Masked Innocence
Page 26
“Because of business. You are not part of our family. You are an outsider, a loose end. Someone who threatens the freedom and way of life of our entire family structure. They don’t know you—they only know me. And my track record with women is...” He shrugged.
“Crappy.”
The response brought a smile to his face. “If you want to put it so eloquently. Crappy. So, they assume that what typically happens with my other relationships will happen here—that I will grow tired of you, dump you—and in response you will do everything in your power to—what was the phrase my father used?—make me bleed.”
I didn’t like the idea of his family carelessly discussing our relationship and its certain demise when they didn’t even know me. Clearly, I had already been judged and found wanting, therefore condemned to death. It felt like the f**king Middle Ages.
I slumped in my seat. “Unfortunately, I see their rationale. I wouldn’t put much stock in you keeping me happy and unscorned either.”
He laughed and grabbed my limp, depressed hand, bringing it to his lips. “Don’t worry. I have a plan that will supersede all of their rational thinking.”
“What is it?”
He started eating his soup, nonchalantly shrugging at me over the bowl. “Can’t tell you yet. But it’s a good one.”
“What if it doesn’t work—what if you can’t convince them?” A little bit of panic had entered my voice.
He met my eyes over the spoon. “I’m an attorney. Convincing people is my job.”
And, as far as I knew, he was extremely good at it. It was the only positive thought I could find, so I latched on to it with a death grip.
“Plus,” he added, watching me, “they won’t have an option. My father will know that when I speak to him.”
* * *
I DISTRACTED MYSELF with eating, and we both gorged ourselves, finishing off beef and broccoli, honey chicken and lettuce wraps by the time we left. We wandered through a few more shops, but were both dragging our feet, and we finally headed back to the red-vested valet.
“What next?” he asked, when we were back in the leather-wrapped comfort of the car.
“Home,” I mumbled, leaning back into the seat and stretching out my full stomach.
He pulled out of the mall and gunned the engine, heading for the interstate, and the car lowered itself, hugging the pavement as we flew along.
“Shit,” I said, ten minutes later, as we came in the back door.
“What?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.
“I totally forgot about the movie!” I said, disgusted with myself.
“Why don’t we watch one here instead—use the theater room?” Brad suggested, grabbing a bottled water from the fridge.
I frowned at him. “You have a theater room? Where?” I really needed to do a better job of snooping. Apparently there were entire sections of the house I had yet to explore.
He laughed, tossing me a cold bottle of water. “Yes, oh young one. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“What movies do you have?” I asked.
“You can look through them and see. If you don’t see a movie you like, we can head back out, catch a later one.”
I unscrewed the water’s cap, nodding my agreement. Two minutes later, I was standing in the theater room, mouth agape.
To say that Brad had a movie collection would be a gross understatement. Imagine an entire video store—back when those still existed. That would be close to the selection that the damn man possessed. The walls of the theater room—walls that I had dismissed in my initial glance—were spring loaded. If you pressed the edges they popped open slightly, and you could then slide them to the side, revealing floor-to-ceiling shelves, all the height of a Blu-ray disc case. I rolled my eyes, amazed at the wealth of movies in a format that was relatively new. Brad handed me a large binder that was a catalog, the movies organized by genre, with small images of the covers and brief descriptions for every film, along with a notation of where they were housed. I quickly realized it would take hours to peruse the damn thing, and instead flipped to the index, scrolling down the titles.
The first two I suggested—Bruce Almighty and Collateral—Brad rejected, but the third he agreed to, and I followed the indicated shelf/section notation and pulled out Good Will Hunting, handing it to him.
We settled in, side by side, in the love seat–style theater seating, and I tilted my head toward the wall, now closed, the cases hidden from view once again. “You know that’s OCD at its finest.”
“That’s called organization. Can you imagine trying to find a movie without a system in place?”
I squinted at him, trying to imagine the big man painstakingly organizing the thousands of movies, cataloging them in proper order. That didn’t mesh with the Brad I knew—the Brad who couldn’t sit still for five minutes without his leg jiggling, or pulling out his cell phone. “And you organized it?”
“Do you think I organized it? You know me better than that.” He turned up the volume, the previews beginning, and put his arm around me, pulling me to him. “One of the interior designers handled it all. I told her I like movies, to get me a big collection. They kind of went overboard, but I don’t mind.”
“I just can’t believe we were about to pay to watch a movie when you have so many choices here.”
He laughed, and squeezed my arm affectionately. “God, you have issues.”
I looked up, kissing him on the neck. “I can only see one issue that I have right now. One big issue.” I poked his side.
He looked wounded. “Not me!”
