Chapter 8

Emily

Disgust.

My father didn't need to highlight his anger and disappointment more than he already had inside the SUV that had brought us to the concert. He'd brought me roses, something he never did, tossing them in my face, his first words of utter disbelief that I'd made three mistakes.

I never made mistakes.

I'd been punished for making one during the years of forced practice; three would have meant being locked in my room for a solid week.

I'd never felt so small or so inept in my life, my blasphemous performance something I would never forgive myself for.

It didn't matter I'd received a standing ovation, both Mr. Romero and the conductor conveying how thrilled they'd been. I'd fucked up. I wasn't good enough.

I'd never be good enough.

Not like my mother had been.

My father stormed into the house, tossing his jacket on the chair in the entrance foyer. Our housekeeper would be forced, as usual, to hang it up in the morning for him.

I hung mine up like a good girl, taking my time doing so before heading to his office to find out whatever my punishment was going to be.

He was pacing the floor like he did when he was furious. I was forced to wait for a full three minutes before he finally walked to his bar, yanking one of the crystal glasses into his hand. He slammed it onto the bar, which made me jump. As he grabbed the bottle of scotch, he threw me a look over his shoulder. Then he laughed as if I was nothing but a trivial interruption.

There was nothing I could say without evoking more of his wrath. After he powered down half the glass, he finally turned toward me.

I'd known for years my father hated me but, on this night, I sensed the man despised me. Why had he bothered to keep me in his house, to feed and clothe or educate me? My aunt had offered to allow me to come live with her, especially after my… episodes of anger and depression, my father still traveling every week. He'd refused. Why? Maybe because to him, I'd been nothing but a possession my entire life.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" he asked. While his voice was quieter than normal, his anger was ripe and right under the surface.

I brushed a strand of hair from my perspiring face, trying to figure out the right way to answer him. "I was trying to do my best, Father. To make you proud."

He laughed as he always did when someone made what he considered to be a stupid statement. "You failed." His hateful glare remained and it was one of those times I couldn't imagine what my mother had seen in the man.

He's your father. Show some respect.

No. I was over that.

"Well, I'm so sorry you disagree, Daddy dearest, but sometimes pressure can get to even a girl like me."

"Show some fucking respect," he snarled, suddenly acting almost sheepish, which my father never did. "What do you mean a girl like me?"

"I mean," I dared say to him as I walked a little closer, feeling as if I'd entered the den of a viper. Maybe I should take my father's lead, turn into a cold-hearted bitch. "Finally accepting my father doesn't give a shit about me. That will make all these… disappointments that much easier to handle instead of worrying what the great Gideon Martin thinks. You don't care about me, Daddy. You never have. I'm just a reminder of everything you lost, the only thing you could possibly love other than yourself." Although I wasn't certain about that.

I could swear the man was going to backhand me, but I stood my ground, refusing to kowtow to his hatred or violence. No man was ever going to terrify me again.

He took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds. When he exhaled, the sound wasn't like anything I'd ever heard from him. If I didn't know better about the glorious man, I'd say he had a sense of remorse in the strangled sound.

Nah.

Not possible.

"I do care about you, Emily. And of course you remind me of your mother. She was the most precious thing in my life. You look exactly like her, perfect in every way. Only you're not her."

Maybe I should get out my violin and play him a little sappy tune.

He was such a horrible man, so selfish in every way. God, I hated him.

"Don't you think I know that? You wish I'd been the one who'd been murdered. Not her."

I knew he wasn't really saying the words about me, the wistful, haunted look I'd seen more times than I could count, although he didn't allow me to see the pain in his expression openly.

"That's not true. I miss her, Em. I really do."

Tell me another lie, Daddy.

"So do I. I wish every day I could have taken her place."

"Never say that!" He pointed his finger at me, suddenly so angry his body was shaking. "Never. You are a precious woman and you deserve to live your life the way you want to."

"Then stop treating me like a little girl. I'm all grown up."

He threw back the rest of his drink, still shaking from rage. "Who gave you the fucking flowers? Do you have a boyfriend? I need to know."

Just like that, the tiny bit of closeness he'd allowed me to see was gone. Vanished in the blink of an eye. I thought about the dozen white roses, the beautiful red ribbon attached and the card with a few little words written in gold calligraphy.

From an admirer.

They were from him, my stalker. I was certain of it. I'd been right and he'd been watching me.

Forever watching me.

"No. I don't have a boyfriend. Boys are terrified of you, Daddy. Didn't you know that? They won't get within two feet. I have no clue who sent them. Except maybe that instructor who adores me."

