The Lawyer by Charlotte E Hart
Chapter Twenty Three
LANDON
Ishould be looking at the information on the email I’m attempting to read. I should also be dealing with the next level of diatribe concerning my company and the impending headlines that are about to degenerate us more than they already are doing. But I’m not. I’m looking at a green dress wrapped tightly around something I now consider my own.
She takes the coffees she’s handed by the staff and walks back to me, a dirty little smile on her face. I’m not surprised. We’ve just made out in the bathroom, acting like fifteen-year-olds rather than the grown adults we are.
“What’s that face for?” she asks, sitting a professional distance away from me. “You seem disturbed by something. Anything I can help with?”
She’s well aware what it’s for, as proved by the post-orgasm grin on her lips. My own is yet to be achieved. Also, a thing she knows about. Especially considering it was her that slipped out of the fucking bathroom before I could get on with achieving it.
I take a sip of the coffee and look back at my tablet, attempting to work again, only to hear the cabin crew calling us to board five minutes later.
“I’ve never flown first class,” she says.
“Get used to it. You won’t be flying any other way from now on.”
She stands with me and grabs her case and coat, another smile beaming. I like it. In fact, I like everything about her. Including her tetchy attitude. And I particularly like this tryst we’re in and the fact that no one else knows anything about it. It's all rather lurid.
Having been welcomed on board a near-empty first class, we take our seats, and I smile quietly as I watch her staring at the tarmac in my periphery. She’s good at keeping a distance. No one would suspect anything was happening between us. It’s the way I want to keep it for now. I doubt she truly approves of that, regardless of her agreement, but until I’ve worked out how far these feelings of attachment reach, there isn’t another route forward as far as I’m concerned.
As soon as we’re up in the air, the champagne and hor d’oeuvres are served. She takes a glass and keeps staring out the window, barely acknowledging my existence next to her. It’s probably useful considering the amount of work I should be doing, but if she had any idea how much I want to join the mile-high club right now, she’d think twice about her professional distance.
“Do you speak French?” she asks after a while.
“Yes.”
“When did you learn?”
“School.”
“Oh. I never could wrap my tongue around it. I'm usually quite good at that.” The smile I should not be showing the world regarding her erupts, and I check the filth that’s ready to fall out of my lips. “Perhaps you could show me how?”
I’m about to find some reasonable response to the taunt that doesn’t involve slutty overtones when my phone rings. Ivy. I answer and ready myself for the end of our last conversation, which she was more than likely annoyed with, but the sudden sound of gunfire makes me startle. As does the potential sound of her running. “Ivy?”
“Yes. Hold on. I’m fine.”
“Was that gunfire?”
“Yes. Shut up a minute.” More shooting occurs and the sound of a vehicle starting echoes in the background. I swallow the entirety of the champagne and stand, pacing to ease the tension that’s just overridden me. “Still there?” she asks.
“Of course, I’m still here. I could be terrified. Where the hell are you?”
“Afghanistan. But that’s not why I’m calling. What are you doing about that author?”
“You’re in a warzone and you’re bothered about a dead author?”
“Fuck. Hold on.” Crashes blare down the line, another round of gunfire near deafening me, let alone her. “Anyways.” Gears crunch and suddenly the engine’s roaring under her again. “Yes, the author?”
“We’re looking into it. My man is on it, and it's being dealt with. I really don't—”
“Honestly, you’re not giving this the credence it deserves, Landon. We’re already being vilified on social media, the papers are screaming criticism and blame, and if you carry on fucking your secretary rather than thinking strategically, we’re going to end up in a shitstorm.”
My brow arches at her tone, regardless of the clear danger she’s currently in. “Get a check of your mouth. I am not—”
“Oh, sod off with your attitude. I’m trying to help.”
“If you were trying to help, you’d be investigating for us rather than whatever you’re presently doing.”
Another crash blares down the line, hotly pursued by the sound of more crunching gears.
“Let's not discuss your miserly ways again, shall we? We’ve argued about it enough already. You know what my price is, brother.”
