When dessert and coffees arrived, he said, “So, I’ve told you all about my family and I still know so little about yours, El. When I mentioned that I’d disappointed my dad, you said you understood, and you sounded like you meant it.”
I hesitated. Things always shot off on a weird trajectory when people learned I was Sterling Hartley’s daughter who stood to inherit billions. I’d perhaps already waited too long to tell Martin, and I feared it was going to look odd. Even so, I hesitated, then started with my mother instead.
“She died when I was nine.” I took a sip of espresso. “She was an alcoholic and abusing prescription meds. She killed herself.”
His dessert spoon stilled midair. I read something in his eyes . . . unease. I was scaring him off. Perhaps he was wondering if I’d inherited psycho genes. Maybe I had. I sure as hell wasn’t going to mention right now that I’d suffered from clinical depression myself and had slipped into a haze of medication and drink for months after Chloe drowned. And then I’d been institutionalized for mental health issues. I also knew the instant I mentioned my father’s name that he might actually recall having read some of these things about Sterling Hartley’s daughter anyway.
“I’m sorry, El. I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Those things experienced as a kid—they live with you. I know.”
I nodded and felt a bond. He covered my hand with his.
“What about your father? Did he remarry?”
“I doubt my dad will ever marry again. He’s the eternal Peter Pan—Sterling Hartley.”
He stared. Said nothing. Then he cursed softly. “The AGORA convention—you didn’t mention it. When I said I was at the Hartley Plaza for the event. Christ, your family namesake hotel and you didn’t mention it?” He was angry. There was a rough edginess about him. “Why not?”
“Because, Martin, I’d just met you, and liked you, and I wanted you to get to know me not as my father’s daughter. If there was to be any chance of us meeting again, I wanted it to be because you liked me. When people find out I’m his daughter . . . it changes things. Like now.”
“Christ.” He sat back and grabbed his wine. He regarded me like I was some kind of laboratory specimen in a petri dish. I could almost see his brain whirring, slotting pieces together.
“I’m sorry, but . . . please, Martin, don’t let this ruin everything, okay?”
His features remained unreadable, then a grin suddenly cut his face and he laughed loud and long. “I had sex with Sterling Hartley’s kid in an elevator at his hotel,” he said between chuckles. “I don’t believe it.”
“His kid?” I set my napkin on the table. “I really should go.”
“No . . . no, El. Stop. Don’t go.” He wiped his eyes. “C’mon. I love it. Pardon my French but your dad is a first-class a-hole, a business sociopath with narcissism issues. Show me a magazine or news article or Twitter feed that doesn’t say all those things about the arrogant billionaire Sterling James Hartley. All those wannabes at the AGORA convention know this about him, yet would never say it to his face, because he’s also a rich motherfucker who has the magic and money to make others rich, too.”
I pushed back my chair.
“Ellie—”
I came to my feet. “Look, maybe I dislike my own father, Martin. Maybe I also love him, too. Did you think about that? He’s all those things, but he’s still the only real family I’ve got, and someone laughing because they think they’ve screwed him over by screwing me in his elevator—”
“Ellie—” His face sobered, and he caught hold of my wrist. “I’m sorry. Please. Please forgive me. Sit down, please.”
I stared at him, a sick feeling dawning. Could this man have already known who I was when he bumped into me?
Slowly, quietly, I said, “Why did you really ask me to dinner, Martin? Is this some game to you?”
He cursed softly under his breath. “No, El. Absolutely not. Please sit. Hear me out.”
I seated myself on the edge of my chair.
“Listen, the reason I brought you here tonight—the bouillabaisse—I’m going to be leaving for an eight-week business trip to Europe. One of the stops is Nice, and there’s this most gorgeous little restaurant that serves absolutely the best bouillabaisse in the world. I wanted to get you in the mood, get a sample, a taste . . . Would you come?”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“Come with me, Ellie. To Europe.”
“What?”
He leaned forward and took both my hands in his. As he spoke he traced the insides of my wrists gently with his thumbs. “I leave on Friday and I hate that I won’t see you for eight weeks. Come with.”
“I . . . I can’t. I work. I . . . have a new contract.”
“Of course.” He let go of my hands and sat back.
My brain raced as I hurriedly cataloged all my commitments—freelance projects, deadlines. I replayed in my mind how I’d felt when he’d simply vanished out of my life after the night we’d met, and suddenly I didn’t want to let him go.
“How about joining me for just part of the trip, then?” he said. “Maybe a few days in Rome? Venice? Or—” His eyes brightened with an idea. “What about we take a few days in the Cook Islands at the end of the trip?”
“That’s on the other end of the world from Europe.”
“So? Who cares? Aitutaki—I know a stunning resort on the lagoon there. We can have whole beaches to ourselves, Ellie, a little luxury hut with high-end room service right over the water. Sunshine. Warmth. Who doesn’t want some sun at this time of year?”
Thoughts swirled crazily through my brain. Due dates. Line drawings. Concept sketches. Excitement
