To Have and to Hate Page 16
“I’m not,” I clarify. “Not in the least. It’s new. That’s why it took me a moment to answer.”
He hums in thought before letting go of my hand. “Come on, let’s go get a drink.”
I look behind me. “I should probably be getting back—”
“Your husband won’t mind. He’s already let you out of his sights for this long. What’s five more minutes?”
When I don’t immediately argue, he grins and his whole face transforms. He is truly good-looking, though slightly intimidating. It’s the catlike shape of his eyes and his domineering presence. He sticks close to me as we exit the auction room and head back out into the fundraiser. Now that dinner is over, a small ensemble orchestra is playing on a stage accompanied by couples out on the dance floor.
A waiter passes in front of us with champagne, and Olivier sweeps two flutes off the silver tray.
“A toast,” he says, holding one flute out for me.
I accept it gladly and nod for him to continue.
“To art,” he says, holding my gaze and making it perfectly clear that his toast is dripping with innuendo.
“To art,” I repeat before clinking my glass with his.
After my sip, I ask him a question I’m dying to know the answer to. “What will you do with the painting if you win it?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m not sure. I just purchased a new apartment in Montreal I’ve been meaning to start collecting for. Or maybe I’ll loan it to a museum.”
Oh y’know, no big deal!
I nearly laugh.
“Do you make a habit of bidding on expensive art regularly?”
He smiles. “I make a habit of trying to impress beautiful women. Tonight, it worked out that I got to do both.”
“Who says I was impressed?”
“You’re blushing, Ms. Brighton.”
“Missus,” I say, correcting him.
He makes a sour face. “Ah right, that pesky little title. Does it really mean anything?”
What a loaded question.
I glance down at my ring and adjust it on my finger. A part of me wishes I could flirt with Olivier and see where it ended up. It’s been a long time…too long since I’ve been on a date. I didn’t realize how starved I was for attention until this moment because even though I should leave and find Walt, I don’t want to. I want to soak up this focus from a handsome man who’s making it perfectly clear he finds me attractive as well. How refreshingly simple.
“Do you dance?” Olivier asks me.
I laugh and shake my head adamantly. “No. Dear god, I avoid it at all costs.”
“What about at your wedding? Surely you danced then?”
A sharp pang of sadness surprises me. I shake my head and look away.
“Well then we’ll fix that,” he says, taking my hand and suddenly tugging me toward the dance floor.
“No! I can’t!” I say between bursts of laughter. “I truly can’t. I’m not trying to be demure. I’ll end up stepping on your feet.”
“Then step on my feet,” he says with a shrug. “I can take it.”
After one final sip, he steals my champagne flute from my hand and deposits it on a nearby table along with his. Then, just as smoothly, he captures both of my hands and twirls me out onto the dance floor. I can’t help but continue to laugh. It’s all my nerves bubbling to the surface.
“Oh god. This is going to be a disaster.”
“Follow my lead,” he says with a grin, not the least bit deterred by my lack of expertise. “One hand on my shoulder, the other in my palm. Just like that. You’re light—I can tug you along easily enough.”
He moves across the dance floor so quickly I can barely keep up, but it’s so fun, like a grown-up version of the teacup ride at Disney. We spin and spin and Olivier asks me if I know this song.
It’s vaguely familiar, but I have a poor ear for music.
After I shake my head, he grins.
“It’s a lively version of ‘The Second Waltz’ by Dmitri Shostakovich. One of my favorites.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, and you’re doing well. I’ve only broken one toe.”
“Oh stop,” I groan, slowing down as if to stop.
He doesn’t let me.
“I’m kidding. You’re a natural.”
The song starts to die down, and there’s a momentary lull on the dance floor as partners split apart and fall away and more take their place.
I step back from Olivier and drop his hand, but he keeps hold of my waist as I look to my left and see Walt cutting through the crowd, walking toward me with confident grace. His face is impossible to read, his mouth in a flat line, his eyes narrowed slightly at the corners. The details about him I’ve become habituated to come back in striking clarity: his sharp cheekbones, square jaw, tall stature, broad shoulders. In his black tuxedo, he’s like a dark cloud covering the sun as he descends upon us.
Olivier doesn’t notice him right away. He’s in the middle of saying something to me when Walt cuts him off.
“Do you mind if I steal my wife?”
My heart does a kick-drum stutter in my chest, and again, I try to move away from Olivier to no avail.
Too slowly, Olivier lets go of me, looks behind him, and then tilts his head back to meet Walt’s gaze. The height difference between them seems like it could be measured in miles at the moment, and it has everything to do with Walt’s surly expression.
“Ah, of course,” Olivier says with confident ease. “I was beginning to imagine you didn’t exist.”
Walt frowns, and a fissure of embarrassment passes through me. I blush as if I’ve done something wrong, and maybe I have. Maybe I shouldn’t have indulged in Olivier’s attention for this long. Maybe I should have walked away from him at the start. It’s too late to go back now though.
“Olivier Rappeneau,” he says, holding out his hand. “And you need no introduction, though I’m slightly surprised.” He turns back to look at me. “You said your last name was Brighton, not Jennings.”
