Page 1 of The Lawyer
Chapter One
LANDON
Fucking insipid people. They’re all here, all walking along the streets in this place as if they’ve got all the time in the world to amble. Maybe they have, but I haven’t.
I leave the taxi and cut through the masses of tourists, unsure what it is that I’m expecting to find. Laughter? Joy? Part of me hopes I won’t find either. That is, after all, what I presumed would happen. Instead, handwritten words arrived in the post a few days ago opposing my thoughts. They seemed remorseful, yet jubilant. Apologetic, yet delighted. Perhaps other brothers would be happy for her, or perhaps they’d be able to forgive the attitude and behaviour that turned a Broderick traitorous.
But that’s not me.
At least the late afternoon sun is shining to counter this mood I’m lagging in, showing Paris off to its full glory. I look up at it, contemplating the last time I took any time off. A few days here and there over the last however long. Not much, though. Cane business kept me well and truly embedded in the courts. Or made me busy keeping their family out of them. Logical. Decisive. Ruthless. That’s been my life.
But this … this is my family.
And what a fucking mess it is.
A hand touches my arm, making me frown.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you speak English? We’re late. You wouldn’t know where Le Carreau du Temple is, would you?”
I look to my side, watching as the woman holds out a map. It’s as creased as she is. She’s probably travelled around the world, visited everywhere. Another pathetic tourist. Still, I smile and nod my head down the street we’re both on, pointing her in the right direction, and watch as she thanks me and hurries on with two children following. I only know myself because I’ve studied this area for the last few months. Daily reports from Locke have shown me all the places they’ve been and all the things they’ve done since being here.
The place they’ve rented is three blocks over. A large apartment on the third floor of an old, majestic building near the Place des Vosges. I walked past it last night when I arrived, intent on breaking the door down and dragging her home before Scott’s apartment sale in London finalises. He’ll be a wealthy man again then, with enough in his accounts to buy outright here and create the life he’s after. Whether that will be ongoing with her is still unknown. But instead of breaking the door down, I sat in the gardens and looked up at the building, perhaps searching for some slither of reality to bed in. She’s happy—that’s what she said.
With a fucking Foxton.
A few more streets walked and I arrive at the venue I’m aiming for. It’s larger than I thought it would be, with half a street full of waiting guests queued outside the doorway. I don’t need to go in. I’ve seen the art work already. A three-page spread of it in The Herald that I now control. The article, written byRichard Pillingsworth, was good, and the art itself? Astoundingly so, regardless of the muse. But the half-page picture of the artist himself, of Scott Foxton, looking cool, calm, and pensive as hell in a tux, was fucking irritating.
It doesn’t matter how beautiful she looks in the paintings, and it doesn’t matter how real she seems to be, because the fact that it’s her in the nine paintings he’s completed—my fucking baby sister—has pissed me off beyond all realms of decency. Especially considering the seductive and sensual nature of them.
He’s named the collection The Artistry of Elegance. He’s right to call it that. It is, without doubt, some of the most profound work I’ve ever seen. Evocative, quietly suggestive, and yet bold enough to have the whole fucking world understanding how it’s been created.
I step back from the crowds before getting to them, hands in my pockets as I try to work out what it is that I’m intending to do here. A waiter arrives in my eyeline, his hand gesturing at an outside table in a café. Fine. It may quell my temper at the moment. I nod and follow him to it, ordering a coffee and a brandy in the same breath so I can wait in the background. I’ll sit here for a while and watch, formulate some kind of strategy that might show sense and intellect.
Unfortunately, the fact that I’ve got to look at three of the paintings in the window while I do isn’t helping me calm down. Nor is the fact that I can see all the guests milling around in there fawning over them. And then, just to fuel this underlying wrath, I’m going to have to see him in a minute. I’m sure he’ll be as broody in nature as he always is.
Irritating.
Coffee and brandy served, I watch and wait until I do get a look at him through the crowds suffocating his space. He smiles weakly and chats, his eyes downcast as if uncomfortable with all the attention. It’s not something I assumed he’d feel. Take out the fact that it’s my sister and he should be proud of his work. I damn well would be. Not him, though. He appears almost contrite in his behaviour.
At least we agree with that part of this fucking situation.
Digging in my jacket pocket, I pull out the letter and flatten it on the table. My fingers lift the coffee at the same time as I scan the words for the tenth time. Perhaps I’m still hoping to find something buried in the text, some call for help that I haven’t seen yet.
Dear Landon,
I’m still unsure if I’ll ever bring myself to speak to you again, but I also can’t stand to leave things quite as broken as I fear they are now.
I’m sure after your earlier stalking episodes, you’ll know I’m in Paris. With Scott. He forced my hand when we argued. I hadn’t made up my mind, and I was too angry at you to make a rational decision. I don’t know why I should justify my actions to you, but a part of me wants to make you understand. I hate that. Regardless of how you see me or what you said to me, I still want to make amends and have your approval.
Scott gave me an ultimatum. Leave with him or give him up. He is so arrogant, much like my Big Brother. But I love him. And no matter our differences, I couldn’t not try. I felt I deserved to find out ‘what if’ and do something completely crazy for once. My life has always involved following the rules, working hard and being determined. This was a new kind of determination, and I couldn’t ignore it. Maybe I’ll come to regret leaving with him, but I don’t believe I will.
Scott isn’t just the snake you want to see him as. He’s like a different person here in Paris. Alive. Full of passion and vibrancy like his paintings. It’s made me want to dance again. Not to be the best, like I was before, but to simply revel in the joy of it. Have you ever experienced that? I can’t imagine you have, and that makes me sad. As siblings, I don’t think I’ve ever known you properly. You took up the mantle of a protector when I never really needed one, and you stopped being my brother and slid into the father role all too easily.
One day I hope you can be happy for me as a big brother should. Neither my family nor Scott’s family should determine my happiness, especially as you have no idea why the feud is still going on between us. Scott being a Foxton is a woefully weak excuse for me not spending my life with him, if that’s what makes me happy.
If you ever come to Paris, you’ll see that Scott loves me the way I deserve to be loved. I was unsure at first, but now there’s no mistake, and I won’t give that up, Landon. Please don’t make things worse.
When I started this letter, I wasn’t sure what I wanted it to be. Please take it as a testament to my happiness. Be happy for me, Landon. And maybe find happiness for yourself.