He gritted his teeth. "I should have that man fired. Or maybe I should handle him my way."

His way. Maybe he would have one of what my friends called his goons take care of Mr. Romero in a permanent fashion. What a lucky girl I was.

"Well, don't worry and don't bother. I've graduated. I never need to see him again."

"If you're hiding something from me, I will find out. Look what happened to Karen's boyfriend."

"It's Cara's, Daddy. Cara. The only girl who's ever been to this house. She's devastated and I understand, Daddy. But his death had nothing to do with me."

"Don't be na?ve, Emily. What happened has everything to do with who you are."

"You mean who you are. As you've told me time and time again, I'm nothing."

Another glaring look was slanted in my direction. At least I was managing to stand up to the bastard.

The slight buzzing of his phone kept him from going on and on about how embarrassed he'd been because of me. As he glared at the recent text, his jaw was more clenched than it had been before.

After he quickly shoved his phone into his pocket, he tossed back the rest of his drink, once again slamming the glass on the bar before heading toward the door to his office. "I have business I need to take care of."

"What about dinner?" I didn't bother turning around but I sensed almost immediately he'd stopped in the doorway.

"I think you should take some time to practice tonight. Don't you? You don't want to disappoint the world stage like you did to me tonight. And don't leave this house. We're not finished with this conversation."

Of course we weren't.

He left. He simply left me standing in the middle of his office as if dismissing me.

My thoughts drifted to the beautiful flowers that he'd made me leave in the car. If I knew him, he was taking his Ferrari tonight, not the town car he had us driven around in as if we were some kind of celebrities. We weren't. He was just a thug in expensive clothing.

His business was far more important than spending time with his own daughter. But in truth, I was grateful he was gone.

I took a deep breath, fisting my hands. After that, I did something that shocked the hell out of me. I stormed toward his bar, grabbing the same bottle of scotch, unscrewing the top then wrapping my lips around the rim. As I sucked down a good amount, I thought about how much money I was costing him.

I hoped it was in the hundreds of dollars. The fucking asshole deserved it. I continued chugging until I felt a presence in front of me. Suddenly, a hand was wrapped around the bottle and I allowed Jessup to take it from me. Only then did I realize how much I loathed the taste of the nasty liquor.

"For what it's worth, you did great tonight," Jessup said in his usual deep voice. In his arms was the bouquet of white roses.

"Not good enough for my father." I took them from him, bringing the bunch to just under my nose. As I took a deep whiff, I sensed he was watching me closely. Maybe he was jealous. Maybe I could have a little affair with him. Wouldn't that get under my father's skin?

"Your father is an asshole." His growl brought me back to reality.

I was shocked Jessup of all my father's men would say anything against his longtime employer. That had never happened before. I threw him a look, bursting into laughter. "Yes, he is. Isn't he?" I fingered the velvety petals, allowing myself to wonder once again what my stalker looked like.

Was he as handsome as I expected?

Was he debonair, wearing the most expensive clothes or did he dress in tight jeans and tee shirts?

Did he crave talking with me and touching me as much as I'd found myself doing with him?

Maybe I was being a silly little girl. There was no such thing as a real life fairy tale or prince ready to sweep me off my feet. There were only nightmares and monsters.

He smiled, which was also rare. If you looked up the definition of brooding in the dictionary, you'd find his picture front and center. After screwing on the top of the liquor bottle, he placed it back in the exact position my father had left it in.

Jessup was well aware of my father's anal tendencies, the man knowing instantly when something was out of place.

"The flowers were a lovely gesture," he said quietly.

"Unlike the ones my father threw in my face. I hate that man. I fucking hate him. He wishes I was never born."

"Don't say that."

I glared at him. "Why? You and I both know it's true. He's a monster, Jessup. The lives he takes, the companies he destroys. The men he orders murdered. My mother was the only thing to bring out any humanity in him. But not long enough to change him." As soon as I made the statement, I sensed Jessup wanted to say something to me. But he also knew his place. He couldn't talk business, or my father would cut off his ear or worse.

"I'm sorry about how your father treated you. He was just… He's had a lot on his mind."

He'd become the master of hiding behind the necessity of survival. If only I could learn the same thing. I had to keep thinking about my future. I was getting out of my father's clutches once and for all. Only if I could manage to play the game a little longer.

I looked into Jessup's eyes. "He's a dangerous man who enjoys destroying people for a living, feeding off their misfortune and gloating about it. Why do you think he's such a wealthy man, Jessup? And don't look shocked. I'm not as na?ve as everyone obviously thinks I am. I know people disappear around him. His enemies. Hell, he doesn't have any friends because no one could stand him." I noticed a slight hint of amusement in the man's eyes. I never talked that way about such a powerful man with his soldiers.