Walt’s gaze slices to me, and I nearly cower.
“Yes. Sorry, I should have clarified,” I say with a grimace. “My maiden name is Brighton, and I’m still getting used to the change.”
Olivier smiles. Walt does not.
The ensemble orchestra starts up again, and this time, I immediately know the song: Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers”.
Walt steps forward and holds out his hand for me to accept so he can drag me off the dance floor.
Olivier steps back and nods at me. “I’ll find you later.”
“No, I’m afraid you won’t,” Walt says. “I think you’ve spent enough time with my wife, Mr. Rappeneau. Good night.”
And then, to my utter shock, instead of dragging me away, Walt tugs me toward him and captures my hands in the same hold Olivier did only moments ago. Then, deftly, he begins to lead me in the waltz.
The ease I felt in Olivier’s arms is gone in an instant. I’m shaking like a leaf as Walt continues to guide me, his firm grip capturing my hand so there’s no chance of me slipping away even if I wanted to. Sadly, I don’t. I love this even if Walt seems to hate it. We’re nearly chest to chest as he stews, making no attempt at conversation. In fact, he looks over my left shoulder as if wanting to avoid me at all costs.
“I’m sorry I’m not a better dancer,” I say, trying to lure him into conversation.
He doesn’t meet me halfway like I’d hoped he would.
“Are you angry with me?”
“Furious,” he bites out.
“Why? I was only dancing with him.”
He inhales deeply but doesn’t reply.
“Is it because of how other people will perceive it? That I was flirting with another man in front of my husband? Surely you don’t care about the opinions of others that much.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Elizabeth,” he warns, as if imploring me to drop it.
His gaze cuts to me, and I again fight the urge to cower. As the music quickens, the string instruments building one on top of the other in a frenzied crescendo, I lift my chin and implore him to tell me. My hand tightens on his. My gaze holds steady.
“Please,” I whisper.
Then, just as quickly as the last time, he bends down and presses his lips to mine—only this kiss isn’t a peck. It’s a spell that lifts us out of that museum, away from the music and the glittering crowd. We’re alone, he and I, his lips slanting over mine, his hands moving to cradle my face.
I step toward him and rise up onto my tiptoes, trying to meet him, to show him how eager I am for him to continue.
Though his lips are soft, his kiss isn’t gentle. It’s ownership and power personified, a branding.
“Elizabeth,” he whispers against my mouth as he pulls away, as if in pain.
My name is a confession, and I squeeze my eyes closed and let my head fall into the crook of his neck.
Then he peels back, looking down at me.
“Do you see now?” he asks.
I nod, beginning to.
He looks away, and I’m reminded of the fact that we’re standing on the side of the dance floor, paused as dancers continue to move around us.
I highly doubt Walt is someone who loves PDA. He’s as deeply private as anyone I’ve ever met, so a moment later, when he clears his throat and says it’s time to go, I don’t argue.
“I just need to go back to our table and grab my purse,” I say as I step back, expecting him to drop my hand and let me go. Instead of leaving me, he keeps hold of my hand as he directs me back in that direction. “I would have come right back,” I tell him in earnest.
He scowls as if in disbelief. “Yes, just like you did when you went to the bathroom earlier.”
“Well yes, I planned on it, but then I got distracted.”
“By Olivier.”
“By the silent auction,” I stress. “They have a Magritte in there.”
“Yes, I know. My art adviser mentioned it would be here, and I already planned to bid on it.”
“Did you?”
“No. We’ll do it on our way out.”
As promised, he leads me to the auction room after I get my purse, and I swear he takes delight in one-upping Olivier’s bid. I’m surprised he doesn’t scratch Olivier’s name out with the pen. I look away after I catch the first few zeroes he jots down, overwhelmed by the amount of money these people throw around as if it’s nothing.
“How much longer is the auction open?” Walt asks one of the coordinators stationed in the room.
She glances down at her watch before replying, “Five minutes.”
“Good,” he says, tossing down the pen. “If someone outbids me on the Magritte, call. I won’t let it go without a fight.”
“Of course,” she says with a reverential nod.
His gaze catches mine and I frown, wondering…
Then before I can press him on whether or not that was meant to be a double entendre, we’re off again, walking down the main hall toward the front entrance of the museum and retrieving our things from coat check. The doors loom ahead and I’m sure the limo is sitting at the curb, waiting for us outside. I can already feel the shift between us, the magic wearing off. My Cinderella carriage will turn back into a pumpkin soon enough, and I’ll have nothing to show for it.
I try to slow down, but Walt doesn’t let me. In fact, he picks up our pace.
“Wait. Walt, will everything go back to the way it was as soon as we leave?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you pretend nothing’s happened between us?”
“Nothing has happened,” he argues.
“We kissed, Walt.”
He swallows slowly, thinking something over.
“Yes, and though I won’t call it an outright mistake, I need you to realize it can’t happen again. This arrangement we have…it works because it’s all business. I cannot—will not go down that road with you.”
