The Cruelest Stranger Read online

  “Are we back to this?” I ask. “The apathetic, condescending one-liners?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?” I turn to him. “Because I need to know if I’m dealing with Jekyll or Hyde right now.”

  “Stop.”

  “Seriously, Bennett. I’ve never met anyone this hot and cold in all of my life, and I’ve met some reallllly special individuals …”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just … I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “And how would that happen?”

  He frowns. “I don’t want you thinking that I’m some second coming of this guy, a second chance to be with him again.”

  I rise. “Do you hear yourself? That thought hasn’t so much as crossed my mind once. I’m not delusional.”

  He peers up at me, silent. For once, I wish he’d let me into that head of his. I’ve managed to coax bits and pieces here or there, but I imagine the deepest truths are still locked away.

  “Everything last night …” I pace the area in front of his fireplace. “After I got back from running those errands … that was about you having Trevor’s heart?”

  He doesn’t confirm nor deny.

  “I guess I don’t understand how that changes anything,” I say. “Did you think I’d be angry?”

  “No.”

  “Did you think I’d project my love for Trevor onto you?” It’s a wild theory, but I present it anyway.

  His jaw divots. “Something like that.”

  “I would never. Just so we’re clear. There was only one him,” I say. “And there’ll only ever be one you.”

  “Did you know the average life expectancy after a transplant is nine point sixteen years?” His blatant change-of-subject slices through the room.

  Swallowing, I nod. “I do know that. I spent all of last night getting my hands on every piece of information I could because I wanted to know what you were up against—so I could be up against it with you.”

  “All right, say I’m one year down with eight to go—is that something you want to attach yourself to? After everything you’ve been through? After everyone you’ve lost?”

  “So that’s your reasoning behind pushing me away? You want to keep me from getting hurt?” I stop pacing and rest my hands on my hips. “Because if you ask me, I think it’s the other way around.”

  “Don’t be such a goddamned martyr, Astaire.”

  “Don’t act like such a saint, like you’re pushing me away because you have my best interests at heart.”

  “What makes you think this is about me?” he asks.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Honor.”

  I think back to that Sunday at the toy store, when I offered my help in any capacity. “So you think that if things go south between us, I won’t be around for Honor?”

  “You never know.”

  “I can’t believe you’d actually think that. If you had any idea how much I adore that little girl … She’s got me for life. Say the word and I’m there.”

  “Sometimes people have good intentions,” he says. “And other times life gets in the way.”

  “Wow. Okay.” I grab my bag off the coffee table and fling it over my shoulder.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. I have a headache from beating my head against your brick wall of a personality for the past half hour.” I march to the door.

  Bennett follows, though it’s unclear if he’s walking me out or attempting to stop me.

  Turning to him, I laugh through my nose and offer a bittersweet half-smile, “You know, I was actually starting to fall for you. Butterflies, daydreams, all that good stuff that you probably know nothing about. I could see the good in you when you couldn’t even see it yourself, and I felt honored that you were letting me in because I get the impression you don’t do that too often. Like an idiot, I thought it meant something.”

  I shrug.

  “But it turns out it meant nothing. Absolutely nothing,” I continue. “Because you’re still as heartless and miserable as you were the night we—”

  I don’t get to finish my sentence because suddenly my back is pressed against his door and his lips are claiming mine.

  30

  Bennett

  She melts against me, a sweet surrender, and her mouth is fire-hot.

  I cup her face in my hands, my fingertips tangling in her silky blonde hair as her cinnamon tongue dances with mine.

  Everything she said tonight was right.

  Every. Fucking. Thing.

  Sometimes talking to her is like looking into a mirror that only shows you the deepest parts of yourself, the parts you don’t want to look at even though you know they’re there. It’s uncomfortable. Painful at times. But in thirty years, I’ve yet to meet a woman who can take one look at me and see all the pieces no one else can see.

  We stumble backwards, making our way to my bedroom, clothing falling off in layers leaving a trail from the foyer.

  Cashmere lips. Honeyed tongue. Crystalline soul.

  I can fight it all I want, but Astaire is a delicacy.

  If I let her walk out of here, I know I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

  There would never be another her.

  There could never be another this … whatever this is.

  We haven’t a shred of clothing by the time we get to my room, and I all but toss her in the center of my bed, climbing over her and stealing tastes of every divot, curve, and indentation on her soft, sweet body starting at her mouth … working down her jaw … stopping at her collar … taking my time between her swollen breasts … dragging my tongue down the center of her caving belly until I settle between her thighs.

  I lift her legs over my shoulders and drag my tongue along her wet seam.

  She grabs a fistful of bed sheets, releasing the quietest moan.

  For the past month, I’ve wanted nothing more than to break her, to shatter her sweetness, because it only reminded me of my own weaknesses. I hated her for being soft. And I wanted her to hate me back.

  I circle her swollen clit before tasting her again, and her body shudders against the bed in response. Sliding two fingers inside her, I stroke her g-spot and continue to devour her velvet pussy.

  “Are you … are you sure we should be …” she asks, breathless.

  I know what she’s insinuating.

