The Lawyer by Charlotte E Hart
Chapter One
LANDON
Fucking insipid people. They’re all here, all walking along the streets in this place as if they’ve got all the time in the world to amble. Maybe they have, but I haven’t.
I leave the taxi and cut through the masses of tourists, unsure what it is that I’m expecting to find. Laughter? Joy? Part of me hopes I won’t find either. That is, after all, what I presumed would happen. Instead, handwritten words arrived in the post a few days ago opposing my thoughts. They seemed remorseful, yet jubilant. Apologetic, yet delighted. Perhaps other brothers would be happy for her, or perhaps they’d be able to forgive the attitude and behaviour that turned a Broderick traitorous.
But that’s not me.
At least the late afternoon sun is shining to counter this mood I’m lagging in, showing Paris off to its full glory. I look up at it, contemplating the last time I took any time off. A few days here and there over the last however long. Not much, though. Cane business kept me well and truly embedded in the courts. Or made me busy keeping their family out of them. Logical. Decisive. Ruthless. That’s been my life.
But this … this is my family.
And what a fucking mess it is.
A hand touches my arm, making me frown.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you speak English? We’re late. You wouldn’t know where Le Carreau du Temple is, would you?”
I look to my side, watching as the woman holds out a map. It’s as creased as she is. She’s probably travelled around the world, visited everywhere. Another pathetic tourist. Still, I smile and nod my head down the street we’re both on, pointing her in the right direction, and watch as she thanks me and hurries on with two children following. I only know myself because I’ve studied this area for the last few months. Daily reports from Locke have shown me all the places they’ve been and all the things they’ve done since being here.
The place they’ve rented is three blocks over. A large apartment on the third floor of an old, majestic building near the Place des Vosges. I walked past it last night when I arrived, intent on breaking the door down and dragging her home before Scott’s apartment sale in London finalises. He’ll be a wealthy man again then, with enough in his accounts to buy outright here and create the life he’s after. Whether that will be ongoing with her is still unknown. But instead of breaking the door down, I sat in the gardens and looked up at the building, perhaps searching for some slither of reality to bed in. She’s happy—that’s what she said.
With a fucking Foxton.
A few more streets walked and I arrive at the venue I’m aiming for. It’s larger than I thought it would be, with half a street full of waiting guests queued outside the doorway. I don’t need to go in. I’ve seen the art work already. A three-page spread of it in The Herald that I now control. The article, written by Richard Pillingsworth, was good, and the art itself? Astoundingly so, regardless of the muse. But the half-page picture of the artist himself, of Scott Foxton, looking cool, calm, and pensive as hell in a tux, was fucking irritating.
It doesn’t matter how beautiful she looks in the paintings, and it doesn’t matter how real she seems to be, because the fact that it’s her in the nine paintings he’s completed—my fucking baby sister—has pissed me off beyond all realms of decency. Especially considering the seductive and sensual nature of them.
He’s named the collection The Artistry of Elegance. He’s right to call it that. It is, without doubt, some of the most profound work I’ve ever seen. Evocative, quietly suggestive, and yet bold enough to have the whole fucking world understanding how it’s been created.
I step back from the crowds before getting to them, hands in my pockets as I try to work out what it is that I’m intending to do here. A waiter arrives in my eyeline, his hand gesturing at an outside table in a café. Fine. It may quell my temper at the moment. I nod and follow him to it, ordering a coffee and a brandy in the same breath so I can wait in the background. I’ll sit here for a while and watch, formulate some kind of strategy that might show sense and intellect.
Unfortunately, the fact that I’ve got to look at three of the paintings in the window while I do isn’t helping me calm down. Nor is the fact that I can see all the guests milling around in there fawning over them. And then, just to fuel this underlying wrath, I’m going to have to see him in a minute. I’m sure he’ll be as broody in nature as he always is.
Irritating.
Coffee and brandy served, I watch and wait until I do get a look at him through the crowds suffocating his space. He smiles weakly and chats, his eyes downcast as if uncomfortable with all the attention. It’s not something I assumed he’d feel. Take out the fact that it’s my sister and he should be proud of his work. I damn well would be. Not him, though. He appears almost contrite in his behaviour.
At least we agree with that part of this fucking situation.
Digging in my jacket pocket, I pull out the letter and flatten it on the table. My fingers lift the coffee at the same time as I scan the words for the tenth time. Perhaps I’m still hoping to find something buried in the text, some call for help that I haven’t seen yet.
Dear Landon,
I’m still unsure if I’ll ever bring myself to speak to you again, but I also can’t stand to leave things quite as broken as I fear they are now.
I’m sure after your earlier stalking episodes, you’ll know I’m in Paris. With Scott. He forced my hand when we argued. I hadn’t made up my mind, and I was too angry at you to make a rational decision. I don’t know why I should justify my actions to you, but a part of me wants to make you understand. I hate that. Regardless of how you see me or what you said to me, I still want to make amends and have your approval.
Scott gave me an ultimatum. Leave with him or give him up. He is so arrogant, much like my Big Brother. But I love him. And no matter our differences, I couldn’t not try. I felt I deserved to find out ‘what if’ and do something completely crazy for once. My life has always involved following the rules, working hard and being determined. This was a new kind of determination, and I couldn’t ignore it. Maybe I’ll come to regret leaving with him, but I don’t believe I will.
