Because of You (Swanson Court Series Book 5) Page 2

  “I pulled out of that project.” I sip my tea and give him a smile. “I’ve been working too hard…I needed some time off.”

  His face tells me he’s not buying the lie. “Liz, I don’t want you to put your work on hold because of me.”

  “Is that why you didn’t tell me you were sick?” Dropping my mask, I let him see the hurt I’ve been hiding. “Because you think my work is more important to me than you are?”

  He looks away.

  “Dad…”

  “I thought I could beat it.” He shrugs, and there’s a bitter note in his voice. “I wanted to tell you good news. That I’d been sick, and I wasn’t anymore.”

  “But you aren’t.” My voice rises. “The treatment…”

  He shakes his head. “I’m still sick, Liz. There’ll be a second course of treatment.”

  Panic races through my chest. “But then you’ll get better.”

  “Maybe.” His voice is soft, his eyes earnest as they hold mine. “Maybe not.”

  Tears sting at my eyes and I will them not to fall. I’m not here because he needs my strength or support. I’m here so he can prepare me for an eventuality he thinks he can no longer avoid.

  You need to come down and spend some time with your father. Natalia had said.

  Before it’s too late.

  “I’m sorry, Liz.”

  “No, I’m sorry, dad.” My eyes are stinging. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should have been here from the beginning.”

  “No. No. Sweet-pea. I don’t want that. I never have. I don’t want you locked up in this old apartment with me just because I’m sick. I’ve lived, Liz. I’ve had a great life, and I want you to live yours. That’s what I’ve always wanted.” He sighs. “And let’s face it, you’re not just my daughter anymore. You’re Liz McKay. What will you tell your public? How will you explain an extended absence from your work?”

  He’s right. I don’t want people—the tabloids, forums and fans—to speculate about his health and tie it to when I would be free to work again. He deserves more than that. “I hate when people say that,” I reply in a small voice. “You’re Liz McKay. Like I’m a product.”

  He chuckles. “A very valuable product.”

  I can’t argue with that. “I spoke to Natalia before I came to town.” Natalia has been managing the McKay theater company since Dad’s retirement two years ago. “There is a play…”

  “The Break of Day.” He nods. “Natalia’s been working hard to get it off the ground. Difficult sponsors…” He shudders, though a sad softness enters his voice when he says Natalia’s name. “You’re considering playing Lillie? Are you sure? It’s a big part, and you haven’t worked in theatre for years.”

  I try not to be offended. “I’ve not forgotten how to act just because I’ve been doing action movies and romantic comedies. With the play, I’d have a perfect reason for being in the city, and it could advance my career too, so you don’t have to worry about my life being on hold.”

  “It’s not a bad plan.” His eyes close and I realize he’s tired.

  “Why don’t you rest?” I suggest. “We’ll continue talking later.”

  He releases a soft breath, already asleep. I leave the study, and once I’m outside the door, I allow myself to cry. Out in the patio, my vision blurs as I ball my father’s blanket in my arms and bury my face in the soft wool, feeling more helpless than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  I take a few moments to compose myself. Back in the study, my father is still asleep, so I cover him with the blanket and go around the desk to the window.

  The drapes are drawn, but I peer out through a gap in the hanging fabrics at the people on the sidewalks, the trees, the cars that never stop… There’s so much life everywhere, and yet its very essence is out of anyone’s control. We can’t even prevent our loved ones from falling sick.

  The wall to one side of the desk is lined with bookshelves. Walking over, I trace my fingers over thick volumes—memoirs, business guides, insider stories about famous plays and the legends that starred in them. I spent my childhood poring over the pictures in these books, long before I read any of the words.

  One shelf holds the awards my father has collected over the years. Two awards for best producer occupy pride of place, next to a picture of my mother who died when I was seven. She’s bowing on the stage of her last musical. There’s also a framed letter in my childish teenage scrawl. “To the most loving father in the world,” it begins. I smile at the familiar words before moving on to the pictures of my father with playwrights, theater owners, and politicians. There’s a picture of me on-stage, and another, with me, my father and Aidan.

