The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (21)

It must be hard to look at him every day, to know that everything in your life is due to the hard work of another man. And no matter how hard you strive, no matter how much you achieve, in your heart you’ll always question how much of it was due to you. Hard to be faced with that kind of legacy every day.

But here I am feeling sorry for a billionaire.

I study Robert’s features again as he looks up at the screens and feel the strangely familiar ache of excitement I felt the first night I met Edward.

That dangerous fizzle of possibility. A desire to possess, to be possessed. To smell him, feel him, close. I feel a blush rising up my neck and try to shake off the thought. I know it’s deeply inappropriate; a sharp twang of guilt pelts me from within for my thoughts. I love Edward, I am here because of Edward, and I know the only reason I am feeling this right now is because the man sitting in front of me reminds me so much of the man I love. But with a thrill of something else.

After a moment he looks back at me. I wonder if he can read my thoughts, if he can feel this strange pull between us too.

Shut up, Harriet.

God, I want him to like me. I’ve seen pictures of Robert as a young man; I’ve seen the magazine interview photos of him in the 1980s, lithe and dangerous in Wall Street double-breasted suits. But at sixty-five, his hair silvered, it’s clear that right now is his real peak.

There’s a gentle knock on the study door.

“Come in, James,” Robert calls, breaking the silence. I look away as the butler glides in with our drinks, certain he can read every one of my inappropriate thoughts.

“The Fonseca ’84, sir,” James says placing the bottle down on the table. “The family has withdrawn to the drawing room, sir.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, James,” Robert answers absentmindedly, thumbing his cigar.

“Not a problem, sir. Is there anything else I can get you?” James asks, eyeing me as I pour my tea.

“No. That will be all, thank you, James,” Robert says, looking up now and noticing James’s gaze. “And close the door on your way out,” he adds curtly.

As the study door closes, Robert’s focus returns to me. “I’ll be honest with you, Harriet—having determined, as we have, that we both value honesty, I’ll share the truth about my son.” He pauses for a moment, taking a swig of his port. “I am sure he’s told you; we’ve had our problems. But I want to be clear about things with you. To be clear for you.”

“Of course. I appreciate that,” I say. “He’s told me a little. About previous relationships—I know things have been difficult between you and him.”

“Do you?” he asks. “I wonder.” That wolfish smile again.

I feel that dark tug of desire again. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is it normal to fancy your father-in-law?

No.

But then look at him. That little tell behind his eyes, that world-weary calm, the feeling that at any moment he could switch on me, the tone could change, and a man like him would have the power, the ability, to do almost anything and get away with it. I don’t see how that couldn’t be both terrifying and intoxicating. Edward has it too, that deep undertow of power, that sense that I may not be good enough, smart enough, quick enough to live in his world.

He studies me, in my silence. “You love him? My son?” I feel a knife twist of guilt at my thoughts, their direction.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “More than anything.”

Robert’s expression softens. “Be careful of that: ‘more than anything,’?” he warns. “Never quantify.”

“Why?” I ask.

“As the saying goes: If you can measure it, you can manage it. People can rarely be managed.” He lets the words settle before continuing with a boyish grin. “Oh, I read your book by the way.”

I feel suddenly exposed. The fact that he has read my book puts me firmly on the back foot. Which I imagine was the idea. I’m learning very quickly that Robert likes to play linguistic games. He’s testing my boundaries, mapping my character.

“I enjoy a thriller every now and then,” he continues with a wry smile. “Fictional horror as a balm for the everyday sort.” He takes a long puff on his cigar. “You’re good at it. Telling stories. Untangling them.” He dips his head at me in congratulations. “It’s hard to surprise me…but you did,” he adds lightly.

I sink into the warmth of the compliment.

“Thank you.” I hear my tone veering toward the edge of flirtation. I need to work on my poker face—then again, judging by the reemergence of his grin, perhaps I don’t. He’s enjoying whatever strange game we’re playing as much as I am.

“You liked it, then?” I ask, every nerve in my body alive to his response. “The twist?”

The curl of his lip, the tap of ash into an ashtray, the slow release of rich tobacco smoke.

His eyes level with mine. “I did. Very much. You’re clever, very clever, young Harriet, but I suspect you already know that, don’t you?” He pauses before adding, “We could certainly use another clever girl in the family.”

Girl. I know my feminist hackles should rise but they don’t. There’s something in his tone as he says it, something incredibly self-aware, the noun carrying a respect I haven’t often heard it imbued with. I think of the women who work for him, with him—perhaps he’s come to recognize the no-frills, relentless efficiency of female energy.