Anew: Book One: Awakened (22 page)

That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve
seen firsthand that Ian treats his mother and sister with impeccable courtesy
and gentleness. I can’t help but wonder what it feels like to be so cared for
by him.

Not that I haven’t experienced
flashes of his tenderness; I have. Nor can I regret the intense, almost brutal
passion that we have shared. But a contrary part of me wishes for both. Ian the
gentleman and Ian the demanding lover. Now there, I decide, is a truly
tantalizing thought.

Adele casts me a shrewd look but
she says only, “I hope you and Marianne will become friends. She’s a lovely
girl.” With a smile, she adds, “There may be something going on between her and
Edward. I don’t know for certain yet but it’s definitely worth keeping an eye
on.”

My attention is caught. I recall
the moment at the soirée when things seemed rather intense between them. But if
there is anything between my brother and Ian’s sister, Marianne gives no hint
of it when we join her and Helene at a table in the restaurant’s inner garden.

Both the Slade ladies rise as we
approach. Helene’s smile is warm and genuine as she embraces Adele, who hugs
her in turn. Despite the twenty year or so difference in their ages, it’s clear
that my grandmother and Ian’s mother are dear friends.

“So good to see you,” Helene
says. Her smile includes me. “I’m glad you could join us, Amelia. How are you
finding the city?”

Settling into my seat, I search
for an answer that is both truthful and diplomatic. The city enthralls and
delights me in certain ways. But on another level I’m troubled by the
unrelenting display of wealth and power by the elite. Sometimes, I’m even
repelled by it.

I haven’t begun to come to terms
with the brutality I witnessed but I can’t shake the sense that the beauty of
the city is at best a thin veneer, hiding a far darker and more dangerous
reality.

“It’s a bit overwhelming,” I
say. “I’m taking it a day at a time.”

“That’s very wise,” Marianne
replies. “This really is a paradise of sorts, at least for some. But living
amid so much privilege doesn’t always have the best effect on people.”

She speaks matter-of-factly,
merely making an observation rather than judging. I like her for that and all
the more so because her concern suggests that there’s a lot more to her than
delicate blond beauty. Marianne clearly has both intelligence and strength of
character. If Adele is right about what’s going on, I hope that Edward has the
good sense to appreciate her.

The conversation has moved on to
various events that are coming up in the next few weeks when Helene laughs and
says, “Marianne and I have a small wager regarding how many more social outings
Ian will be able to tolerate. He’s already far exceeded his previous quota.”

“I did notice him turning up
here and there and…well, everywhere,” my grandmother says with a smile. “The
lucky hosts have been delighted. He’s quite the catch.”

“He would be if he ever
considered settling down,” Marianne says. Her voice drops a notch. “If Susannah
had lived…”

Adele and I exchange a glance. I
accept in that moment that my grandmother knows, not the details but still
enough of the truth of my relationship with Ian to be concerned about how I
will react to this. It certainly isn’t pleasant to contemplate that he and
Susannah might have married. I think of what was taken from him--from them
both--and feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow for all that they lost.

But at the same time I am all
too vividly aware that as much as Ian lusts after me, there has never been a
hint of anything more. Neither of us has ever spoken of love. I am, as he said
so explicitly when he told me how I came to be,
her
fantasy of the
perfect woman. I don’t fool myself that I am also his.

“I’m not sure what would have
happened between them,” Helene says with a note of caution. “They certainly
cared for each other but they each had their own reasons for shying away from a
deeper commitment. Susannah’s was obvious--she didn’t allow herself to dwell on
a future she might not have. As for Ian--”

His mother sighs and for just a
moment I get a glimpse of the shadows behind her eyes. “I’m afraid that when he
was growing up, he got a warped impression of marriage and everything that goes
with it.”

Marianne lays a hand over her
mother’s. Gently, she says, “That was hardly your fault.”

“It was in a way. I should have
left sooner.” Looking at her daughter, she musters a smile. “At least you seem
open to the possibility of marriage, if only someday with someone. I’m not
getting any younger, you know, and I have my heart set on grandchildren.”

Adele laughs. With a nod to me,
she says, “Call me greedy but I have hopes of seeing my great-grandchildren.”

Marianne groans. “Be warned,
Amelia. These two will hurry us both down the aisle if we aren’t careful.”

Although she assumes a look of
amused dismay, I have the impression that she isn’t really all that alarmed by
the prospect. The corners of my mouth twitch. Edward had better watch out for
himself.

As the conversation moves on, I
remain distracted by thoughts of Ian. Was he as gentle and protective with
Susannah as he is with his mother and sister? Given what I know about her, I
think he must have been.

The woman in the
portrait--beautiful, delicate, poised in an attitude of submissive waiting--is
so different from me. I should be rejoicing in that but instead I can only
think that he will never feel for me what he did for her.

