Hush Hush #2 (7 page)

“Your parents?” I breathe out.

His eyes narrow. “You ask a lot of questions.”

My heart skips a beat in my chest. Quickly, I say, “I just want to get to know you, that’s all.”

The stubble on his jaw catches in the light when he smiles at me. He walks over to the wooden chair beside the bathtub, which holds a stack of fluffy, folded white towels. He removes the towels and takes a seat.

“I want to get to know you too, Sophia,” he says. “I hardly know anything about you, except that you’re beautiful, and you’re witty. And that you’re more fearless than anyone I’ve ever met. And you won’t be in town for very long because of your family.”

My eyebrows shoot into the air. I can feel my breath catch in my throat.
How does he…?
 

“Who was it that you said you were visiting?” he says. “Your…uncle?”

The breath escapes me in a long, relieved sigh. Right. I had told him this at the country club. I had nearly forgotten.

“And his family,” I lie. “But I can stay in town for as long as I want.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Liam says. His muscular shoulders shift forward, bristling with energy. “Let’s discuss the contract. I meant to open the evening with that, but I got…” He pauses, a smile playing across his lips as he searches for the word. “…sidetracked. It’s a bad habit.”

He reaches out to run his fingers gently around the curve of my ear, then down my cheek. His thumb grazes my lower lip. There’s a sudden, warm twitch between my legs. Even here in the warm water, I can feel my nipples harden.

“Well,” I say slowly, “there are worse habits to have.”

Liam laughs softly.
 

“Did you read the contract?”

I nod.

“And what did you think?” he prompts.

“It was…” I pause, attempting to collect my thoughts. “It was a lot to take in. This is new territory for me. But I think I can learn. If you’re willing to teach me.”

“I’m definitely willing. That’s what this is all about,” he says, trailing his hand down my neck. As he traces my collar bone with his fingers, I shiver. He asks, “There was nothing…objectionable…in the contract?”

I shrug, and the water splashes around me. “I don’t think so.”

“See? You’re fearless,” he says approvingly.

He puts a hand on the back of my neck, rubbing his fingers into the stiff muscles. I lean into his touch, closing my eyes as the tension dissipates from my shoulders.

We spend the next few minutes like this, listening to the sound of one another’s breathing, as his fingers continue to press into the heat of my skin.
 

My mind drifts back to the question about the second account, and to the urgent call he had to make. I shift in the tub uncomfortably. It sounded like he didn’t know who had talked—but I had inadvertently made it clear that
someone
had. I press my eyes closed more tightly, further retreating into my own dark world, silently praying that I haven’t just done something terrible.

“What’s the matter?” Liam’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

I open my eyes suddenly, blinking back the bright light. Liam’s stubbled, angular face comes into focus. His brow is knitted in confusion.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, glancing down at my hands.

“Sophia,” he says, “if this relationship is going to work, you’re going to have to be open with me. About everything. If there’s something I’m doing that you don’t like, and you don’t tell me…”

When I look back up at him, his eyes are a tumbling storm. As I gaze into them, that’s when I see it: the blue, flitting look of vulnerability. It’s like a shadow, lasting no more than a split second. When he blinks, the shadow has vanished, as if it had never been more than a trick of the light.
 

But I’m not fooled so easily. I know where he’s been.
 

More than anyone, I know what it’s like to live with that dark fear. That lurking doubt.
 

I reach for his hand, lacing my wet fingers through his. He shifts in his seat, but doesn’t pull away. I can feel the incredible power of his body in the strength of his hand, in every twitching muscle. It’s electrifying.

“You’re not going to scare me away,” I tell him.

And then, for the first time since that fateful encounter at the country club, his eyes light up.

6

I am flailing. Flying. Adrift in a sky of strange dreams, as people’s faces waft before me like storm clouds: my parents. Miranda. The Hawthornes. Liam.

His eyes are an ocean. I perch at the edge. There are shifts of movement down below, sending trembles across the surface of the water. I can hear the
swoosh
and
splash
of the figure in the depths, surging towards me. I take a half-step away, frightened.