Christ. Like the man was preparing for war.

He snorted then covered his mouth. "He's not all bad, Emily."

"Really? I think he's much worse."

I could tell he knew he'd crossed some line, looking away while wearing a sheepish look on his face. Just like the one I'd caught my father wearing. I knew that would never happen again.

"Why don't you go to bed? You've earned a good night's rest."

His suggestion was heartfelt, but the truth was, I needed to release some tension. "I think I'm going to play for a little while."

The way he looked at me conveyed sadness, not for himself but for the woman he was in charge of protecting. I hadn't broached the subject as to whether one or both of my bodyguards were headed with me to New York. It hadn't dawned on me until now.

"Just remember how brilliant you are, Em. Please?" He reached out as if to touch my hair then fisted his hand, turning his head immediately. "Your mother would have been so proud of the woman you've become."

"Thank you. I'm glad you were there tonight."

There was an awkward moment that drifted between us, something that had started only a year before. I knew he was attracted to me, but he'd have a bullet in his head if he dared act on his desires. Still, the way he looked at me tonight was exactly what I had imagined the stalker doing. It was irrational for me to be thinking that way. Jessup was a good man. The stalker was a monster. I had to remind myself of that little ugliness.

"I retrieved the roses your father gave you as well. They're in your room."

"Thank you." You should have dumped them on the side of the road. I had every intention of trashing those, putting the white ones in their place.

"Carson and I were instructed to check the perimeter of the estate while your father is gone. If you need anything, just text me. And Emily. Be careful what secrets you keep. One day I might not be there to protect you."

"Stop worrying, Jessup. As I told my father tonight, I'm all grown up now. I think I can handle being alone for a little while."

He grinned and gave me more of his usual professional nod before walking out. I turned in a full circle before leaving my father's office, walking slowly toward the conservatory, a name my father had used when my mother had practiced inside the room. It had been my comfort zone for as long as I could remember, the room in the house where I felt closest to her.

I wasn't certain why I hadn't told them or anyone else what I'd suspected had happened the night I'd found her… bloodied body. I'd also wondered why I hadn't mentioned I thought someone had been inside our house, other than for the first time in my life, I had something of my own, a little secret that no one else knew about.

Secrets and lies. Weren't they the things movies were made of?

As I walked into the room, only turning on a single light, I was struck by how different it felt tonight. Maybe because another storm was approaching, the hint of lightning coming in through the large picture window attacking my senses. Or maybe because I'd worked my entire life to get into a fabulous music school and to be accepted as a performer. I'd accomplished both feats, enjoying the applause and the quiet reverence I'd seen every time I finished a concerto or prelude, but the accolades meant nothing.

Not without the approval of my dad.

Maybe that's why the ache of missing my mother was even more significant. My feet felt as leaden as they had when walking across the stage after the standing ovation had concluded.

As I sat down, another flash of bright neon light drew my attention. I eased the bouquet onto the top of the glistening piano, wondering how long the housekeeper took to polish the ebony surface.

I lifted my head as I pressed the tips of my fingers to the keys of the baby grand, curious if he was out there.

If he was still watching.

Or if he, like my father, was disgusted with me. Disappointed in me.

As I began to play, I allowed myself to become lost in the music. It was another Rachmaninoff piece, another moment where the world faded, replaced by the darkness of sin and shame, a foretelling moment lingering in the haunted music. I'd always chosen such pieces, becoming lost in them easily.

It was more so tonight. I closed my eyes, reeling from the evening, from the understanding that my life was about to change once again. No longer was I just a girl protected in a warm cocoon but a woman with needs and desires, a longing to see the world for what it truly was.

The music spoke to my soul, the endless tickling of the ivories creating a dull hum inside my head. Images played out in the shadows of my mind, as dark and demanding as the rest of my life had been. Only this time, I was allowing myself to surrender to the madness of it all.

As the crescendo increased much like the tempo, I started to feel rage, taking it out on the keys, my body swaying back and forth from the force I was using. My mind was suddenly a blur, my fingers flying. I felt more alive than I had in years, enjoying the moment as if I was lost in the woods, a notion of the story the great composer told.

It was spectacular, as if I couldn't be stopped. I smashed my hands down, taking gasping breaths as I neared the end.

And when I was finished, I remained breathless, locking in a moment where my imagination was better than life itself. After glancing at the roses, I lowered my head, keeping my fingers placed on the keys out of reverence and out of thankfulness that my playing had pulled me out of the terrible tragedy of insanity.

But was it enough to hold in the future?