Determined to shake off my
somber mood, I take a sip of water and refocus on my companions.

“Of course tickets to the match
are going for astronomical amounts,” Helene is saying. “But it’s for charity so
that’s all to the good.”

“What match?” I ask, trying to
look interested.

“The polo game this weekend,”
Marianne explains. “Ian and Edward--” Her voice softens as she says my
brother’s name. “--have a long-term rivalry going back to their polo-playing
days when they were at school together. This year they’re on opposing teams. As
you might imagine, there’s a great deal of interest in the outcome.”

Ian plays polo. Another aspect
of his life I know nothing about. But it does recall to my mind the powerful
muscles of his thighs that I remember all too vividly thrusting between mine.
They are certainly strong enough to make him a superb horseman.

“Amelia?”

I look up hastily at my
grandmother, praying that nothing in my expression reveals my lascivious
thoughts.

“You have a ballet class this
afternoon,” Adele reminds me. “We should be going.”

I take a breath and smile at our
companions. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope we can do this again.”

“I’ll give you a call,” Marianne
says. “I have some friends I think you would enjoy meeting.”

“I’ll look forward to that,
thank you.” I mean it, I really would like to be friends with Marianne but the
fact that she is Ian’s sister makes me cautious. Seeing her could become
unbearable.

We all walk out together. A
vintage Rolls Royce from the previous century is parked at the curb. The long
sleek car with its raised chrome grill, curved wheel bases, and burgundy body
is nothing short of stunning. Even the blasé crowd strolling past the
restaurant can’t help but gape at it. A uniformed driver jumps out to open the
door for Helene and Marianne.

Seeing my fascination with the
car, Marianne says, “Ian found it in a garage in Connecticut. It had been
sitting there neglected for decades. The first time I saw it, I thought he was
crazy to think it could be anything other than a pile of junk. But my brother
has a real gift for seeing what’s possible. Plus when he wants something, he
just doesn’t give up. The restoration took him three years and he did most of
the work himself.”

Staring at the car, perfect even
down to the hood ornament of a woman in flight, I nod. “It really is
magnificent.”

“He’s had extraordinary offers
for it,” Marianne says. “But when Ian values something, really values it, he
never lets it go.”

I don’t know what to make of
that. Ian let me go, seemingly without a qualm, yet he continues to pursue me
after a fashion, if only for sex. Or at least he was doing so. I can’t help but
wonder if he’s decided that he’s had enough. Or is deliberately seeing how
frustrated he can make me. Or has some other purpose that I can’t fathom.

I’m still pondering that several
hours later as I complete a series of deboulé half-turns down the length of the
dance studio, Sergei arches a brow.

“You are thinking about
him
again,”
he says. “Whoever he is.”

I open my mouth to deny it and
realize that I can’t. Ian in my mind and my heart is even more powerful and
inescapable than when he is in my body.

Softly, I acknowledge the truth
that I’ve fought so hard to resist.

“I don’t seem to have a choice.”

Nor can I find it in myself to want one.

Ian

“E
asy,
girl, you’ll get what you want.”

The gray mare lowers her head
and bumps my side, sniffing at the apple in the pocket of my jacket. I dig it
out and palm it, letting her velvety mouth scoop up the treat.

I had her brought down from the
stables at the palazzo with the thought that Amelia might like to ride but I’m
also considering breeding the mare. If I do, I’ll have my stallion, Samson,
cover her. He’s big compared to her daintiness, but he’s a gentleman.

My cock stirs. Great, thinking
about horses doing it is getting me hard. But then why should that be a
surprise? I’ve been that way more or less--usually more--for days now.

Ever since Amelia’s receptacle
remark, I’ve been stuck in hard-on purgatory, my libido running at maximum with
nowhere to go. I can’t believe that as much as I’ve worked to hold old demons
at bay, I still made her feel so objectified. But I also know damn well that I
did.

Way to go, buddy. Then follow
that up by sending her clit flowers.

The only bright spot in my
otherwise sorry life is that we’ve established beyond any doubt that Amelia can
say ‘no’ to me. Not once at any of the events I’ve attended since the soirée
has she approached me or in any way hinted that she wants my company.

Damn her.

A bunch of hackneyed phrases
keep swirling through my mind--I’m caught on the horns of a dilemma, hoisted on
my own petard whatever the hell that is, stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Speaking of hard--

On the one hand, she can say
‘no’, which comes as an immense relief. On the other, she can say ‘no’, which
brings me back to hard-on purgatory. But why stop there? On the other other
hand--can a guy really have too many hands?--she can say ‘yes’. Except she
doesn’t.

