As I discovered, Stephen’s duties were not only those of a butler. Mr. Ward had said he didn’t have an assistant, but that’s what Stephen looked like to me. He was also Mr. Ward’s chauffeur and was tasked with going to pick up my parents at the airport. I showed him pictures of them and wrote down their names in large letters on a piece of paper for him to hold in the waiting area, but just the same, my heart tightened a little when he left.

I had tried to get them to come visit me for a couple of years, and now that they were finally coming to New York, I couldn’t even go to welcome them, and I wouldn’t be able to take them around the city to my favorite places. Yet again, I felt upset at how unfair this all was, but there wasn’t much I could do. If Miss Delilah had been around…

I know, very smart of me to want to have a row with a vampire. Maybe it was a good thing she wasn’t there, after all.

Before he left, Stephen prepared a suite for my parents, and he inquired if Mr. Ward and I wouldn’t be more at ease in the office or study. I guess it was his way of shooing us out of the dining room. Mr. Ward glowered and muttered unhappily—in other words, he was his usual self—but in the end he led me to a room down the hall that could have served as conference room: there was a large round table in the center of the room, surrounded by six leather armchairs. On one side, two wide windows let in plenty of sunlight—no Central Park view, alas—while opposite a white board took up a large part of the wall. We spread out our papers on the table, and I wrote a few things on the white board to make it look as though we’d been working for more than a few hours.

Other than the white board, the decor was as lavish as in the rest of the mansion, and my tongue burned with questions about the purpose of the room. Did Mr. Ward conduct business here? He had to. What else could a conference room be used for? I didn’t ask, though. He was still grumpy enough that I doubted it was worth the trouble.

I had just hung up the phone—another caterer who wouldn’t be able to work with our time constraints—when Mr. Ward’s cell phone buzzed. When he looked at the screen and thumbed over what looked like a message, I couldn’t help blurting out, “Is that Delilah?”

She’d been on my mind every time he had pulled out his cell phone. I remembered all too well the casual, even playful messages they had exchanged, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about them. In our fantasy, he’d said he was grateful to her for arranging for us to meet. Was that really how he felt, or was it one of those ‘only in a fantasy’ things?

He shook his head.

“Stephen. He found your parents, and they’re on their way. They should be here in a half hour or so.”

My stomach executed an Olympic-worthy back flip. I nodded and tried to go back to my work, but my mind was too far from this room. It was in Paris, actually.

“Have you heard from your investigator?” I asked. “The one who’s supposed to tell you who she’s with.”

“Yes. My maker was with her, if that’s what you want to know,” he replied.

It was. My mouth felt dry suddenly, my throat tight. The key to my freedom had been found.

“So… Does that mean you’re going to Paris?”

“It wouldn’t help. She was with Lilah, but not anymore. My PI followed her to the airport. She boarded her jet, and he hasn’t figured out where she went yet.”

The sweet hope that had filled me for a few seconds now deflated faster than a burst balloon.

“How are you going to find her?” I asked. I needed to be sure he was still looking for a solution.

His expression closed off, and he rose from the table. “I don’t know,” was all he said before he left the room.

It seemed like his uncharacteristically expansive explanation that morning would not be repeated any time soon. Then again, I didn’t know why I had expected anything different. Come to think of it, I might have liked it better if he had not given me all the information he had. Those two seconds of hope made the disappointment even deeper.

Working non-stop since lunch had drained me, and that bit of bad news didn’t help, but I made a last call to one more caterer. This time, I got a yes and could have cried in relief. Under normal circumstances, I’d have interviewed at least two caterers and preferably four or five. With our time crunch, I called it good enough and set up an appointment with them for the next day to decide on a menu and sign the paperwork. Then I went down to wait for my parents.

As I walked down to the lower level, I thought back on the decorations that had been in place during Mr. Ward’s birthday party and made mental notes on how to decorate for the gala. I wasn’t fooling myself. All I was doing was trying to distract myself, both from thinking about Mr. Ward’s maker and about what I’d tell my parents when they arrived.

I sat down in the salon on the first floor, the one with the Monet painting on one side and the Central Park painting on the other. Losing myself in the latter was fast becoming my favorite way to get out of my own head for a little while. Maybe it was because I’d heard the artist talk about creating this work, or maybe because I knew the park was just on the other side of the street, and somehow, to me, it meant freedom. Whatever the case, I stayed there until I heard voices out in the foyer and hurried to greet my parents.

“Lini!” my mother exclaimed as soon as she saw me. “What’s going on?”

Bundled in a thick winter coat she’d never need to wear back home, her hair dusted with a few snowflakes, she looked a little wide-eyed. I felt a pang at how much deeper the lines at the corner of her eyes seemed; even with regular video-chats, every time I saw her it always struck me that she was getting older. Next to her, my father, dressed for the weather too, was trying his best to look blasé, but he wasn’t fooling me. His eyes were darting all around, sneaking glances at the impressive decor.

Stephen walked in behind them, carrying my mother’s luggage. My father was carrying his own, and I had no trouble imagining Stephen offering to take it for him, and my father assuring him that he could do it himself. I could even picture Stephen’s expression when he was denied: the same ill-disguised annoyance as when I had told him I could prepare my own coffee.

