Her Best Worst Mistake (16 page)

Not yet, anyway.

He cruised past, glancing at the
upstairs window. A shadow passed behind the curtain. He put his
foot on the brake, frowning. Violet
was
home, then. He checked his watch.
It was barely three. She’d clearly had a quick Christmas
celebration, like himself. Or perhaps her family had different
traditions. Maybe they did something in the evenings.

Two things came back to him then: the lack of
Christmas frou-frou in Violet’s apartment, and the way her body had
tensed for a few split seconds last night when he’d asked what she
was doing today.

He pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine.
Still frowning, he crossed the road and hit the bell.

“
Hello?” Her voice sounded odd over
the intercom.

“
Merry Christmas,” he
said.

There was a long pause. Then:

“
What are you doing
here?”

“
I’m on my way home. Buzz me
up.”

“
I’m on my way out.”

He tipped his head back, considering the blank
upstairs window. “No you’re not.”

Another long pause.

“
I’m not good company right
now.”

“
Perfect. Buzz me up,
Violet.”

He waited, his hand on the knob. He knew she’d let
him in. If it was her on his doorstep, he couldn’t deny her, and he
knew, in his gut, that she couldn’t deny him, either.

The door buzzed and he pushed inside. She waited at
the top of the stairs, framed by the doorway, her arms crossed over
her breasts, jaw set. She was wearing the same pajamas as last
night with an over-sized hoodie and big fluffy socks. Her eyes were
puffy, her hair pulled into lop-sided pigtails. There was a small
chocolate smear on her cheek and another on her top.

He paused on the top-most step, assessing her mood.
Lonely and sad with base notes of defiance, he decided.

“
What happened to dinner with the
relatives?” he asked.

“
Change of plans.”

Right.

“
Why do I get the feeling there were
no plans to begin with?”

That was what that moment of tension had been about
last night, of course. Twenty-twenty hindsight.

She didn’t bat an eyelid. “Does it matter?”

“
Yes. Definitely it matters that you
fully intended to spend Christmas day alone.”

“
It’s not a big deal. I do it every
year. It’s my thing.”

Six years he’d known her, and only in the past few
weeks had he started to understand her and know how to read
her.

“
Grab a shower,” he said, laying a
hand on her shoulder and turning her toward the bathroom. “I’m
taking you out.”

“
It’s Christmas Day. Nothing will be
open.”

“
You’d be surprised.”

He gave her a gentle shove. She dug her heels in.

“
I don’t want to go out.”

“
Tough.”

“
Martin—”

“
I’ll carry you in
there and hose you down like the shower scene from
First Blood
if I have
to.”

For the first time since he’d arrived her body
softened.

“
You’ve got five minutes,” he
said.

“
As if. Fifteen,
minimum.”

“
Ten.”

She was ready in twenty, emerging from her bedroom in
a pair of narrow-legged, skin-tight jeans, a red fluffy sweater,
and red patent leather stiletto boots. She smelled good, and her
hair hung loosely over her shoulders in soft waves.

“
If you take me to McDonalds, I’m
going to be really annoyed with you. Just so you know.”

“
Noted.”

He helped her into her jacket and wrapped her scarf
around her neck. She flicked a look up at him from beneath her
lashes and he saw the uncertainty in her. The doubt.

A completely unexpected wave of protectiveness washed
over him. He didn’t know what or who had wounded her and inspired
the puffy eyes and chocolate binge but he wanted to wrap her in his
arms and assure her that whatever it was, it would be all
right.

He contented himself with adjusting her scarf,
tugging her hair free from beneath it.

“
There,” he said.

Then he kissed her, one hand cupping the curve of her
cheek. She tasted of toothpaste and she leaned into him, one hand
fisting in the fabric of his sweater.

After a few seconds he broke the kiss, rubbing his
cheek against hers briefly before stepping back. “Come on.”

It was getting dark as they drove to Bloomsbury.
Violet gave him a look as he parked in the mews behind his
apartment.

“
I thought you were taking me
out.”

“
I am. This is out.”

“
I guess it’s better than
McDonalds.”

She’d never been to his apartment before and he was
aware of feeling nervous as she followed him through the door. By
her standards the dark leather club sofa and armchairs were
probably impossibly dull, as were the rust-colored velvet drapes.
One wall was given over to a built in book case, full of books and
various pieces of art and memorabilia he’d picked up over the
years. He watched as her gaze swept over it all, pausing here and
there.

“
Well?” he asked.

“
Better than I thought. At least you
haven’t got a stuffed deer’s head.”

“
Wait till you see the
bedroom.”

“
God, I hope you’re
joking.”

He walked through to the kitchen, shedding his coat
and leaving it draped over the back of one of the dining
chairs.

“
Oh, this is cool,” she said when
she caught sight of his Birdseye Maple Art Deco dining
suite.

“
I think so.”

She smoothed a hand over a curved, sinuous chair
back. “And here I was, expecting a baronial setting.”

“
I’m saving my pennies for
one.”

Her gaze sharpened as he started pulling food from
the fridge. A chicken, a cellophane sleeve of tarragon, potatoes,
baby carrots.

“
You’re cooking for me?”

“
That’s right.”

She took off her own coat and slowly unwound her
scarf. It was an innocuous enough move, but everything Violet did
was sexy and he felt himself growing hard.

“
Can
you cook?” she asked as she slid onto one of the
stools at the kitchen counter.

“
You’ll have to wait and
see.”

“
Can I have something to drink while
I wait?”

