Enemies under one roof

Chapter 4

There are moments in life when your body makes a decision before your brain can vote, and mine decided to turn into a very expensive statue.

Raymond Hale was ten steps away. Nine. Eight. His silver hair caught the chandelier light like a halo, and his arms were wide open, and the smile on his face was the same one he had worn at every birthday, every graduation, every Christmas dinner of my entire life. The smile that had once made me feel safe.

"Sophia," Daniel breathed against my temple, so quietly it could have been a thought. "Look at me."

I could not. If I looked at him, I would cry, and if I cried, Raymond would know.

"Sophia." His thumb pressed once against my spine, firm and grounding. "Breathe. In. Out. You've survived worse than a man in a navy suit."

"Have I?" I whispered through a frozen smile.

"You survived me."

A hysterical laugh nearly escaped me. I swallowed it, and in the same motion Daniel turned me gently by the waist so that Raymond's arrival looked like a happy coincidence instead of an ambush. Then Raymond's arms were around me, and the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and peppermint rolled over me, and my stomach rolled right along with it.

"My girl," Raymond said, squeezing me tight. "Look at you. Married! I couldn't believe it when your mother called. I nearly dropped my coffee."

"Surprise," I managed. My voice sounded like it was being operated by a stranger. "We wanted to keep it quiet."

"Quiet! In this town?" He pulled back, holding my shoulders, his eyes crinkling. "You look radiant, sweetheart. Your father would be so proud."

My father.

Something sharp and hot rose behind my ribs. For a terrible half second, I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab the front of his perfect suit and demand to know how he could say that word, how he could stand in a room full of crystal and champagne and say my father's name with a straight face.

Then Daniel's hand slid around my waist, warm and steady, and he said, with polished, easy charm, "Mr. Hale. Sophia has told me so much about you. I'm glad we finally get to meet properly."

Raymond's gaze moved to Daniel, and just for an instant, so brief I almost missed it, something cool and measuring flickered behind the kindness. Then it was gone, replaced by a hearty grin. "Daniel Sterling. I admit, I had my doubts about this match. But seeing how you look at her." He chuckled. "Well. Perhaps the old stories about your family were exaggerated."

"Most stories are," Daniel said pleasantly.

The two men shook hands. I watched it happen like a car crash in slow motion, two predators smiling over a handshake, and all I could think was that my fingers had gone numb.

"If you'll excuse us," Daniel said, "I promised my wife a dance, and she has a violent streak when I'm late."

"Does she?" Raymond laughed. "Her father had the same temper. Go on, go on. We'll talk soon, Sophia. I want to hear everything."

He patted my cheek, the way he had when I was seven, and walked away into the crowd. I stood there until the last glimpse of his silver head disappeared among the tuxedos, and then my knees quietly resigned.

Daniel caught me before I hit the floor.

"Don't faint," he murmured, steering me through the crowd with an arm around my back that looked like affection and felt like a rescue. "Fainting draws attention. Fainting is for amateurs."

"I am an amateur."

"You are not. You were magnificent."

"I told him we kept it quiet!"

"Which was perfect. Come on."

He led me through a pair of glass doors onto a private terrace, where the night air hit my face like cold water. Below us the city glittered, and the music drifted faint and silvery from the ballroom. I gripped the stone railing with both hands and breathed like a woman surfacing from the bottom of a pool.

"He taught me to ride a bike," I said, to no one. "He sat with me in the hospital when I had my appendix out. He cried at my high school graduation."

Daniel said nothing. He just stood beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushed my arm, giving me the dignity of silence.

"How do you know?" My voice cracked. "How do you know it's him? Maybe someone forged the report. Maybe it's a mistake. Maybe it's you, trying to turn me against the only family I have left."

I felt him go still. Then, very carefully, he reached into his jacket and drew out a folded sheet of paper, creased soft from handling. He did not hand it to me. He held it open between us, and let me read.

It was a photocopy of a police report, dated two years ago, with an official stamp and a case number. The details of the accident, the location, the time. And in the box marked witness statement, a name written in neat black ink.

Raymond Hale.

Beneath it, a note in a different hand, scrawled in the margin and underlined twice. Not an accident. Brake line cut. Report to be revised.

My vision blurred. I pressed my fist against my mouth, and the sound that escaped me was small and broken and not at all like me.

"I'm sorry," Daniel said. "I'm so sorry, Sophia."

"You should have told me sooner."

"I know."

"I would have hated you for it."

"I know that, too." His voice was rough. "But I'd rather you hate me than trust him."

I laughed, a wet, shaky laugh, and wiped my face with the back of my hand. And then, because I was exhausted and furious and heartbroken, I did something very stupid. I turned and pressed my forehead against his chest, and his arms came around me instantly, strong and sure, as though they had been waiting.

I could feel his heartbeat. It was racing.

"Rule two," I mumbled into his shirt.

"Which one is that?"

"No interference in each other's private lives."

"Ah." His chin rested lightly on my hair. "I think this one is an exception."

"Rule one, then."

"I'm not violating rule one." He paused. "Yet."

I should have laughed. I should have pulled away. Instead I stood there, wrapped in a billionaire's arms on a moonlit terrace, and for one long, dangerous minute, I forgot that I was supposed to hate him.

He lifted his head first. His hand came up, slow and uncertain, to brush a tear from my cheek, and his thumb lingered at the corner of my mouth. The air between us tightened like a held breath. His eyes dropped to my lips, and mine, God help me, dropped to his.

"Sophia," he said hoarsely. "If I kiss you now, it won't be for show."

"I know."

"Tell me to stop."

I should have. I opened my mouth to say the words, and instead what came out was, "Don't you dare."

His forehead touched mine. His breath ghosted over my lips, warm and unsteady, and I felt the world narrow to the space of one heartbeat, one inch, one terrible, wonderful decision.

The terrace door opened with a soft click.

We sprang apart like guilty teenagers. A waiter stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray, his face carefully blank.

"Forgive the interruption," he said. "A gentleman asked me to deliver this to Mrs. Sterling. He said she would know what it meant."

He held out the tray. On it, resting on a white linen napkin, was a small brass key, tarnished with age, tied with a faded blue ribbon.

I knew that ribbon. I had tied it myself, fifteen years ago, onto a key my father gave me for a wooden box in the attic of our old house, the box he told me to guard with my life.

My blood turned to ice.

"Who gave this to you?" Daniel asked, very softly.

The waiter glanced over his shoulder, then back at us. "A silver-haired gentleman, sir. He said to tell her that her father asked him to return it."