I’m worried about being near her
again and at the same time I can’t stay away. My grand strategy to set her
aside for her own good was blown to smithereens at the Opera House. Ever since,
I’ve been busy rationalizing.

Since she can say ‘no’ to me,
and she’s safely ensconced in the bosom of her family, and I know for a fact
that however unaffected by me she wants to seem, I can make her come like the
proverbial freight train…

Then really, what’s the harm if
we go at it like horny bunnies?

I’m full of crap but I can’t
manage to care. Something got out that night in the golden room and it’s damned
determined to play.

So determined that it’s going
all out to convince me that it’s not so bad after all. It’s just another side
of myself, and it’s controllable.

She’s told me ‘no’, she’s
keeping her distance, and look what a gentleman I’m being. I want like hell to
believe that’s true but--

If I’d ever been this frigging
tied up in knots before, I’d be long since dead in some hell hole or just
crossing the street. Considering that I’m about to hurl an eight hundred pound
horse into a grudge match in front of spectators so avid for blood that they
make the crowd at the Roman Coliseum look like vegans, I’d better get it
together.

Half-an-hour later, I come out
of the locker room suited up with my helmet tucked under my arm and my game
face on only to find Edward lounging against the nearby wall.

He grins when he sees me,
looking a lot more chipper than he did the previous evening when we met
privately to discuss what to do about Davos.

“You didn’t forget your hankie,
did you?” he asks. “You’re going to need it when you’re crying like a little
girl.”

For all that he’s still pissed
at me about Amelia, Teddy--as I like to think of him on such occasions--is also
suited up and ready for a little trash talking.

The thought occurs to me that I
see a totally different side of him than Marianne does. Which is how it had
damn well better stay until I’m sure that any intentions he may have are one
hundred percent honorable.

Yes, I’m a hypocrite and proud
of it.

“That’s sweet,” I say. “But I
did my crying last year. This time’s different. You’re going down, McClellan.”

He falls into step beside me and
throws an arm over my shoulders. “In your dreams, Slade. Betting’s two to one
against you.”

“Bull shit. Three to two tops
and that’s only because the scumbags in the stands think Hayden’s come back too
soon.”

“He’s ready though, right?”

“So he says.”

Edward nods. “Good.”

Never mind that Hayden is on my
team, the three of us have been friends since before we figured out what our
dicks were for.

A year ago, Hayden almost died
taking a not-quite-street-legal jet bike for a joyride in St. Moritz. For his
parents, whose only child he is and who had never gotten used to the miracle of
his existence, the accident was a nightmare come true. But contrary to their
and everyone else’s worse fears, he pulled through.

Watching the guy who objectively
looks like a cross between a Norse god and a surfer dude jog down the hallway
to join us, I can’t help marveling at his recovery. And hope like hell that he
isn’t pushing himself too hard too soon.

Because we’re there for charity,
we join the meet-and-greet on the lawn in front of the clubhouse. The stables
are off to one side, the fields and stands to the other. We’re at the northern
end of the park that bisects the center of Manhattan.

It’s a Goldilocks day, not too
cool, not too warm, perfect for polo. The sun, bouncing off the white roof of
the club house, may be a problem for the teams in the first match but by the
time the star attractions--that would be my team and Edward’s--take the field,
we shouldn’t have an issue.

Hayden, who had half the women
on the social register sobbing in their pillows when he was lying at death’s
door, comes in for the bulk of attention. He’s grinning, fielding yet another
easy lay-up from the paparazzi, when suddenly he does a classic double-take and
frowns.

I follow the direction of his
gaze and who do I see? Amelia has just come out of the club house and is
standing at the edge of the lawn watching the media scrum. She’s wearing a
short pink dress with a frothy skirt and she looks like sin in heels. At least
to me she does but I’m far from alone.

In the days I’ve been trailing
after her to every coma-inducing social event dreamed up by the vapid minds of
society’s most ambitious hosts and hostesses, I’ve gotten used to the fact that
she attracts way too much attention, both male and in some cases female. Used
to as in gotten marginally better about wanting to smash their faces in.

But Hayden’s reaction is
different…sort of. He looks like the world has just stopped for him.

What the hell?

It gets worse. Amelia turns her
head slightly and their gazes meet. I see her lips part in a little gasp of
surprise. An instant later, she frowns like she’s trying to decide what to do.

I’ll spare her the trouble.

I don’t remember crossing the
lawn to where she’s standing. I’m just there. My fingers close around her wrist
and I tug. Knocked off balance, she falls into my arms.

I’m holding her hard against me,
breathing in the uniquely Amelia scent of her hair and skin, when she says,
“Oh, Ian. I didn’t see you.”

Fucking hell, she sounds
distracted. And not in the good
all-I-can-think-of-is-having-your-cock-inside-me way. Really distracted.