“Shhh—we’re missing the movie,” I whispered laughingly, and snuggled close to him, pulling a soft fleece blanket over my body. Brad pressed a button on the remote, dimming the lights, and we settled in, forgetting for a brief moment the danger hanging over my head.
Forty-Five
Brad sat across from the two girls, his expression pained.
“Let me get this right,” the brunette said, her intelligent eyes peering at him with distrust. “You are proposing to Julia tonight. You haven’t bought a ring, you don’t have anything romantic planned and you have dated her for a grand total of, what, three weeks?”
“It’s been almost two months—”
“No, no, no,” she interrupted him, waving her hand. “I’m not counting all the time where you were chasing her, and you were both single, and you were probably f**king half the town at the same time. I’m talking about committed relationship time.”
Three weeks was probably overstating that qualifier, but Brad wasn’t going to bother pointing that out.
The other one, a petite beauty with breast implants, a nose job and, in Brad’s opinion, entirely too much makeup, slapped the girl’s arm, interjecting herself into the conversation. “Well, I think this is the most romantic thing ever! Do you have any friends—single friends? I need to find a guy like you, one who is ready to settle down.”
“Becca, he is not ready to settle down. That’s the whole problem!” The aggressive one, who he thought was named Olivia, whipped out a finger, pointing it at Brad. “Why? Why propose now? Why not wait, get to know her a bit?”
He wanted to leave, to say “screw this” to the two spoiled brats in front of him, get up and continue on his way. But these were Julia’s friends, her best friends, and he needed to stack the deck with every card he had if he wanted Julia to accept. He weighed how to communicate his intentions without bringing up the predicament they had found themselves in. The attorney in him looked at the angles available, the weaknesses of the jury. Reason might work with the pit bull; emotion would win the Barbie’s heart. The problem was, all he had was emotion. A foreign tool in his belt. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture and tried his best pitiful look. “Because I love her. And I don’t want to wait. I know, unequivocally, that she is the one for me.” The word love rolled off his tongue, convincing and believable, so smoothly that he almost missed its significance and weight. Love. A concept he had avoided for so long, and which now felt so right in his heart. Expanding, pushy, it took up unnecessary space, crowding out so many hostile emotions—anger at his mother’s abandonment, at his family’s business, at his own stubborn independence—he had harbored for so long.
The tiny one practically came in her seat, dissolving into a sea of emotion and grabbing his arm in support. The brunette simply snorted, the word bullshit stamped clearly across her features.
It took fifteen minutes, every iota of debate experience he possessed, Becca chiming in her support at every opportunity, but Olivia finally cracked. And, after their crab cakes, fruit plates and a bottle of champagne were finished, the two girls and Brad walked across the street and entered the jewel-encrusted, chandelier-lit elegance of Lorenzi Jewelers, in search of the perfect ring.
Forty-Six
Brad already regretted his decision to involve the girls in this process. They had fully settled in at Lorenzi, taking charge as soon as the manager had gleefully greeted Brad and shown them to a private lounge. They now sat on velvet chairs, fresh champagne in hand, and critically surveyed the options. Every five minutes, a new black velvet tray with five carefully chosen rings was presented, and they would pick apart each ring one by one. It had now been over an hour, and they were no closer to a decision than when they first walked in.
Brad paced in the small room, occasionally taking calls, drinking sodas and trying to quell the nervous ball in his stomach. Nervousness was a foreign concept and he hated every ounce of it.
He already knew the ring, had it pictured perfectly in his mind, but hadn’t seen anything close to it in the ten or fifteen trays that had paraded by. Julia was unique, different. He didn’t want to take a normal setting and stick a huge stone in and be done with it. He wanted something exceptional, something that, when she saw it, she wouldn’t be able to say no. Something that, if he wasn’t enough, the ring would push her over. He was confident in his sexual prowess, but his relationship skills were rusty at best. He didn’t have the option of f**king her into an engagement. Tonight, all he would have was himself and the ring. And he wasn’t sure if he, alone, was enough.
He ground his teeth in frustration. The jewelry associates didn’t seem to understand what he wanted or weren’t listening to him. He tilted his head at the manager, and they moved into a side room.
“You aren’t listening to what I am asking for.”
The man practically quaked in front of Brad, perspiration running down his face, his hands nervously clasping and reclasping in front of him.
“I am, Mr. De Luca! You want an elegant, refined setting—something antique, with a large stone.”
“Then what the hell is this?” He gestured to the velvet boxes, stacked to the side of the girls. “There isn’t a ring in that bunch that I haven’t seen a thousand times before! They are all the same, just slightly tweaked! Is there anything else in this store—something you have set aside that you haven’t brought out?”
