When Empires Fall (14 page)

Charmed, Linc tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and watched them go. As he stood there, Walter came up beside him, following his line of vision.

“You know, I saw her first,” he said good naturedly, smiling at his boss and patting him on the shoulder.

Linc glanced over at him with a quick grin. “All’s fair in love and war, my friend.”

With that, he sauntered back towards his office, whistling a good old-fashioned southern melody as he went.

The roar of
the crowd still echoed in her ears.

Lord, had they been appreciative tonight, Lynette marveled with a giddy half laugh, mystified as always by the sheer rush of pleasure she got from sending a crowd to their feet simply because of a performance. Even after the countless years and thousands of shows, she was still humbled to know that there were people who would pay to come see her and her company dance and be moved to a standing ovation.

She collapsed into her dressing table chair, her lips curved into a dazed smile, her mind still fuzzy with the thrill of the dance. As always, the beautiful release of losing herself so completely in the music and movement stayed with her, making her steps feel lighter and her heart full and content.

Humming softly to herself, she lifted her right foot and unstrapped her ballet slipper, sliding it off and setting it on the dressing table at her side. Rubbing her toes gingerly, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying the comfort of her own fingers massaging away any traces of soreness.

Around her, the rest of the ballet company bustled and chattered, voices light and cheerful, laughter brightly humorous and giddy. The scent of hundreds of roses filled the dressing room, brought in as gifts for the dancers from fans and family alike. At her own dressing table were crisp yellow roses, her signature flower, nestled amongst the clutter of her stage makeup, hair brush, lotion, perfume, and countless other female trappings she went nowhere without.

Lynette shut her eyes again and embraced the familiar surroundings, completely at home. But when she heard her parents congratulating her fellow dancers behind her, she braced herself for what she knew was coming. After all, it was always the same, wasn’t it?

“You were magnificent, pumpkin.”

Turning in her chair, she tilted her head up to face her parents, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Thank you, daddy.”

He was flanked by his two bodyguards, always at his side when he attended public events. Lynette hardly noticed them anymore, and didn’t let their presence keep her from rising to her feet to kiss her father’s cheek. Beside him, her mother was all smiles and graciousness as the other dancers filtered in and out of the dressing room, distracted by their own friends and family as the night wound down to a cool simmer, the initial excitable heat gone. But when the majority of the people had left the room, Carol Shaw turned to her daughter and her smile faded to a stern frown.

“You let your chin fall, Lynette. Remember what Madame Marcoux taught you, chin up and neck straight.”

Lynette fought to keep the hurt from her eyes, and the disappointment. Critics had often praised her fluidity of movement and the naturalness with which she danced, but in truth her mother was correct. It just hurt, as always, to hear the criticism before ever hearing a drop of praise.

“Yes, mama,” she conceded, bowing her head and averting her eyes. Better to keep the peace than to ruffle feathers. “So, are you heading back to the hotel? I’m sure y’all are exhausted.”

“Nonsense, we’re taking our baby girl out.” Her father grinned, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. “Though perhaps we could go back to the hotel, if you’d like. Linc might still be around.”

“Why does that matter?” Lynette asked bluntly, eyebrows raised as her eyes met his.

“He seemed quite taken with you, if I may venture to say so.”

“Nonsense,” Carol interrupted, bracing her hands on her hips as she glared up at her husband. “That boy is nice and very helpful, but he’s nothing but a playboy heir with a wandering eye. Lynette would be better off not fraternizing with him.”

“Playboy heir?” Lynette snorted, amused despite herself as she shot a look at her mother, who looked appropriately ruffled.

“Yes. Haven’t you seen the tabloids? Why he just last year ended a blistering affair with that trashy actress, Jorja Hale. Nasty business if I do say so myself.”

“I don’t have time for tabloids, mama,” Lynette reminded her.

“He’s just a boy, Carol. He’ll grow up eventually,” her husband countered, brushing her comments away carelessly. “Besides, eventually I’d like some grandchildren, and our Lynnie is going to have to get to it soon; 2016 is not too far off, and the public likes a family man with little ones running around.”

Great, Lynette thought wearily. Once again, her life was being dictated by a goddamn election.

“Lynette does not need any distractions right now, she needs to stay focused and dedicated to her career. She only has a few years left before they cycle her out for a younger dancer, so she has to make the most of it. The last thing she needs is to get pregnant and destroy her body so
you
can get elected.”

“Now, wait a minute-“

“Don’t you wait a minute me, Warren,” Carol replied coolly, her voice never raising even an octave. There were still a few bystanders wandering around, after all, and appearances needed to be kept. “Lynette has sacrificed everything to be a dancer, and I won’t have your political ambitions ruin that. Children are hardly worth the sacrifice. The complications of my pregnancy ruined my figure, and my dreams never came true. But I’m going to see to it that Lynette does not make the same mistake I made.”

