IGNITE : A BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE Page 2
“Johnathan…it’s been….”
“Years,” he laughs. “Yeah.”
“What are you doing here?”
He waves over his shoulder. “My wife is on the charity committee. You know…finding something to fill her time other than spending my money.” His grin is smug and I remembered exactly how much I used to dislike him at college.
“Well, it’s a worthy cause.” I glance to the side and catch sight of Analie taking her seat. I’d much rather be sitting over there with her, passing the evening with some more delightfully flirtatious conversation.
“So, are you married?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Still enjoying playing the field,” I say dryly.
“Whatever happened to that girl you were dating…what was her name?”
My gut clenches. This is the last thing I need right before I’ve got to get up on stage. I can’t even bring myself to say her name.
“Sorry, Johnathan. I’ve got to get backstage.” I wave in the direction of the door. “I’m presenting some awards.” I have no idea if he knows what happened to Bethany or not. I suppose even if he did know at the time he might have forgotten by now. One man’s tragedy can be another’s fading memory.
“Always did like to be the center of attention,” he says. The spite is not lost on me.
“As I said, it’s a very worthy cause.”
I don’t shake his hand before I walk away, etiquette be damned.
My whole body feels off kilter. A conversation shouldn’t have this effect on me. I know this. Especially after so many years, but all it takes is the mention of Bethany and I feel as though I can’t breathe. I feel as though I’m back there again.
I push the door to the backstage area way to hard and almost hit a woman who’s coming in the opposite direction. I mutter a ‘sorry’, the head to where the charities Chairman is standing.
“Robert, I was about to send out a search party,” he says jovially.
“Have I ever let you down?” I ask.
He shakes his head and pumps my hand up and down in a very vigorous handshake.
“No time for pleasantries,” he says and then he’s climbing the steps to the stage.
I don’t take in what he’s saying. My arms hang limply at my sides and shove my hands into the pockets of my dress trousers, taking a few deep breaths to try and steady my heart.
This is my penance.
3
Analie
I watch Robert walk away, studying his purposeful gait, realizing suddenly that as a major donor he might be one of the people making speeches. He makes his way towards the stage, shaking hands with another tall, suited masked man on the way. The conversation looks friendly to start with but as I’m almost at my table, I catch his change of expression and the way he walks away without seeming to say goodbye.
I say a polite hello to those already seated at my table and perch on the edge of my seat so I have a good view of the stage. I find that I’m nervous for Robert. It’s odd to feel this way about someone I barely know.
The room goes dark and then a spotlight forms in the center.
The chairman of the charity, a balding retired surgeon who was famous in his day for pioneering skin grafting techniques, takes the stage and begins talking about the charity and its work. I zone out, having already attended the event for the past few years and heard this speech. Instead, I scan the audience. A few of my colleagues and peers are dotted around the cavernous room, and some of my patients too. I recognize representatives from the big pharmaceutical companies as well. I've been schmoozed by one or two of them at past events and know who to avoid later.
When the chairman’s finished I join the crowd in a round of applause. He goes on to explain that it was the part of the evening to present awards to the individuals who have made the best efforts at fundraising for the charity in the past twelve months. "It is my pleasure to introduce Robert Harrington, whose significant contribution to our charity makes a huge difference to those requiring our help.”
My heart skips in my chest as I wait for Robert to step out. He emerges from the shadows at the side of the stage, no longer wearing his mask, and it’s the strangest feeling to see his whole face, as though the mask had been concealing so much more than just a small patch of skin. Mask-less and in the spotlight, acting in a formal capacity he’s sharper somehow, edgier and more powerful looking, and my attraction to him is almost overwhelming. As he rests his arms on the lectern in front of him and looks out into the darkened banqueting hall, I’m mesmerized.
