More Than Words
Page 48

For a brief moment Callen looked confused, but then his face went white, his lips lifting slightly but falling, as if he’d attempted to smile—to laugh off Cyril’s question—but hadn’t been able to. His eyes darted around, as if looking for an escape.
A very soft, strange groaning sound reverberated in my ears, and I realized it had come from me. Nick reached over and took my hand, squeezing it in his. I swallowed back the lump rising in my throat. “This is my fault,” I choked so softly only Nick could hear.
Before Nick could reply, Callen said, “I’m not sure where you got your information, Cyril, but—”
Cyril laughed, a booming sound that startled me. “It’s easy enough to disprove me. Just read the lines.” He pointed at the piece of paper still clutched in Callen’s hand and then chuckled again, leaning forward. “And if you can’t, why not admit it here, among friends? France, and America of course, wants to know how a completely uneducated, illiterate man like yourself composes such renowned music. Why, it’s inspirational!”
Callen looked as if he’d gone into some strange trance, staring at the camera, his eyes wide, his body rigid. I wanted to cry for him. To have his most protected secret broadcasted like this in front of … who knew how many watched the show?
Nick let go of my hand, turning toward me. “How is this your fault?”
I let out a small whimper. “I told Larry.”
Nick swore softly and looked over at Larry. Callen suddenly looked away from the camera, right at Nick, and then followed Nick’s gaze to Larry, who was smirking as he stood against the wall. Callen’s eyes widened as if realization was dawning. But then a look of confusion moved across his face as he looked down, maybe considering how Larry had found out. Oh God. His eyes moved slowly to Nick, who was now looking at me, and then settled on my face. He must have been able to tell by my expression that I was the guilty party because a look of such blatant betrayal overtook his expression that I flinched.
“How could you?” Nick gritted out.
I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know if the words even came out. I felt dizzy with the horror of this situation, woozy with regret.
Callen stood up and tore his microphone off, his hands visibly shaking. He let it fall to the floor.
“Callen, don’t be so quick to leave.” Cyril stood up, too, putting a hand on Callen’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of being illiterate. We all want to know how you’ve managed as long as—”
Callen pushed at Cyril, and the talk show host fell backward, landing with a whoosh of breath into the chair he’d just been occupying. Callen walked past him, not sparing me or Nick a glance. He still looked stricken, his eyes wide with humiliation, his skin pasty except for the two high points of bright red color on his cheekbones. He wove out of the room as if he could barely control his own limbs.
The room burst into an uproar, people who had been staring in silent shock at what was going on in front of them suddenly turning to their neighbors and expressing their surprise. Others were scrawling in their notepads, reporters who would now spread the story even before Cyril’s show aired. Oh God. Oh God.
Nick stood, moving to go after Callen, and I wobbled to my feet, too, grabbing on to Nick’s shirt. He turned, glaring at me. “It was a mistake, Nick, please …”
“Tell it to him. He’s the one who has a knife sticking out of his back.”
I sank back in my chair as if my bones had suddenly turned to liquid.
But when I spotted Larry smiling and talking to Cyril in whispered tones near the front, the rage that overtook me was swift and severe, reanimating my body and giving me the strength to stand again, to move toward them with single-minded pursuit.
“You’re a disgusting snake.”
Larry turned, his expression unsurprised, one side of his mouth lifting in a mocking smile. “It’s just fair play, Jessica. One good turn deserves another. Did you really think I wouldn’t use it?”
“A game? Is that what that was?” I couldn’t fathom these people.
Larry shrugged. “A game? Sure. Do you think Callen thought fucking my wife was anything more than that?”
I flinched. I truly didn’t know. And yet I believed in him. I believed that the man who had involved himself in those games was not the true Callen Hayes.
I shook my head. “What you’ve done … you’ve potentially ruined his career, and your own in the process.”
He laughed. “My career? Do you think he’s my only client? My career has nothing to do with this. It wasn’t me who outed Callen as an illiterate fraud. It was Cyril Sauvage. Where he gets his information is anyone’s guess. Maybe he got it from you. But don’t worry—he won’t expose his source.” His smile grew. “As for Callen’s career, who knows? I was going to cut him loose anyway. He was becoming a washed-up drunk who couldn’t write a jingle to save his ass.”
God, he was vile. I was shaking again. “You’re detestable. I pity you,” I said, and turned and walked away as fast as my feet could carry me. I had to get to Callen. I had to try to explain and beg his forgiveness.
I barely remembered the trip upstairs, my mind reeling with the best thing to say, the right words to use. When I rounded the corner into the corridor where his room was, I took a deep breath, knocking loudly on his door. I waited, my heart racing, but there was no answer, no sound from within. I knocked one more time, stepping back and peering under the door. The door was almost completely flush with the carpet, but I thought I’d see a light from within if he was there. Had he not come back here? Where else would he have gone? Nick’s room, maybe? Only I didn’t know which one that was.
I pulled my phone out of my evening bag and dialed Callen’s number, but it went straight to voice mail. Sighing, I knocked on his door one last time, listening closely for any sounds. When I was met only with silence, I turned and headed back toward my room.
For a little while I sat in the chair by my window, staring at the wall, reliving what had happened in my head. I called Callen’s phone several more times only to be sent straight to voice mail again and again. Maybe he was in Nick’s room. Or maybe Nick had taken him out somewhere. That would be for the best, probably. A friend to lend support, to make Callen laugh, help him see the bright side of this.
The bright side.
What was that? No more hiding. I almost laughed. I’d suggested it myself and then unthinkingly made it happen against his will. He must hate me.
It was going to be hard enough to part as it was, but now … to part this way. I couldn’t bear it. I put my head in my hands, but the tears wouldn’t come. I felt hollow, racked with self-loathing.
Finally, unable to sit for even a second longer, I left my room, walking through the château. The meeting room was empty now, the chairs put away, and though there were people in the bar, Callen wasn’t there. I walked outside the front doors of the château and took the path around the building, walking slowly past the courtyard where Ben and I usually ate lunch.
I could hear people at the pool, talking, glasses clinking, a few shrieks of feminine laughter. Those people had something to laugh about. Callen wouldn’t be there.
I meandered through the garden, getting lost a few times but not caring. I remembered the rose garden and choked back a sob. When I was back on the main path, I picked up my pace, following the cobblestones to a back door.
There were signs that pointed toward the main lobby, so I followed them, winded when I finally stepped into the familiar lobby area, moving quickly toward the elevators. Up, up, to the top floor, where I stepped off and again made my way toward Callen’s room.
This time I saw a beam of light under his door and blew out a relieved breath. I knocked, my heart hammering again as I waited. The walk had calmed me, but standing here, my nerves were buzzing and my hands felt clammy. I ran them down my hips, realizing I was still wearing the cocktail dress I’d put on earlier. A lifetime ago, or so it seemed.
The door swung open and Callen was standing there, his hair wet, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. His expression was blank, devoid of any warmth, and his eyes looked slightly glassy, as if he’d been drinking. “Callen,” I breathed. “I’ve been calling you. I—”