“Did you see the marquis setting we brought out, it has—”
Brad cut off the man’s pitch with one smoldering look. “I saw it all. How long would it take for you to design one?”
“Design, sir?” The man acted as if it were a foreign concept.
Brad clenched his jaw and tried to maintain his cool. “I assume you do custom pieces?”
“Well, yes, Mr. De Luca, of course. But I thought you wanted to propose tonight.”
“I do. It’s four. Five hours is enough time. I’ll give you until nine.”
“But, Mr. De Luca, it’s Saturday.”
“Money never seems to have trouble getting over that hurdle. Give me twenty minutes and a pad of paper—then tell me if my expectations are unreasonable.”
He had the manager bring out all of their available large, loose diamonds, and the last three years of catalogs. He flipped through the catalogs, tagging certain settings, then sketched out a rough drawing of what he wanted. He called everyone back in and showed them the sketch and the stone that he had chosen.
There was silence for a full minute, as the girls and suited men looked at the black-and-white sketch. Brad inwardly groaned, hating that he had involved anyone other than himself in this process. Then Olivia beamed, gripping Becca’s arm and smiling brightly at Brad. Becca gave a little squeal and hugged Olivia, and then the closest jewelry associate enthusiastically.
“It’s perfect,” Olivia said, walking to Brad and giving him a strong hug. “She will love it.”
Brad turned his gaze to the manager. “I have faith in you. Make it happen.” He stood, slapping the pale man on the shoulder and heading for the door. The man nervously followed him, speaking quickly and waving his hands frantically.
“Mr. De Luca, I don’t really feel comfortable guaranteeing—”
“Mr. Thompson, you have the stones, and the tools. I will be happy to pay whatever is needed for you to call in the staff necessary to create the ring. Olivia or Becca, do you know her size?”
The brunette looked up, startled. “Um, sort of. I know she’s worn one of my rings before. You can measure my finger.” A female employee materialized and beelined for Olivia, reaching for her left hand.
Brad glanced at his watch and pulled out his wallet. “I have to go. Ladies, it was a pleasure. I greatly appreciate your help. Mr. Thompson, I will expect the ring delivered once it is ready. Please call my cell and we can coordinate a meeting location then.” He pulled a black credit card from his wallet and passed it to the man. “Go ahead and authorize this for whatever you need. I’ll stop by tomorrow and complete any paperwork that you will require.”
“Crappy.”
The response brought a smile to his face. “If you want to put it so eloquently. Crappy. So, they assume that what typically happens with my other relationships will happen here—that I will grow tired of you, dump you—and in response you will do everything in your power to—what was the phrase my father used?—make me bleed.”
I didn’t like the idea of his family carelessly discussing our relationship and its certain demise when they didn’t even know me. Clearly, I had already been judged and found wanting, therefore condemned to death. It felt like the f**king Middle Ages.
I slumped in my seat. “Unfortunately, I see their rationale. I wouldn’t put much stock in you keeping me happy and unscorned either.”
He laughed and grabbed my limp, depressed hand, bringing it to his lips. “Don’t worry. I have a plan that will supersede all of their rational thinking.”
“What is it?”
He started eating his soup, nonchalantly shrugging at me over the bowl. “Can’t tell you yet. But it’s a good one.”
“What if it doesn’t work—what if you can’t convince them?” A little bit of panic had entered my voice.
He met my eyes over the spoon. “I’m an attorney. Convincing people is my job.”
And, as far as I knew, he was extremely good at it. It was the only positive thought I could find, so I latched on to it with a death grip.
“Plus,” he added, watching me, “they won’t have an option. My father will know that when I speak to him.”
* * *
I DISTRACTED MYSELF with eating, and we both gorged ourselves, finishing off beef and broccoli, honey chicken and lettuce wraps by the time we left. We wandered through a few more shops, but were both dragging our feet, and we finally headed back to the red-vested valet.
“What next?” he asked, when we were back in the leather-wrapped comfort of the car.
“Home,” I mumbled, leaning back into the seat and stretching out my full stomach.
He pulled out of the mall and gunned the engine, heading for the interstate, and the car lowered itself, hugging the pavement as we flew along.
“Shit,” I said, ten minutes later, as we came in the back door.
“What?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.
“I totally forgot about the movie!” I said, disgusted with myself.
“Why don’t we watch one here instead—use the theater room?” Brad suggested, grabbing a bottled water from the fridge.
I frowned at him. “You have a theater room? Where?” I really needed to do a better job of snooping. Apparently there were entire sections of the house I had yet to explore.
