Some Like It Scandalous, page 8
Withdrawing his phone from his pocket, he dialed Richard’s number. A grueling game of racquetball might take the edge off and give him time to clear his head.
ANNA
Kate Braddock turned out to be brilliant. “All right, I’ve contacted your office and downloaded the application materials and his latest grade reports as well as the essay his English teacher submitted.”
The first round of scholarships would go to teens identified and nominated from the local school districts. Thirty candidates had made the final cut and it was up to Anna to identify the first ten. She really wanted Derrick to be one of those ten. “Can you scan the essay? I remember reading a quote from Great Expectations.” After spending five minutes with the other woman, she’d taken solace in the idea that Kate understood exactly what she’d need.
Armand had disappeared again, and when she’d asked Johnson, he’d only replied that the grand duke wasn’t available. Irritated, she focused on the meeting in front of her rather than the SUV she rode in or the two cars traveling one in front and one in back. As much as she resented the interference, the photograph of her sleeping in her bed popped into her mind and she had to fight away a fresh shiver of fear.
“I have it…” Kate glanced up.
“Go ahead.” Work. She needed to work, to think about Derrick, about how to persuade him to take charge of his own future.
“‘Whatever I acquired, I tried to impart to Joe. This statement sounds so well that I can’t in my conscience let it pass unexplained. I wanted to make Joe less ignorant and common, that he might be worthier of my society and less open to Estella’s reproach.’” Kate stroked her finger across the screen to turn the page of the young man’s essay. It had captured Anna’s attention from the first time she’d read through his work. The rest of the team had felt the same way.
Kate continued. “This resonates because Pip is so caught up in the appearances of things that he feels like gentlemanly behavior can be caught, like a cold. While a person cannot be more than who they are, it is true that exposure to culture can have an ameliorating effect on a person’s behavior, choices, and goal setting. I appreciate Pip’s value of knowledge, particularly in the admiration he shows to Miss Havisham and Estella. Unfortunately, it’s clear that Pip values the academic pursuits of these two women over the real-world knowledge Joe possesses. It’s all well and good to admire what the ‘haves’ have, but it’s better to be aware of how the world really works.”
“Haves versus have nots. He admires the concept of a higher education, but doesn’t put any practical value in it.” Thinking out loud helped Anna organize.
“Or he’s simply afraid to believe in a dream.” Kate suggested. “Because he does admire it so much, he doesn’t put himself in the same class as Miss Havisham or Estella. Like Pip, he doesn’t think he’ll ever belong so what’s the point of dreaming about it?”
“Oh, I think I love you.” Anna grinned. “That’s it exactly. Okay, I know what to say to him.”
“You’re welcome.” Kate chuckled and checked her watch. “Do you want me in on the meeting with him?”
“I think so, but if I give you a signal do you think you can get everyone to back off a little? I don’t want to intimidate him.” The last she said with a glance at Kyle.
“Miss Braddock can step out as necessary.” Kyle twisted in his seat. “But I will have to insist on staying in the room, Miss Novak.”
“Kyle, it’s very important that Derrick doesn’t feel like we’re pressuring him.” She wouldn’t allow him to be intimidated, not even for her “safety.”
“I won’t say a word,” he promised, but the man wasn’t exactly subtle. Leaning back in the seat, she glanced out the window. They were in North Hollywood and the streets grew more and more residential. Anna had called ahead to let Mrs. Brown, Derrick’s foster mother, know they were on their way. She’d sounded so relieved, and Anna had to wonder why.
When they pulled up at the front of the house, she didn’t wonder anymore. The lawn boasted a dozen reporters, and nearly twice that many cameras. Crap.
“Stay in the car, please, Miss Novak.” Kyle touched a hand to his earpiece. “David, head up and make sure Miss Novak’s appointment is present in the house.” A man exited the lead car and started across the lawn. Two more men stepped out of the car behind them and took up positions on the sidewalk, effectively blocking the press from coming anywhere near the car.
Kate touched her hand and Anna realized—belatedly—she’d clenched her fists. “We’ll take care of it. Worst-case scenario, we’ll make arrangements to bring Derrick with us and take the meeting somewhere else.”
On the porch, a young dark-skinned man answered the door and the cameras seemed to divide their attention between the cars and him. His eyes widened and he backed up, but David had already turned to intercept one of the reporters.
“All right, Miss Novak, what do you want to do?” Kyle glanced at her. Tension knotted in Anna’s belly, hard and fierce.
“I want to talk to Derrick.” And apologize. Good God, that poor kid. Hot on the heels of her anxiety came anger. How dare the press subject a kid to this? He had nothing to do with Armand or the ridiculous gossip piece.
“Clear the lawn,” Kyle ordered into his earpiece and then picked up his cell phone and punched in a number. “This is Kyle Johnson,” he began and rattled off the address. “We have several members of the press trespassing and causing a hazard on the street…” He paused. “Thank you.”
“Miss Novak, you stay in the car until I open the door, we go in the same way we exited your house yesterday. I want you right at my back.”
“What about Kate?” The poor woman certainly didn’t need to be jammed into this.
“I’ll be right behind.” Kate gave her hand a squeeze. “And I’ll have your bag.”
