Page 12 of Salt in the Wound
He dropped his hand from my shoulder as I looked back at him. Hopelessness was a weight on my chest, but perhaps that was my selfishness talking, my fear. I should be offering that hopelessness up to God.
He seemed to be considering something, and then nodded to himself, that eternal eyebrow arched. “Yes,” he said after a long moment. “You’re ready. You’re ready to visit Rome and begin working for me properly soon. Then I think you’ll see what a benediction God has brought us in the shape of Mark Trevena.”
five
Three weeks later, and I was climbing out of a black car in front of a Midtown skyscraper, trying to quell the nervousness that kept crawling under my skin.
When my father had informed me that Mark Trevena wanted to have dinner with me, alone, I’d almost refused.
But then I’d relented. What was the point in refusing? I’d agreed to marry him; negotiations between him and my father were nearly finished. It felt childish to deny him dinner if I was already conceding my future, my life, my soul.
I would be resolute. I would be courageous.
I would make Marcus Aurelius and Jesus proud of me.
I wore a silk pewter blue dress, tea length and long-sleeved, with a lapeled neckline that revealed nothing more than my clavicle. I’d worn minimal makeup and had pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail.
As if by dressing simply enough, I could pretend to him and myself that I hadn’t been having arching, twisting dreams for the last three weeks—dreams that featured cold blue eyes and large, capable hands.
It meant nothing. It meant only that lust was nipping at my heels like any other temptation, but I would beat it back.
Yes, I was marrying Mark for the uncle and Church I loved, but no one could make mewantto. That I would keep for myself.
A doorman greeted me and escorted me to the elevator that would take me to the restaurant, and I stepped inside. My father had said that Mark wanted to discuss certain things separately with me—what, I wasn’t sure, given that so much had already been resolved. The wedding wouldn’t take place until I graduated from Columbia, so I had at least four years to brace myself. There would be a prenup, ironclad, to protect the Laurence fortune and Mark’s own assets. We would split our time between his house in DC and his other properties in Manhattan, Maine, and England. He would not interfere with my having a career.
We would have a Catholic wedding.
To my mind, there was little else to discuss. Ideally we wouldn’t need to see each other until the wedding ceremony itself. Four years from now…
So much could happen in four years.
The elevator lifted, lifting my stomach, and then came to a crisp stop. I gave myself one instant to rub my fingers against my palms, one instant to take a deep inhale, and then by the time the elevator doors opened, I knew I appeared contained and cool. Unfazed by meeting with my fourteen-years-older fiancé.
A maître d’ greeted me as I stepped out of the elevator.
“Miss Laurence,” he said with a small bow. “Your party is waiting for you. Right this way.”
I followed him, although there would have been no need. Even though it was a Friday evening, the restaurant was completely and utterly empty, save for one guest, seated at a table by the window.
Beyond him was the blue and pink gloaming of Manhattan twilight, interrupted with dark spires and glowing windows. I could see his profile against it, a strong nose and sculpted lips, hair styled back away from his face. It was cut shorter on the sides, disguising nothing of those brutally high cheekbones and that carved jaw. He wore a suit like most people wore nothing, like it was the most natural thing in the world to be in wool so finely tailored that it hugged his shoulder and arm as he lifted a glass of something clear to his lips and drank.
I would not swallow. I would not pay attention to the pulse beating in my neck. But I could admit privately that I had forgotten how handsome he was, had forgotten the way he filled a space just by being in it. And when he turned those dark eyes on me, I also had to admit something worse.
His attention affected me.
Deeply.
No one had ever looked at me like Mark Trevena had the night of the party, like he was right now. Like he wanted to cut me open and taste the blood that came out, and then make me taste it too.
Like it wouldn’t be enough to see my secrets…he would want to consume them.
It was cold and horrible—horrible because every time he looked at me, I felt the opposite of cold. I felt something that could almost be called anger, but it wasn’t like any anger I’d ever felt before.
Mark stood with a dip of his head and then pulled out my chair before the maître d’ could do it for me. He waited for me to sit before pushing my chair in and then taking his own seat and reaching for his glass. Everything was done with impeccable manners, hypnotic grace. I thought again of him in the dojo that day, holding the knife, walking so smoothly, so casually…right until he’d pounced.
It struck me that this might be the same. There weren’t knives, no one would be pinned literally to the floor, but why would he need to resort to such obvious measures when he already had me cornered so effectively?
Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, I prayed silently as I set my clutch next to me on the seat and met Mark’s cool, appraising gaze.Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
