Not tonight, however. Tonight I plan to get very drunk. After spending all day at a lawyer’s office, signing away almost every last cent I own, it seems the only fitting thing to do. At least I did not have to see Edward there. He signed the night before. Putting up quite a protest, Damon said, but in the end the Scott name held enough clout—and enough fear—in the city to convince him to sign. And Edward ended up fairly compensated for the hotel, something that I cannot help but dwell on tonight, with my bank account and investments depleted.
I reach for a glass as the door buzzes. Is it Melissande? I haven’t heard from her, but I imagine that won’t last. She will have some words for me once she realized what I’ve done. Unless Damon makes it hard enough for her that she has to leave Tanglewood.
My phone is open to Bea Sharp’s page, where nothing new has been uploaded for a week. Her longest break, except for the one time she had the flu, one of the comments says—but even then she posted an update to let everyone know. The fans are in a frenzy about the absence, worried and dramatic, but none of it compares to the intensity of my own guilt.
I felt bad for making her cry the first night, but this is worse. I hurt her. Not her beautiful body but the tender heart inside. No wonder she kicked me out.
My finger flicks across the screen and the security app appears. I stare at the photo a long second, trying to blink away the mirage. It’s dark outside, but the light clearly illuminates her upturned nose, her green eyes. Her copper curls. “Bea,” I breathe.
She’s here. Why is she here? How is she here?
I press the button to buzz her in the main door downstairs, but I don’t wait for her to climb the stairs to my loft. Instead I’m out the door and running down to meet her, my heart pounding louder than my footfalls, hope a wild and unmistakable beat. I catch her up in my arms as she falls, trembling, afraid. “What are you doing?” I demand, my throat tight with fear for her. Not that she would be in danger in the world, but she will feel as though she is. Her body will undergo the same stress, the same reactions as if she were kidnapped by Somali pirates even if nothing happens.
“I took a cab,” she whispers, her voice shaking.
“Mon Dieu.” I don’t wait for her to give me permission this time. I lift her up and carry her up the stairs, my stride fast and steady. Once we’re inside the loft I shut the door and think about where to put her. Nothing about this place is what she’s used to. Sleek modern furniture instead of embellished antiques. Crisp leather instead of thick brocade.
The bed, I realize. The white sheets on my bed aren’t trimmed with lace, but they’re close enough. No other woman has ever spent the night with me in the bed, but it feels completely natural that Bea would be there. I stride into the bedroom and set her down gently, pushing the hair back from her face. “Why did you do it, Bea?”
“I had to see you.” Her lower lip trembles, and I’m terribly afraid she’s going to cry.
“You could have called me. I would have come.”
“No,” she says, a little too loud. This is when I realize that she is more than afraid. She’s perhaps tipsy. “I have to apologize to you. God, you had just seen the man who… And then I told you to leave.”
She’s definitely crying now, tears thick in her throat, fat drops on her copper lashes.
“You are killing me,” I tell her honestly. “Don’t cry.”
Her lip trembles while she makes a valiant effort to stop. It isn’t quite enough. “I couldn’t stop thinking about your face when I asked you to go. And after everything you’d done. The picnic. You wanted me to get out of there, and I should have, a long time ago, and now I have to leave—”
“Shhh.” I consider telling her about the sale of L’Etoile. I could show her the contract in the next room, but that will only raise questions of why Edward had been willing to part with it. The important thing is that she calm down now. I’ll tell her about the hotel later. “Don’t worry about that. Everything will work out. I promise, Bea.”
“It’s fine,” she says, quite loud, and I realize she’s more than tipsy. She’s completely wasted. “I did it. Look! I’m outside the hotel right now and I’m not freaking out.”
Except that she had to get drunk before she could come. And what happens when she sobers up? I’m afraid we’re in for an even worse panic attack than before. “You amaze me,” I tell her gently. “This is a beautiful first step. But right now I want you to go back with me.”
She looks crestfallen. “Why?”
“Because I don’t have a piano, and I want to hear you play.” As I say the words I discover that they’re true. This loft doesn’t suit her. It’s an impersonal husk, rather like myself. Even if she is able to leave L’Etoile on a regular basis, that penthouse is her home. And when she plays music, her soul.
She starts to cry again. “I do want to play. I do.”
“And you will,” I tell her. “Very soon.”
“No.” Her green eyes are deep reflective pools. “I haven’t played since you left. How crazy is that? For years it was almost the only way I could speak. And then nothing.”
I don’t think it has anything to do with my absence. More likely she’s terrified of being forced from her home after the confrontation with Edward. “You remember my Bugatti?”
She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Noooo.”
Oh, she is an adorable drunk. I would enjoy the experience more if I didn’t know how little time with her I have left. “You watched me arrive the first night,” I remind her. “It’s very pretty. Not as pretty as you, but still. Shall we take it back to L’Etoile?”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll try not to throw up. The cab driver was not happy.”
I decide to bring both the contract and the bottle of brandy with me. Something tells me I might need both of them before I’m done.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning I wake up with a massive hangover and a pair of yellow eyes staring down at me. It takes me a moment to make the world stop spinning and orient myself.
Where the hell am I? The penthouse of L’Etoile.
What is that? Ah, that’s right. The cat.
She’s apparently warmed up enough that she’s cuddling on my chest. Either that or she was plotting ways to kill me in my sleep. Gingerly I move the kitty aside and wander out of the bedroom.
A room service tray sits on the small table, filled with pastries and an omelet. I must have been sleeping very hard not to notice it arrive. And from behind the closed door I hear music playing. I believe the song is Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson, though it’s been changed enough that I’m not sure. It’s softer now, almost haunting. Feeling like an intruder I knock softly and step inside.
Bea sits at the bench looking impossibly fresh. Her hair is still dark and damp from the shower. I probably could have slept through an earthquake. Only vaguely do I remember working my way through the bottle of brandy while Bea played the piano beside me. There is an even hazier memory of singing Hotel California as a duet. We were both drunk, and now we’re both hungover.