Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (58 page)

He pressed his lips together, hard, then nodded.

“Did you know about this house? Everything?”

“Declan buys houses all the time,” he said.

“Don’t try to dodge me, Jackson. You knew about all this?”

He paused, then nodded again. His arms dropped and hung at his sides.

“Is it really that bad?”

I quirked an eyebrow. “Wow, you guys really are cut from the same cloth, huh? You know that’s not the point.”

He shook his head. “We’re nowhere near the same cloth,” he said softly. “And you’re right, that’s not the point.”

“I don’t feel like you’ve been honest with me.”

Filling his chest with a deep breath, he closed his eyes.

“Margot, nothing is set in stone,” he said. “You’re here to work; you said so yourself. And look… you’re working. And it’s brilliant. I can see that already.”

I seethed silently. While I knew he wasn’t entirely to blame, he was the closest person to lash out at.

“It’s late. You must be starving… Peter is here. Are you coming to dinner?”

I shook my head. “No,” I sulked.

His shoulders slumped. “Well,” he said gently, “let me know if you feel like eating. I can always bring you something.”

“I don’t feel like
eating
, Jackson. I feel
tricked
.”

His bit his lips closed, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“You knew about all this, didn’t you?”

“I tried to tell you,” he said simply.

“When? When you told me I ‘didn’t have to sign anything?’”

He shrugged and shook his head, his eyebrows knitted together. “Then and other times… You can make up your own mind. I didn’t want to tell you what to do.”

“Really? Why not? So you wouldn’t influence the outcome of your little game?”

He looked at me, his gaze intense and hurting but I didn’t care.

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair to whom? You? Well who’s supposed to be worrying about what’s fair to me?”

“You’re the
only
 thing I’ve been thinking about this entire time, Margot, and I think you know that,” he said defensively.

“No, apparently I don’t know anything!” I yelled, my voice vibrating the canvasses like drums. “Apparently I’ve just been bumbling along like some broke-as-fuck basket case, doing whatever you guys wanted, falling right into every trap you laid for me. What a fucking joke this must be for you, huh? See the little monkey dance?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You guys must just sit around and laugh and
laugh
 your asses off, huh? Let’s see if we can get her to trash her career! Let’s see if we can get her to leave her friends! Let’s see if we can get her to
burn her fucking life to the ground!
”

“Margot, stop!” he snapped, walking toward me. I flinched back and he stopped, confused. As my breath came out in ragged, frustrated grunts, I watched his hands trembling at his sides and wondered if he meant to hit me or hold me.

“Please stop it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe you’re right… This was all a mistake. Why don’t you… Listen, I’ll be back in the states in a few days. Why don’t you go home, and I will be there.”

“I came here to
work
, Jackson. For the ten-thousandth fucking time. I came here because I thought it would be good for my
career…
”

“I know,” he said with a guilty edge to his voice.

“Do you know? Really? Or do you just think I’d follow you anywhere for your entertainment?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes beginning to flash with frustration. “Margot, honestly it was never like that for me. And I know you’re upset right now. I get it. This isn’t like you. The offer to go back to LA stands--”

“How do you know what is ‘like me’ or not? You barely even know me!”

He winced like I’d slapped him. Voices in my head begged me to apologize, to take it back, but I stubbornly resisted. Slowly he stood up straight, his eyes dimming to a steely grey, then reached into his jacket pocket.

“This is open-ended,” he said evenly, and dropped an envelope on the duvet. “You can do whatever you want.”

I turned away from him as he left the room, wanting so much to chase him but not even knowing what I would do with him if I caught him. Then I took the envelope and threw it on the side table and flung myself diagonally across the big, empty bed.

***

The next day or two, I was glad for the silence. I lived with the paintings, cultivating them, coaxing them layer by layer into what I needed them to be. I felt like I was in a race. They needed to be finished before the next time anyone wanted to barge in and rip the dressing off the wound. That was too hard. It made me say terrible things.

Things I hadn’t meant. Well, hadn’t
entirely
 meant, anyway.

For a few days, or two days, I couldn’t be sure, I left my attic studio only to pad down to the bathroom or kitchen and swipe food from the abundantly stocked refrigerator. Once I surprised Mike in my flimsy t-shirt and panties, closing the fridge door with an apple pierced between my teeth.

“Can I… make you something, Margot?”

“Me?” I mumbled around the apple. “Oh I’m sorry I didn’t know anybody was… Hey, you’re here. In Amsterdam.”

He nodded and dropped a canvas bag on the wide marble counter.

“Have you tried the food here? Inedible. Declan brought me.”

I glanced down at my armful of packaged chocolate cookies, cakes and fruits, embarrassed by my frat-boy-quality selection.

“Well,” he scowled, “looks like you’re all set there.”

“Yep!” I answered brightly and slunk away, hoping I didn’t have too much ass cheek hanging out.

As soon as I was back in my studio, I was humming again. Munching snacks as I stared at the paintings one by one, then stepping back to see them all together, I built up a list of changes in my mind. A to-do list.

I ate and then painted, attempting to parse my changes judiciously and not advance past the optimal point for stopping. There needed to be a dither in the layers that wasn’t buffed out or obscured by fussy perfection. I needed the rawness to bleed through.

I heard voices in the hallways sometimes, prompting me to pause in mid-stroke like some nocturnal raccoon caught in the middle of a garden raid. But no one came in. I felt some relief that apparently our business obligations had miraculously synced up. They were busy. I was busy. Perfect.

