Exposed (Madame X, #2)(52)

“Good morning, Caleb.”

“Early for scotch, isn’t it?” Your voice, so calm, so deep, so deceptively hypnotic. Like staring into a sinkhole, unplumbed depths, darkness and mystery and danger.

I shrug. “I haven’t been to sleep yet, so it is late, for me.”

Your expression hardens at this. “I see. And how is Logan?”

“None of your concern,” I return. “What is your concern is that he told me how you got him put in prison.”

You smirk. “Ah. He told his side of the story, did he?”

“His side?”

A nod. “There are two to every story, aren’t there?” You swagger to me. Sit in the chair opposite mine, nearly empty water bottle in hand. “He went into the situation eyes open, Isabel. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into, but wasn’t smart enough to not get caught.”

“So what he told me is true.”

“Oh yes. Very much so. He was a pawn. I used him, kept him disposable, and let him take the fall when the SEC came knocking. I was grooming him for it the entire time, keeping him isolated, keeping him flush with cash, making sure he had the requisite skills to do what I needed. And he did. So I made use of him. Lured him in, hook, line, and sinker. And then, yes, I intentionally set him up to take his share of the blame when things went bust, as I always knew they would. And really, I didn’t set him up. I just made sure he was out in the open and I wasn’t. I didn’t accuse him of or frame him for anything he didn’t do. If you’re going to commit a crime, you have to plan on getting caught, and have a plan for getting away when you do. Your boyfriend was a sucker, Isabel. And if you’re expecting an apology or an explanation for that, or for any of the many ways I’ve made my fortune . . . well, don’t hold your breath. I will not apologize to anyone, not for anything.”

“I would never expect an apology from you, Caleb.”

“You know me better than that, obviously.”

“No one knows you, Caleb.”

You finish your water and crumple the bottle into a ball, twisting on the cap. “Not true. You know me. Better than anyone, I think.”

“Which is saying something, because you are a complete mystery to me.”

You merely breathe and stare at me for a while, and I merely breathe and stare back. I set my scotch down. I’ve had enough. I’ll need my wits about me for this, something tells me.

The silence extends. The history between you and Logan is irrelevant, really. It doesn’t concern me, or the crux of my problems. It’s rather underwhelming, actually.

“What do you want, Isabel?” you ask, eventually.

“I don’t know,” I say, truthfully. “I wish I did.”

I hand you my glass of scotch, but keep the cigar. It’s something to do with my hands, something to distract myself from your beauty. You take the tumbler and swirl the amber contents, toss back a sip. I watch your Adam’s apple bob as you swallow.

Your eyes pin me. “You do know, you’re just afraid to say it to me.”

Damn you for being right. “I want my freedom. I want to be . . . a real person. I want to love and be loved. I want a future.” I swallow hard against the hot stone of emotion searing my throat. “I want my past back. I want . . . I want to not need you. To not be addicted to you.”

“I will give you anything you ask me for, Isabel. I have never kept you prisoner. I kept you isolated, it is true. Sequestered, perhaps. But it was for your own good. And also, truthfully, because I am selfish. I do not want to share you. Not with anyone. Not any part of you. I must, however, so I do. I do not like it, but I do.”

“So if I asked you to have the microchip in my hip removed, along with any other means of tracking my whereabouts, would you do it?”

“Is that what you are asking me for?”

“Are you a djinn, that I must phrase my requests with precision so as not to be tricked?”

You smirk. “Yes, Isabel. I am a djinn. I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Humor? Sarcasm? I really do not understand you. “It feels that way, sometimes. The more I try to extricate myself from your clutches, the more deeply entangled in you I become. I am loath to ask you for anything, because then I will only be all the more indebted to you.”

“You owe me both everything and nothing.” You gaze down at the scotch and do not explain that statement any further.

I wait. Finally, I must break the silence. “That does not make any sense, Caleb.”

“It does, if you think about it. I created you in a sense, as we have both stated before. I was there when you woke up. I was there when you relearned how to walk and talk. I was there when you chose your name. I am woven into the fabric of your very personality. So yes, you owe me. But then again, you are a person, not a robot, not an object to be owned or made. So you owe me nothing. Some days I feel one way, some days the other.” You take another sip, still not looking at me.

“I want the chip out, Caleb.” I say.

You touch and swipe at the screen of your phone several times in quick succession, and then hold it to your ear. “Good morning, Dr. Frankel. I am well, and yourself? Good, good. I’m calling to see how soon you can be in New York. That facial reconstruction you did six years ago? The young woman? I would like you to reverse a certain element of that procedure. I’m sure you’re aware what I mean. Correct . . . I think ten million dollars is a little high, Doctor. How about two? Eight? I think not. It’s a very simple procedure, Doctor. It will take you twenty minutes at most. Fine, three, and I’ll arrange a night out with one of the girls to an exclusive club I know of. Very good. Tomorrow then. I’ll have Len meet you with the car at ten A.M. Eastern time, domestic arrivals at LaGuardia. Excellent. Thank you for your time, Dr. Frankel.” You end the call with a touch of your index finger, set the phone on the arm of your chair, and glance at me. “There. By noon tomorrow, the chip will be gone.”