Chapter 7 No.7

The garden was cold and bathed in moonlight.

Beatrix's heels clicked on the stone path.

She found him by the fountain.

The water feature was turned off for the winter, the stone basin dry and full of dead leaves.

Carlyle was smoking.

He stood with his back to her, his shoulders hunched against the wind.

"Go back inside," he said without turning around. "Go plan the nursery with the old bats."

Beatrix stopped three feet away from him.

"I got the check from your mother," she said.

Carlyle turned slowly.

The tip of his cigar glowed orange in the dark.

"Of course you did. You played the part well."

"I did what I had to do," she said. "You froze my accounts, Carlyle. My mother needs medication."

He paused. The smoke curled around his face.

"Medication?" he asked. "I thought you were buying shoes."

"You think I'm that shallow?"

"I don't know what you are anymore," he admitted quietly. "But I know a lie when I hear one."

Beatrix's heart stuttered. "What are you talking about?"

"Mark," he said, his voice flat. "He doesn't exist. You're a terrible liar, Beatrix. Your eyes give you away every time."

Beatrix felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

"We need to set a date," she said, changing the subject. "For the signing. The real signing. Not just the preliminary papers."

She reached into her clutch and pulled out a small pocket calendar.

She stepped closer, holding it out.

"Monday," she said. "City Hall opens at nine."

Carlyle looked at the calendar.

He looked at the date circled in red.

"I'm busy Monday," he said.

"Tuesday then."

"Busy."

"Carlyle!" she snapped. "Stop playing games. Do you want this divorce or not?"

"I want you out of my life," he snarled.

He slapped the calendar out of her hand.

It flew sideways, landing in the dirt of a flowerbed.

Beatrix gasped.

She knelt down to retrieve it.

Her dress-the expensive black silk-brushed against the wet soil.

"Dammit," she muttered.

Carlyle made a noise in his throat. A growl of frustration.

He bent down.

"Leave it," he ordered.

He reached for her arm to pull her up.

She reached for his hand to steady herself.

Their palms met.

Zap.

A static shock, loud and sharp, snapped between them.

It wasn't just a spark. It was a jolt that traveled up Beatrix's arm and settled in her chest.

She gasped, trying to pull away.

Carlyle didn't let go.

He gripped her hand tighter, pulling her up until she was standing inches from him.

He didn't wipe his hand.

He didn't look disgusted.

He looked... entranced.

He looked down at their joined hands.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, tracing the bandage on her finger.

"You're hurt," he whispered.

"It's just a broken nail," she breathed.

She couldn't move.

The way he was touching her-reverent, desperate-it shattered her defenses.

He lifted his gaze to hers.

His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the blue.

He leaned in.

Beatrix's breath hitched.

He was going to kiss her.

He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to her lips.

Beatrix closed her eyes, her body leaning toward him like a flower to the sun.

"Sir!"

The voice came from the terrace.

Henderson, the butler.

"Sir, Ms. Golden is on the phone. She says it's an emergency."

Carlyle froze.

The spell broke.

He dropped Beatrix's hand like it was burning coal.

He stepped back, his chest heaving.

He looked at her, then at the house.

He looked torn.

"Monday," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was dragged over broken glass. "I have a board meeting. Wait for my call."

He turned and walked away, almost running.

Beatrix stood alone by the dry fountain.

She looked at her hand.

It was still tingling.