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For the first time in my life, I wonder what that would be like. Me, at the helm of my family. The Warwicks and the Speares reunited. The city, our oyster.
No, not for the first time. Because I was a fifteen-year-old once, and I’d had an embarrassing crush on the heir of the Warwick family. And on the very few occasions that the two of us were in a room together, for a formal dinner or a family event or what have you, I’d daydream about catching his eye. I’d imagine Thomas Warwick and I as king and queen of everything-
I blink, pulling myself forcibly out of the dream. I’m back in the boutique in a gown chosen for me, and Thomas is in the mirror’s reflection, watching my face closely.
I can’t believe myself. Just yesterday I’d accepted that my mother was dead because she didn’t get out when she should. Now I’m being tempted by sex and power? This isn’t what I want. I want the freedom to paint. I want a gallery and to live in peace.
It’s a relief when Miss Benton and Miss Valdez poke their heads into the room a few minutes later. They help me out of the gown so they can make their final adjustments, and I redress quickly.
As Thomas and I walk out of the boutique, I get the feeling I’ve failed a test. And that Thomas isn’t the only one disappointed by that.
CHAPTER 17
Thomas
The next day, the words of my generals flow in one ear and out the other at our meeting over breakfast. I keep coming back to myself staring into the black depths of my coffee, but in between moments of lucidity, I’m in my car with Clara. I’m in the boutique with my hands on her shoulders. I’m examining the length of her back. I’m imagining Clara’s pupils dilating in the mirror as I peel her new dress off her body and bend her over.
I’d been so close to taking her right there. When Clara was dressed in clothes that weren’t hers, rumpled and afraid, I couldn’t keep my hands off of her. Seeing her in that gown, tailored to hug and accentuate every curve of her, I realized it wasn’t just adrenaline that had driven me to put myself inside her. Knowing for a fact that she’d been made a woman in the front seat of a car, and deserved to be shown a much better time than that.
Iris clears her throat violently, and I blink and lift my head. The men at my table are watching me, waiting for a reaction to something I didn’t hear.
“Repeat that,” I order. As if I’m demanding clarification instead of losing my head.
One of my generals straightens his papers. “Two other businesses in the area of Russo’s bistro are guilty of skimming us for this month. After your intervention with Russo and his subsequent disappearance, those missing payments have been made up for with apologies.”
Of course they have.
“So someone is moving in on our territory with the intention of redirecting business,” I say.
“Three guesses who,” Iris says into her tea.
Morgan is indeed getting bold. The truce keeps us from taking shots at each other, but interference in each other’s business was also supposed to end. The fact that he’s trying to tempt or threaten my people into giving him a cut of my money?
It’s almost pathetic considering what I’m planning to do to him.
“It sounds like we can return Russo to his work then,” I say. “He’s served his purpose, and will certainly continue to warn his fellows away from making deals with the wrong people.”
Iris nods in agreement. “We’ll drop him off in front of the bistro in time for the dinner hour.”
I turn the page of my itinerary, and the conversation begins again around me, but my thoughts have already moved on to something else.
Clara, sitting across from me at breakfast, blowing a little on her tea before taking a sip. I’d watched the shape of her lips and imagined I could feel the puff of her breath on my skin, but I was looking away before she raised her head. It was startling to realize in that moment that there were questions I wanted to ask her, things I wanted to hear her say, conversations I wanted to have that wouldn’t have been wise considering we were in a public place. About her thoughts, her relationship with her family… what it was like living with that bastard of an uncle.
Clara, saying, “Thomas, wait!” as I walk away from her. It was insane to even think it, but I wondered if she would ask me to stay. I imagined her undoing the first button of her top, her eyes inviting me to come over and take care of the rest. What would it be like to lay her out on the bed, to cage her with my body, to come with her beneath me?
“Thomas?”
Iris’s voice forces me to resurface again. I clear my own throat this time. “Apologies,” I lie, “this headache is becoming a migraine. We’ll finish this discussion tomorrow.”
My generals accept this without question, and I don’t know if it’s tact or if they actually believe I’m unwell. I watch them leave with a pensive frown, more irritated with myself than anything else. It’s been a long time since I was last unable to keep my focus in a meeting. The day after my father’s death, if I’m not mistaken.
Iris is the only one left at the table now. I can see the gears shifting behind her eyes, so I wait for her to speak first.
When she does, I almost wish I’d left with my generals.
“You’ve been acting strangely since you brought Clara to the estate,” she says plainly. I wait for her to go on, then realize she meant that as an accusation, and is waiting for me to explain myself.
A spark of irritation flickers in my chest, and I stamp it out. Iris’s job is to keep the estate in order, and she’s right to point out that I haven’t been. Still, I don’t appreciate that chastising tone.