  Stopping, I climb over her, pressing kisses into her middle. “We’ll go slow.”

  Slow, romantic sex isn’t usually my thing—but neither are women like Astaire.

  I slide my hands along her outer thighs before wrapping them around my waist and pulling her closer. Our gazes catch. I dip down and crush her mouth with a kiss, sharing her taste on my tongue.

  “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this,” I whisper, my lips grazing hers. “Wanted you …”

  Running her fingers through my hair, she bites her lower lip. “Is this going to be just sex for you? Because if it is—”

  “—no, Astaire. This isn’t going to be just sex for me.” I kiss her again, our bodies pressed against one another, grinding, teasing.

  I bite a kiss into her neck before peeling myself away to grab a foil packet from the top drawer of my nightstand. Ripping it open between my teeth, I toss the packet aside and roll the rubber down my shaft before returning.

  Running my hand between her thighs, I spread them wider before plunging my finger into her wet pussy. Her stomach caves and she exhales as I taste her sweetness one more time before stroking her entrance with the head of my cock.

  A second later, I plunge my length deep inside of her, filling her tightness as her nails dig into my shoulder blades. Thrust after thrust, she fucks me back, settling into a rhythm as our mouths meet between breathless sighs.

  Thrust for thrust, we go harder, faster, deeper.

  We’re not anywhere close to finished, and already I can’t wait to have her again.

  “Slow down,” Astaire wh
ispers, her hands sliding to the small of my back. “Enjoy this … … I’m not going anywhere and we’ve got all night …”

  Our gazes lock and she brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, her swollen lips twisting into a sideways smile as she stares into my eyes in a way that no one ever has before, like she’s staring into the insulated, obscure parts of me.

  I think back to what she said earlier, that she was falling for me.

  I didn’t give myself a chance to let those words sink in at the time, to stop and listen to what she was trying to tell me, because I was so busy trying to convince myself that I was doing the right thing.

  The words linger on the tip of my tongue.

  I’m falling for you too.

  I don’t say them.

  I can’t. Not yet.

  But the craziest thing happens: she slips her fingers around the back of my neck, kisses me soft and slow, and whispers the words, “I know.”

  * * *

  It hasn’t been but a few minutes since I kissed Astaire goodbye Saturday morning when there’s a knock at the door. I shut the shower water off, slip back into my sweats, and jog to the door. I imagine she forgot something.

  Or maybe she came back for one more round …

  I check the peep hole to be certain—only to be met with the familiar lanky outline of Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach.

  She knocks again. “Open up, Bennett. I know you’re home. I just passed one of your conquests in the hallway. I’m not leaving until you answer.”

  And she means it too.

  She’s been known to set up camp for hours when necessary, having her assistants bring her lunches and magazines and phone chargers.

  Steeling my resolve, I swing the door wide.

  Her gaze lands immediately on my bare chest. “My God, Bennett. Have you no decency?”

  “I was just about to grab a shower … you should have called.”

  She steps in, pushing past me. “I’ve been calling you all week.”

  My mother’s watchful gaze sweeps the space, as if she’s looking for clues or signs or evidence, though for what I’m not sure.

  “I heard you were back in the hospital this week.” She turns to face me, hands clasped.

  I’ve no need to ask how she heard. Knowing my brother, I imagine he had Astaire followed after he saw her leaving my place that night with my bag in tow.

  “Everything all right, darling?” she asks. But before I can answer she adds, “Well, I suppose I should assume so, seeing how you didn’t think to call your dear mother and let her know you’d been admitted.”

  “I’m fine. Now what can I help you with, Mother?”

  “We need to discuss that child again.” Disgust colors her voice.

  “That child has a name.”

  “Because this is a decision that affects all of us, we need to handle this as a family. Do what’s best for the entire family.”

  “I don’t see how any of this is going to affect you. She’ll be living with me. I’ll be raising her. You don’t have to do a damn thing.”

  She scoffs. “You don’t think people will see the two of you around? You don’t think they’ll wonder why the child looks so much like a Schoenbach? And what if they discover she’s Larissa’s child? It won’t take a genius to piece that together.”

  I shrug. “Not my problem. Maybe if you’d have raised Errol to be a little less like you and a little more like a decent human being, he wouldn’t have been screwing his sister and none of us would be in this predicament.”

  I brace myself for a slap that doesn’t come, and then I realize she’s staring at my scar.

  When I had my operation last year, she visited once. And once was enough for the both of us. And while things were peaceful without her flitting in and out and pretending to give a damn, it still stung to know that I mattered that little to my own mother.

  “Bennett, I’ve tried to reason with you, but if you’re not going to budge on this issue, you’re leaving me with no choice.” She straightens her shoulders and lifts her pointed chin the way she does when she’s about to strong arm me. “Your brother is prepared to go to a judge to request a court-ordered paternity test, proving he’s the child’s biological father. Once that’s established, he’s prepared to fight for sole legal and physical custody—and he will win. After that, her fate will be in his hands. He can waive his parental rights and place her right back in the system, where she is now. So it’s up to you, darling. Do you want her to spend the next year of her life being bounced around and shuffled from family courtroom to family courtroom? Or do you want to do this the easy way?”