A hand bursts upward, breaking through the quaking surface. The fingers are splayed out. They curve inward, clenching, as if hoping to hold onto something but finding nothing there.

I lean back in curiously. The figure is mere feet away from me. I’d only need to outstretch my arm…

My limb unfolds slowly, laboriously. Hand after wrist after elbow, my arm extends. I’m so close—

RIIIIING.

I awake with a jolt. I find myself surrounded by beige walls, and after a hazy second, remember where I am. The hotel room. Right.

I look down. The duvet has been kicked to the edge of the bed. My legs are tangled in the white sheets, which are drenched with sweat. I put a hand on my chest to discover that my heart is thumping.
 

Was it the sudden ringing that’s got me so worked up? Or was it the dream?

I roll over and grab the phone from the night stand.

“Hello?” I say into it groggily.

“Are you really still sleeping?” Miranda’s voice pipes from the other end of the line. “April, it’s almost noon.”

I glance at the clock. So it is.
 

“I got home late yesterday. Long night,” I explain.

“Oh,
really?
” Miranda says knowingly. “I wonder—what could you possibly have been doing, you saucy minx?”

“Are you
ever
going to stop calling me that?”

“Not likely,” she replies with a giggle.

I roll to the edge of the bed and attempt to shove away the tangled sheets. Sleepily, I shuffle over to the desk and begin to fix myself a cup of coffee. This hotel’s powdered coffee may be the worst I’ve ever had, but it’s still better than nothing.
 

“How are things going over…wherever you are these days?” I ask.

“Miami.”

“Right. Miami. How’s your handsome heir? How’s that going?” I mumble, stifling a yawn.

“Badly,” Miranda replies curtly. “Kevin wasn’t as dumb as I thought, unfortunately.”

“Ah,” I say. “I thought you sounded a little more miffed than usual. Glad it’s not something I did.”

“Very funny,” she says. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve still got this scheme going, and it’s going to
more
than make up for damn Kevin.” Her voice turns eager. “So, how was last night? Do you have him wrapped around your little finger yet? Is he going to introduce you to his parents?”
 

I shake the foil packet of coffee clumsily into the paper filter, attempting to gather my thoughts despite my morning stupor. Last night was…illuminating. There was a sweetness, a sincerity, to Liam that I had never seen before. That I had never thought was possible.

But more unexpectedly—I realized that, in certain ways, he and I are not that different at all.

“No, Miranda, I don’t have him…wrapped around my finger,” I say, grimacing as I say the words. It’s curious—the guilty feeling in my gut, which was no more than a slight annoyance when I first came back to New Orleans, is turning heavier. Harder. Like a rock settling to the bottom of my stomach.
 

“Well, then you better get moving. Just ask him to take you to Sunday dinner with the family, no need to over-think it,” Miranda urges. “Now that we’ve got our new partners on board, everything is set into motion. I need you to introduce me by the end of the week, at the very latest. If you linger too long, the whole scheme could fall apart.”

“Just ask him,” I echo. “You make it sound so easy. But what if he says no?”

“Listen,” Miranda says impatiently, “you’ve been dating him for—what? A few weeks already? Don’t tell me that he doesn’t have
some
kind of feelings for you by now. And hey, if he says no, I’m sure you’ll find a way to convince him otherwise.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice in that last sentence.

Honestly, I’m not sure
how
Liam feels about me. One moment he’s kind and gentle, and in the next, it seems that the only thing he cares about is how far he can test the limits of my body. And even when he’s kind, I don’t know how to take it—is it because he’s just trying to compensate for his ferocity? Does it even have anything to do with me?

It doesn’t matter. I’ve seen his tenderness and, regardless of the reason behind it, it’s real.
 

Last night changed things.

It’s a disarming realization. Because it was easier when Liam was nothing more than a hard-bodied criminal. And now that I know there are deep cracks in his tough exterior, now that I realize that Liam would pay an emotional price for my vengeance—it makes me falter.
 

If I hurt him, then who does that make me?
What
does that make me? Could I live with myself, knowing that I caused someone that kind of pain?

“You have a backup plan, right?” I say nervously into the phone.