“
Help yourself.” He waved her toward
his wine fridge.

She crossed the room, checking the bottles through
the glass door.

She whistled. “You’ve got a Chateau Margaux in
here.”

“
Two, actually. We can open one if
you like.”

She grinned, shooting him a challenging look. “I
should hold you to that, just to teach you a lesson.”

He slid a drawer open and grabbed the bottle opener,
offering it to her. She stared at him.

“
That wine has to be worth
£500.”

“
Closer to £700,
actually.”

“
You seriously spent that much on a
bottle of wine?”

“
I did.”

“
Can I ask why?”

“
I thought it would make me a better
person.” He said it dryly so she’d know he was joking, but she
tilted her head to one side.

“
Did it?”

“
What do you think?”

“
I think you’ve always been a pretty
amazing person.”

They stared at each other for a long beat, the only
sound the ticking of the wall clock.

“
Pass me the bottle,” he
said.

She narrowed her eyes for a second. “You should know
that I always win games of chicken.”

He cocked an eyebrow. She shrugged and opened the
wine fridge, easing the bottle of Chateau Margaux from its cradle.
She handed it over with an I-dare-you glint in her eye.

He used the knife on the opener to slice through the
foil seal. She made a small, distressed sound in the back of her
throat.

“
You okay there?” he
asked.

“
No.”

He pressed the tip of the corkscrew into the cork to
get good purchase. He started to twist. Violet shot out a hand,
grabbing his wrist to stop him.

“
Wait. Are you sure?”

“
Yes.”

“
Shouldn’t you save it for a special
occasion?”

“
This
is
a special occasion.
We’re having dinner.”

Her hand tightened on his for a second, then fell
away. “Okay. It’s your wine.”

He uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses,
sliding one across the counter toward her.

“
Merry Christmas, Violet,” he said
quietly.

His glass kissed the rim of hers.

“
Merry Christmas,” she said, her
golden brown eyes suddenly solemn.

“
Why aren’t you with your family
today?” he asked, unable to bite his tongue a moment
longer.

“
If you think a £700 glass of wine
is going to turn me into a sloppy, confessional drunk, maybe you
need to pour this back into the bottle,” she said, offering him her
glass back.

He waved it away. “You don’t have to tell me if you
don’t want to.”

“
Reverse psychology won’t work,
either.”

“
Okay.” He took a mouthful of his
wine, then started peeling an onion.

Violet watched him warily, as though she was waiting
for him to spring a trap.

“
Sit down and drink your wine,
Violet,” he said, not looking up from what he was doing.

She half obeyed him, taking a sip of her drink.

“
What do you think?” he
asked.

“
I wouldn’t pay more than £400 for
it.”

“
Give it a little time to get some
air on it.”

She smiled faintly. “It’s lovely. Really nice.”

He chopped the onion, being careful to keep his face
away from the fumes. After a few seconds she slid back onto her
stool.

“
My stepmother thinks I’m a bad
influence,” she said.

He stilled. “Sorry?”

“
My stepmother thinks I’m a bad
influence. That’s why I don’t spend Christmas with my family. I
have two much younger half-sisters—15 and 18—and she doesn’t want
me tainting them with my Jezebel ways.”

He paused with his knife above the onion.

“
She said that to you?”

“
It’s been a while, I can’t remember
her exact words. But that’s the gist of it.”

She said it easily, glibly, but he bet she remembered
exactly what her stepmother had said to her all those years ago.
Word for word.

“
And your father agrees with
her?”

“
My father is a busy man. He doesn’t
have time to run a business and a family.”

“
When was the last time you had
Christmas with them?”

“
Ten years ago.”

He did a quick calculation. She was a year younger
than Elizabeth, which meant she must have been only nineteen when
she’d been given her marching orders.

“
What happened?”

“
I packed my bags and
left.”

“
No. What happened before that?”
Because there had to be more to this story.

She smiled, a cynical little curve of her lips. “What
did I do wrong, you mean?”

“
I meant what I said. What
happened?”

She looked down into her wine. “When I was sixteen, I
got involved with one of the teachers at my school. Some of the
other girls found out about it. I got called to the Principal’s
office. My father was away on business, so Diana handled
everything. I was sent away to boarding school afterward, but word
got around. It always does.” She shrugged.

His blood ran cold. “What happened to the
teacher?”

“
I don’t know. Diana wouldn’t talk
about it with me. She said I’d already caused enough
trouble.”

He set down the knife, anger making his movements
jerky. “How old was this guy?”

“
In his late thirties, I guess. He
was our drama teacher. At the time, I thought I was pretty hot
stuff because he noticed me.”She gave a humorless little
laugh.

“
So let me get
this straight. Some sleazy, twisted creep with a teaching degree
seduces a schoolgirl and
you
get sent into exile?” He could hear the outrage in
his own voice. He
was
outraged. What kind of woman packed her stepdaughter off to
live with strangers when she’d been abused by someone she
trusted?

“
You’ve got to understand, Martin, I
was a precocious girl. Early developer, flirty. Always interested
in boys. I was one of those girls who went looking for trouble and
found it.”

He knew without asking that the words belonged to
Violet’s stepmother.

“
At the risk of repeating myself,
where was your father in all of this?”

She swirled the wine around in her glass. “I guess he
was just too busy to notice. I did my best to fix that, though,
don’t you worry. Over the next three years I got kicked out of four
schools. I bleached my hair, pierced by lip, my nose, my ears. I
brought home every long-haired loser I could get my hands on.”