At some point much later, I sat down crosslegged on the bare floorboards and just stared at them while the sun set. The room flamed bright orange as the last rays of sunlight crept across the ceiling angles.

They were done. Well... they were “complete,” or at least I thought so. I wasn’t entirely sure. I needed a day or so to simmer, then look at them again. But they were past working on, at least for now.

I tipped over where I sat, staring at them sideways from a fetal position until the room went dark.

***

Declan woke me by flipping on a light and dropping a box on my bed.

“Whoa,” I said into the floor, then pushed myself up on one elbow.

“Oh, geez, I didn’t even realize you were in here. I thought you’d gone out,” he said apologetically. “You’re going to be late, you know. We do fashionably late well enough, but you’re like really late.”

“What are you talking about?” I mumbled, standing up on unsteady, fatigued legs. Apparently sleeping on a three-hundred-fifty-year-old attic floor was not as rejuvenating as I had presumed.

He quirked an eyebrow and shifted his weight to one side. I noticed that he was wearing a beautiful, sleek suit in midnight blue. The slim cut of the trousers showed off his perfectly male physique to its best advantage. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have demanded that he let me draw him.

“Your party, highness.”

“That’s Friday,” I replied automatically.

“Yes.”

“Today is not Friday.”

He cocked his head at me.

“It’s not, though,” I insisted.

“Suit yourself,” he sighed. His finger trailed along the top of the box. “I brought you a present.”

“I would like to talk,” I said suddenly, surprising myself.

“No time,” he shrugged. “I would love to talk. Love to. But your admirers await your presence.”

“No, I--”

“Ahp!” he said brusquely, holding up his hand, Stop.

Seriously?

“Come down when you are ready, Margot,” he said suavely, flashing me a magazine-quality smile. “I can’t wait to see you in
this
.”

Cary Grant-style, he turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him. Pushing at my fluffy rat’s nest of hair, I walked to the box and gave it a sullen poke with my finger.

“Whatever you are,” I informed the box, “you are not worth it.”

When I opened the door to my room, box pinned under my arm, I could hear voices and someone playing the piano. A lot of voices. It sounded like the party was in full swing.

How long was I asleep? Had I really lost the whole week to work? It seemed impossible, but then again, not impossible at all. Other than Bridget calling me incessantly to remind me that I was late for whatever next thing I was late for, I didn’t really have to keep track of time. Days just blended together.

I got in the shower and washed everything with the sweetest smelling soap from the dish, hoping that would reinvigorate my attitude. I wasn’t really ready to communicate with people. I hadn’t even thought about what I could say to them. How badly could I screw this all up?

The box lay conspicuously on the counter and I stared at the word GUCCI in subtle raised letters while towelling off. Taking a brush to my hair, I tried to beat it into some kind of Bohemian art form while deliberately avoiding any inspection of the rest of me. Back in LA I had been scrawny, verging on scary. After a week of intense work, I was probably moving closer to feral.

When my face was more or less presentable, I finally flicked the corner of the box up, poking inside it like maybe it was full of gerbils or something.

The shoes were laid atop the thick tissue paper: dark blue leather sandals with a stacked heel and ankle strap. I smirked and wrinkled my nose, knowing Declan probably got a kick out of asking a personal shopper for a shoe that I would be least likely to sprain my ankle in. I set the sandals aside and pulled open the tissue paper, then bit my lips together to stifle a low moan.

The dress was beyond gorgeous. It was a thing of art. Embroidered chrysanthemums against a midnight blue silk chiffon twinkled in the light. With trembling fingers, I reached out to stroke the metallic threads before picking the bodice up gingerly and letting the whole dress flow out in front of me. The silk tumbled to the floor like a liquid, the flowers gradually turning to a constellation of tiny stars.

It fit perfectly, of course, though it showed me as gaunt as I was. I smoothed my hands over my hipbones and gave myself another hard stare in the mirror. After thinking I might not, I put on the M pendant and watched it glimmer for a few long seconds.

“You can do this,” I muttered to my reflection. “Now man up and
do this
.”

The voices got louder as I descended the front staircase carefully, my fingers clutching the bannister. A trio of charcoal-suited, tall men silenced their conversation as I approached and gave me brief nods in greeting. I smiled and returned the gesture, realizing that it was very likely that most people here spoke Dutch and I could perhaps get away with some safe, silent grinning.

From the foyer, I spotted Declan across the parlor, posing with his elbow on the mantlepiece. As he spoke he gestured with a martini glass. I realized that our outfits were perfectly coordinated, dark blue Gucci creations. We looked like movie stars.

He smiled brilliantly and tossed his head like he was on stage, apparently telling some kind of joke or story. The crowd of people around him was cherry-cheeked and rapt, and he seemed to glow brighter in their happy stares.

Do I even need to be here?
 I wondered.
Looks like he has the adoring fan thing down pat.

“Ah, there she is!” he declared suddenly, his voice booming like it was a line from a play. He extended his arm and the crowd of people literally parted so I could approach him.

Jamming a rigid smile over my teeth, I took careful, slow steps across the antique rug and inserted myself into the void under his arm. He squeezed my shoulder and angled me outward so everyone could see me.

Trying to pose like a porcelain doll, I smiled at each guest until my teeth went dry. There were so many people in the room it was a glaring mashup of dark suits and shimmering sequins, shoulders and glittery hair pains. I couldn’t have been more dazzled if a band of paparazzi suddenly descended from the chandelier on wires and started popping flashbulbs.

He kissed the top of my hair affectionately as a round of polite applause broke out.