His Pawn (The Manhattan Tales Book 1) (17 page)

“I’ll see you as soon as I can.”  Then he ended the call.

I stared at my phone with such a heavy heart.  I was in deep, deep trouble.

I busied myself with other agenda as best as I could.  I finished my assignments, prepared for two exams and had dinner with Elyse at our favorite Mexican restaurant.

On the fourth night of Mason’s absence, I sat in the living room with my text book.  Reruns of Seinfeld played on the television, providing background noise.  I laughed at some of the jokes that played on the television as I highlighted an entry in my text.  As background laughter erupted from the audience on the sitcom, I heard the front door close and lock.

Mason!
My heart jumped in my chest, feeling such joy.  I tossed my textbook aside and jumped off the sofa to greet him in the front room.

“You’re back!”  I exclaimed softly as I darted into the front hall, but I stopped dead in my tracks.  My voice halted in my throat when I saw the tall, gorgeous woman standing in front of the door. 

She was waif thin, dressed in a decadent emerald gown of silk and chiffon. Diamonds sparkled around her throat and draped from her ears.  I could smell the gentle scent of her expensive perfume.  Her hair was styled to one side, sending a cascade of rich, black curls down the nape of her olive neck.  Her green eyes scrutinized me blatantly and a frown creased her face.

I felt my heart stop beating.  So many thoughts whirled through my mind at this second.  Here I was, standing in front of this woman in plaid pink pajama bottoms, bare feet and a white t-shirt, no bra.  My hair was bunched in a messy bun at the top of my head.  Alright, I wasn’t expecting Mason over this evening and I was studying for an exam, but still… I never felt more inferior in all of my life than I did at this very moment.

Who is this woman?  And why does she have a key?  Why does she look like she just stepped off the red carpet?
  I finally exhaled shakily when I felt my face turning blue from lack of oxygen.

“Hi,” I finally said, finding my voice.  The woman continued to stare at me appraisingly and it was unbelievably strange and uncomfortable.

“I saw the gossip clippings from the newspaper,” she finally spoke in a flawless British accent.  “I did not expect you to be so fat.”

What the hell?

I stared down at my frame.  I wasn’t fat.  Sure I wasn’t waif thin like she was, but Mason seemed to like what he saw…

  “Meeting someone for the first time while they’re in their pajamas, studying for an exam is not a fair assessment.”  I responded.

I was trying to mask my nerves, but the British tone, and similar features told me everything:  This is Mason’s sister, Zara.

“Still, I think it wouldn’t make much difference.”  I watched the elegant woman carry herself with a decorum of grace as she left me standing there in the front hall, and went into the kitchen.  She helped herself to an unopened bottle of red wine.

“Would you like a glass?”  She asked me, as though she had not just insulted me and called me fat.

“No, thank you,” I answered.  She barely acknowledged me as she poured herself a glass and sipped it.  Then she finally turned to me.

“Where is Mason?”  I asked.

“He is still at the gala with our parents,” She answered, taking another long, healthy sip of wine.  She finished her glass and then refilled it half-way.

I tried to come up with a diplomatic way of asking why she was here, but there was no polite way around that question.

“Why are you here?”  I asked.  Judging by the way she treated me, it wasn’t for pleasantries.

Her exotic green eyes darted toward me as she sipped her wine.  “I’m here because my brother is a damn fool and we all know it.”

I felt an uncomfortable heat spread over my body; This was not the same type of heat I felt when Mason touched me.  At this very moment, I understood why Mason kept me hidden from his family.

“For the love of God, what does he see in you?”  She asked aloud, taking another deep sip of wine.  She seemed to be asking that question in amazement, rather than to me.

“I wondered that myself,” I answered, feeling ashamed that my opinion of myself felt so low at this point.

She crossed the kitchen and stood closer to me now.  Her frame towered over me and she looked down at me with a hint of sympathy.  Or, perhaps that was my imagination playing tricks on me.

“You cannot love him, dear.”  She spoke more softly this time.  “He is our father’s only son.  There are big plans for him, and they do not involve you.  Surely you must understand this.  Loving you could cost him billions.  You wouldn’t want that for him, would you?”

She looked at me as she drained her second glass of wine.  Something told me this woman had a drinking problem.  Being in a family like the Woodwards, I can’t say I blame her.  Still, her words reached into my chest and yanked my heart out.  I was trying to piece together the weird shit she was saying to me.

“Mason does not love me,” I responded curtly.

“Do you love him?”  She asked me pointedly.

I could not answer that question, because the answer was
yes
, but I could not admit that to Zara Woodward of all people.

  My silence told her everything and she smirked. The smug expression was very familiar.

“You are mentioned in several pieces of gossip in the New York Times.  My father has been following Mason’s affairs-”

“Your father spies on Mason?” I interrupted her incredulously.

“Of course my father follows everything my brother does.  He is the firstborn and only son.  Do you realize how important that is to a family like mine?”  Zara asked, but I picked up on a trace of jealousy in her choice of wording.

I said nothing, absorbing the incredible pressure Mason has been under all this time, all these years.  I honestly had no idea.

“Our family cannot be seen associating with people like you, dear.  Our worlds do not blend.”

Hot tears suddenly pricked my eyes. 
Oh good grief, how embarrassing.  This could only drive her point home. 
My watery eyes did not go unnoticed, and I sensed Zara digging through her black silk clutch.

“You obviously mean something to my brother.  He’s never had a woman stay for longer than one night.  That’s why my father is willing to make an agreement with you.”