He laughed, tossing me a cold bottle of water. “Yes, oh young one. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“What movies do you have?” I asked.
“You can look through them and see. If you don’t see a movie you like, we can head back out, catch a later one.”
I unscrewed the water’s cap, nodding my agreement. Two minutes later, I was standing in the theater room, mouth agape.
To say that Brad had a movie collection would be a gross understatement. Imagine an entire video store—back when those still existed. That would be close to the selection that the damn man possessed. The walls of the theater room—walls that I had dismissed in my initial glance—were spring loaded. If you pressed the edges they popped open slightly, and you could then slide them to the side, revealing floor-to-ceiling shelves, all the height of a Blu-ray disc case. I rolled my eyes, amazed at the wealth of movies in a format that was relatively new. Brad handed me a large binder that was a catalog, the movies organized by genre, with small images of the covers and brief descriptions for every film, along with a notation of where they were housed. I quickly realized it would take hours to peruse the damn thing, and instead flipped to the index, scrolling down the titles.
The first two I suggested—Bruce Almighty and Collateral—Brad rejected, but the third he agreed to, and I followed the indicated shelf/section notation and pulled out Good Will Hunting, handing it to him.
We settled in, side by side, in the love seat–style theater seating, and I tilted my head toward the wall, now closed, the cases hidden from view once again. “You know that’s OCD at its finest.”
“That’s called organization. Can you imagine trying to find a movie without a system in place?”
I squinted at him, trying to imagine the big man painstakingly organizing the thousands of movies, cataloging them in proper order. That didn’t mesh with the Brad I knew—the Brad who couldn’t sit still for five minutes without his leg jiggling, or pulling out his cell phone. “And you organized it?”
“Do you think I organized it? You know me better than that.” He turned up the volume, the previews beginning, and put his arm around me, pulling me to him. “One of the interior designers handled it all. I told her I like movies, to get me a big collection. They kind of went overboard, but I don’t mind.”
“I just can’t believe we were about to pay to watch a movie when you have so many choices here.”
He laughed, and squeezed my arm affectionately. “God, you have issues.”
I looked up, kissing him on the neck. “I can only see one issue that I have right now. One big issue.” I poked his side.
He looked wounded. “Not me!”
“Shhh—we’re missing the movie,” I whispered laughingly, and snuggled close to him, pulling a soft fleece blanket over my body. Brad pressed a button on the remote, dimming the lights, and we settled in, forgetting for a brief moment the danger hanging over my head.
Forty-Five
Brad sat across from the two girls, his expression pained.
“Let me get this right,” the brunette said, her intelligent eyes peering at him with distrust. “You are proposing to Julia tonight. You haven’t bought a ring, you don’t have anything romantic planned and you have dated her for a grand total of, what, three weeks?”
“It’s been almost two months—”
“No, no, no,” she interrupted him, waving her hand. “I’m not counting all the time where you were chasing her, and you were both single, and you were probably f**king half the town at the same time. I’m talking about committed relationship time.”
Three weeks was probably overstating that qualifier, but Brad wasn’t going to bother pointing that out.
The other one, a petite beauty with breast implants, a nose job and, in Brad’s opinion, entirely too much makeup, slapped the girl’s arm, interjecting herself into the conversation. “Well, I think this is the most romantic thing ever! Do you have any friends—single friends? I need to find a guy like you, one who is ready to settle down.”
“Becca, he is not ready to settle down. That’s the whole problem!” The aggressive one, who he thought was named Olivia, whipped out a finger, pointing it at Brad. “Why? Why propose now? Why not wait, get to know her a bit?”
He wanted to leave, to say “screw this” to the two spoiled brats in front of him, get up and continue on his way. But these were Julia’s friends, her best friends, and he needed to stack the deck with every card he had if he wanted Julia to accept. He weighed how to communicate his intentions without bringing up the predicament they had found themselves in. The attorney in him looked at the angles available, the weaknesses of the jury. Reason might work with the pit bull; emotion would win the Barbie’s heart. The problem was, all he had was emotion. A foreign tool in his belt. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture and tried his best pitiful look. “Because I love her. And I don’t want to wait. I know, unequivocally, that she is the one for me.” The word love rolled off his tongue, convincing and believable, so smoothly that he almost missed its significance and weight. Love. A concept he had avoided for so long, and which now felt so right in his heart. Expanding, pushy, it took up unnecessary space, crowding out so many hostile emotions—anger at his mother’s abandonment, at his family’s business, at his own stubborn independence—he had harbored for so long.
The tiny one practically came in her seat, dissolving into a sea of emotion and grabbing his arm in support. The brunette simply snorted, the word bullshit stamped clearly across her features.