  My heart catches and I close my eyes, stunned by the clarity of my memories. It was the opening night of my first play, and after the standing ovation at the end, I’d felt almost drunk with triumph. That night was magical, and Aidan…

  Aidan…

  The familiar ache of loss blooms in my belly. I haven’t seen him in years. Seven years to be exact. I’ve read about him and followed his career, the award-winning plays, the two acclaimed movies… I’ve seen all his plays, in what Jenny calls my stealth mode, but in the flesh—though I have hungered, thirsted for him, it has been seven years.

  There’s a familiar ache in the tips of my fingers—longing, the desire to feel someone else’s warmth, someone else’s love. Reaching out, I touch his face and my fingers find glass. I release a slow breath. He’s smiling in the picture, a lighthearted, carefree smile, his sensuous lips perpetually upturned in one corner, his thick dark hair reaching almost to his shoulders with the stubborn forelock spilling forward onto his face. I remember my fingers in that hair, those lips kissing me, his mesmerizing blue eyes boring deep into mine as we pledged our bodies to each other, found pleasure and made promises…

  Promises you broke.

  I suppress the accusing voice, keeping my gaze on Aidan’s face. He no longer looks like he did the night the picture was taken. He was twenty-four then. Now, he’s thirty-one. The hair is shorter, the eyes less carefree, the smile is now a wry smirk, and sometimes I wonder how much of that is my fault.

  “That was a wonderful night.” My father’s voice startles me, and I turn around. He’s still in his chair, but his eyes are on the picture.

  “It was perfect,” I agree, my voice soft. “You, me and Aidan.” Saying his name out loud has a strange effect on me. My voice catches, and my stomach suddenly feels light. I close my eyes and repeat it silently to myself. Aidan. Aidan. Aidan.

  My father is studying my face. “He’s one of the best. He’d coax an award-winning performance from anyone. I always hoped you two would resolve all the…” He stops and sighs. “Natalia wants him to direct the play. She’s been trying to lock him down for ages. She hoped he would be a draw for investors.”

  I frown. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “I know.” He shrugs. “Although, with you both on the project…”

  My laugh is bitter. “With our history together, it will become a carnival. An investor’s dream come true, for sure. The tabloids would speculate to death about us. It won’t happen, though. Aidan will never agree to work with me. Once he discovers there’s a chance I’ll be in the play, he will never sign on to do it.”

  “And if he does…” My father gives me a piercing look. “Would you work with him?”

  The possibility causes something to tighten low in my belly. I close my eyes. Reach for your dreams. I’d come for my father, but I also came for Aidan. “Yes.” My voice is soft but firm. “Yes, of course.”

  “Maybe he feels the same.”

  My lips curve in a sad smile and I shake my head. “I broke his heart, dad. He hates me. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to work with me either.”

  My father shrugs. “You might be surprised.”

  I know he’s wrong, but still, the words give me hope.

  Chapter Two

  Aidan

  “Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath be
fore scrawling my signature on the dotted line.

  “This is a great project,” Debra reminds me with an elaborate eye-roll. “I know you’re excited.”

  I ignore the eye-roll and watch her gather up the contracts. She has a quiet efficiency that’s invaluable in an assistant, and she is right. I am excited, but I know the feeling will only last until I enter the theater and face the stage, and it would feel as though Liz was standing right there, eyes dancing, watching me with that trademark Liz McKay expression that is both challenge and capitulation.

  Then for the next few months, I would drive myself and my actors, demanding their best performances, trying to forget the one woman I don’t want to think about, the one woman I can’t stop thinking about.

  Liz.

  It doesn’t help that when I walk out of the theater there’d be a twenty-foot billboard in Times Square with her face smiling slyly down at me. It doesn’t help that the critics can’t stop comparing any new play I direct with that first play. She’s like the poet’s voiceless ghost, facing round about me everywhere.

