I lean forward, lowering my voice. “And what are your secrets, Crystal?”
“They’re called secrets because they’re secrets,” she replies tartly, to put me in my place.
I’ve done my damnedest to keep my thoughts pure over dinner, but my cock thickens with what I see as a challenge. Can I make her reveal all to me? Instantly, I’m delving into the deep, dark waters of desire for this taboo woman, wondering what it would take to learn her secrets. Wondering how she would handle me tying her up. That’s when you see what people are really made of.
“Back to you,” she directs, as if she’s in charge, when she absolutely is not. “And the question you avoided several times already. Why’d you leave New York?”
I lean back in my chair, putting distance between us and studying her, intrigued by how well she handles herself. It is both a natural gift and a conditioning of those skills by life lessons. I wonder what hers have been. “If I don’t tell you why I left, my mother will, which is one answer to your question,” I finally concede. “While my family is private about most things, they tend to make my life much more public than I prefer. Distance gives me privacy.”
“That’s not an answer.” Her tone is a schoolteacher reprimand. “It’s a side step of the question yet again.”
She’s right. I am sidestepping. My reasons for leaving New York run through a muddy history I try not to travel. I sure as hell don’t talk about it.
My cell phone rings, giving me a reprieve, and I glance at the screen and see Chris Merit’s number. It’s a call I need to take, yet dread answering for many reasons. Not only is he involved with what went down with Rebecca, he’s also deeply involved with a cancer research organization.
I hit the “answer” button, not bothering with “hello.”
“I hear you’re back in Paris.”
“I am. How are you holding up?”
Uncomfortable with where this conversation is going, I glance at Crystal and cover the phone. “Give me just a minute.”
“Of course,” she says and reaches for her wine. “I’ll just drink, since I handle it so well.”
So far she’s handled it just fine, I think, leaving the table so I can talk more privately. “I was going to call you,” I tell Chris, leaning on the bar with my back to Crystal. “I’m in New York. My mother has cancer.”
Silence ticks by for several heavy seconds. “What kind and what stage?”
“Breast. Stage 3.”
“Operable or nonoperable?”
“Operable. She’s having a mastectomy tomorrow and starts radiation in three weeks.”
“That’s positive,” he says, and they’re welcome words from a man who says little and is so knowledgeable about cancer. “You know, we’ve had our differences, Mark, but I’ll walk through hell and back to help you help her, if you need me to.”
“I know.” The gnawing in my gut starts all over again, this time created by guilt. I knew Sara meant a lot to him, but I tried to get between them. She reminded me of Rebecca, and I was pissed at Chris for warning Rebecca away from me. He was right, though. Rebecca should have stayed the hell away from me.
“Mark. You still there?”
Mentally, I shake myself. “Yes. I’m here.”
“You didn’t cause Rebecca’s death. You know that, right?”
The pain moves to my chest and becomes crushing. “I used one woman to keep another at a distance. One of those women killed the other one. How is that not my fault?”
“You didn’t do this. Ava killed Rebecca.”
My other hand curls into a fist on the bar. “I should have listened to you when you said Rebecca was in over her head with me.”