“Fine.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll pay you.” If for nothing else, just to get her out of whatever hellhole she's in. “I don’t see why I should, but if you think you can get to the bottom of this, then get your scrawny arse back home. Preferably not in a body bag.” I can almost see the smile on her face, irrespective of her current predicament. She’s probably punching the air, congratulating herself for me giving in on this matter. “You’ll get a little over standard rate, Ivy. Don’t, for one minute, think you get family privileges.”
“God, you’re a mercenary arsehole.” I nod. “That’s nowhere near enough, and you know it. Double it, and you have a deal.”
My jaw twitches, financial accounting and family loyalties colliding. “Fine, but for that, you can deal with whatever Father’s hiding, too.”
“Good.”
“Where are you now? Safe presumably?”
“Almost. But listen, I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you soon.”
The phone cuts out before I even manage a goodbye, and I’m left not really understanding what I just listened to or how much I’ve agreed to pay her for the privilege.
A huff blows through my lips, and I take a seat back in my chair and look at my phone.
“Everything alright?” Willow asks.
“No.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Also, a no.”
“Okay. Well, how about we go over the meetings you’ve got set up with Cole James next week, and then we can discuss the scandal you’re currently delaying dealing with.”
My head leans back, twisting to look at her. “I’m not delaying dealing with it.”
“And so, the reason we’re going to Paris is?”
“Hopefully, a partial buyout, and if we've got time, we'll be glimpsing behind the façade I offered you.”
“Which would mean you’re not concentrating on the important things at the moment. You should be back at the office with all this going on.”
“I’m concentrating on an exceedingly relevant case. It needs thorough examination before proceedings commence.”
She smirks, leans her head on the chair and continues to gaze at me. “Be careful, you’ll have me thinking about sweet and cute again.”
I chuckle and look past her out of the window, imagining the possibility. It’s not coming any time soon. Maybe when all this is over and I’ve got control of a stable company again, or when all this constant gossip gets put to bed. Maybe then I’ll have a chance for either of those words she seems to like so much. Until then, there is only the chaste time I can give her and the threat of unending damage that could be coming for me.
We sit in reasonable silence for the rest of the flight, only occasionally being interrupted by more first-class champagne and food. Work ends up absorbing me, and I give the last ebbs of my irritation to it rather than throw it at her. More meetings booked in for next week, more annoyances to deal with. And still nothing from Locke that delivers any concrete evidence on who the fuck that woman actually was or why she was all over my family.
After we’ve landed, I watch as the cabin door finally opens and wait for Willow to get up and walk out. She glances back at me the moment we’re out into Parisian air, the same smile on her face that always seems reserved for me alone. Slightly shy, overly dirty in its attempt at innocence, and most definitely, something I want to see more of.
“Where first?” she says as I open the taxi door for her.
“What do you like?”
She slides in the back. “I don’t know. Museums? What does one do in Paris?”
“Romance, apparently.”
“Any idea of what that actually is?”
“None at all."
She giggles and looks out the window as I tell the driver where to head, presumably amused at my honesty. It’s not that I don’t know what it is. I’ve used it several times over the years to get what I want out of a woman, but this type of attempt at it seems different, as if I should let it evolve rather than use the normal inclination of the word.
“Do you like art?” I ask.
“Yes. I suppose. As long as it looks like a painting. I don’t like that weird crap that looks like blobs and spots.” Quite right too.
"Good. I know an artist here. Much to my annoyance, his work is exquisite."
I find myself looking at her hand in her lap rather than the view outside. I can still feel it on me from Tallington, feel its hold in mine. It’s the one place we’ve been free to simply exist together. Even at my apartment, I’ve felt caged in, as if something, or someone, might disturb the moment and find out I’m sleeping with my own PA. I wish I could say it didn’t matter, that I could show the world this and be done with it, but I can’t. Not yet. Regardless of her potentially deserving it. This trip, for me at least, is another attempt at finding that sense of ease again somehow.
My fingers slide into hers, and her head whips round to look at me. “Really?” she whispers.
“As and when I can. Don’t push it.”
Another shy smile, another flutter of eyelashes, and she leans back to look at me instead of that view she seems so preoccupied with. “Okay.”
Time passes by like that, just the two of us in a Parisian taxi driving through streets and around corners. No meetings for a while. No phone calls to deal with or family to contend with. Just her looking at me and me looking at her.