  “So, I’ll get these back to Natalia ASAP,” Debra announces, interrupting my thoughts. “Don’t forget, you’re attending Celeste Granger’s party later this evening.”

  I grimace. “That’s today?”

  She gives me an exasperated frown. “Yes.”

  I respect Celeste Granger. She’s a talented performer, and her soirees are legendary—a way for industry heavyweights to socialize and make deals over cocktails and aperitifs. She always invites me, and I’d agreed to attend this one, though I’m already regretting that decision.

  “Everybody who’s anybody will be there,” Debra tells me, “and it wouldn’t hurt you to socialize a little.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” I drum my fingers on the surface of my desk, pensive, and unsure why. It feels like there’s a storm cloud in the air, about to burst.

  My eyes go to the documents now tucked under Debra’s arm. I never sign contracts without a thorough vetting by my lawyers and myself. I’ve also met with Natalia Barrow, the producer, over the last few weeks, to discuss the play, logistics, auditions, everything…and yet now that I’ve signed the contract I feel like there’s something I’ve missed, something significant that I won’t like.

  “Do you need anything else?” Debra asks, no doubt eager to run off to her boyfriend in Brooklyn and indulge in a few hours of eye-rolling about her privileged yet bad-tempered boss. Not that I blame her.

  Just then, the door to my bedroom opens. I don’t turn to look, but Debra’s eyes follow Claire as she emerges fully dressed and walks over to my chair.

  “Hi, Claire,” Debra’s voice is dry. She doesn’t like Claire. Hell, it’s not even settled that she likes me.

  “Hey.” Claire acknowledges her, then kisses me on the lips. After our lunch date, which occurred mostly in my bed, she’s ready to get back to work at the reputable art gallery where she’s a curator. “See you tonight?” Her eyes are questioning.

  I shake my head. “I have a thing.”

  “Oh.” Her smile stays on and she looks from me to Debra. “Call me, then.”

  As soon as the door closes behind her, Debra makes a sound in her throat. “She lives here now?”

  “You know she doesn’t.”

  She smirks. “You should give her a key. She looks like she wants a key.”

  “Maybe, I will,” I reply, glaring at my assistant. In the seven years since Liz, there have been a few women. Like me, they soon realized there would be no one else for me, and that to me, love, commitment, and all that forever stuff would always be little more than bullshit. Claire is the most recent, and she knows that anything more than sex is off the table.

  “That will be the day.”

  “It’s none of your business, Deb, but we’re just casual and it’s fine.”

  “Does she know?” Debra sings under her breath, then grins and taps the folder she’s holding. “I’ll take care of this…and don’t forget…Celeste Granger.”

  I wave her away. “I’ll be there.”

  After she’s gone, I leave my desk, walking barefoot across the large space that is both living room, kitchen and office. There’s coffee brewing on the counter, and I pour a large amount into a plain white mug.

  Why am I on edge?

  Maybe because she is in town. It’s impossible to be unaware when one of the biggest Hollywood stars is in your city. Social media, magazine headlines, even news websites all conspire to feed people information they don’t need, like the fact that Liz McKay has set her dainty little feet in Manhattan.

  Her dainty little lying and betraying feet.

  I hate that I care. I hate that I pored over the articles speculating about her reasons for being in the city. I hate the longing that gripped me when I saw the pictures of her emerging from the building on Fifth Avenue where her dad, Dennis McKay has lived for years.

  What is she doing here?

  There are unconfirmed rumors that she pulled out of her latest project, an action blockbuster starring her ex-fiancé. I’ve tried not to care, but I can’t stop wondering why she’s been in town for almost a week now.

  “I don’t care.” I say the words out loud, as if that will make them true.

  I don’t care.

  Except, I do.

  “I’m so excited to meet you,” a girl in a tight red dress squeaks at me, thrusting her breasts in my face.

