Deception Page 7

  “Because the risk was different,” she replied.

  I turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

  “Being a child under the protection of your parents feels suffocating. Lennox fought it for most of his teenage life. However, protecting someone you love, whether it’s your child or your soul mate is different. The risk is higher.”

  I finally understood Nox’s obsession. I still didn’t like the loss of privacy, but more than that, I was worried about him. “Silvia, someone tried…” A delayed sob formed in my chest. “…to kill him.”

  She wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “You’re both safe.”

  “I-I love him.”

  Her hand rubbed circles on my back as my head settled upon her shoulder. “I know. He loves you too. And you have no way of knowing how happy that makes all of us who also love him. He’ll keep you safe.”

  “Charli,” Nox’s voice echoed against the glass walls.

  I CLOSED THE door to our suite and took one last look at the outer room. How many times had I dreaded entering this room? There was a surprising comfort in knowing I’d never do it again.

  I was well aware that from the outside looking in I’d never appeared strong. God knew I wasn’t the woman my daughter was, but nevertheless, I’d fought a gallant fight and I was tired.

  From the time I was born, I was reminded of my obligation, my duty. No one will ever know how hard I prayed for my mother to have another child. Not another child. I prayed for a son—a brother, an heir. If only that would have happened, my life would have been so incredibly different. I could have been the daughter my mother wanted—refined and regal—and I wouldn’t have had to become my father’s poor excuse for a son.

  I didn’t understand it when I was younger, but as my mother aged, she shared more and more of our history. She and my father married when she was young. He’d completed his undergraduate and graduate school at Emory. She, however, had only completed her freshman year of undergraduate school where she’d planned to study art appreciation. I must have gotten my love of art from her. It was nice to think of my mother with some fondness.

  I found it difficult to believe, but apparently my mother’s parents didn’t approve of her marrying the great Charles Montague II. With his being nearly thirteen years older than her, my grandparents saw him more as a predator than a suitor.

  Considering that Alton, my father’s choice for my husband, was twelve years my senior, I found that tidbit of information borderline hilarious. My mother, of course, never saw the irony.

  While the assessment could have been considered appropriate for Alton Fitzgerald, according to my mother, it wasn’t for my father. She never faltered in her profession of love for him. She told stories of seeing him around Savannah, the most eligible bachelor. She spoke of his looks, how handsome all the women thought he was. It wasn’t his money that drew her to him. The Cains were more than comfortable and well positioned within the Savannah hierarchy. It was his Southern charm and honor.

  No matter how hard I tried, I never saw it.

  Oh, I saw his persuasiveness—some would call it bullying—with both Mother and me. I also saw the way he dominated every business deal and conversation. But charm and honor? If they were present, they were attributes he never felt warranted displaying for his only child.

  In her final days, my mother admitted to their difficulty in having children. I wasn’t born until my father was nearly fifty years old. Taking a young wife was supposed to assure his progeny. I had to wonder if his animosity regarding my ability to conceive was misdirected aggression.

  Perhaps it was. Maybe he didn’t treat my mother the way he’d treated me. Even after his death, my mother claimed to have never felt bullied. She called it willingness to submit. Now, as I reminisce, I see that too as a trait I inherited.

  Does one inherit a behavior or is it taught? It was the old nature-versus-nurture debate.

  When I was younger, I would have said it was nurture, a learned behavior; however, now I disagree. Alexandria changed my mind.

  My daughter didn’t contain a submissive bone in her body. Though since three years of age, she was raised without her father, she was Russell through and through. Her independence and self-reliance were honorable. Alton never thought so, but why would he?

  To him, anyone who questioned his authority was the enemy. With the power Alexandria held, though she didn’t know it, she certainly qualified as a foe. Somehow, she’d been keenly aware of their animosity from the time she was young. I can’t recall a time when the two of them hadn’t clashed.

  A memory from Alexandria’s childhood returned. I settled on the sofa as the scene I’d buried came back to life in my mind. She was young, not even a teenager. The thought churned my stomach.

