Page 31 of Release Me
Another chance for me to fleetingly touch it, yet never fully taste it.
Patrick eases the Audi to a stop at the foot of the wide stone steps leading to Beckett House, Rian’s parents’ house. Even from inside the car, the place glitters. Trees on either side of the grand front doors are wrapped in white fairy lights. Branches dusted with frost catch the festive glow. A thick, plush crimson carpet runner climbs the stairs towards towering oak doors. Christmas music drifts from within.
Anthony glances at me through the moonlight. ‘Try and behave yourself tonight.’
My eyes narrow. ‘I’m not the one who’s misbehaving.’
‘That’s not what Paul said.’ He cricks his neck, slowly anddeliberately, the sound of clicking bones sending a shiver down my spine.
‘What did he say?’ I whisper, the memories of him watching Rian escort me into the lift and up to the penthouse. Did he pick up on the chemistry pulsing between us?
He pushes his dark-framed glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. ‘He said last time you went out drinking, you got so smashed that my friend had to hold on to you and escort you up to the penthouse.’
I exhale the breath I’d been holding. ‘I’m certain you’ve done worse in the course of our marriage,’ I spit.
He doesn’t flinch. ‘Just don’t let me down tonight. Everyone who’s anyone is going to be here. I’ve known the Becketts my entire life. They’re probably the most respected family in this country.’
‘Probably because they behave like gentlemen and treat their wives with respect.’ I jut my chin out. ‘Maybe you could learn a thing or two from them.’
‘I saved your family. Took you in. Signed my life over to you.’
‘Ha. You “took me in”? I was hardly homeless.’
‘You would have been, if it weren’t for me.’
I roll my eyes. I’ve heard this a hundred times during the course of our marriage. I’m well aware of how much he thinks I owe him, and that he expects me to spend the rest of my life indebted to him, and putting up with his shit day in and day out. It’s exhausting.
Patrick steps out first and opens my door with his usual quiet efficiency. Cold air spills into the car, scented faintly with pine and woodsmoke. I gather the folds of my winter-white wrap closer and step onto the carpet. Laughter and the distant clink of crystal float out through the air. The festive spirit is in full swing.
Except tonight, I don’t feel remotely Christmassy.
My head is full of everything except tinsel and goodwill. Problems at Remington Publishing have been simmering for a couple of weeks. An author is threatening to defect, and a marketing campaign has gone wildly–and expensively–off-track. My mother is incessantly hinting about flying over for Christmas, each call thick with expectation I don’t know how to meet. Anthony’s bullshit—parading around his latest fling—his young, likely impressionable PA who probably thinks she’s discovered her own personal fairy-tale prince.
And my heart continues thrumming like a bassline that I’m incapable of ignoring, while thinking about Rian Beckett.
Try as I might, it’s been impossible to get his face, his lips, his touch out of my brain after our soul searing kiss. I spent the past few weeks scrolling through every society column, every tabloid, searching for signs of him, of any clue of what he’s up to.
There’s been nothing.
No photographs of him leaving his nightclubs. No breathless write-ups about a new model on his arm. The silence fills me with hope—and dread. Hope that he hasn’t gone back to his old ways. Dread that maybe he’s found someone worth staying home for.
Not that it matters.
It’s not supposed to matter.
I square my shoulders, plaster a smile on my face, and lift my gaze to the huge doors ahead.
I pause at the bottom of the steps and smooth my hands over my dress—a column of midnight silk that skims every curve before falling in a clean line to the tips of my heels. The neckline dips just enough to whisper rather than shout. A single thigh-high split offers a flash of leg when I walk. I wish I felt as composed as I look.
Anthony steps out behind me, immaculate in his black tie. I hover, expecting him to offer his arm, to play thedevoted husband for the photographers hovering near the entrance. He doesn’t. Instead, he adjusts his cufflinks, mutters something about catching up inside, then strides straight up the stairs, leaving me half a pace behind.
Patrick hesitates, still holding the car door, his expression carefully neutral but not enough to hide the flicker of sympathy in his eyes.
‘Would you like a hand with the steps, Mrs De Courcy?’ he asks quietly, offering an elbow.
‘It’s Rebekka,’ I remind him for the millionth time.
‘Yes, Ma’am. I’m beginning to get that.’ He shoots my husband a disapproving look, and a wry smile tugs at my mouth. I take his arm for balance on the carpeted rise, more grateful than I’ll ever admit.
