Visions (Cainsville #2)(14)

I continued. “But you wouldn’t have abandoned me to my fate, would you? Because you were being paid to protect me.”

“That’s not—”

“The whole goddamned time, you were being paid to protect me!” My voice rang out along the street, and James moved forward, his hand going to my arm, but I stepped away and looked at Gabriel. “That’s why you stayed the other night. Why you were so goddamned insistent that I get a security system, and I thought, I actually thought . . .”

I couldn’t finish. I wouldn’t humiliate myself like that.

“Olivia.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “I can explain this. Give me five minutes. Please.”

“This is why you offered me the job, wasn’t it? Here I thought I’d accomplished the impossible. I’d impressed Gabriel Walsh. But that wasn’t it at all. You offered me that job so you could keep pulling in a paycheck from James, because you hadn’t finished your task. You hadn’t earned the bonus for getting us back together.”

“No, Olivia. No. That is not—”

“Is he lying?” I said. “Look me in the eye and tell me you did not agree to protect me.”

“Yes, I did, but that is not why—”

“Don’t.” I turned to James. That’s when I saw the reporting crew. Thirty feet away. Taping us.

Gabriel noticed them. “Let’s go talk—”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

I started walking away. Gabriel continued trying—give him five minutes, let him explain. He wouldn’t raise his voice, though, not with a camera crew right there, and as soon as I was out of earshot, he went silent.

“Come this way,” whispered a voice at my ear.

I looked over, and it took a moment to focus and realize James was beside me. Oh God, James . . .

“This way,” he said again, hand on my elbow.

The camera crew was bearing down now. They hadn’t dared approach with Gabriel there, but this was James Morgan, perfectly civilized, perfectly polite, perfectly unlikely to right-hook them if they got in his face.

“Mr. Morgan?” one called. “Ms. Jones?”

“Not now, please.” James put his arm around me and steered me across the road, calling to them, “This is a private matter. Thank you.”

The crew followed, the reporter calling questions. Shoes clomped on the pavement.

“Ms. Jones isn’t giving interviews,” I heard Gabriel say. “If you would like to speak about the developments in Pamela Larsen’s case, I can spare a minute.”

I didn’t look back.





CHAPTER NINE


If my car had been closer, I think I’d have climbed in and driven away with a distracted “I’ll call you later” for James. Fortunately, by the time we reached the VW, I’d recovered enough not to do anything so rude.

James suggested we go for coffee, and he insisted on driving. I was too shell-shocked to argue—with the coffee or handing over my keys. He drove me to a fancy shop tucked into a nearby pocket of gentrification. It was the kind of place I’d normally love—quiet and intimate. Today, though, I wished he’d just pulled into the nearest Starbucks.

I felt exposed here. A half-dozen people turned to watch me walk in. They knew who I was, from my picture in the papers. In the three weeks since the news broke, I’d been into the city almost daily. I’d probably been recognized every time, but after the first week I hadn’t given a shit. Why? Because Gabriel had been at my side, and his don’t-give-a-f*ck-what-you-think-of-me attitude had rubbed off.

With James, it felt completely different.

I’d been in the paper before this debacle. When you come from money, you attend events that get coverage. The only noteworthy thing I’d ever done, though, was getting engaged to James Morgan. CEO of Chicago’s fastest-growing tech firm. Son of a former Illinois senator. Fixture on the city’s most-eligible-bachelor lists. Now here he was telling me he hadn’t abandoned me. He’d only done what I asked and given me space.

“I know . . .” He exhaled and rubbed his thumb on his chin, a nervous gesture I knew well. “. . . what I did was wrong. Stupid. Hell, the only reason you’re sitting here right now is because you’re waiting for an explanation. Waiting for me to tell you how I can justify paying a guy to protect you.”

True, though I had an idea what that explanation would be.

He rubbed his chin harder, thumb pressing in. “This is embarrassing as hell, Liv. If I didn’t need to explain . . .”

“You do.”

His thumbnail absently nicked his lip, and he straightened abruptly. “He talked me into it. Which sounds like a lame excuse, but I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, because it’s damn humiliating. I walked into Walsh’s office knowing exactly what I wanted—to talk to you, apologize to you, be the man I hadn’t been when you needed me most. I walked in with a clear purpose . . . and an hour later I walked out having hired Gabriel Walsh to do that job for me. He made it seem . . .” James shoved back, chair legs squeaking. “Damn it, Liv. I feel like I was conned. I know that’s ridiculous. He’s an attorney, not a two-bit hustler.”

Actually, Gabriel was both. An attorney from a long line of hustlers. Earlier, when James said that Gabriel “convinced” him not to talk to me, I’d had a good idea how this had played out. Gabriel had seen the opportunity for profit and pounced. He’d made his case, and James had fallen for it, like so many before him. Like me.