He Will be My Ruin
Page 60

I’ve never responded well to that look. “How long have you known her?”
“Almost seven months.”
“Are you . . . Is she . . .” I stumble over my confrontational words, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Do you pay her?”
“Jesus, Maggie!” he hisses, shaking his head at me. “No. And if I did, that’d be my business and not something I’d discuss with my daughter.”
I’ve definitely pushed him too far.
He sighs. “We get along well, and she’s the first woman since your mother to actually challenge me, which is a nice change. And before you ask, she has more than enough of her own money.”
I shift my gaze between the two of them again. Yes, there’s a huge age difference. No, I don’t see the appeal of a man twice my age, but . . .
Reading through Celine’s diaries made me sick because I was picturing a certain kind of man hiring Celine, but maybe what’s stuck in my head is wrong. Maybe Celine was with guys like my father—fit and well put together, distinguished and charismatic. Men she might have even been attracted to, had the circumstances been different.
“So? You must be almost finished up with the estate. I can’t imagine it being that complicated,” my dad says through a sip of his drink, changing topics.
You have no idea how complicated it is. “Almost there.”
“Good. And you’ll be heading back to Ethiopia in January?”
“Didn’t Mom tell you about Rosa?”
“Well, yes but . . .” He frowns. “You have an organization to run. You have people who rely on you.”
“Rosa needs someone, too.”
“She has people. Your mother said that the Mexican community she’s a part of down there is close. They’ll make sure she gets what she needs. I’m sure one of them will take care of the bills if you send the money through.”
“Cut a check from the other side of the world while the woman who raised me dies?” Forget the bimbo next to Dad. Even suggesting such a thing gets my blood boiling and my voice raised. That’s the difference between my mother and father—my mother knows there’s no point trying to convince me to change my mind. My father still thinks he needs to sculpt me, and it’s usually with a hand too focused on business to balance human need. He’s not pushing me to go back to Ethiopia because of the poor, needy children.
It’s all about being a responsible leader.
“Oh look, I guess I’ll take this seat right next to you,” Ruby says, interrupting my father’s retort, which I’m sure will only make me more angry. “I just love this music. I may have to get up later and dance, if I can find a suitable partner. Maybe we can find you a young man and you can join,” she says to me, dousing the heated conversation.
“Yes, that would be nice,” my dad agrees, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “Your mother said something about you investing with Dale Everett’s son. Anything there?”
My stomach turns sour with mention of him. For a couple who has been divorced for so long, my mother and father talk to each other about personal things far too much. “Absolutely nothing, and there never will be. He’s a disgusting human being.”
“He’s quite handsome, though,” Ruby throws in with a sly smile.
I shoot a glare her way, and she shrugs.
“So, he’s a disgusting human being and you’re investing your money with him. Did I get that right?” my dad asks with a smirk.
I pour the rest of my champagne back in one gulp. “Something like that.”
————
“A Cold-Blooded Ginger,” I order from the bartender, breathing in the free-flowing air with deep pulls, my lungs feeling light again. It’s my third trip out of that stifling ballroom and into the hotel bar, where the rich mahogany walls are comforting rather than suffocating. The first time I ducked out, I felt bad for abandoning my eighty-one-year-old date. But upon returning to my table, I found a white-haired man in a tuxedo leading her onto the dance floor, and I realized that Ruby makes friends much more easily than I do. She’ll be just fine wherever she goes.
She hasn’t left the dance floor since dessert.
And I may decide to not leave this bar until it’s time to go home.
“When in doubt, the Sparkes princess will be at the charity ball.”
A shiver runs down my spine, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m hearing Jace’s voice, period, or because of the contempt that laces it. He left me three voice messages since yesterday morning. Each of them telling me that we needed to speak and urgently.
I never called him back.
But I can’t very well ignore him now. So I turn around. “What are you doing here?” He’s dressed in a tailored black tux, looking every bit the classy gentleman that I now know he’s not.
“Supporting charity, of course.” He leans in to place a kiss on my cheek, and I stiffen.
I highly doubt he actually bought a ticket to this, which means he pulled on a tux and walked in like he owned the place for no other reason than to find me.
“I’m sorry. Between clearing out Celine’s apartment and getting ready for tonight, I haven’t had time to call you back.”
He nods slowly, his steely gaze rolling over the area—decked out in traditional gold and red garland—before cutting back to me.
I see it now. The simmering rage—in his hard blue eyes, in his tense jaw.
I wonder if it matches the rage in mine.
“Your drink, miss.” The bartender slides my drink to me with a wink.
I grab it, wanting to be as far away from Jace Everett as I can before I blurt out that I know he lied. That I’m on to him, and it’s only a matter of time before he screws up. “It was nice to see you, Jace.” I begin walking away, heading toward the hotel lobby lounge area, my heels clicking briskly against the tile. I can feel him trailing me. “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to my—”
A vise-like grip grabs hold of my wrist. “I think first we should find a quiet corner and talk for a bit. About what you did on Friday night.”
I swallow the panic, school my expression as best I can. “And what did I do on Friday night?”
He steps in, so close that his chest touches mine. I fight not to recoil. Leaning down, he whispers in my ear, “What did you put in my wine?”