“I thought you were here to see Paris,” I eventually say. “Whilst I’m clearly more attractive than it is, I assumed you’d want to look at it, not me.”
“I don’t know what’s more attractive yet. I’ll let you know when I’ve tallied up the points.”
“Points?”
“Yes. Gentlemanly behaviour versus Paris and its attractions.”
“You’re going to rate me?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I better get my game on then. Paris has a few charms to compete with. One of which is my sister.”
“Your sister? We’re going to see your sister?”
“Yes, and I should warn you, her partner is attractive. Don’t infuriate me by gushing all over him. I will not take it well in the slightest.” The taxi pulls up to the hotel the moment I’ve let that out of my mouth, apparent pre-emptive jealousy fuelling me. “In fact, I might kill him for it. I feel like doing that anyway.”
She gets out of the car and looks up at the Plaza Athénée, waiting for me to arrive by the side of her. “Is he six foot plus with blond hair and a sharp tongue?”
“No. Dark, brooding, and irritating.”
“Unlikely I’ll be interested at all then. But I do have this rating system going on, so you never know. Might be worth you investing some serious thought in that romance word.” She points at the building. “This is a very good start.”
I smile and watch as the concierge grabs our bags. “Mmm. Separate rooms, I’m afraid.”
“Shame.”
“I know, but the only reason you’re here is to take the minutes on the meeting I have with Pierre Heroux. If I can walk away as part owner in the new French fashion channel by the end of this weekend, maybe we can discuss room arrangements next time.”
“You assume there will be a next time.”
My head leans in. “I. Don’t. Lose. Anything.”
“That, Mr Broderick, remains to be seen.”
Chuckling, I walk away from her and into the foyer to check us in. I’m damn close to dragging her into one of our rooms to deal with the ache in my trousers, but then the thought of Persephone and her happiness springs to mind. She seemed so pleased when I called, excited. The fact that she doesn’t know Willow will be with me yet shouldn’t be a problem, considering how good she is at keeping secrets of her own. Foxton, however, I’m not sure of.
I end up walking us both out into the sun again, eyes scanning the surrounding area for the café we’re supposed to meet at in half an hour. We eventually find it after ambling around a few streets, and I talk to the waiter about a booking either Persephone or Scott have made.
“Landon!”
The overly excited scream of delight shocks me, and I turn, only to be ambushed by Persephone in full flight. She lands hard against my chest, her arms going around my neck in what can only be described as sibling love. The feeling makes me chuckle a little, unsure when the last time we even did this was.
“It’s really you!”
“Happy Birthday, Persephone.”
“I can't believe you remembered or that you've come all the way here just for me.” I didn't, not entirely, but the timing was good for varying reasons.
Stepping back, I reach into my pocket and pull out the slim blue box and give it to her.
"Tiffany's? You shouldn't have."
Yes, I should. Whatever we've been through, she's the youngest one of us, the one I need to protect most. I watch as she opens it, pleased with the smile that breaks across her face again, and equally as pleased with the next launch of her limbs at me.
Still too absorbed in the feeling of her or the sense of familiarity now consuming me, I barely notice Scott’s approach until he’s beside us. He nods and looks at me, attempting to peel Persephone off, his hand cautiously outstretched. He’s right to be cautious. I’m still damn close to beating the crap out of him. Again.
My sister clearly notices and finally backs off to give us room. “Now, don’t you two start. I won’t have it. Shake hands and be done with it. Oh, hello?”
Willow smiles and hovers at the side of us, obviously not knowing how to proceed. I’m not entirely sure either, but my hand pulls her closer before I think too much about the potential fallout a Foxton knowing about this could cause. Probably because of the underlying sense of jealousy I'm not admitting to with him up close. “Persephone, Scott, this is Willow Etherington.”
They all nod their greetings, all kiss each other’s cheek in the typical Parisian way, and then Persephone is dragging Willow into the café as if it’s her right to do so. It gives me a chance to turn on Scott again, still unsure how comfortable I am with his presence in my life, let alone him sleeping with my sister.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his eyes firm with mine. “Don’t fucking try it, Landon. She’s happy. We’re happy. Leave it at that.”
