Page 11 of Final Cost

It’s all right there. Trapped behind the wall I built between us.

I clear my throat, startling her. “Ms. Scott.”

She pauses in her careful selection of chicken breasts for her salad to spare me a quick sidelong glance that barely touches my face. “Lucien.”

“You came.”

She shrugs, moving along the sideboard to the salad dressings and picking one to drizzle. “Like you said, I can’t impose on Mrs. Hooper. She’s trying to sell her brownstone and doesn’t need the commotion—oh, look, chocolate chip cookies today.Perfect.”

I hesitate, frowning. I didn’t expect her to greet me with open arms, of course, but I also didn’t expect this… this… cool indifference. Where is her hurt? Her anger? Was Ithateffective at killing her feelings for me?

“So…” I choose my words carefully, determined not to rock any boats. She came back. She isn’t trying to beat me about the head and neck with a fireplace poker and calling me a heartless monster. That’s winning in my book. “This is okay?”

“It’s fine.” She helps herself to silverware and a linen napkin, looking politely puzzled by the question as she heads for the staircase. “Ackerley is a big estate. Plenty of room for me to stay out of your hair.”

“What happened to your necklace?” The ridiculousness of the question isn’t lost on me as I bark the words out, but I don’t let that stop me. In a world that’s caving in around me, the missing trinket I gave Tamsyn isn’t exactly the biggest issue. But the naked notch between her collarbones where the little car charm used to rest is as jarring as the Louvre with a faded patch on the wall where theMona Lisaonce hung.

The question seems to startle her. “I’m not wearing it.”

“I know. That’s why I asked.”

I don’t mean for my words to sound so harsh. Nor do I mean to act like an asshole. What can I say? Some things just come naturally to me at the worst possible times.

“I’m happy to give it back,” she says. “I should have given it to you when I gave back your mother’s diamond studs.”

“I don’t want it back.”

A shrug of absolute indifference. A dagger straight through my heart. “Suit yourself,” she says, and she’s off. Leaving me staring after her with a gaping wound in my chest and a growing knot in my gut.

Don’t let her gosays that persistent voice in my head. The one that only speaks when I’m in danger of fucking things up with her. “Tamsyn…”

She hesitates, presenting me with her pretty profile over the sweet curve of her shoulder, not looking at me and not bothering to hide her rising impatience. She’s more interested in eating her lunch than she is in occupying the same room with me. I am reaping what I have sown. And I’m choking on it. So there I am. With my dick in my hand and no idea what to say to her, or even where to begin.

“Maybe we should talk,” I finally say.

Her brows go up.“Talk?”

“Yes,talk.”

“About what, pray tell?”

The question of the day. I wouldn’t know where to start. With me thanking her for coming? Begging her for forgiveness? Assuring her that I had nothing to do with Ravenna’s death? My shot clock is winding down to double zero and all I’ve got is an empty head with no strategy and a crater inside me where her love used to fill me up. “How are you?”

A flicker of scorn crosses her expression. “Never better. And there’s nothing to talk about. You’ve already said it all.”

And there goes my buzzer. She turns and walks off without another word.

5

Tamsyn

It’s after ten now.I’m showered, lotioned and ready for a couple of hours reading peacefully in bed after a long and stressful day. Until a matter of extreme urgency propels me out of the safe and Lucien-free cocoon of my French country chic yellow bedroom: I could really use a stiff drink. During my time with Lucien, I’ve developed a taste for his whiskey. Another thing he’s taught me to love, along with caviar, bouillabaisse, and his extremely talented hands, mouth and dick. Most of that is off the menu for me now, but he keeps plenty of whiskey and I plan to get some.

Oh, and there’s another matter of urgency: I have nothing to read.

When I unceremoniously vacated the house the other day, I left behind the collection of historical romance novels that Lucien stocked on my bookshelf for me when I first came to Ackerley. I checked all over the bedroom after lunch earlier, but they were nowhere to be found. I suppose he packed them up to send to me at Mrs. Hooper’s or maybe donate to charity now that we’re no longer together. Although, now that I think about it, hedidleave the collection of rainbow-colored Chuck Taylor sneakers in the closet for me. They were anotherWelcome to Ackerleygift. So my whole theory about him not wanting any reminders of me around the house kind of falls apart, doesn’t it? Not that it matters. I’ve long since learned that I don’t understand the first thing about Lucien Winter and his thought processes and never will.

All I know right now is that I need a drink and a book.

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