Page 47 of The Client
“Rhys, dammit, look at me!”
His hand clamps on my shoulder and he roughly turns me around to face him. He scowls. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? You’re not going to congratulate me and Celine? You're going to be a brother, for God’s sake.”
A brother. It will take a while for that tidbit to sink in.
Here’s the thing that’s niggling at me about all of this: Celine never wanted children. She worried that pregnancy would change her body too much and ruin her modeling career. So if she’s pregnant now, there must have been a very compelling reason for her to change her mind. Maybe she’s looking to secure child support payments in the future, or at the very least ensure she produces an heir to my father’s fortune. But whatever it is, it’sherreason. It’s not something that concerns me.
“All I’ll say is, I sincerely hope fatherhood suits you better the second time around.”
Our eyes lock and I can tell he’s struggling to deliver a good comeback, something to make him feel like he’s got all the power in this situation. My father needs to be the center of everything, all the time. His life is nothing short of a great epic, and he’s the hero. Nobody else matters. It’s always been that way with him.
As a child, nothing I did could earn his favor or praise. Unless, of course, there was a group of people around to witness his saccharine affections that turned poisonous as soon as they stopped looking.
So right now, I know that all he wants is to “win.” To get a big, emotional reaction out of me. He doesn’t care if it’s a slap on the back and a hearty congrats or some kind of temper tantrum over the fact that he’s having a kid with my ex. As long as he succeeds in gaining all the attention and focus he can get from me—and from everyone else at the party tonight—he’ll consider the evening a personal triumph.
But that’s not how this is going to go.
“Have a good night,” I say, turning to go. Of course, he isn’t ready to let me.
“You’re just pissed that I put a baby in the gorgeous woman you couldn’t hang on to. You think this act makes you seem powerful or indifferent? It doesn’t. It just shows how jealous you really are.”
Turning calmly back to him, I offer him a reminder. “Powerful? Remember who’s going to have all the power in two years when your father retires. And you might also want to remember that you helped make me who I am. Unsentimental, calculating, mercenary. Just like you.”
“Don’t count on getting the throne, Rhys. I’d hate for you to be disappointed.”
“I’d hate for you to be disappointed, too, Dad. You’d better get a paternity test and save yourself some heartache.”
He mumbles something under his breath, but I’m already gliding away, practically walking on air. I’m more than ready to collect my “girlfriend” and take her home. She’s mine until our contractual time is over and I’ll be damned if I give another man a second of her time.
I just have to find her first.
I shouldn’t have left her as abruptly as I did. Truthfully, I’ve been feeling out of sorts since hearing her cry in her bedroom last night. I can’t explain why it affected me. It’s not the first time a woman has cried in front of me, but it is the first time I’ve reacted to it. Maybe it’s because she’d locked herself behind her bedroom door where she could let out her grief in privacy. She wasn’t performing, or reacting. She was being honest—something I’m not used to seeing in my life.
As I cross the ballroom, the orchestra transitions to a livelier arrangement, something from the swing era, and people start to kick up their heels on the dance floor. I still haven’t had a chance to rub elbows with the couple for whom this party is being thrown, but I can’t bring myself to care.
A stream of guests pour into the room from the balcony and make their way to the dance floor. The full moon is visible outside the glass doors, and suddenly I justknow. Izabela is outside right now, enjoying the moon and the balmy air. I didn’t miss the way she gazed wonderingly at Lake Michigan at my mom’s house, and she’s mentioned her family’s farm in Poland. She’s the kind of person who appreciates the world’s beauty in all its forms.
When I get out on the balcony, sure enough, I see her looking out at the view of the city. Her hair rustles softly in the breeze and the moonlight makes her skin glow like a pearl. Even with her face turned away from me, I can tell it’s her by the way she holds herself, the elegant line of her neck, the curve of those hips outlined by her silk dress. She’s simply…radiant. There’s no other word for the way she looks tonight.
Maybe in the beginning, there was something in the back of my brain that thought Izabela was the perfect replacement for Celine.
Her face bears more than a passing resemblance, and they both have the tall, angular bodies particular to most models, but now I know that their physicality is where the similarities end.
Izabela is so much more than Celine could ever be.
Unlike Celine’s perpetual cool, inscrutable detachment—a trait I once found inexplicably attractive—Izabela is warm, open, and kind. I saw this side of her at my mother’s house, and haven’t forgotten it since. Celine never would have thought to offer help to my mother at a Sunday dinner; I brought my ex to enough of those dinners that I can say that with certainty.
“There you are,” I say softly as I walk up to Izabela.
She glances over her shoulder and then turns to face me. We’re completely alone out here, the only two people who aren’t inside dancing to Duke Ellington tunes. I can do anything I want to her and there’s no one to see. My blood thrums with exhilaration.
Without a word, I cup her face and draw her against me for a searing, hungry kiss. Our first kiss. Her body is tense, but I’m well aware of the effect I have on her. If I suck her tongue long enough, she’ll melt in my arms and do anything I say.
I wrap a hand around her neck and guide her back against the railing, keeping my mouth on hers. With my other hand, I skim my knuckles down the front of her dress and then rub them over her mound. A muffled gasp escapes her. I can feel her heat through the fabric.
Seeking more, I dip my hand into the high slit of her dress and rake my nails up the length of her silken thigh, touching her again when I find her thong. Izabela presses against my fingers with a soft moan, then pulls back as if she can escape my touch.
She’s not going anywhere.
