Читать книгу The Dare Collection December 2019 - Clare Connelly - Страница 24

SEVEN DATES. WE’VE had seven dates and more soul-bursting orgasms than I can possibly keep track of. I shift in the bed and look at Nicholas with a feeling that is a lot like dread.

He’s sleeping, lightly, and I can’t really blame him. It’s some time before dawn, the night wrapping around New York even as the city insists on twinkling with its sparkly lights. We went to a Broadway show last night and I teased him beforehand, that it was a bit predictable.

He insisted it was a quintessential New York date and that I hadn’t really lived until I’d been taken to a Broadway show. I prepared to tease him all night, that it was cheesy or schmaltzy or something, but then he went and made it all ‘next level’ and I got caught up in the fairy tale of the whole thing.

When he came to pick me up from my place, he brought a single red rose and a box of chocolate truffles—he’s very cleverly discovered how much I love them. We rode in his limousine with classical music playing, and, on arrival at the theatre, we were escorted to a private box where champagne and sushi were brought to us. We had our own butler for the duration. Afterwards, we walked back to his place, talking and laughing the whole way.

He was right.

It was a new experience, a different experience, and one I’m so glad to have shared with him. I mean, I’ve been to shows before, obviously, but never like that. It was…lovely.

No, that’s so bland. It was perfection. It was heart-stopping.

As was what happened after. My body hums and sings with the pleasures I experienced. Pleasures he gave me like gifts, beautiful little explosions of delight that have weaved their way into my soul.

The Christmas gala is one week away. I’m looking down the barrel of workplace mayhem as I make sure everything is organised for our biggest event of the year. While every Billionaires’ Club party is a big deal, this is the one that draws almost the entire membership. It is our biggest fundraiser, a night not to be missed, and every year there’s an expectation that it will get bigger and better.

And I think this year will be pretty epic—but I can’t risk anything going wrong. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t let anything rob me of my focus. And yet, Nicholas definitely does that, and I wouldn’t, for all the stars in the sky, put a premature end to this.

I’m already dreading the gala purely for the fact it’s our line in the sand, the end to what we’re doing. I know how fast this week’s going to go.

I contemplate reaching for him, running my hand over his taut stomach, and lower still, waking him with my hands or my mouth, drawing him none-too-gently from his sleep. But he’s so peaceful and despite the fact tomorrow—no, today—is Sunday, I have to go down to one of the Chance facilities to give a talk. As tempted as I am for round two hundred, I know where my duties lie.

I push the sheet back with serious regrets and tiptoe out of his bed, out of his room, and I tell myself not to look back.

I sleep until midday then dress quickly—jeans and a sweater, a simple black coat and flats for today. I don’t dress up for Chance sessions. The whole thing is to be relatable to these guys. They have enough adults in their lives that don’t get them. I want them to see me as a friend, someone they can trust.

One of the things that’s become harder as the charity’s grown is that I get to do way less of this hands-on stuff than I’d like. I don’t get to talk to as many of our kids, I don’t get to meet them all. I’ve hired amazing staff, though, and I check in with them with enough regularity to know when things are working, and when they’re not.

Where’d you go?

The text message from Nicholas comes through as I arrive at our Brooklyn Chance headquarters. I smile.

I didn’t want to wake you, Sleeping Beauty.

I add an emoji with its tongue poking out.

Why didn’t you stay?

But we’ve talked about that. I feel better not actually sleeping the night—which is a silly distinction, but one that somehow makes sense. Boundaries will be my saviour when all of him is a sink hole, drawing me closer, making me want him, making me need him in a way I definitely didn’t expect.

I have a thing today.

A thing?

Alicia Waterman, the manager of this Chance facility, walks towards me, her no-nonsense air instantly reassuring. I only have time to dash out a quick reply.

I’m giving a talk to some Chance kids in Brooklyn. I’ll call you later.

‘Alicia.’ I stuff my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. ‘All good to go?’

‘All ready.’ She nods crisply, falling into step beside me. ‘There’s a huge turnout. Over two hundred.’

I let out a low whistle. ‘That’s great.’

‘Will you have time afterwards for a quick sit-down? I need to talk to you about some of our vocational partners.’

‘Uh oh. That doesn’t sound good.’

Her smile is tight. ‘I’m sure it will be fine; just a hiccough. I just need to go through some options.’

A presentiment of concern moves down my spine. ‘You’re sure?’

She grimaces. ‘It’ll wait.’

‘Okay, fine. After.’