  It was all right; the indigestion wouldn’t last long.

  Alexandria threw her napkin on the table, her golden eyes shooting daggers at not only Alton, but also at me.

  I knew what she wanted. Hiding emotions wasn’t one of my daughter’s strong suits. She wanted me to disagree with her stepfather. She wanted me to speak up and override the verdict to send her to her room without finishing her dinner.

  I honestly couldn’t remember her offense—only that it once again set him off.

  That wasn’t hard to do—to light his fuse. Alton Fitzgerald was a bomb with a trigger ignition. He’d been gone for business, a reprieve for all of Montague Manor, but nothing good ever lasted. With his return came the fireworks of re-acclimation. The cycle repeated frequently enough to make it predictable.

  I didn’t argue as she stomped away. I knew she wouldn’t go hungry. Jane would make sure of that.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t care for my own daughter. I did. I was the reason Jane was there. I was the one who, to this day, fought for her employment. Our system worked. Alexandria wasn’t the only one who experienced the fireworks and aftershocks of Alton’s return to the manor. That was what I did. My reasoning was that if he were busy with me, he’d ignore her. If I were to take food to Alexandria, Alton would see. He would know.

  When my father was alive, it was better. As much as I blamed Charles Montague II for my life, he did everything he could for Alexandria. His preoccupation of Alton’s time wasn’t appreciated until it was gone.

  I never knew what happened on Alton’s business trips. He didn’t share any information regarding Montague Corporation. The amount of alcohol consumed upon his arrival was my barometer of the success of the trip. By that scale, his latest trip hadn’t gone well. He was way into his fifth or sixth Cognac by dinner. The fact that Alexandria had remained at the table until the main course was in and of itself remarkable.

  What made this evening different than any other in my mind was the conversation that ensued after Alexandria’s animated exit. Once she was gone, Alton returned the daggers she’d sent our way to me.

  “Your daughter needs to learn a lesson.”

  I lifted my wine, praying the Montague Private Label had increased its alcohol content. “You sent her to her room. I’m sure that will have an effect.”

  He scoffed. “Embarrassing. She attends the best school money can buy, and she’s still disrespectful. Really, Laide, would your father have ever permitted you to speak like that?”

  I lifted my fork, stabbing the meal upon my plate with vigor. If I allowed him to bellow, soon he’d lose steam.

  His palm hit the shiny mahogany table.

  The maid standing near the door to the kitchen jumped, the water sloshing in the pitcher within her hands.

  “I asked you a question, Mrs. Fitzgerald. Are you having difficulty with your hearing? Maybe I should call Dr. Beck. I’m sure he can do more than prescribe you narcotics.”

  “I heard you. I don’t have an answer.”

  “Why? Are you too drugged out? Does the good doctor know that you pop his pain pills and wash them down with copious amounts of wine?”

  I closed my eyes. “I don’t believe I would’ve spoken th
at way to my father. Alexandria isn’t me.” And you aren’t her father. I didn’t say the last part, though if Alexandria had been present, she would have. “Alton, let’s finish dinner. You’ll feel better in the morning. Traveling always makes you irritable.”

  His volume rose. “You’re turning this around on me?”

  It was a no-win conversation. “Perhaps we should go upstairs?”

  It wasn’t a proposal I wanted accepted, but then again, after as much as he’d drunk, I had hope that he’d fall asleep after only a few minutes.

  His laugh was an octave higher than normal. I turned his direction while the shrill sound sent chills down my spine. “Sometimes,” he said, enunciating each word, “I wonder why I spend my nights with you when there’s a spitfire in need of taming down the hall.”

  Blood no longer flowed through my veins. It stilled, falling to my feet, leaving me dizzy and dazed. The fork I’d been holding fell to the table, the clink going unnoticed as Alton’s tormenting grin and gray eyes dared me to respond.