Why, yes, I take after my father; how did you guess?

I went to them and into my mother’s open arms. As I gave her a hug, I knew she was waiting for an explanation, but my mind was blank. I couldn’t come up with anything. It felt so strange to see them here. To have them in New York would have been odd in itself—they’re really not ‘big city’ people—but to see them standing in the foyer of the Ward mansion… They looked as out of place as I felt myself. The only difference was that they, at least, were free to leave whenever they wanted.

From my mother’s arms, I passed to my father’s. When I pulled back, I noticed that Stephen, showing a cunning side I wasn’t surprised he possessed, had taken the opportunity to grab my father’s carry on. My father didn’t notice immediately, not with Mr. Ward making his grand entrance down the main staircase and approaching us.

“Mrs. Brown.” He took my mother’s hand and kissed her knuckles, drawing a quick, startled laugh from her. “Mr. Brown.” He shook my father’s hand vigorously. “Morgan Ward. A pleasure to meet you.”

I don’t know who was more shocked: my parents at this unexpected introduction to a famed millionaire or me in reaction to Mr. Ward’s frank, open smile. I’d seen that smile before, and I thought it made him look even more attractive. But every time he had smiled like that so far, we’d been in one of our shared fantasies. Suddenly, I couldn’t tell if this was real or not.

As I stood there, speechless and wary, my parents responded to his greeting in kind. Mr. Ward didn’t miss a beat as he said, “I don’t know whether to apologize for interfering with your holidays with your daughter or thank you for allowing me to put her skills and knowledge to work.”

He turned that smile to me then, and well, you won’t be shocked to hear I was dazzled. My heart stammered, and my knees felt a little bit weak. Part of me wanted to go to him, kiss him… But no. I couldn’t do that. Not even if this was a fantasy.

But was it? Why would he do it now?

“Her skills?” my mother asked. “What do you mean? I’m sorry, but Angelina hasn’t explained to us what’s going on.”

“The blame is on me,” he assured her. “I asked her to keep the event she’s helping me organize a secret, but I didn’t realize she’d keep it even from you. When she told me you were coming to visit, I thought the best way to make up for your inconvenience would be to invite you to spend the holidays here. If that is acceptable to you?”

My parents shared a confused look, then looked at me.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” my father asked.

I shrugged.

“Honestly, I’ve been busy; that’s my only excuse. Mr. Ward’s assistant quit in the middle of planning this event, and Miss Delilah told him about my work on the gala last year, and with this event benefiting a local shelter that recently burned down almost to the ground… I didn’t feel like I could say no. I’d have visited as soon as I could, I promise.”

It was the story we’d agreed on, and I suppose it sounded believable, but I hated lying to my parents. Then again, the alternative would have been to shatter everything they thought they knew about the world we lived in and who else—what else—lived in it. Having been through that Earth-shaking realization myself, I’d just as well keep them from the same uncomfortable experience.

For a second or two, I was sure they’d call me on the lie. Before either of them could say a word, however, Mr. Ward slipped into the conversation again.

“So, Mr. Brown? Mrs. Brown? Will you accept my hospitality?”

“We don’t want to be any trouble,” my mother said. “We were going to get a hotel room.”

Mr. Ward sidled up next to her and took her arm, drawing her forward as though the matter was settled.

“Two days before Christmas, you won’t find anything decent in the city. And please, it’s no trouble at all. This old house has plenty of space, and Stephen has already prepared a suite for you. Let me show you.”

My mother glanced back, and from her expression, one thing was clear: he had her. I watched my father’s eyebrows rise as we followed them. Stephen executed a deft maneuver so that he passed by all of us and was halfway up the staircase before we reached it.

“How was your flight?” I asked my father, taking his arm like Mr. Ward had taken my mother’s.

A few steps ahead of us, she was asking about the artwork and he was answering in his most charming voice.

“A bit bumpy in the end,” my father said. “Turbulence. And I still don’t get why you’re staying here. Or why you didn’t tell us about any of it.”

I swallowed a sigh. Mr. Ward had charmed my mother, but my father wasn’t that easy to fluster.

“It just happened really fast,” I said, and that, at least, was true. “Like I said, Mr. Ward needed help planning the party, and once I agreed to help, it made sense for me to be closer to supervise all the details. It’s temporary, of course. The gala is on New Year’s Day so it’s all very last minute.”

“And your boss is okay with you working for someone else?”

“It was her idea, actually.” Something else that was true in the middle of all those lies. “She’s out of the country for a couple of weeks. You know, last year she barely told me I’d done a good job with her gala, but when she told Mr. Ward how impressed she’d been with my work… Well, I didn’t feel like I could say no after that. And it’s a really good charity this is all going to help.”

He muttered something I didn’t catch, then leaned over to press a kiss to my temple.

“You’re a good girl, Angel,” he said softy. “But sometimes I worry you let others take advantage of your good heart.”