‘You need anything?’

I survey the disused warehouse we’ve converted into a loft space. The high ceilings give it a feeling of freedom, and the office partitions are all on wheels, meaning for events like today we can move them around to open it right up.

My heart bursts as I step into the building.

Pride, unmistakable, is like a firefly dancing through my system. I did this. All these people are here because of me, and all of them have a chance because of me. And because of Abbey. I close my eyes and picture Abbey, and the ever-present sense of purpose has me pushing up towards the stage at the front of the room.

There’s a lot of chatter but as I take the steps it quietens down a little. I stand at the lectern, push my phone onto silent, sip the water and begin to talk.

I love this—speaking to these kids. I used to get nervous but very quickly I realised that it’s not about me, it’s about them. I’m here to tell them what they need to hear, to give them what has been missing in their lives.

I speak from the heart, and close everything else out.

I didn’t plan to come here, but when Imogen messaged to say she was speaking at a Chance function, curiosity got the better of me. Before I knew it, I’d done a quick search and was flying my helicopter towards Brooklyn.

It doesn’t occur to me until I’m almost inside the warehouse that she might not have wanted me to come. I contemplate waiting outside, but that’s just dumb. She won’t care.

Besides, I want to see this. I want to see what she does when she’s not facilitating a club where the world’s super-rich elite blow off steam.

The room is completely silent, despite the fact it’s full of kids. They’re older kids, teens, mostly. I move to the back of the room.

An efficient-looking woman with a clipboard and short black hair regards me with a look of curiosity and scepticism. I nod at her, as if I belong, and stand against the wall.

My eyes fall on Imogen and something locks inside me.

‘My meemaw used to have a saying.’ She smiles, naturally, comfortably, her eyes skimming the room, and I can tell that she has a gift with this, with making every single person in the space feel as though she’s talking only to them. ‘You can’t see a dolphin when the water’s choppy but that don’t mean it’s not there.’ She does a perfect southern accent, as she did the day I came looking for Miss Anonymous. It makes me grin.

‘I know you’re all here today because the waters around you are choppy.’ She takes a minute to let that sink in, her expression shifting so it’s serious, sympathetic. I feel compassion bursting from her every pore. ‘Maybe it’s worse than choppy. Maybe you feel like you have a tsunami bearing down on you with nowhere to go. But that’s not the case. Chance is your port in the storm, your anchor, your home and your family. You belong here with us, you’re one of us, and we will do everything we can to help you.’ Her eyes scan the room once more, and this time, they pass over me then skid back, surprise showing on her face for the briefest of moments so I feel a wedge of guilt, as if maybe I’ve driven her off course.

But she smiles, right at me, and my stomach soars, then she continues seamlessly. ‘Just because the water’s choppy doesn’t mean there isn’t a dolphin—you have a dolphin inside you, your future is out there, bright and waiting for you to grab it with both hands. I’m so proud of you all, and I’m thrilled you’re a part of the Chance family. You belong here. Merry Christmas.’

The audience erupts, a huge applause that is almost deafening in this cavernous space. When she smiles, she looks so sweet and young, not at all like the founder of The Billionaires’ Club.

She waves a hand and steps off the stage, and my pride in her catches me completely by surprise. I can’t take credit for how good she is at this; it has nothing to do with me. And yet I feel an immense wave of warmth.

The woman with the clipboard takes the stage. She speaks for a few minutes, directing everyone to a table set up against the wall, loaded with pastries and hot chocolates. A better look shows there’s a second table, which looks to be overflowing with coats and jumpers, all neatly folded, ready for new owners to take them home.

‘What are you doing here?’ She comes up from behind me, her smile bright and perfect.

I can’t help it. I dip my head down and kiss her, so overwhelmed by how great she did, by the words she spoke, by the power she wields to make a true difference.

But she pulls away quickly, her eyes skittering around the room. ‘Nicholas.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not here. There are people here who know me.’

Shit.

We’re dating secretly. And I completely forgot. I forgot this is all kind of pretend. Not real. It’s not my place to act like the doting boyfriend, which I’m definitely not.

I forgot myself for a second.

‘Sorry,’ I say, sincerely. ‘I was just so proud of you.’

Her smile is back, her eyes twinkling. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah.’ Pull it together, you soppy bastard. ‘Christ, you were amazing up there.’

She blinks quickly, as if she’s trying to combat tears or something. ‘I have to talk to Alicia. Can you wait?’

‘Yeah.’ My voice is hoarse. ‘I can wait.’