Anna nodded, still not entirely certain of all of this. It took some hustling, but Kyle got her up the walk and onto the porch just as a police car arrived. Kate and Kyle followed Anna inside when Derrick admitted them, but the others stayed out.
“Derrick.” Anna extended her hand. “I’m Anna Novak, we’ve spoken on the phone.”
Uneasy, the kid still took her hand and shook it briefly. “Sorry about the zoo, Miss Novak.”
“It’s hardly your fault.” She followed Derrick to the kitchen. Though the house was definitely older and showing signs of wear, it was clean and neatly kept.
“It’s Mrs. Brown’s fault.” Derrick scowled. “She saw a news report about you this morning and when you called to confirm, she called them.”
“Oh. Well…I’m still sorry that they’re out there, but I didn’t come to talk about the press. I came to talk about your future. Do you think we can sit down and chat for a bit?”
He shifted, eyeing Kate and then Kyle, before bringing his attention back to her. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying—people like you and I—we don’t generally mix.”
Pulling out a chair from the tiny oaken breakfast set, Anna sat down and looked at the one opposite her. Derrick hesitated but took a perch. Crossing one leg over the other, she took a deep breath. Every word from this moment forward had to count. “When I was your age, I had two choices. Go to the local community college my parents could afford if I worked part-time or apply to several scholarship funds and go to the four-year school I’d been accepted at…”
Chapter 7
Armand
It was late afternoon by the time he returned to the tower. Anna was still out—or so Peterson reported to him on the elevator ride up. Unfortunately, a dozen reporters at the North Hollywood house had greeted Anna. Pride filled him, despite the interference of the press she’d held up beautifully. Her security team performed as expected and reported in regularly.
They had no new leads on who leaked her name to the press. Peterson did have a theory, though, and it was one Armand did not care for. His head of security speculated that Armand’s lingering presence in California had led to local reporters researching previous connections that might be present. Chances were, they’d looked into his past years at college and Anna’s proximity had given them a clue.
Their meeting served only as the final trigger. Showering off the sweat, he’d changed and walked back into the living room in time to see the front door open. Anna walked in, still wearing his suit coat from earlier. For the barest moment, he had a glimpse of the weariness in her eyes.
“I’ll let His Highness know when everything is ready,” Kyle told her and then his gaze flicked past her to meet Armand’s. He inclined his head. “Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Johnson.” The man headed for the elevator and Armand shut the door and locked it. Anna set her bags down stiffly.
“Have you eaten?”
She shook her head. “We didn’t exactly have the time.”
Eyeing her, he reached out and took her hand and tugged her toward the kitchen. She was quiet—too quiet—and he let her hand go and opened the refrigerator. “What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing.” Her flattened tone gave her away.
He cut a glance toward her from the corner of his eye. “Uh-huh. I know that nothing. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.” She padded around to the breadbox and pulled out a loaf. His coat dwarfed her, but rather than tug it off, she’d slid her arms into the sleeves and hugged it to her like a robe.
“Hmm, it doesn’t sound like nothing.” She chose bread, so he opened the drawers till he found lunchmeats and cheeses. “In fact, it sounds a lot like something.”
“No. It sounds like nothing. Because that’s all it is, nothing.” She opened and shut the cabinets until she found plates. He added mayonnaise, mustard and pickle relish—something he enjoyed—to the gathering of sandwich fixings on the counter.
“But you said it with a tone.” A tone he remembered all too well—a tone that said nothing meant everything and ignoring it would just cause a fight.
The last thing he wanted.
She circled the island and made it to the pantry ahead of him. She pulled out three bags. One each of pretzels, chips and dried apple crisps. They circled each other, dodging with an expert ease. Anna added the bags to the counter, setting each item at an exact angle and in the order they’d need to build sandwiches.
“I didn’t say it with a tone.” Her voice climbed a half note with exasperation.
“You did.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a knife. He flipped the bread onto the plates and nudged the drawer shut with his hip. “Your shoulders are stiff, your eyes are tired and there’s tension in your jaw. You were uneasy earlier but willing to work with us. This afternoon, you’re tense, solemn and quiet—ergo, your nothing is definitely something.”
“Oh for the love of God, Charlie. Let it go.” She banged her hands against the island for emphasis.
He cocked his head to the side and met her irritation steadily. “No. This only works if we talk—not if we ignore it.”
“What this? Making sandwiches requires conversation?”
Counting to twenty in his head—in three languages—helped. “Being together. We left a lot unsaid—and I’d rather we didn’t add any more items to that list. You’re going to be staying here and we’re going to spend a lot of time together.” He ignored the internal fist pump at the idea—it lacked a certain decorum and he was pretty certain she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
He spread mayonnaise onto the bread, added a layer of mustard across it and chose three slices of Swiss and two of the turkey before repeating the process with the top slice of bread.
“We’re working together. There’s a difference.” The deflection was so poor it didn’t deserve a comment.
“We have a personal history that cannot be filed and put away.” He stacked the sandwich together and cut it in half before sliding the plate over to her. Flipping his own bread over, he added the relish and a very thin smear of mustard to opposite pieces of bread. He added turkey, ham and American cheese to his. Sparing her a glance, he found her staring at her sandwich. “Now what’s wrong?”