"It is my great pleasure to acknowledge two truly amazing people tonight; people who have taken time out of their lives to focus on raising money for this worthwhile charity. BRRR is a charity that is close to my heart and to the hearts of all of you here tonight. Without the contributions of fundraisers and donors, they would be unable to continue offering support to those affected by burns or supporting the pioneering research needed to improve treatment and recovery. The first recipient of an award tonight is just five years old. Jonah Sullivan's brother Joshua was hurt in a household accident. In the past year, he has managed to raise over $1,000 for BRRR by baking and selling cookies with his mom. Jonah is our youngest fundraiser. Please give our littlest supporter, with a huge heart, a big round of applause.”
The crowd goes wild, whooping and cheering for the tiny suited ginger-haired boy and his mom as they climbed onto the stage. Robert rests down on his haunches to put himself at eye level with the boy. Reaching out to shake his hand, Jonah looks fit to burst with pride. Robert ruffles Jonah’s hair and hands him a small silver cup that is tied with a ribbon in the yellow and blue colors of the charity. The mom leads him back across the stage and down the stairs and Robert claps with the crowd as Jonah returns to his seat.
Back at the lectern, Robert looks into the crowd again. "The next individual I am going to tell you about is a very special person indeed. She is not only our biggest individual fundraiser for this year but has achieved this accolade whilst going through treatment and recovery following her own personal experience with burns. Summer Michelson was injured in a domestic accident, suffering burns to 35% of her body..." Robert pauses and I notice his shoulders rise as if he’s taking a deep breath to calm himself. His voice wobbles as he continues. "That hasn't stopped her from raising $35,000 this year. An amazing achievement. Summer, come up here to receive your award."
I look to the side to see Summer, a patient of mine, rising to her feet slowly. I know she’s in pain. The grafts on her legs are still healing and the ones across her chest are stretched so tight that they might need to be redone. Her hair hangs loosely around her face in an attempt to conceal the splattered pattern of scaring across her face. I want her to square her shoulders and accept her award with her head held high. She’s amongst friends after all. But Summer shuffles towards Robert, shakes his hand and accepts the cup and then rushes back to her seat as fast as she can. I watch Robert as he stares after her, looking as though he wishes he was anywhere else but on that stage. When the clapping subsides and Robert seems to have regained some composure, he turns back to the crowd. "Don't forget that tonight is not just about recognizing the fundraising that has already taken place but about raising even more to support this amazing charity. Dig deep and give generously and enjoy the rest of the evening." He nods and then turns to exit the stage, his head bowed lower than it had been when he walked on. It’s as though his role in the proceedings has taken something out of him.
The DJ starts the music and staff begin to recirculate with drinks and nibbles on trays. I rise from my seat, keeping Robert within my sights and track him as he walks towards the champagne table, but then he shortens his step and changes direction, heading for the exit. I trot after him, thinking that maybe he’s heading for the restrooms, but when he passes through the doors to the banqueting suite he walks past them and towards the exit. Where is he going? I shake my head at the irony of me accusing him of being a stalker and here I a
m chasing him like a desperate school girl.
My gold sandals are starting to pinch but it doesn’t stop me from keeping up. Eventually, Robert makes it to the hotel lobby and then through the doors and out into the crisp night. I’ve left my shawl inside and it’s too cold to be out for long without it.
“Robert,” I shout as he stalks down the sidewalk. He turns at my call and his eyes widen when he sees me. “Is everything okay?”
“Analie, you should go back inside,” he says, running his fingers through his short dirty-blond hair, looking exasperated and coiled tight as a spring.
“Are you leaving?”
Robert looks back in the direction he’s been heading as though he isn’t really sure where he’s going. “I don’t know.”
I have no idea what’s going on with him but my professional brain is totally engaged by his erratic behavior and seemingly frayed emotions. “Why don’t you come back inside?” I say gently. “We can have another drink.”
His eyes lower to fix on the sidewalk. “I don’t know, Analie. I don’t really think I’m in the mood anymore.”
“Well, why don’t we grab a coffee then? Sober up before we hit the road.”