She squeezes my hand discreetly. ‘Mingle.’ Her smile is pure sensual promise. ‘Eat something yummy.’

I lean a little closer. ‘Oh, I intend to.’

Her cheeks glow and I laugh as she walks away, before doing just as she instructed, and find myself talking to a sixteen-year-old called Isaac, whose parents kicked him out of home when he came out to them as gay. He’s smart and polite, and, when he tells me he was living on the streets until three months ago when someone told him about Chance, I feel like finding out where his parents are so I can go and give them some hard truths.

He introduces me to one of his friends, a girl called Bryony, whose parents died when she was thirteen. She was taken in by her aunt, but they fought non-stop. She ran away from home and ended up in Brooklyn, working as a prostitute until she found Chance.

My gut tightens.

These poor kids.

And their guardian angel, Imogen.

It’s hard to fathom the effect this has on me—seeing for myself what she’s doing, how hard she’s worked to make a difference. I feel immediately impotent and completely selfish. I’ve worked my arse off these past five years but for what? To make myself richer? To make my family’s already considerable fortune greater?

When this is how people live?

‘Hey.’ She appears at my side, and her smile is a little tighter now, her eyes less sparkly.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yeah.’ Her eyes run over the room and before she can say anything else, a young teenager, maybe thirteen, comes bounding up to her.

‘Imogen!’ She puts her arms around Imogen’s waist and Imogen dips down lower to wrap the girl in a proper hug.

‘Sasha. I was hoping I’d see you today. How are you, sweetheart?’

‘Good. I got something for you.’

‘You did?’ Imogen frowns. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.’

‘I know. But I saw it and I thought of you. Hang on. I’ll be right back.’

‘I’ll be here.’

Imogen slides a glance at me. ‘She’s twelve. She became a part of Chance four years ago, when her parents were going through a divorce. Her mom was living in a car at the time. Sasha was stealing stuff from bodegas to get by.’ She shakes her head wistfully.

Sasha appears a second later. ‘Here.’ She hands a small bag over. Imogen opens it and laughs, pulling out some saltwater taffy. ‘I remember you saying you love it.’ Sasha grins and Imogen nods.

‘I do. So much. You’ve spoiled me.’

Sasha beams. I’m completely transfixed by Imogen’s look of gratitude and surprise—that someone who does so much for so many should be genuinely chuffed by such a token gift. It’s…charming. And…beautiful. No. Lovely.

She’s lovely.

She quizzes Sasha. ‘Did you get something to eat?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And a jacket?’

‘No.’

‘Go pick one out, honey.’ Imogen waves towards the table. ‘The forecast is for more snow this week.’

‘I know. Merry Christmas.’

Another hug, and as Sasha disappears into the crowd again Imogen’s eyes are moist. ‘You ready to go?’ she asks, looking up at me.

‘Sure. You can leave already?’

‘Yeah.’ Her smile is dented. I wait until we’re outside before I ask her what’s going on.

I like that she doesn’t try to fob me off. She could have, but, then again, I’ve come to know her pretty well and I don’t think I’d be convinced by a lie. Something’s bothering her, something other than the sight of so many kids in need of Chance’s support.

‘It’s our intern programme,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘We have a partnership with Eckerman Walsh for kids who want to move into finance. They take five Chance high school seniors a year on internships and help fund college for some. But they’re going through a significant restructure and they’ve asked to put a pause on it for two years, while they right the ship.’ She looks up at me, apology on her features. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to bore you with that.’

‘You’re not,’ I demur, instantly.

‘I’ll work it out. It’s just that this year’s kids were due to start in September and now they have nowhere to go. It’ll be crushing.’

I don’t even think about it. ‘They can come to me.’

‘What?’ She’s startled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘My office here. I run three hedge funds within my umbrella of companies. Let them come to Rothsmore Group for their internships. We’ll take up the same terms as Eckerman Walsh, including college tuition. In fact, I could offer the same for each of the cities my fund has a presence. London, Rome, Sydney…’

‘Nic…’ She shakes her head from side to side so her blonde hair fluffs against her beautiful face. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ Her voice trails into the ether.

‘Because?’

‘Because, I feel like you’re only offering because we’re sleeping together.’

‘I’m offering because I’ve just spent an hour of my life seeing that I’ve been a useless, selfish git, that there are incredible kids out there who deserve a better chance in life and you’re giving it to them. I’m offering because I want to help in some small way that I can.’

