The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella(11)

I turn, bracing myself for the impact of his eyes. “Please. Just go. I can’t…” I trail off at the sudden fierceness of his expression.

“Is this punishment?” he asks roughly. “For what happened?”

I don’t bother feigning ignorance. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He lifts his hands, palms up. Perfectly, mouthwateringly naked and comfortable with it. Not that he has a damned thing to be insecure about.

“Candace, I’m standing here because I want a chance. I want to repair the mistake I made as a dumb kid. I want to make you happy. Will you let me try?”

I laugh—it’s a horrible and cruel response, but totally irrepressible. He flinches, hands falling. “You can’t make me happy, Sebastian,” I say in my hardest voice. Cut glass. “The only thing you do is make me crazy and give me orgasms.”

The mask of indifference slides over his face. Even knowing I’m responsible for it, it hurts. Without another word, he walks to his clothes. He pulls on his jeans and sweater, shrugs into his jacket, then sits on the bed to tie his boots. His movements are economical, swift but without urgency.

He pauses on the threshold of the bedroom. “Follow me out and lock the door behind me.”

I follow him. He doesn’t look back once, doesn’t say goodbye. I close and lock the front door and lean my forehead to the wood. The Harley roars to life. I listen to the purr of its engine as it fades, then walk numbly to the second bedroom. I crawl between sheets that don’t smell like sex and Sebastian.

I don’t cry, and as dawn takes the sky, I sleep.





8





I spend Sunday almost exclusively horizontal, ignoring Vera’s phone calls and watching old Westerns. Early that evening, she finds me in rare vertical form, standing like a zombie in my bedroom with crumpled bedsheets held to my nose.

Not one of my finer moments.

After I spill the proverbial beans—all twenty years’ worth—she orders Chinese delivery and we watch Braveheart. No lectures, tears, or man-hating commences. She knows me too well for that. I need time to process what happened last night before attempting to articulate feelings.

Monday morning, I rejoin the human race.

At nine thirty, I drive to UCLA to give a lecture on nonprofit work to a group of bored seminar students. It’s not something I love doing, but the potential reward keeps me coming back every semester. Although slim, there’s always a chance someone in the audience will consider giving money or time to a worthy cause.

Jonathon Feldman, the professor whose class I’m here to hijack, is waiting for me outside the lecture hall. Already, there’s a heavy buzz of noise from within. He grins as I approach, blond head tilting to the side.

“Going for the naughty teacher look, I see.”

I laugh and give him a hug. We were undergrads together, and even dated for a few weeks before realizing we were better off as friends.

Jonathon kisses my cheek as we separate. “Candace, thank you.”

“Anything for you.”

He taps the contemporary, black-framed glasses on my nose. “Is this outfit for me?”

I smack his hand away. “It’s for your students.”

“Well, it’ll certainly keep the male population riveted.”

I wink. “And whatever keeps the males riveted will interest the females.”

He chuckles and takes my arm, steering me into the hall. The chaos of disjointed conversations shifts, aligning on speculation. They know who I am, of course. I attend a lot of events, which translates to my picture showing up in the tabloids. Usually back pages—I’m not high drama enough.

Jonathon escorts me onto the stage and to the podium.

“All right, class,” he says, his firm voice quieting the auditorium in seconds. “Many of you know her last name—or her father’s, I should say, as Hughes Hall is named for him.” Polite laughter sounds, as well as a smattering of derisive snorts. “What you might not know is that the woman beside me is one of the foremost fundraising giants in Los Angeles. What does this mean? I’ll let her tell you. Please give a warm welcome to Ms. Candace Hughes.”

Butterflies cartwheel in my stomach, then fade as I step up to the microphone. “Hi there. Does anyone know what the word philanthropist means?”

A few hands go up. Someone shouts, “You’re rich!”

Everyone laughs, including me.

“Actually, you don’t have to have money to be a philanthropist. Quite literally, the word means lover of men.”

And… they’re mine.



After the lecture, Jonathon takes me to an early lunch. We reminisce about college years. I tease him for never having left, and he teases me for dating like I never did.

Mid-meal, my phone rings. I almost ignore it, but Jonathon waves nonchalantly.

“Lifestyles of the rich and famous,” he says in a godawful accent.

I smirk and dig my phone out of my purse. The number on the screen belongs to Charity House, an organization with several women’s recovery centers in Los Angeles. They also run a handful of other projects, all catered toward victims of domestic violence, addiction, and the affected families and children.

“This is Candace.”

“We have a problem,” says Bethany Wright, the head of the gala committee.