I step forward and reach out to touch his upper arm, wanting to calm him in any way I can. He looks down at me blankly. The wind whips past us, making me shiver. Robert must feel it and immediately starts to take off his jacket.
“Here,” he says, holding it out. “You’re cold. Put this on.”
“Thanks.” I slip my arms into the warm sleeves and snuggle into the material that smells of him. Without a jacket I can see that the fit of his dress shirt is impeccable too, tapering from his shoulders into his waist and showing off his physique perfectly. His expression is still grave, and he makes no move to go inside. He’s holding himself together, just, but I wondered how fractured he is beneath his attempt to present a controlled front.
“What happened? Why did you leave?” I ask gently.
“Don’t do that,” he says, looking away. “Don’t try and analyses me. I’m not one of your patients.”
“I’m not,” I say, a little shocked at the harshness of his tone. “You just seem upset and you told me we would meet up again after the speeches.”
He looks at me, eyes burning into mine. “I can’t…” he says, trailing off. I reach out to touch him, to offer him some comfort but he shrugs off my hand like I’ve burnt him.
“It is hard,” I say. “I know that. I work with burns patients every day and sometimes I find it difficult not to let it affect me.”
Robert turns from me as if my words have physically wounded him, clasping his hands behind his head as though he needs to physically brace himself against whatever is troubling him. I hate to see him hurting. The connection I felt with him while we danced tugs at my heart, raw and painful.
I reach out my hand and touch him in the middle of his back and that one split second of contact seems to flick a switch inside of him. Robert turns quickly, his shoulder nudging my hand away and then, before I know what’s happening, his mouth is pressed against mine hard enough to bruise. He kisses me with anger in a frenzy that I’ve never experienced before. One of his hands presses my hips against his body, the other grasps into my hair roughly, snagging against the mask I’m still wearing. For seconds my hands hang limply at my sides, and my eyes remain open in shock, but his passion is too much for me to resist and the empathy that I feel for him drives me to return his kiss.
Robert is tall and as he bends forward I’m forced to arch my back. His mouth presses against mine, tongue sliding inside in slick explicit strokes that I’m not prepared for but my body responds to. My heart beats so wildly I feel my pulse between my legs and in the tips of my fingers. Reaching out to grasp his face I try to pull back, just for a second, to get myself together. I want to pepper his face with tender kisses like a mother would for a fallen child. I want to smooth his hair and tell him everything is going to be alright.
But the tiny amount of space between us is enough to awaken him from his fever-state. He stares into my eyes, breathing fast, hand still holding me around the back of my neck and fingers digging into the flesh on my hips. We stand, frozen in time, wind gusting past, oblivious to what is going on around us. “Robert,” I say softly stroking the smooth skin at his temple. His hands moved to cup my face and I think he’s going to pull me towards him and kiss me again. Instead, he lifts my mask from my face and just like that, the moment we’ve shared burns away to nothing.
4
ROBERT
I can’t sleep. Guilt has a disgusting ability to gnaw a hole inside a person and I already had a cavern of emptiness in my chest.
I walked away.
I can’t believe that after that mind-blowing kiss I looked at her face and walked away.
Telling myself it’s the shock doesn’t do anything to make it better. I wasn’t expecting it. We were wearing matching masks after all and mine wasn’t concealing anything underneath it. I just…
I rub my hands over my face and curse again, remembering the hurt in her eyes when I’d seen her burns and obviously failed to disguise my shock. She looked wounded in a way that speared me inside. I’d done that. I’d taken the expression of soft concern, affection, and desire and twisted it into something sad.
My apartment is cool. The weather in New York turned weeks ago. Fall arrived, another year has passed and nothing is different. I still felt the same. Whoever says ‘time heals’ was a lucky bastard because it did nothing for me.
Tiredness resides like a fog in my head. Tiredness, weariness; I no longer remember what it feels like to be truly unburdened by memories. Ghosts are so heavy to bear.