Scott isn’t just the snake you want to see him as. He’s like a different person here in Paris. Alive. Full of passion and vibrancy like his paintings. It’s made me want to dance again. Not to be the best, like I was before, but to simply revel in the joy of it. Have you ever experienced that? I can’t imagine you have, and that makes me sad. As siblings, I don’t think I’ve ever known you properly. You took up the mantle of a protector when I never really needed one, and you stopped being my brother and slid into the father role all too easily.
One day I hope you can be happy for me as a big brother should. Neither my family nor Scott’s family should determine my happiness, especially as you have no idea why the feud is still going on between us. Scott being a Foxton is a woefully weak excuse for me not spending my life with him, if that’s what makes me happy.
If you ever come to Paris, you’ll see that Scott loves me the way I deserve to be loved. I was unsure at first, but now there’s no mistake, and I won’t give that up, Landon. Please don’t make things worse.
When I started this letter, I wasn’t sure what I wanted it to be. Please take it as a testament to my happiness. Be happy for me, Landon. And maybe find happiness for yourself.
Love Persephone
Nothing. Again.
No sense of regret because she left us.
Only a sense of remorse that she left in the wake of bitterness.
My stare aims at the view in front of me again, and I fold the letter neatly and tuck it back in my pocket. She’s happy. And no matter how I deliberate it or try to find a route to get her home, there appears to be no way in hell I can make it happen unless I engineer a fault on his part. Easily enough done. A man like him likes attractive women, evidently. As proved by these paintings.
I could make that happen if I chose to, especially considering the women already attempting to seduce him. Batting lashes. Ridiculous coy glances. A touch to his arm, another body too close for polite conversation. Nothing bold enough for outright flirting, but from what I know, that isn’t the Parisian way. The annoyance of it is, he doesn’t appear remotely interested in any of them.
More time passes, and a broad smile tips his lips after a while as his eyes lift over the masses. It doesn’t take the genius in me to work out what I’m about to witness. It causes a loose breath to blow through my lips, a sense of relaxation in my frame, and I watch as she glides through the people to him like she’s up on her pointe shoes.
Some part of me wishes I wasn’t here to see what’s coming because no amount of me should even think about destroying that look in her eyes. She’s radiant. Glowing, actually. As if the world, or a Foxton, has brought her something her family never could. And sadly, for me, the way his hands grab hold of her and swing her to him, appear to mean nothing but promise and contentment.
“Fuck.”
My eyes roll, shoulders square. I might be a bastard on some days—most days—but it’s not in me to destroy what she’s now found. Not that I’d know the sensation they’re feeling in the slightest, I’m damn sure I’ve never held a woman with anything close to that care. Nor have I been eclipsed by one like I’ve just witnessed Scott be. It’s like the room, the paintings, and all the guests in there just disappeared and faded into the background because the only thing he sees is her.
My sister.
The brandy gets thrown down my throat, and I stand, unsure whether to go talk to her or not. I might be able to manage this in my thoughts somehow, but Father never will. He’s part of the reason I’m here in the first place. Bring her home, he said. I doubt I could even if I wanted to. She’d bitch and scream the entire way through the airport, probably drawing enough attention that she’d involve the Parisian guard on the way.
The thought makes me chuckle lightly, at least acknowledging that Broderick nature inside her, and I toss some Euros on the table. She’s grown so much in the years I’ve been away—changed. Perhaps for the better in some ways. Although, it would have been more useful if she’d done this with anyone but a fucking Foxton. It complicates everything that could have been easier to manage, and because of it, we’re all left with a situation that is untenable to any Broderick.
I weave around the tables and make my way slowly over to the window. If I could just get a decent fucking answer out of my father, it might help me understand why he’s so opposed to it all. I know the inbuilt hatred. That’s without question, but the why behind it has confounded me more and more by the day. The situation with Persephone has thrown it into question. I don’t much like being confounded by anything. In fact, it’s been my life’s work to not be confused by a damn thing. There’s always a route out of everything, always a clause or a stipulation that advances strategic momentum. But this? This is all just some fucking undisclosed agenda that makes little logical wisdom to anything.
The evening light begins closing in around me, and I linger under a tree in full leaf to keep watching the way she’s acting. There’s nothing to show anything other than delight and joy. A little shy perhaps, given the nature of the art, a little demure under his arm as he walks her around and shows her off to the guests, but fundamentally, and without any contest, she is, indeed, happy.
If I was a growling kind of guy, I would. Untenable. Unmanageable. And almost indefensible, but for the look on her face. So instead, I stare at the man that’s made it happen until he takes a glance outside. It’s only for a second, but it’s enough for him to notice me standing here. Not hard given my height, nor the incessant frown permanently embedded in my glare lately. And it’s also enough for him to turn her so she’s looking away from me.
He nods at me, flicks his head as if I should come in. I’m not currently equipped for that. Much more of this agreeable nature coming out of me and I might well decide to blow up into a rage about it all just to purge the animosity. Fists, while productive on some occasions, are not going to recover this situation anymore. Not that they did the first time, it seems.
Patience is what I need. Not something I’m terribly good at, but it’s necessary for now. The thought has me turning and walking away, phone in hand, ready to book my flights home. He’ll fuck this up eventually. Maybe six more months, a year. Maybe two. Who knows? But one way or another, boredom and monotony will set in.
It always does with men. Has done for me, anyway.