Lynette watched her parents argue with biting words that managed to remain discreet; a clever habit, to be sure, and all the while her chest constricted with a tighter and tighter pain, until she felt like her core was going to implode in on itself like some vast black hole.

Damn the fighting, the constant, never ending bickering over what was in
her
best interest. And wasn’t it funny that they never once bothered to ask her what
she
thought might be best? Surely, she loved dancing and didn’t mind the sacrifices. But it seemed as though her opinion had never once even been considered as viable or worth hearing. Tragic, she sighed. But it was just the way things were.

“Why don’t we get going? I’m starved.” Lynette swiftly changed the subject, smiling at both of her parents cordially. “Maybe we can try that new sushi bar on Fifth Avenue.”

They both looked at her, though neither would apologize. They never did.

“Yes, let’s go. Rogers, Eames.” Her father nodded to the two bodyguards at his side as he led his wife and daughter from the building, using the back exit reserved for VIP guests who wished to avoid the press.

As they slipped into the discreet town car that would take them the few blocks to Fifth Avenue, Lynette leaned back against the leather seat and closed her eyes. And as she did so, it startled her to have the image of her mother’s so called “playboy heir” surface from her memory, his smile upbeat, honesty and compassion so clear in his eyes.

It was curious that her father seemed to think that Linc Vasser had some kind of crush on her. And perhaps it was even more curious to realize that a part of her was oddly flattered by the idea.

If she was being honest with herself, it
had
been over a year since she had dated anyone, since her schedule had been unbelievably hectic and she had spent a great amount of time outside the country. So maybe it was only healthy to feel good at having an attractive man look twice at her.

But her mother was right. She was entirely too busy, even now, to spare time for dating. So unless by some miracle several more hours of daylight were added to each and every day, she wasn’t going to find herself in a position to have a good, lasting relationship with a man until…well, until she could no longer dance.

Ah, sacrifices.

They often said
he was a man of good humor, with a positive disposition and a carefree, comfortable nature. Despite the pressures of being the eldest son, they’d say, Marshall Vasser continues to remain easygoing and blithe, always the picture of charisma and good faith.

He enjoyed what the media thought of him, of what the society elites thought. After all, he’d worked hard to cement his reputation as both approachable and respectable, as kind but not a pushover. He loved people; he loved talking to them, cracking jokes and making them laugh, enjoying a good story about movies, books, politics, or sports. Give him a topic and he could run with it as skillfully and deftly as the best of them.

Maybe it was his innate people skills that had gifted him with so many friends over the years. God, the people he’d known in his lifetime, both famous and not, anywhere from timeless movie stars to presidents and foreign dignitaries; from great American business tycoons to world-renowned chefs and fashion designers.

It was a list to be proud of, Marshall knew, especially since his father had been known to make nothing but enemies.

Swirling a snifter of brandy, he lifted it to his lips and sampled, leaning back happily into the comfortable armchair in the study of his Upper East Side town house. Yes, his father had undoubtedly burned more bridges than he had made in his life, but in many ways it had given him an altogether different reputation than the one Marshall had strove for. Where Marshall had sought to be loved by all, Cyrus had chosen to be feared.

And even at ninety, the old bastard was still feared, Marshall chuckled, shaking his head. Even confined to a hospital bed, hooked up to machines to keep his heart beating and his lungs functioning, the man was as ruthless and mean as ever. But even Marshall could admit that it was the ruthlessness and the old man’s cunning nature that had brought the hotels into full prominence in the latter half of the century, surviving numerous recessions and maintaining a solid and strong reputation.

Cyrus hadn’t let anyone take advantage of him. Most were too scared to even try. One whiff of fraud or deceit and the perpetrator might as well chop their own head off for how dead they were going to be once Cyrus was done with them. He was incredibly shrewd and paranoid, and it was because of this that the very few people who did manage to earn some semblance of trust from him ended up very wealthy and successful men.

Including himself, Marshall considered, sipping more brandy and eyeing the photograph he kept of his father and himself on the table at his side. It had been taken some thirty years earlier, Cyrus in his sixties, looking callous and bad tempered, and Marshall in his forties, in his prime. In some ways he knew he had disappointed his father, never marrying and producing heirs being one of them. But marriage just wasn’t his style. He preferred a vast selection of women, ever changing to suit his altering tastes. But he had worked hard and he had earned his place at his father’s side as heir to the empire, even if they didn’t always agree on method. They still respected each other, and maybe even loved each other, if there was even room in the old man’s shriveled, decayed heart for love.

What little room there may have been, he had long ago given to the one woman strong enough, or maybe just foolish enough, to put up with him. The late, great Stella Waverly Vasser, Marshall’s mother. In all his life, he had never met a woman who could compare to her. She had been one of a kind, not only a strong woman, but a warm and charitable one who gave everything she had unconditionally. Marshall liked to think that he had inherited some of those qualities in the handful of years that he had known her before her untimely death of breast cancer. He had been just twenty years old.