It took fifteen minutes, every iota of debate experience he possessed, Becca chiming in her support at every opportunity, but Olivia finally cracked. And, after their crab cakes, fruit plates and a bottle of champagne were finished, the two girls and Brad walked across the street and entered the jewel-encrusted, chandelier-lit elegance of Lorenzi Jewelers, in search of the perfect ring.
Forty-Six
Brad already regretted his decision to involve the girls in this process. They had fully settled in at Lorenzi, taking charge as soon as the manager had gleefully greeted Brad and shown them to a private lounge. They now sat on velvet chairs, fresh champagne in hand, and critically surveyed the options. Every five minutes, a new black velvet tray with five carefully chosen rings was presented, and they would pick apart each ring one by one. It had now been over an hour, and they were no closer to a decision than when they first walked in.
Brad paced in the small room, occasionally taking calls, drinking sodas and trying to quell the nervous ball in his stomach. Nervousness was a foreign concept and he hated every ounce of it.
He already knew the ring, had it pictured perfectly in his mind, but hadn’t seen anything close to it in the ten or fifteen trays that had paraded by. Julia was unique, different. He didn’t want to take a normal setting and stick a huge stone in and be done with it. He wanted something exceptional, something that, when she saw it, she wouldn’t be able to say no. Something that, if he wasn’t enough, the ring would push her over. He was confident in his sexual prowess, but his relationship skills were rusty at best. He didn’t have the option of f**king her into an engagement. Tonight, all he would have was himself and the ring. And he wasn’t sure if he, alone, was enough.
He ground his teeth in frustration. The jewelry associates didn’t seem to understand what he wanted or weren’t listening to him. He tilted his head at the manager, and they moved into a side room.
“You aren’t listening to what I am asking for.”
The man practically quaked in front of Brad, perspiration running down his face, his hands nervously clasping and reclasping in front of him.
“I am, Mr. De Luca! You want an elegant, refined setting—something antique, with a large stone.”
“Then what the hell is this?” He gestured to the velvet boxes, stacked to the side of the girls. “There isn’t a ring in that bunch that I haven’t seen a thousand times before! They are all the same, just slightly tweaked! Is there anything else in this store—something you have set aside that you haven’t brought out?”
“Did you see the marquis setting we brought out, it has—”
Brad cut off the man’s pitch with one smoldering look. “I saw it all. How long would it take for you to design one?”
“Design, sir?” The man acted as if it were a foreign concept.
Brad clenched his jaw and tried to maintain his cool. “I assume you do custom pieces?”
“Well, yes, Mr. De Luca, of course. But I thought you wanted to propose tonight.”
“I do. It’s four. Five hours is enough time. I’ll give you until nine.”
“But, Mr. De Luca, it’s Saturday.”
“Money never seems to have trouble getting over that hurdle. Give me twenty minutes and a pad of paper—then tell me if my expectations are unreasonable.”
He had the manager bring out all of their available large, loose diamonds, and the last three years of catalogs. He flipped through the catalogs, tagging certain settings, then sketched out a rough drawing of what he wanted. He called everyone back in and showed them the sketch and the stone that he had chosen.
There was silence for a full minute, as the girls and suited men looked at the black-and-white sketch. Brad inwardly groaned, hating that he had involved anyone other than himself in this process. Then Olivia beamed, gripping Becca’s arm and smiling brightly at Brad. Becca gave a little squeal and hugged Olivia, and then the closest jewelry associate enthusiastically.
“It’s perfect,” Olivia said, walking to Brad and giving him a strong hug. “She will love it.”
Brad turned his gaze to the manager. “I have faith in you. Make it happen.” He stood, slapping the pale man on the shoulder and heading for the door. The man nervously followed him, speaking quickly and waving his hands frantically.
“Mr. De Luca, I don’t really feel comfortable guaranteeing—”
“Mr. Thompson, you have the stones, and the tools. I will be happy to pay whatever is needed for you to call in the staff necessary to create the ring. Olivia or Becca, do you know her size?”
The brunette looked up, startled. “Um, sort of. I know she’s worn one of my rings before. You can measure my finger.” A female employee materialized and beelined for Olivia, reaching for her left hand.
Brad glanced at his watch and pulled out his wallet. “I have to go. Ladies, it was a pleasure. I greatly appreciate your help. Mr. Thompson, I will expect the ring delivered once it is ready. Please call my cell and we can coordinate a meeting location then.” He pulled a black credit card from his wallet and passed it to the man. “Go ahead and authorize this for whatever you need. I’ll stop by tomorrow and complete any paperwork that you will require.”