I sip my coffee, holding the cup in both hands for the warmth. It’s dark and bitter, exactly the way I like it.
Exactly like me.
If I didn’t have plans I’d be tempted to stay in bed and try to lose myself in sleep but Aaron, my brother, is in town for the weekend and I’ve promised to entertain him. The last time we saw each other had been awkward and I’d been totally to blame. He’d given me a key to his apartment for emergencies and I should have announced my presence when he’d come home with a woman but I’d been amused listening to him flirting and before I knew what had happened they were fucking on the kitchen table. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed to watch but I’m a man and I’ve always loved winding Aaron up. It’s a brotherly thing.
Needless to say, the girl wasn’t happy, and Aaron was furious. We’ve made up since then, as we always do, but I want to smooth things over in person. He’s the one member of my family that doesn’t hassle me about my life and for that, I’m immensely grateful.
The rest of them seem desperate to point out my shortcomings at every opportunity. ‘Why aren’t you dating, Robert?’, ‘Why aren’t you working, Robert?’, ‘Why are you wasting your life, Robert?’ And the worst, ‘you need to get over Bethany, Robert.’ Like that’s the easiest thing in the world to do.
They have no idea.
I know I need to do something to apologize to Analie. It was unforgivable of me to leave her looking so crestfallen and not explain why I reacted the way I did. The problem is, I could never explain. It’s a part of my life I never speak of, the block inside me like a dam against all the emotions I’ve stuffed down undealt with. If nothing else, I can tell her I’m sorry, that I was drunk and upset by Summer and her obvious distress and that had clouded my responses. It was the truth in a way. At least, half of it.
Deciding to send flowers, I call the florist that I use each week for the lilies I keep in the foyer to remind me of Bethany. She takes down all the details and asks me what she should put in the bouquet. I ask for a wild-looking bunch; a mixture of unusual flowers in different colors because somehow that seems to fit with Analie.
In the card I dictate a short message; I’m sorry I left, Analie. I needed to get away but not for the reasons you think. You’re an amazing and beautiful woman, and I hope that you’ll fo
rgive me for my poor behavior after a very difficult night. Robert.
The florist agrees to deliver them later in the day to Analie’s department at the hospital. I’m not sure if she’s working but I hope she’ll receive them soon and understand.
After an egg white omelet and cooked tomatoes, I hit the shower. I’m not in the mood for my daily run. I know I’ll see too many friendly faces, the acquaintances that keep me busy without actually needing anything from me. The surface relationships with people like me. Trust fund kids. Lots of money and nothing to do with it except eat and drink and party. I’m good at living all my todays without ever thinking about the future. It’s as though my tomorrows had been stolen on that terrifying night. As though all my dreams disappeared.
Aaron calls me in the afternoon to say he’s flying in with his girlfriend and that they’ll take me for dinner. I have the whole day to fill so I head to my study and flip open my computer.
I first started writing fantasy stories in high school. It was something to do on nights when we were supposed to be studying. I always managed to complete my assignments quickly enough that I had plenty of time to spare. Aaron liked to read and I did too, but somehow my mind would always run away with me, trying to find a better ending to the popular books I read. The characters would stick with me for days, finding new adventures and relationships in my head. Eventually, I put pen to paper, mainly for my own amusement and I’ve never really stopped. I have so many completed stories on my laptop, some short but others that I’ve developed into full-length novels. Novels that I’ve never shown to anyone. Aaron knows it’s something I dabbled with as a teen but has never ask me about it in adulthood.
I have no intention of doing anything with them. Money isn’t a concern, coming from my family, and I don’t think my tales are good enough to put out for reader scrutiny. They’re my escape. A place I can lose myself, forget about the ghosts that cloud every day and slip into a new world. I give my character’s impossible challenges, make them face terrible tragedy and sadness and they always came through in the end. Maybe the happy endings I weave are evidence that I have hope for myself, however small and remote a possibility.