The Bride (The Boss) (50 page)

“I’m here.” I gestured around me. “I am fully aware that I am not at home.”

“You know what I mean.” Her forehead creased in annoyance. “I’m surprised you didn’t drag her along on this trip. You might have gotten more done if you weren’t busy pining away like a puppy for his master.”

“She didn’t want to come. Too much traveling lately.” I didn’t want to talk about Sophie with Valerie. It made me vaguely uncomfortable, as though I were betraying Sophie in some way. Though I found it a bit tiresome that the two were so hostile toward one another, I came down on Sophie’s side every time. It would have been wrong of me not to.

But it was difficult to stay annoyed when Valerie reminded me so strongly of our daughter. The way Valerie tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowed, was an almost exact copy of Emma’s own expression of incredulity.
 

“Neil… there wasn’t any reason I couldn’t have handled this rights deal on my own. And even if I couldn’t have, Jonathan could have done. If he’s to take over operations here while you’re handling the New York office and I’m finishing the restructure of
Porteras
, Shouldn’t we have left this job to him?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Leaving Jonathan in charge would have been akin to leaving a baby with a loaded gun. “He’s only been with us for—”

“Twelve years. He has worked here for twelve years. And he worked for your father for six.” The way she rolled her eyes reminded me of Emma, as well. How could two women be so alike, and yet so different? And why did they both seem to find me hopelessly stupid?
 

Valerie paused, as if to regroup. “You were fine with leaving Jonathan in charge when you were sick.”

“That was when I was sick. I’m well now.”

“Well” being a relative term. I still tired easily, and the nightmares of my time in protective isolation certainly didn’t help me rest.

Valerie shook her head. “You’re obsessed with control, Neil. You’re living in New York and, what, commuting to London now? Is that how it’s going to be for the next twenty years?”

“Do you really think I could wait and retire at seventy?”
An extra five years, think of what I could do with that…

Valerie’s mouth opened, poised to deliver another withering remark, but she refrained. “Fine. Let’s go back and listen to that very boring man, if you’re not too busy making the world spin ‘round.”

“Is the worst of it over? Is it safe to go back in?”

“Unfortunately, no. But you have to go back, anyway.” She stood and gestured toward the door. “Shall we? Or do I move our meeting in here?”

“God no.” I stood and straightened my tie reflexively. “This office is my bunker. I can’t compromise it.”

“And when you’re working from the New York office full time, shall we erect a memorial on your desk, or just seal the doors the way they do when a pope dies?” Valerie stopped short and turned to me. “Oh, I was thinking of dinner out tonight, at that Ethiopian place we liked. Seven-thirty all right?”

“No, I have plans tonight.” Plans I didn’t need to share with her. There was too much shaky history there.

The rest of the workday was interminable. Caught between missing Sophie and anticipating the potential of an evening with Emir, my attentiveness to all other concerns was minimal, at best.

Not for the first time, I wondered if returning to the office after cancer was even possible. I’d gotten so used to not working, and easing back in had become more difficult than previously imagined. Though I’d never
really
stopped working. As much as I may have protested when Sophie admonished me for my mid-chemotherapy work habits, I’d still been desperate to oversee the company. But now I’d had a taste of life at home, where the television was always on, but my trousers rarely were. Free time, which I’d never had much regard for in the past, now seemed incredibly precious.

Perhaps it was because I’d been faced with the very real possibility of death that I was now recognizing the value of my life. Sitting in a conference room on a Saturday, when I could’ve spent a rare day off with Sophie, seemed a tragic waste of my time.

Coming home to an empty house at the end of the night only reinforced the point. I put my bag down by the door and glanced up the stairs, a practiced reflex; Sophie and I had spent nearly a year in our London residence, and it seemed strange to be here alone.

I wouldn’t be, for long. I only had an hour and a half before Emir would arrive. Only a few members of the household staff were still on duty, and they were in the kitchen. Without a soul in the living areas of the house, the feeling of emptiness was exacerbated.