Hayden is fielding another
question but he’s still staring at her. Amelia is still frowning. I…I don’t
know what I am except-- Scared? That can’t be right. She’s mine, has been from
the very beginning. I’ve got the paperwork to prove it.

“Come on,” I say.

She gives her head a little
shake and refocuses. On me. Finally.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

I hear the wariness in her voice
but that’s progress from her outright refusal at the soirée. Maybe she’s still
too busy thinking about Hayden.

That settles it. I’ve been
dancing around her too long. Time to right the balance between us.

“Some place we can talk.” To
start with and then we’ll see. There’s only one way that I really know how to
get through to her that she’s mine and it doesn’t involve a lot of chit-chat.

“I want to introduce you to the
love of my life,” I say. “She’s gotten more of my time and attention than any
other. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve spent in her --”

“I’ve already seen the Rolls,”
Amelia says. “It--she--is gorgeous.”

Damn, I forgot about that lunch.

“You’re sweet to let your mother
and sister use a car you put so much effort into restoring,” she adds. “I’m
sure there are some who wouldn’t.”

I’m sweet? Is that one step up
or down from being a nice guy? And we all know what happens to them.

In an unplanned burst of
honesty, I say, “What I am is desperate. I miss you, Amelia. More than I ever
thought it was possible to miss anyone. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I don’t
even want to tell you what it’s like at work. If I didn’t have such good people
backing me up, I’d be screwed.”

She’s staring at me wide-eyed
and--please don’t let me be imagining this--I could swear a tremor of
excitement runs through her. We’ve reached the Rolls. I touch a thumb to the
biometric scanner and hear the locks click open.

Right about then it hits me that
most of my relationship with Amelia has involved either dragging her off
somewhere because I need to fuck her, or trying to control everything she does
and thinks, or both.

True, I had a moment of clarity
when I realized that I had to let her go but given how I’ve been backtracking
on that ever since, I’m not sure it counts.

Generally speaking, I’m a fairly
bright guy. Give me a problem involving a battle space, a new piece of tech, or
anything to do with business and I’ll find a solution. But when it comes to
communicating with this woman who I need as vitally as my next breath, I’m at a
loss. Still, I am damn well going to try.

Slowly, I say, “I’m serious
about talking. There are things that need to be said between us.”

She looks up at me with those incredible
aquamarine eyes and slowly, hesitantly, she nods.

Thank. You. God. All that crap
you dish out--earthquakes, tsunamis, plagues, and so on? Forgiven and
forgotten.

She still looks wary but she
steps into the Rolls.

I love that car for too many reasons
to go into but one of them is her ample backseat. This model dates from the
pre-DYI age when people who could afford to own a Rolls also had a chauffeur.
Somewhere along the way, the rich figured out that the cars were fun to drive,
got rid of the guy in front and slipped behind the wheel themselves.

The whole design of the vehicle
shifted as a result. But back in the day, the backseat of a Rolls was
practically a micro-apartment, which means plenty of room to maneuver.

I follow Amelia in, slam the door,
take a quick second to make sure it’s locked and the tinted windows are up, and
turn to her. She scoots over to make room for me on the backseat that’s like a
small sofa and looks at me expectantly.

I’ve got enough sense to know
that anything to do with Hayden and why the hell she is so interested in him is
not the best way to start. But once in the confines of the car, I’m having a
hard time figuring out a sensitive, non-threatening way to tell her that (a)
she belongs to me, (b) she totally misinterpreted what happened in the Opera
House, and (c) she belongs to me.

I chalk that up to the fact that
the blood supply to the language centers of my brain has been redirected to my
cock.

After a few moments, Amelia
picks up on the fact that if any talking is going to happen, she’ll have to
start. Softly, she asks, “Why did you say what you did at the Opera House after
we...you know?”

I can feel myself flushing. Much
as I’d like to forget all about what a jerk I was, I can’t. She’s right to be
calling me out on it.

“I shouldn’t have called you an
incredible piece of ass,” I offer. Never mind that she really does have an
amazing ass, at the very least I should have phrased it differently. “That was
crude and I’m sorry.”

She lowers her head a little and
shoots me a chiding glance. “And…?”

I grimace but I’m a man and I
can do this.

Softly, because I know this is
the part that really matters, I say, “I shouldn’t have said what I did about
you being made for fucking. Given the issue you have with free will, that was very
insensitive. Just for the record, I don’t believe it’s true. There’s a lot more
to you and besides, you’ve been charting your own course from the moment you
woke up.”

She nods but she’s still not
letting me off the hook. “Crude and insensitive. That’s a start. Why were you
so angry?”

Jeez, this is never going to
end. I should hire her to do interrogations. She’d wring a subject dry and
leave him begging for more.