Her mouth drops open. I look around quickly and steal a kiss, a kiss that makes me ache for her, a kiss that makes me feel things I can’t compute.

‘You said you never turn down donations to the charity,’ I remind her.

‘I know. But you’re…you. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you…’

‘Oh, you’re welcome to take advantage of me any time,’ I tease, wiggling my eyebrows dramatically.

But she shakes her head, lifts a hand to my chest. ‘It’s so generous.’

‘I can afford it.’ I smile. ‘And I insist. I want to do this.’

And I really, really do.

‘So, your grandmother sounds pretty wise.’ Imogen blinks up at me from the book she’s reading. She likes to read. And I like watching her read. About five dates ago, she found her way to my library upstairs and has been working her way through the classics, just for fun.

‘She was.’ Imogen’s smile is full of affection.

‘Did she really used to say that? About the dolphin?’

‘Yeah! Why? You thought I made it up?’

‘I just haven’t heard it before.’

‘Oh, she had all these really neat sayings. Like, “It don’t matter how scratched up you are, you get back on the bike.”’

I laugh. ‘I could have used that advice.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, I came off my bike a long time ago and never rode again.’

She looks surprised. ‘That doesn’t sound like you. Quitting?’

‘I wasn’t afraid to ride again,’ I clarify. ‘I just didn’t particularly like the feeling of crashing off it.’

‘I can’t say I blame you. Still, Meemaw would have insisted you keep riding.’

I smile. ‘What else would she say?’

‘Hmm… “If you’re careful, you only have to light a fire once.” Lots of them didn’t make much sense, but she’d say them and Pa would look at me and roll his eyes. I miss them.’

‘They’re both gone?’

‘Yeah.’ She blinks away the memories.

‘You were close?’

‘Yeah.’ Her eyes shift, as if she’s running over memories. ‘I started spending a fair bit of time with them, once I was a teenager. I used to go down there most summers. It was nice to get away from my parents, from Hollywood.’ She lifts her shoulders. ‘It was Meemaw who gave me the idea for Chance. She used to say to me, “There’s a lot of bridges need building in this world—someone’s always gotta place the first stone.”’

I smile. ‘Meemaw sounds pretty smart.’

Imogen nods. ‘The smartest. And you? Do you have grandparents?’

‘No. My parents were in their forties when they had me. My father’s parents were both gone, and my mother’s only lived until I was maybe four or five. I never really knew them.’

‘Was it a second marriage?’

I frown, not following.

‘It seems kind of late in life to start a family?’

‘Right. Actually, on the contrary, they were married quite young.’ I reach over and brush some of her hair back, as if I can’t help myself. ‘They had fertility problems. A lot of miscarriages. A stillbirth. Then years of not being able to conceive. I think that’s got a lot to do with why they’re so damned keen for me to settle down and start a family of my own.’ I wiggle my brows to downplay my frustrations. I do understand why my parents feel the way they do but that doesn’t mean they don’t drive me crazy.

‘God, they must have doted on you,’ she murmurs, watching me from narrowed eyes.

It’s such an amusing observation that I laugh. ‘Not at all. I mean, yes, my mother often describes my birth as some kind of miracle, but they’re both by-products of their environment. They were glad to have me, grateful to have been able to produce an heir at last, but doting wasn’t really in their vocabulary. I went to boarding school when I was seven years old. I only saw my mother and father on holidays, and, even then, they were frequently abroad.’ I frown, because I don’t often think back on that time. ‘I liked school, though.’

Imogen’s eyes crease with the sympathy that comes so quickly to her. She puts the book down and crosses the room, her eyes huge in her delicate face.

‘You were too young to be sent away.’

I stare down at her, something moving in my gut. ‘Was I?’

‘Yes.’

I don’t say anything; she’s probably right.

‘Promise me something.’

I nod slowly. I know that I would promise her just about anything.

‘When you get married and have your little lords and ladies, don’t send them away.’

I wonder why that thought fills me with a strange sense of acidity.

‘I see it again and again in the kids I work with at Chance—all they really want is parents who are there, who love them.’

I imagine she’s right about that. It seems to me that children have a universal set of needs and yet a lot of parents probably fail to meet them.

‘Promise me,’ she insists.

And I nod, because Imogen is asking something of me and it’s within my power to give it to her. ‘I promise.’

She smiles, and it’s as though the world is catching fire. My lungs snatch air deep inside them. Everything is frozen still inside me. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, inside and out.

And in a matter of days I’ll leave her for ever.