  The living room of Celeste Granger’s spacious apartment is buzzing with people and conversation. Soft music flows out from hidden speakers, and servers weave through the guests with trays of champagne. I smile drily at the girl in front of me. “Of course, you are.”

  Undeterred by my lack of interest, she tries again. “I love your work!”

  “Oh, you do?” I lean close. She smells like anti-perspirant and heavy perfume. “Tell me, which of my plays do you just love the most?”

  “All of them,” she breathes. “I’m an actress.” She thrusts out the breasts again, more vehemently this time. “I’ve always wanted to work with you. You’re an icon.”

  I am bored. “You’re trying too hard, and yet not hard enough.” I walk away, taking only a few steps before I feel a hand on my arm.

  “Aidan!” It’s Celeste, resplendent in a glittery black dress. She looks gorgeous, and she knows it.

  With a delighted laugh, she kisses both my cheeks. “I think someone is unhappy with you,” she declares, her eyes on the girl I’ve just abandoned. “You’re not nice to anyone, Aidan. Not the starlets, not the producers, not even the investors. Why?”

  “I am nice to you.”

  “Not as nice as I’d like.” She winks and raises a finger to stroke my face. “Why don’t you stay after the party? Let’s have a party of our own.”

  It’s not the first time she’s propositioned me, and even though she is older by a couple of decades, she’s still one of the sexiest actresses on the stage. I’m not tempted to take her up on her offer though. After Liz, there have been no more actresses.

  “Celeste,” I give her a gentle smile. “I’m working tonight.”

  She sighs and motions for a waiter to bring refills for both our drinks. Someone shouts her name from across the room and she waves at him, then turns back to me and leans close. “So…” she whispers. “A little bird told me you’ve agreed to direct Break of Day.”

  I raise my brows, impressed. “Why am I surprised at how fast word gets around in this town?”

  “Not around.” She shrugs. “You know me, Aidan. I have my sources.”

  “Your sources are right.”

  “You haven’t cast Lillie, have you?” She gives me a mischievous look. “I’m almost too old, but I could pull it off.”

  My expression is incredulous. “Old? You?”

  She laughs. “Flatterer. I wouldn’t play Lillie for the world. While my peers are trying to get parts meant for ingénues, I’ve cornered the market on the mature roles. Better to be the sexy
older woman than the stiff arthritic ingénue, don’t you think?”

  “What can I say, Celeste? You’re always miles ahead of the rest of us.”

  “And you’re always so charming.” She chuckles. “Anyhow, what’s this I hear about the investor’s choice for the role.”

  I frown and sip my scotch. “What do you mean?”

  “I hear they are pushing for someone big. Liz McKay kind of big. Although why they would trust her with such a part with her limited experience on the stage…and after what happened the last time...”

  Celeste keeps talking, but I can’t hear a word. My blood is pounding through my veins in a deafening rush. It’s not possible. It can’t be.

  But deep down, I know it’s true.

  My vision fills with her face, my mind with her name. Regret, fury, longing and loss race uninhibited through my system. Fuck her! My fingers tighten around my glass and I take a deep breath, loosening my grip and downing the contents in one gulp.

  Celeste is still waiting for me to confirm the rumor. I shrug, injecting my action with a nonchalance I don’t feel. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Given your history, I would have thought…” She doesn’t finish. A noted theater critic joins us and I half-listen as he goes on about a piece of gossip in which I have zero interest.

  I am fuming. My mind is churning. Fuck Natalia for trying to blindside me and fuck Liz. I’d swallow an anaconda on live television before I ever work with her again. In fact, I’d let the anaconda swallow me, if it meant never ever seeing her face again.

  Screw her and the jet she arrived in.

  Someone else joins us, then another. An actor says something to me about one of my plays. I give him a mechanical reply and move away from the crowd, going to the temporary bar set up in one corner of the room. The barman pours me another scotch and I cradle the glass, wondering how many I’ll need to wipe the thought of Liz from my mind.