  Just briefly, my eyes met the young girl’s with the water. Silently, I tipped my head, motioning for her to go into the kitchen. As the door swung shut, I turned back toward my husband. “What did you just say?”

  His brows rose, disappearing under his graying hair. “You heard me. Sending Alexandria to her room doesn’t seem to work. Spanking her ass doesn’t work. Charles wanted me to turn you into an acceptable wife.” He shrugged. “I did. Someday Bryce will thank me.”

  I didn’t remember reaching for the steak knife lying beside my plate. I didn’t remember standing. Of all the things Alton had said and done to me, I’d never argued. I’d never fought back.

  Before his inebriated mind could process it, I was behind his chair, the blade of the knife firmly pressed against his throat.

  “You ever touch my daughter like that and I’ll kill you. I will kill both of us.” The knife grazed his skin as I applied pressure. “You don’t even need to be asleep. I’ll slit your throat or poison your brandy. You’ll never see it coming, but I swear to God, you’ll die, and before you do I’ll cut off your cock with a dull knife. That, Mr. Fitzgerald, is a promise. I’d willingly spend eternity in prison or in hell. It wouldn’t be any different than what I live every day.”

  Defensively he reached for my hand. With strength I never knew I had, I held tight to the knife and turned it. The tip was now buried a few millimeters in the soft notch at the base of his throat.

  “Say it again. Come on, Alton. We’ll end this farce right now.”

  Blood dripped from his skin onto the white shirt, a small trail making a growing stain.

  “Laide.”

  His wits returned as he squeezed my wrist, causing the knife to drop onto the floor, blood still visible on the blade. In less time than I could fathom, he stood. Suddenly, I was bent over the table, glasses and dishes crashing as their contents covered the table and floor. My hands were secured tightly behind me as my cheek smashed into a dish of something soft.

  The Montague staff was too well trained, too frightened of Alton, and too well paid. No one would enter the dining room. No one would stop whatever was about to happen to me.

  My stomach twisted as Alton’s erection probed my backside. Painfully he twisted my wrists, leaned his lips next to my ear, and loudly whispered, “That’s what I’m talking about. Maybe she did get some of that spirit from you after all.”

  With each word he rubbed himself against me and gathered both of my hands in one of his. Pulling my hair, he lifted my face, the sauce that had been my pillow dripped from my cheek. His menacing tone continued and his Cognac breath soured my stomach. “Maybe I have my hands full, after all.”

  I didn’t have a response. All I could think about was that I’d won. He wouldn’t see it that way, but I’d fought and kept his attentions on me. My victory came in Alexandria’s safety.

  “Keep me satisfied, Laide. I like the idea of what I’m going to do to you after your little stunt.”

  I felt him stand taller, humming as he assessed his wounds. He tugged my arms farther, eliciting a whimper I tried to suppress.

  “You made me bleed.” He laughed. “Yes, this is going to be fun.” With his lips once again near my ear, he whispered, “If I bleed, so do you.”

  The night was one I’d rather forget, but Alexandria was worth every minute.

  I’d made a promise, and on some level, Alton knew I’d keep it.

  Though I wasn’t plunging the knife into his neck, my plan for this evening would have a similar result. I’d tried everything. Alexandria wouldn’t listen, and I didn’t blame her. She was happy. I could hear it in her voice.

  My daughter wasn’t me. She was Russell through and through. She didn’t care about Montague. She didn’t love Bryce. And with each passing day, Bryce’s discontent with her decision was becoming more evident. Instead of getting closer to my goal, as I’d thought we were a few weeks ago, we were farther and farther away.

  The realization that Alton had somehow influenced Alexandria and Lennox’s meeting was the final straw. No longer wearing rose-colored Montague glasses, I saw the writing on the wall. Hell, I could read it, even the fine print. Alton believed he’d won.

  I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t taken this course of action sooner. Perhaps I wanted to believe in fate. I wanted to believe in the fairytales Alexandria loved as a child. I wanted to believe the promise my mother made—if I did all I could, it would all work out.

