The Echo of Old Books(51)

You’ve gone pale now. Not because I’ve told you anything you didn’t already suspect but because I’ve confirmed it. You’re not used to people telling you the truth. But you need to hear it now, because there may come a time when you’ll be forced to choose sides, and when that time comes, you should have all the facts.

“Bribes,” I continue evenly. “Shakedowns, even an unsolved disappearance, though they could never prove the connection. He was always careful to stay above the fray. And now he’s reinvented himself, converted all that hard-to-explain cash into stocks and bonds and built himself a proper empire. He’s collected some powerful allies too—useful in getting him out of the occasional jam—though I suspect he keeps a few of the old ones around too. Just in case. He hides behind the veneer of a buttoned-up businessman, but underneath it all, he’s just a thug with a closetful of handmade suits.”

“You had no trouble rubbing elbows with his friends last night. If he’s so terrible, so dangerous, why drink his cognac and smoke his cigars? Why accept my invitation at all?”

“I accepted your invitation for the same reason you accepted Teddy’s ring—because it was to my advantage. Your father appears to have taken a shine to me. He thinks I might be . . . useful.”

You eye me warily. “Useful how?”

“He wants me to do a story for the Review.”

“What kind of story?”

“A PR piece to help polish up his image.”

“And is that what you’re planning to write? A piece to . . . polish him up?”

“No.”

“But you are going to write something?”

“Yes.”

“Something . . . not nice.”

“I’m going to write the truth, Belle, wherever that takes me.”

“And now that you’ve gotten your foot in the door, you’re through with me.”

“Don’t put it like that.”

“How should I put it?”

“Your father isn’t a man to cross. You told me so yourself. What do you think would happen if he found out I’ve been privately carrying on with his very publicly engaged daughter?”

“I see.” You stand rigid, your chin elevated, your arms at your sides. “You’re worried about me putting a crimp in your journalistic aspirations.”

I’m expecting tears. I’m prepared for tears. But this icy version of you wreaks havoc with my willpower. I summon Goldie’s words from this morning—her assertion that I’ve lost sight of what’s important, that I’m in over my head. She wasn’t wrong.

“I’m being honest, Belle. This is what needs to happen. For both of us. Before someone gets hurt.”

Your eyes close briefly, as if to shut out my words. “Why are you doing this?”

I guard my expression as I absorb the question and steel myself for what I know will come next. I won’t be made to feel guilty. Not over you. Not over any of it. Not when you’re prepared to marry another man. At least you’re not looking at me. I’m not sure I could go through with it if you were looking at me.

“Let’s not play the whole scene, Belle. We both knew this day would come. You’re stung that I’ve chosen the time and place rather than leaving it to you, but it’s time we let each other off the hook, don’t you think?”

You blink at me. “Off the hook?”

We’re coming to it now, the part I’ve been dreading. The look of betrayal when you finally understand what I was really after—and why. But it’s necessary, this truth-telling, to put the period to us. Because if I don’t end it, you will. Maybe not today, but soon, and I prefer to take control of the moment.

“Four months ago, I was an outsider in your world, a bloke with the wrong clothes and a funny accent who’d come here to do a job. But first, I needed an entre, admittance to the kinds of parties your father and his sort throw. Goldie provided that, but only to a point. I needed a more . . . intimate contact.” I swallow. Hard. “That’s where you came in.”

I see the denial creep into your expression, see you not wanting to believe what you’ve guessed I’m about to tell you. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that us meeting wasn’t an accident. That there was a reason I turned up the night of your engagement party. I came to the States to write a story and I needed a way in.”

“A story for Goldie?”

“She was in London visiting friends last year and we met at a lecture. We ended up going for a drink afterward and got to talking about corruption and politics and war. Your father’s name came up at one point. She already knew quite a lot about his past. What she really wanted to know about were his present-day activities. His plans.”

“So she hired you to help with that.”

“Yes.”

“And that night at the St. Regis, the flirting with me at dinner the following week, the kiss in the barn—that was about my father too?”

“Yes.”

I watch your eyes go dark, like a bitter wind snuffing out a candle. You wanted me to deny it or to at least soften my response, but I promised myself I’d tell it all. Still, now that it’s done, I feel as if a part of me has been severed.

Your silence threatens to undo me, and for a moment, I consider taking it all back and telling you the real truth—that it was true once but isn’t anymore. That the story I’m working on has taken a turn I never saw coming, one I wish I didn’t have to pursue. That I imagine abandoning the whole bloody business and taking you somewhere very far away. And then I remind myself—as Goldie reminded me last night and then again this morning—that you’ve made your plans and they don’t include me.