The realization struck me hard when I clicked on our bedroom light. Sophie wasn’t there, sprawled out on the bed, watching mindless television. And she wasn’t downstairs in the library, hard at work on her book or her videos. She was across an ocean, despising our separation as much as I was. But of the two of us, only one seemed to be under the impression that the other should be patiently waiting until she was needed.

Neil Elwood, you are the biggest idiot who ever lived.

It hadn’t been so long ago that I’d been desperate to be near her, separated by maddening hospital regulations. More than once I’d been gripped with panic, thinking I might die without ever touching her again. I still occasionally woke and reached for her in mindless terror, fearing I was still in that isolation room. That had only been a few months ago, and we were back to the relationship we’d had before the cancer. Me, too busy with work to make time for Sophie except on the occasional evening or weekend. Her, pursuing her own career with a single-minded determination I admired.

And I had been taking her presence in my life entirely for granted.

I went to the master bath. The fluffy pink robe Sophie loved so much still hung on the back of the door. I would have to remember to take it back to New York for her.

In the shower, I thought about Sophie, and not the usual way I thought about her when I was in the shower. I couldn’t begrudge her drive and ambition, no matter how… experimental her career path seemed at the moment. In my twenties, I’d based all my job prospects on what superficial title would grant me access to unlimited cocaine, so she was fairing far better than I had.
 

Sophie would never be a woman content to stay at home waiting for me, and that arrangement wouldn’t make me happy, either. I wanted to see Sophie achieve success the way her relatives wanted to see the Packers win a Super Bowl.
 

Surely she would be better equipped to focus on job concerns if she had more support at home?

There was a solution to my dilemma, but it wasn’t one I cared to admit to myself just yet.

I dressed for my dinner with Emir the way I would for any casual dinner with an acquaintance. I wore a white oxford shirt, dark slate trousers, and a pair of my favorite black alligator loafers. Sophie frequently mocked my shoe collection; she didn’t understand the fundamental truth that more shoes were preferable to fewer shoes. I found that rather surprising, taking into account her fashion journalism career.

Jumpy with nerves, I took a deep breath and checked myself over in the full-length mirror. “All right, old man. This is the best you can do.”

The bell rang over the intercom. He was here. I hadn’t felt quite this nervous in a while. The last time had been the night Sophie had first come to my apartment to stay the weekend. I’d been nervous for another reason, then. I’d been so in love with her, desperate not to fuck anything up. I didn’t need to impress Emir; I knew who he was, he knew who I was, and we knew what we wanted from each other.
 

Outside of the lifestyle, Emir was El-Mudad ibn Farid ibn Abdel Ati, a socially connected billionaire who flaunted his family money in a way that was only
just
this side of propriety. He raced cars. He owned expensive motorcycles. His yacht was like something out of a Bond movie. Emir made Richie Branson look like a stuffy old man.

Though I didn’t feel the need to awe him with my wealth or charm— we’d been in a threesome together, so we were quite past getting to know each other— I did worry that without Sophie’s youthful exuberance, I wouldn’t seem cool enough. I’d always thought of myself as being fairly hip, but living with a woman who routinely masked her looks of horror when I didn’t know the name of some former Disney channel star had somewhat shaken that self-confidence.

At least we’d most likely be talking about cars.

The intercom beeped, and I hurried over to hit the button. Before the staff member on the other end spoke, I said, “Thank you, I heard the bell. Please show my guest to the dining room.”

“Very good, sir,” Matthew answered. “What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him that I’ll be down presently.” I released the button, checked my hair one last time in the small mirror on the wall by the door— a move Sophie consistently chided me for— made sure my fly was closed and my collar open, and headed downstairs.

The dining room was softly lit. I’d preferred low light when recovering from the stem cell transplant, as I’d suffered from photosensitive migraines. Though I was blessedly free from them now, bright indoor lighting seemed garish to me. Unfortunately, Emir didn’t know any of this, and I panicked at the thought he might assume it had been for some romantic ambience.

So when he stood as I entered, I gave him a firm handshake and a warm smile, no more than I would have done for a business colleague. There. My intentions couldn’t have appeared more platonic.