  The reality wasn’t as pretty. The answer had been at my fingertips all along. A few calls to Dr. Beck’s office, more complaints about my migraines and the medicine arrived. That combined with the last prescription, the one I’d yet to use, gave me plenty of pills.

  I’d fought my best fight. Now the finest thing I could do for Alexandria was to die.

  The answer was so simple.

  My death was one of the few outs for Charles’s will. If I died, the estate automatically reverted to her. Of course, Alton would fight. He’d fight her. But he wouldn’t win. She not only had her grandfather’s will on her side, she had Lennox Demetri. I didn’t know him, but I had faith that if he were anything like his father, he’d help her get what was hers.

  Nevertheless, my daughter’s finest weapon wasn’t a piece of paper or a man. I took great pride in seeing that Alexandria’s greatest weapon against Alton and the atrocities of Montague Manor was what she’d always possessed—her own determination.

  Spitfire.

  I smiled and let my wish go audibly from my lips, “Rain down hell on him, darling.”

  With my face washed and wearing my favorite nightgown and robe, I opened both bottles of pills, emptying them into a glass. There were more than I expected. But they were small. For twenty years I’d been an expert swallower. These pills would be nothing.

  I started to pour myself a glass of water, when something from my memory came back. If I were going to leave this world, the last liquid to pass my lips would be a glass of Montague Private Collection.

  I lifted the phone near the bed and called the kitchen.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

  I suddenly wondered if I’d have to keep that name in the afterlife. I supposed it depended where I landed. Surely, God wouldn’t make me keep it. Satan would think it was proper punishment. “Yes, bring a bottle of Montague cabernet to my suite—1986.”

  “A bottle, ma’am?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  “No, ma’am. One or two glasses?”

  Stupid girl. The entire staff knew that Alton was gone, out of town until Labor Day weekend. “One,” I replied, hanging up the receiver and relishing the idea that for once I didn’t give a damn when Alton would be home.

  As I waited, I paced the sitting room, uncharacteristically giddy over my future, or lack thereof. I couldn’t remember ever feeling as certain about a decision. The weight of the years disappeared. If I’d known the serenity I’d feel, I would have decided this course years ago. Then again, Ale
xandria might not have been able to handle it years ago. Perhaps my calm came in believing that now she could.

  A knock.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

  I wrapped my robe tighter around my waist. The voice wasn’t some faceless maid. It was one I knew, one I recognized. It belonged to Jane. Hearing it brought a slew of emotions I’d successfully buried.

  She’d been the best thing to happen to both Alexandria and to me. Years ago, Russell had said that Alexandria wouldn’t miss me as long as she had Jane. My eyes filled with tears as she entered, carrying the wine I’d ordered, and I prayed that Russell was right.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald, are you all right?”

  I nodded, pressing my lips together.

  “Ma’am, you ain’t usually upset when Mr. Fitzgerald’s gone.”

  I shook my head. “Jane, I’m not upset. I’m just… nostalgic.”

  “Let me help you,” she volunteered.

  Before I could stop her, she opened the door to the bedroom. I followed behind, my heart beating in overtime. Please don’t let her see…

  I didn’t get a chance to finish my plea.

  Jane picked up the glass from the bedside stand, the lower fourth of which was filled with small white oblong pills.

  “Nostalgic?” she asked.

  I shook my head and reached for the glass. “Jane, forget you saw this. I promise it’s for the better. I just… I-I…”

  She wrapped her arms around me, her embrace swallowing my shoulders.

  “Ma’am, no. You can’t do this. Not to you. Not to Miss Alexandria.”

  My head continued to move back and forth. “You don’t know. You don’t understand.”

  “I do.” For the first time since we’d hired her, her voice grew angry. “I do understand.”

  “No, Jane, you don’t.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t know what you thinks we see or what we hears. But we see everything. Ma’am, Miss Alexandria, she needs you.”

  “She doesn’t. I’ve tried, but this is the answer.”

  “It ain’t.”