“Mmm. Reasonably obvious on her part.” He shrugs and looks around me, his eyes on her probably. “I have a request.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Not a word about Willow. To anyone. My family included. I can promise I won’t give a damn about the information you have on me if anyone else finds out we’re together.” He smiles. It’s the same annoying one he used the last time he had something over me. “And if I have to, I’ll use my sister to get the message through your skull. If you’d like us to be something close to friendly, ensure you keep your mouth closed about this, for Persephone’s sake if not mine.”
He holds his darkly tanned hand out again, beads and bracelets decorating his wrist. “Alright.”
“That’s it? No comeback?”
“No. None. I’d rather she was content. You seem to make her content as much as I do. Christ knows why, frankly.” I frown at that, not sure I understand why that would be the case either. “You've also kept up your part of the deal with my father and The Herald, so as far as I'm concerned, we're square.” So far, at least. “Are you going to shake my hand or not?” I grip it, shake it, and then back the hell away from him again.
He snorts and walks past me, having the gall to pat me on the back. “Scott?” He glances back. “Why didn't you tell her I was here last time?”
“I didn't want her upset. Knowing her brother was here, but couldn't bring himself to talk to her, would have destroyed her night.”
“Your night, you mean.”
“No, hers. Believe it or not, Landon, that art was all about her. Everything is about her. Because without her, I'm nothing.”
He leaves me standing on the pavement after that, presumably not caring for more conversation. I look out into the street, not sure what I expected from him. Capitulation as sensible as that regarding Willow was not part of the equation in my mind. And neither was that degree of devotion to Persephone.
“A Tiffany's diamond bracelet, huh?” I look up to find Willow in the doorway, her hand high on the frame and her hip cocked out as if she’s about to dance. “Good present for a baby sister. I'm sure she'll love you forever.” I nod and stare at her curves, not remotely interested in staying for lunch anymore. “Are you coming in at all? I’m quite lonesome in there without someone to cavort with. They’re all over each other. It’s really very sweet.”
“Cavort?”
“Yes. Or romp.” She lets go of the door and sways her way over to me, her body stopping before she gets as close as she’d like to. “I could sit on your knee and pretend I’m your private French maid. Imagine the possibilities that could present. I might even have an outfit somewhere in my wardrobe.” Her lips tip up, eyes glancing at my chest.
“Sounds intriguing.” She gets a little closer and looks around, probably wondering how up close and personal she can get out here. “But I’m not feeling French maid at the moment.”
“No? What are you feeling?”
“Giving.”
“Giving?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
My hand wraps around her waist, pulling her to me. “I thought you might deserve something relatively meaningful.”
She looks shocked, or confused, or perhaps even astounded that the term has even left my lips. I’m not surprised, nor am I particularly bothered, but what I am is consumed. I don’t know why. There’s not any one thing I can say or feel that makes her a choice for me. She’s just become a need … or an extension of something that was purely lust.
I smile at the thought, letting her body mold to mine in this outdoor space, and reach for my pocket. “Don’t get excited.” Still, she seems confused. It isn’t until the small blue box comes up in front of her face that she goes rigid in my hold. “I said, don’t get excited, Willow. Whatever we are, we’re not there yet, but we are somewhere. Open it.”
She reaches for the box between us, gingerly peeling open the bow and then the top. My own eyes widen at the ring encased in the velvet. It’s enough to show me that both the money spent, and the beauty of the emerald and diamond eternity ring, prove her worth to me. What that is in its entirety yet, I don’t know. What we will become from this point onwards is also still unknown. But we are something.
“I don’t know what to say, Landon.”
“You don’t need to say anything. Just know that it means something to me—that you mean something to me.” She smiles and looks at the ring again, her fingers holding the box as if it might break. Maybe she’s never held something so expensive, or maybe, she just doesn’t understand what it means. “I would quite like you to put it on, though.”
She giggles and looks back up at me, watching as I pull it out of the box and take hold of her left hand. I’m not sure if words need saying. We started without words. It was just her body. But I suppose it’s far from that now. It’s become an offer of potential. A move in the right direction for more if we both want that. Maybe that's the beginning of love, or the declaration of it inside me, even if I’m not ready to say the words out loud.
“It’s a promise made, Willow. Just stay with me, and we’ll find our way.”
“Okay,” she says, as the ring glides onto her finger.
Okay.