sailboat tied to it. We could walk the beach and gather seashells and you could scatter them throughout the house.”

She snorted out a laugh and glanced at him briefly, wearily. “That’s a nice dream, Linc, but nowhere near becoming a reality.”