I assured him there was no taking advantage of anyone here and walked a little faster to catch up with my mother and Mr. Ward. They’d stopped on the second floor for my mother to look at a painting. My father let go of my arm and went to take hers instead. Mr. Ward took a step back gracefully without ever stopping his little spiel about the painting, like he was a museum guide who dispensed this kind of information on demand. After a few more moments, he assured my mother she was welcome to explore the mansion at her leisure, but added, “I’m sure you’ll find a lot more to see outside the house. Have you ever visited New York?”

By the time we reached the third floor and the suite he’d had Stephen prepare for them a few doors from mine, he’d drawn out of them that they were staying for four days, as well as the fact that my mother enjoyed musicals, my father was a fan of classical music, and they both loved everything to do with history. When he excused himself to ‘let us reunite properly,’ I had a strong feeling that he was off to organize my parents’ trip for them and fill every minute of their stay with visits and activities. As it turned out, I wasn’t wrong.

Their suite was very much like mine, although smaller. Stephen had already set their suitcases in the bedroom. I chatted with them while they put their things away, asking about life back home and people I knew: the less I had to say about the circumstances of my stay in the mansion, the better.

Before we knew it, it was dinner time, and Stephen was knocking on the door to announce dinner. My parents were startled, but I’d seen it coming and I tried to act as though this was perfectly normal. We followed Stephen to the small dining room, where the table had been set for three. I felt a pang at being back in there for dinner—at being back without Mr. Ward.

He did show up, right as we were finishing dessert. He was dressed in a suit, although he had taken off his jacket and his tie was undone on his shoulders.

“You look on your way to somewhere special,” my mother said. I was surprised she didn’t phrase this as a question, curious as she could be.

“I was,” he replied with a half smile. “Not anymore. Some unexpected business issues with Japan. I’m going to spend the evening in my office. A pity, I looked forward to enjoying…”

His eyes widened as they turned to my father, and all I could think of was that he was a great actor.

“Wait a minute. You said you enjoy the opera, didn’t you, Mr. Brown?”

It was like watching a play, really, with the only difference being that my parents didn’t know their lines, and still managed to hit every one of them. His private box only waited for my parents if they weren’t too tired after the trip. They had no clothes suitable for the opera? No problem. Something could be found in the mansion’s ‘emergency party wardrobe.’ He even laughed with my mother about what an odd thing that wardrobe was, seen from their small-town eyes. The only glitch came when my father asked if I was coming as well. I had been so caught up in Mr. Ward’s little act that I couldn’t figure out what to answer. Thankfully, my mother did for me.

“Come on, Paul. You know she doesn’t care for the opera. We’ll have plenty of chances to go out with her.”

All together, from the moment Mr. Ward came into the dining room to the moment my parents, decked to the nines, stepped out of the mansion and onto the snow-speckled sidewalk, no more than forty minutes had passed. I waved from inside and watched the car pull away before closing the door with a sigh. I didn’t care much for the opera, no, but I wouldn’t have minded at all going out for a few hours.

With heavy steps, I made my way back up to the third floor. Feeling a little listless, I went to the kitchen, thinking I’d take advantage of Stephen’s absence to make myself a cup of coffee without disapproving eyes drilling into me. I hadn’t expected to find Mr. Ward in there, sipping from a black mug. His eyebrows twitched upward but he didn’t say anything when, after a moment of hesitation, I walked in and helped myself to the coffee.

A question had been bothering me ever since my parents had arrived, and this was the first chance I’d had to ask it. A little afraid at what the answer would be, I met his gaze and asked, “Is this all another fantasy?”

His eyes seemed to darken ever so slightly, or maybe that was an effect of his frown. He lowered his mug and stepped around me to set it in the dishwasher.

“That’s the second time today you’ve thought I entered your mind. What brought it up this time?”

Turning back to me, he leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. Without the flicker of a smile to soften his strong face, he looked positively forbidding. I refused to let myself be intimidated, however. Setting my cup of coffee down on the counter, I crossed my arms as well and held my chin high.

“You did,” I said. “The way you’re acting with my parents, all smiles and niceties? That’s not you. Not the real you.”

He snorted, shaking his head once.

“Right, because you know the real me, Angelina.” He took a step closer to me. “Two days in my house, twice in my head, and you’ve figured out all there is to know about me, is that it?”

It wasn’t what I had said or even implied, but when my cheeks heated up, it wasn’t from outrage or anger. It was from how close he stood to me. Close enough for me to catch the discreet scent of his cologne. Close enough to be acutely aware of his body—his strong, toned, delectable body. Close enough that if I only leaned forward a little, rose to the tip of my toes…

Yes, I was thinking of kissing him again, which made no sense because he wasn’t being the charming man that had impressed my parents; instead, he was his same old irritating self, and I can’t say that playing hard to get or brooding are things that I find attractive in a man. What was wrong with me?

“No,” he said when, after a few seconds, I still hadn’t replied. “I am not in your head or anyone else’s. If you’d like me to ignore them for the rest of their trip and leave you to answer their questions about why you won’t go to out with them… Right. I didn’t think so.”

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until the door closed behind him.

And it didn’t dawn on me what he’d said exactly—that I’d been in his head rather than he in mine—until I’d let that breath out in a long sigh.

 

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