I blinked up at her through glassy eyes and she gave me a feigned smile as she produced an American bank check.  She handed it to me and I looked at the number written on it.  My mouth dropped open as I saw the amount of money written on it.  It was written to me, Jillian Pryor, and signed by Mason’s father.

“You can’t be serious,” I breathed hoarsely.

“My father is very serious.  His plans for my brother cannot and will not include you. What could you possibly contribute to our family?  However, my father is generous and will provide you with enough to buy your own apartment, pay off your student debt, fees and live comfortably…
away from Mason
.  You will not lay eyes on Mason.  He’ll be nothing more than a distant memory the moment you cash this check.”

I looked at the obscene amount of money written on this check. 
Two million dollars.

“It shouldn’t be such a painful decision for a girl in your… standing. Besides, you already confessed that my brother does not love you.  Mason is not capable of loving anyone. Consider yourself fortunate.”

I shook my head, unable to believe any of this.

“Think about it, dear.  You have five days to decide and then my father will void the check if it is not cashed before then, but once you cash the check, you are agreeing to stay away from my brother.  And you’ll not say a word of this to Mason.  Do you understand?  My father will know if you do, and you won’t want my father angry.  Trust me.”  Her green eyes flared in a serious warning.  “He’s a very powerful man.  He has plenty of resources.”  She nodded curtly.

My throat tightened.  They were trying to buy me out.  I didn’t understand this.  Without wishing me good night, Zara abandoned the empty wine glass on the polished countertop and left the apartment.  I stood there, numb and dazed for what felt like hours.

I went upstairs to my bedroom and paced back and forth as I stared at the check.  So much has been made perfectly clear to me after that encounter.  Mason
was
protecting me from his family; he wasn’t just hiding me to keep me as a dirty secret.

He’d spoken the truth.  I understood why he was so rigid and so angry when he’d returned from Mumbai.  I understood why he was so disconnected and seemingly cruel at times after phone conferences with his father.  It was no wonder Mason had no faith in people.

I thought about the years he spent at my family’s apartment. I thought about his affection, his charming grin, and all the times he’d saved me from my problems.

My lower lip trembled as I thought about Mason.  Angrily, I tore the check in half and then stuffed it into the bottom of my designer bag.
NO. NO. NO. 
I grabbed fistfuls of my own hair furiously.

Should I tell Mason about this?  I couldn’t… I was afraid of what could happen.  I didn’t know how dangerous his father was and I didn’t want to find out the hard way, but I was not going to be bought out like some whore.  Mason was worth more than that to me.  I picked up my phone.  I needed to hear his voice, but I faltered.  If he’s with them, they’ll know if I call him.  Was this only bluff?  The bribery was serious, obviously, but was the warning all a bluff? 

I’d never read about Mason’s father committing any crimes.  There was no documentation that he’d made threats or been arrested for anything.  After spending hours of research, I discovered that Mason’s father, James Alexander Woodward, was as clean as a whistle, according to public records.  The newspaper articles that were published online spoke very highly of him.  He contributed to various charities and organizations.

I sucked on my lower lip, feeling a little better.  Perhaps I could just brush this off as an incidental run-in with the sister and leave it at that.  I was grateful that they lived on an entirely different continent and I couldn’t wait to see Mason again. I needed to feel his embrace, his grip.  Nothing made me feel safer than his commanding tone and his firm hold on me.  I took a hot shower to calm my nerves and then retreated to bed for the night.

****

The fifth day came and went. I wondered if I’d receive any sort of warning phone call or visit, but nothing happened.  Nothing happened at all; It’s as if the encounter never happened, except I still had the evidence of the check buried at the bottom of my bag.  I didn’t know then that Mason would be in and out of New York for the  next two weeks.  Once his family left New York, I was relocated back to his penthouse on Fifth Avenue. 

  Between trips to London, where he was required to meet with his father, and a long stay in Vegas to finalize plans for his newest hotel, I rarely saw him.   As the days rolled on, the night with Mason in his apartment on West 87th street began to feel more like a distant fantasy, and not reality.  When I did hear from him, he was even more disconnected and severe.

Did this have something to do with what his sister told me?
  The more time he spent away, the more lost he seemed.  I needed to see him.  I missed him, especially after that encounter with his sister.  When I did see him again, it was not the reunion I wished for.  The man I bathed with was long gone, replaced by the arctic mask of a man who was as cold as ice.

  “Turn around and put your hands on my desk, Jillian.  I’m going to take you now,” He often said to me.  Whether it was in his office on company grounds or in his penthouse, our times together had become fewer and farther between.  He’d snuffed out any flame between us. I cursed myself for still loving him, for wanting Mason to return to me
.
 
I had to do
something
, but what? 
Don’t try to fix him,
I admonished myself. 
I don’t want to fix him- I just want him back.  He needs to know I care about him.

****

  March 4th is Mason’s birthday.  I remembered that from years ago.  Every year that he was with my family, my mom and I would bake him a yellow cake with chocolate whipped cream, and lasagna with her famous meatballs.  It was nothing fancy but it was his favorite and it was his only request each year.  How can a girl forget making this combination in a tiny Brooklyn apartment year after year?

“What’s your work schedule like tomorrow?”  I asked as I watched him button up his crisp white shirt, which contrasted handsomely with his olive skin.  He’d called me into his office to bring him
coffee
.  He looked absolutely delicious, even after bending me over his perfectly unvarnished desk.  He fastened his pants and replaced the buckle before he answered.

“Nothing in particular.  I have a lunch meeting with some investors who are interested in my hotels,” He answered, smoothing his black hair.  “It’s supposed to snow pretty heavily tomorrow night, according to the forecast and I’d rather be home before it arrives.”