“Leif.” Emir used my name from the club— it was easier that way, we’d all agreed— and he squeezed my hand with equal, but not competitive, pressure. “So good to see you again.”

“Likewise. Soph— excuse me,
Chloe,
was disappointed that she couldn’t join us, but we’ve done a fair bit of traveling lately, and she couldn’t stand the thought of another plane. I do hope you understand.”

“Well, our loss, then.”

Emir was thirty-five, tall, dark, and handsome, with perfect teeth and an engaging personality. Though conventional wisdom dictated that I should consider him a threat where Sophie was concerned, it was difficult to dislike the man when he had such genuine affection for her. He was gentle, polite, and damned sexy, and while I
had
been a touch jealous at seeing my girlfriend splayed over his lap, writhing and moaning, I would much rather have brought a man like Emir into our bed than someone who didn’t appreciate her as much as I did.

“I’m glad to see you looking so well,” Emir continued. “I called once, when you were in the hospital. Chloe said things were… well, she said ‘he’s fucked, and not in the good way.’”

“It was quite hard on her, as well as on me.” I always had the strangest sense of guilt, as though I should apologize for being sick and putting Sophie through all she’d gone through when I’d been ill. It was yet another issue I was working on in therapy. “There’s a bit of a mental toll—”

Shut up! He doesn’t want to hear this!
I needed a refresher course in having conversations that didn’t come back to cancer. “But why spoil the night speaking of it?”

Emir nodded his agreement, but said gently, “I hope you realize that my concern is genuine. I like you and Chloe very much.”

“And we’re both very fond of you.” Needing a change of subject, I motioned to the decanter on the table. At his nod of assent, I poured the wine— a fragrant red the kitchen had selected— into his glass before filling my own. “We’re having a lovely meal tonight. My cook is very good.”

“I think you know that I’m not here for the food.” Emir’s smirk went straight to my stomach, where it turned into a swarm of butterflies. He pulled his mobile from his back pocket and held it up. “I received some very interesting texts today, from Chloe.”

“Oh?” What had Sophie been up to? I didn’t like surprises— something she attributed to my alleged control freak nature— and I wasn’t sure how I felt about her texting Emir without telling me.

“Yes, she wanted me to discuss something with you, but I think it would be better if you called her, yourself.” His raised eyebrow intrigued me further.

“Right now?” It seemed terribly rude of me to excuse myself for a call when he’d just arrived.

“I think it will give us a lot to talk about over dinner.” He lifted his wine glass. “Go. Call her. I will wait.”

My mobile was all the way upstairs in the bloody master bath. By the time I’d reached it, a thousand horrid scenarios had already unfolded in my mind, ranging from the absurd— that she was leaving me for Emir— to the irritating— the reality that they had been talking about me behind my back. I was ready to scold her when she answered the phone, but her sweet voice made me falter.

“Hey baby, I thought you would be having dinner with Emir by now,” Sophie greeted me, a note of worry in her voice. “Did he cancel?”

“No. He told me to call you. Said he’d received some interesting texts. Would you care to enlighten me?” I hoped I didn’t sound as unnerved as I felt.

She snorted. “Well, Mr. Jealous, we were talking about you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” I looked over my shoulder, though I knew Emir wouldn’t have followed me. “What’s all this about?”

“Remember when we talked the other night? When you asked what it was like to submit? And you said you’d think about trying it again?”

A spear of dread pierced my chest. “Sophie… you know my history.”

“I do,” she agreed gently. “But Emir is not that d-bag who hurt you.”

That d-bag who’d hurt me had been Stephen, Valerie’s brother, but I hadn’t mentioned that to Sophie. I didn’t need to give her a reason to dislike Valerie by proxy. All Sophie knew was that I had subbed once for a very inexperienced Dom, and that I’d hurt myself struggling with my bonds when I’d forgotten my safe word and panicked.

“He’s not, but Sophie… I’m not sure—”

“I wasn’t thinking you should do anything fancy. No pain. No bondage. But what if you let him take the lead a little, just for tonight?” There was a note of hope in her voice, and I realized then why this was so important to her.