“You—you—” She stuttered. She never stuttered. It was almost as endearing as the fact that she called him Charlie.
“You still like your water in a bottle, your turkey with lots of Swiss and you hate mustard with any other type of sandwich. Now eat it—you’re too pale.” He released her gaze and finished fixing his, taking the time to put the lids back on the containers. But rather than eat, she put it all away and he sighed.
“This is hard—” She spoke to the refrigerator, but he would take what he could get. She put the items back in slowly, too slowly.
“I know. I wish I could make it easier for you.”
“No—believe it or not, the whole death threat thing, that’s still surreal and not really sinking in. Being here with you—that’s what’s hard.” She rearranged the condiment shelf, putting like with like.
Adding order to chaos.
“I don’t know what to call you. Is your name Armand or is it Charlie? Should I say Your Highness—which apparently you don’t like—or maybe Mister Dagmar? Or is it Andraste…? I don’t know how to do this…” She turned, closing the fridge. Her expression was tense and stricken. “The press was all over that boy’s house and he handled it beautifully. I have a dozen more kids just like him that I have to meet. How do I do that with the press on my heels? What am I supposed to do?”
“You can eat your sandwich.” He set down his and wiped his hands on a napkin before reaching over to open her water bottle and setting it next to her plate. “Then you can drink your water. Unless you prefer coffee… I don’t have soda, but I can certainly order some.”
He picked up his sandwich and took a bite.
“That’s it? Just eat my sandwich?” The dangerous tone was back in her voice. The same one she used when she replied nothing earlier.
“For now. You need to eat. You’ve had a lot of shocks to your system—” Mustard splattered him. He blinked and looked down at the remains of the half sandwich that struck his face and dripped down onto his shirt.
She smiled at him and took a bite out of the half she hadn’t thrown at him.
Plucking the bread and cheese and turkey took a moment, he set them down calmly on the edge of his plate before he hit the base of the chip bag. The compressed air burst the end and showered her in potato chips.
Her eyes went wide and he smiled.
They both lunged for the water bottle, but between them, it fired the water up and showered it down on both of them. Anna had chips in her hair. Mustard clung to his chin. They both dripped. Their gazes collided and she laughed—a deep, belly-rolling laugh that smashed the tension against the rocks—and he grinned…before hitting her with another douse of water from the unused bottle.
Chapter 8
Anna
Ahysterical fit of the giggles assaulted her when the water splashed against her face. Chilled from the fridge, it soaked right through her silk shirt and sent a wave of goose bumps racing over her skin—but she wasn’t cold. Not like she felt when she’d arrived back at his penthouse. Heat warmed her face and her cheeks ached from holding back her smile—Charlie chased her around the island until he’d dumped the entire contents of the bottle over her head.
She scampered, grabbing a bottle of ketchup from the fridge on her slide by. Whirling, she flipped the cap off and pointed it at him.
“You wouldn’t dare.” But his eyes challenged her and his grin was as feral as it was excited. She squeezed the bottle and he dodged—the ketchup shot across the kitchen in a stream and splatted against the chest of a very nicely dressed, younger version of Armand.
“Oh crap.” She winced.
The man stared at her drolly as ketchup dripped down the expensive fabric to splat against the floor. Armand glanced from her to the newcomer and straightened. He stepped right in front of her, cutting off her view. “George.” He pronounced it Shorge and his accent sharpened. “You weren’t expected.”
His brother.
Fantastic.
The last time she’d seen the younger prince, he’d been barely sixteen, scrawny and long limbed. Heart sinking, she closed the lid on the ketchup.
“Clearly, and I wasn’t aware you were entertaining.” Disdain rolled through the too-cool tone. “But Peterson informed me that all family needed to check in.”
Armand glanced over his shoulder at her and his gaze flicked from her face to her chest and back up again. She lifted her eyebrows and looked down. Embarrassment surged and she pulled his damp jacket closed. The water soaked right through the silk shirt, clearly outlining her breasts, and her nipples stood out in stark relief.
George walked over to tug a paper towel from the dispenser and blotted at the ketchup.
“I’m sorry about that,” she began, looking for the right words to dress the apology up in…
I’m sorry you walked in and I sprayed you with ketchup? I’ll pay for your suit cleaning? Don’t mind the wet T-shirt contest.
Armand’s dress shirt clung to him, hugging the smooth, cut lines of his musculature.
He still worked out. They’d run in college—he a lot more than she—but he’d also enjoyed going to the gym. A habit he’d dragged her into—mostly because watching him lift weights was sexy as hell. She cleared her throat. “I should…let you two talk.”
“That would be pleasant.” Dismissal hung right off the end of George’s statement. Armand’s back stiffened.
“That was rude.” Armand’s voice went flat, cool, and she knew that tone—just like his accent—which echoed so loudly in the words. The tone cried angry.
“My apologies, Your Highness. I am unaccustomed to the polite rules that include ruining a five-thousand-dollar suit. It must be an American thing.” His brother’s tone was equally cold.