Then the doors to the museum are pushed open for us and he’s leading us down the stairs. I have no idea why he’s walking so fast. It’s as if we’re fleeing from someone, and I’m about to trip in my heels if he doesn’t slow down.
“Please just stop,” I say before he tugs open the door to the limo.
I cross my arms, taking a last stand out on the sidewalk, but it only lasts a matter of seconds before his gaze forces me inside. He follows after me and slams the door behind him.
The limo feels even more cramped than earlier, like our emotions might be too much for the confined space. The roof is liable to explode from all the pressure.
Thankfully, traffic has died down and the trip back is much quicker than our ride there. We’re out in front of the building, saying our thanks to Alexander before I can even catch my breath or calm my anger. In the lobby and in the elevator, I get the sense that Walt wants me to drop the subject completely. It’s like he can’t get away from me fast enough as the doors open and we step out into the entry gallery of the apartment. The lights are off, but the glow of the city skyline seeps through the windows of the great room at the end of the hall, illuminating us enough that I catch Walt’s hard expression.
“I don’t understand what’s going on, Walt. You’ll have to spell it out for me because I don’t get it.”
“We’re married,” he says, starting to undo his bow tie.
“Yes?”
“Not by choice,” he adds, trying to get me to understand.
“Yes, and so what?”
“So what? This arrangement is born out of necessity, Elizabeth.” His voice booms in the quiet hallway. “You don’t want that ring on your finger. You’re here out of duty, and I won’t force myself on you on top of everything else.”
“Walt—”
“It’s not at all what I’ve been trying to do,” he continues. “I’ve kept my distance. I barely exist in this apartment out of fear that I’ll encroach on your space.”
Suddenly, I can’t take it. I can’t fend off the burgeoning feelings I have for Walt, the feelings that, despite how little I tend to them, don’t seem to want to wither away. Like a weed, resilient and foolhardy, here I stand, looking up at a man I damn near love even though it feels absolutely futile.
I reach up to press a kiss to his lips, to make him see reason and end this tiresome argument about nonsense, and at the last moment he turns and presents me with his cheek. My lips miss his mouth, and it feels like a thousand shards of glass cutting into my heart.
He steps back, turns, and leaves me there in the entryway.
Eighteen
I can’t stop digging at the wound Walt caused last night. To turn away from my kiss, to spurn my advances…it blends sadness and embarrassment into an ugly mixture that wants so badly to morph into anger. Like a schoolyard bully, I want to take my overwhelming emotions and throw them right back at Walt. I want to shout at him, to childishly tell him I didn’t want to kiss him anyway! I want him to hurt like I hurt, and it’s that inane notion that keeps me locked up in my room the next day.
I ignore my growling stomach and the call of my pastels. I lie under my blankets with my book resting open on my chest, and I listen for signs of Walt. I’ve become adept at matching sound with source. I know the whirr of the espresso machine, the cling and clang of pots and pans as he makes himself breakfast.
I catch his footfalls as they approach my door, pause, and then carry on down the hall.
Tears burn the corners of my eyes and I blink them away, feeling as foolish as ever as I stare out the window.
I try to tell myself I can’t be upset with Walt for doing what he perceives to be the right thing. The bullshit he spouted last night was noble in some sense. Noble,
but wrong.
Now here I lie, on this bed, in his apartment.
Unwanted.
I’m not sure where to go from here. Walt’s left me with so few options. I won’t repeat what I did last night. Absolutely not. I can’t bear the thought of begging him to take me at my word, to believe that I might be interested in him outside of who he is and what he represents, and after all that, still have him turn away again. Walt’s shell is thicker than most, and I worry it’s completely impenetrable.
I think of Camila and all the women who came before her. I should have pulled her aside when I had the chance and asked for her take on Walt. Is he as closed off as he seems? Am I silly for believing I might be the one to—as cliché as it sounds—change him?
Of course, there is another deeper thought niggling in the back of my head, a sad little voice reminding me that everything he said last night might have just been a nice way of letting me down easy. Oh yes, see, Elizabeth, we can’t be together because of our difficult arrangement. Buck up, chap. No worries.
After all, it’s not as if Walt has seemed all that interested in me before last night. Quite the opposite, in fact.
If he really wanted me, if he felt what I feel—I press a hand over my quivering chin—he wouldn’t give a damn about how difficult the circumstances are.
I finally kick off my covers once the temptation of coffee becomes too strong to ignore. I glance down and consider changing out of my pajamas before sneaking out of my room, but I’m taking a laissez-faire approach to living at the moment. That snazzy red ball gown—the one that mocks me as it hangs on the door of my closet—didn’t succeed in tempting him last night, so what’s the use in dressing nicely today?
At my door, I grasp the handle and pause, hating how nervous I’ve become, how silly I’m making this. I’ve lived in this apartment with him for weeks and survived just fine. Today shouldn’t be any different.
With newfound confidence, I tug open the door and make no attempt to silence my steps as I head toward the kitchen.
There, I find a covered plate with an accompanying note that says nothing beyond my name. My name in Walt’s handwriting. I pick it up gently, like I’m holding an old photograph I don’t want to tarnish.