  My heart hammers, blood whooshing in my ears.

  Everything is red.

  Then black.

  Then crystal-fucking-clear.

  The other night, when Errol was here begging for me to sign over custody, he skirted the Beth issue because this was his intention all along—to gain custody, only to waive his rights. With a bit of careful manipulation, he could do all of those things under her nose.

  “You’re a wicked and vile excuse for a human being,” I spit the words I’ve been longing to say for as long as I can remember. “You disgust me.”

  She sniffs. “I would say it takes one to know one, but that’d be giving you too much credit. You’re not wicked, Bennett. You’re weak.” Her gaze drips to my scar and back. “You were born weak. And you’ll die weak.” Strolling past me, she sighs. “Thank goodness your father didn’t live to see you like this. Defiant. Not a shred of loyalty. It’s pathetic, truly.”

  I get the door. “Threaten me one more time, Mother, and see what happens. Attempt to use this child as a pawn one more time. Please. I dare you.”

  She turns to respond, red lips twisted, but I slam the door in her face.

  And then I make a phone call.

  31

  Astaire

  I break off a square of dark chocolate Saturday night and hand it over. Casablanca streams on the TV above his fireplace, which I’d always thought was a framed painting up until today. A shared blanket covers our laps and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn rests on the coffee table.

  He’s glued to the movie—a good thing because most people either love or hate this one, and it happens to be one of my personal favorites. Linda and I used to watch Casablanca on snow days, sharing microwave popcorn and Twizzlers, quoting every line by heart.

  I hold my breath when Bogie gives his famous line, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world, she walked into mine …”

  Strangely serendipitous, but I keep that to myself. Bennett is much too pragmatic to assign deeper meanings to anything. He’d look at me like I had two heads. Plus, I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Things between us have shifted, leveled-up in a way, but it’s all so new, so fragile.

  I’m taking it one day at a time.

  So is he … in his own way.

  The doctor has ordered him to take it easy the next few weeks. No work. No stress. It’s practically torture for him, but I’m doing my part to make sure he sticks with it and to make sure his time recuperating is as relaxing as possible.

  “Astaire, I need to ask you something.” He leans forward, grabbing the remote and pausing the movie. “I have a favor of you. Well, not so much as a favor as it is a commitment. And I want you to know I don’t ask this lightly.”

  Random.

  “Okay...”

  His mouth presses flat and his dark brows meet. “If anything happens to me, I need to make sure Honor has someone. Someone to take care of her. Someone worthy of taking care of her.”

  “Of course. I told you I’ll help any way I can. You know that.”

  “I mean legally,” he says. “She cannot—under any circumstances—go to my mother or brother.”

  I swallow the melted chocolate on my tongue and nod. “Are you sure about this?”

  I don’t point out the fact that we only just met last month, that he hardly knows me. What if he gets sick of me? What
if he meets someone else and falls in love? Wants to start a family with them? What then?

  “She’s going to need a mother figure in her life,” he says. “There are things I won’t be able to give to her.”

  “There are plenty of single dads out there who do just fine.”

  “I’m sure there are. But I know my limits, Astaire. I know my strengths. Nurturing and tenderness and all of that—it’s a foreign language to me. You … you have all of those things. You are all of those things.”

  “You’ll learn as you go along,” I say, leaning in to kiss him. I love him like this—vulnerable and admitting for the first time that he’s scared of one thing in his life.

  “I’m serious, Astaire. You’re the only person I trust, the only one who feels right for her.” He lifts a hand to my cheek, exhales, his forehead pressed against mine.

  “You sure?”

  “More than anything.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, force down any worries of this exploding in our faces. “If that’s what you want, Bennett … then I’d be honored.”

  He exhales, like he was worried I wouldn’t agree. And then he kisses me. Hard. Grateful.

  “I know we both got screwed in the family department.” I sweep a dark hair from his brow. “But in a way, this is our chance to have our own makeshift little family. We can have our own rules. We’ll be good to each other. We can even have traditions if you want. No matter what happens between us, I’ll always be there for the two of you. I promise you.”

  Bennett lifts my hand to his mouth, depositing a light kiss. “Thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll call my attorney first thing Monday and have him draft the paperwork immediately.”

  His urgency catches me off guard, but I don’t question it. He strikes me as a man who likes to be prepared. I’m sure it’s nothing more than that.

  “Linda and I didn’t have a lot of Christmases together, but we had this one tradition … on Christmas Eve, we’d get peppermint hot cocoas and drive around for hours looking at all the Christmas lights, singing Christmas songs at the top of our lungs.” I smile. “And on Valentine’s Day, she always got me a mother-daughter card. I thought it was strange at first, but she told me Valentine’s Day is about love, and love comes in all varieties. Every summer, we’d spend three weeks in Marco Island, Florida, visiting her sister and staying in a condo right on the beach. I always asked her why three weeks. She was off the whole summer, being a teacher and all, and she told me she loved her sister but that was about as much time the two of them could spend together without ripping each other’s hair out.”