“What are you talking about?” Miranda snaps. “What, do you think you can’t convince him? You’re not giving yourself enough credit, April. You’re a babe. A guy would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind in order to say no to you.”

I turn on the machine and then pour in the water, my mind reeling as the stream begins to trickle into the small plastic pot.
 

“I’m just wondering,” I say slowly, “if maybe it would be better to approach the Hawthornes directly after all. Like in the original plan.”

Miranda is silent for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet and deadly.

“This plan’s already in motion, April. Do you know what it would take to stop it now? Do you have any clue?” There’s a pause on the line, and then Miranda says, “Oh my God. You’ve gotten cold feet, haven’t you?”

“That’s not true,” I say defensively.

But Miranda ignores me. “I can’t
believe
you,” she hisses. “Have you forgotten why you’re here? Have you forgotten your parents?”

“Of course not.”
 

The coffee pot fills with a final
hiss
, but I leave it untouched. Suddenly I’m not thirsty anymore. My throat is pounding.

“So tell me, because I’m dying to know—why are you suddenly asking for a different plan?” Miranda demands.

“It’s just that…” I begin, being careful to choose the right words. “I don’t think Liam is quite who we thought he was.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? He’s still a
criminal
, April. He may not have been involved with your mom and dad’s situation, but I’ve looked into him and things seem shifty. Believe me, he’s no better than his parents.”

“What’s shifty? What did you find?” I ask quickly.

But Miranda ignores me again.

“I need you to get your shit together, April,” she snaps. “You keep telling me that you’re handling this on your own out there, but it
really
doesn’t sound like you are.”

“I am,” I insist.
 

“Then prove it to me,” she challenges me. “Look, I’m really pissed off right now, and I should go before I say something I regret. I’m going to go get a pina colada, watch the pool boy from my window, and try to calm down. When we talk later, you better have your head on straight.”

She hangs up.
 

I put the phone down and shakily pick up the pot of coffee. The hot liquid spatters on the desk as I fill my mug. In what’s becoming a habit at this point, my eyes lift to my assorted notes taped to the wall.
 

The notice for the gallery reception catches my eye. I take a step closer to re-read the words. It’s taking place later this afternoon in the French Quarter. Mrs. Hawthorne will be there to say a few words of welcome at the start of the reception. And it’s open to the public.
 

I hadn’t originally planned on going. But now, suddenly, it seems like a little reconnaissance wouldn’t hurt. Just as long as I keep to the sidelines and stay out of sight. Perhaps I’ll overhear something useful.

And what about the Benzes? I move determinedly over to their section of the wall. They knew more than they were telling, I’m certain of it. Maybe if I bring Riley along again, they’ll be more inclined to open up. And if I need to, maybe I’ll even tell them who I really am.

It’s a risk, but I’m willing to take it.
 

After all—if Miranda’s not going to even
try
to find an alternate option, then I’ll have to do it on my own.

7

The Oscan Art Gallery is easy to miss at first, tucked between a jewelry boutique and a rare books shop on Toulouse Street. The entrance itself is unassuming: a single wooden door, flanked by lavender-hued shutters.
 

By the time I arrive, the building is already jostling with activity. Men and women sip champagne from plastic coupes and murmur thoughtfully in front of walls covered in black and white photographs.
 

I squeeze through the guests, nudging myself deeper into the gallery. My eyes scan the crowd urgently, searching for Mrs. Hawthorne. I’ll feel at ease once I know where she is—and therefore how far away I should be, so I can stay under the radar.

“Champagne?” A perky college student appears suddenly before me with a tray of filled glasses. She looks barely old enough to drink herself.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say politely, shaking my head. The girl flits away. I continue pushing forward, walking determinedly as if I know where I’m going. As if I have a clue.

I make it all the way to the back wall of the gallery without catching sight of Mrs. Hawthorne. I decide to wait there for a little while, in between two larger-than-life photographs of what seem to be piles of trash. Upon taking a closer look, I realize that it’s not actually trash at all, but an array of survival supplies: coils of rope, a half-eaten bag of dried strawberries, a leaky plastic bladder of water.