Mr. Blackwell's Bride: A Fake Marriage Romance (A Good Wife Book 2) Page 15

  He pulled away. Yet again, his confusion, his pain, over my conflicted behavior flashed in his eyes. God, Drake, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything but I don’t know how to fix it.

  “I have a car already waiting for you.”

  I didn’t have strength to argue anymore. I was exhausted from fighting with him, with fate, with my own damn self. “Fine, I’ll go with my babysitter and take your stupid car to the gallery.”

  He nodded, the closest thing to a thank you as I would get. He strode to the exit and paused to give Franco an assessing look. “Look after her. She is the most important thing in the world to me.”

  Knife. Heart. You don’t know, do you, Drake? You kill me with your kindness. You choke me with your love.

  Franco nodded. Drake left, shooting me one last ache-filled look.

  I wanted to shake all of my turmoil off, if only for a few hours. I was in London, for God’s sake. “So, it’s just you and me, Franco. You ready for a fun-filled day?”

  He didn’t answer me.

  I sighed. Today was going to be a riot, I could tell.

  I promised Drake I would take his stupid car. I did not promise that I wouldn’t give Franco the slip once we got to the National Gallery in London’s Trafalgar Square. It was easy. In one entrance of the ladies’ washroom and slip out the other.

  I didn’t want anyone following me around like a shadow. I just wanted a few minutes without Drake’s presence reminding me of the mess I was making. I knew Franco would catch up with me soon. I wanted to enjoy the gallery in peace for a little while.

  I stood in front of a gorgeous painting of the nude back of a woman by Velázquez, admiring the fine brushstrokes of his hand, when I felt a presence standing much too close to my side. I sighed internally as I turned. “Found me already, Fra—”

  It wasn’t Franco.

  Jared Wright, the man I met at that charity auction, was appraising me with his cat-like eyes, looking too sure of himself in a tailored dark gray suit. “Noriko Blackwell, how wonderful to see you again.”

  I composed myself and forced a weak smile. “Mr. Wright, what a surprise.”

  “Please call me Jared.” He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek before I could protest.

  I stepped back to maintain some distance between us. “What are you doing here?”

  “I imagine, the same as you. Admiring beautiful things.” His eyes flashed. Before I could figure out the meaning behind it, he turned and waved at the painting. “Do you enjoy Velázquez’s works?”

  I nodded. “Drake took me to see the recreation paintings that Bacon, Dali and Picasso did as a tribute to him. I was curious to see his work in person. I heard he even influenced Manet.”

  “What did you think of the tribute pieces?”

  “My favorite was Infanta Margarita. So whimsical, like a dream.”

  Jared pressed his palm to his chest. “A woman after my own heart.” He grabbed my elbow. “Come, let me show you something really, really special.”

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  “It’s the new Italian Impressionists collection. It’s not open to the public yet. But I’m a VIP member here.” His eyes twinkled. “You can’t miss it, Noriko. I promise you, you’ll kick yourself if you do.”

  Damn him. I was a sucker for Italian Impressionists. I couldn’t say no.

  Not even if the snake was offering it to you?

  I shoved this thought aside. I wasn’t doing anything wrong by looking at paintings. It was a gallery, for God’s sake.

  I glanced around me. Franco still wasn’t in sight. Maybe if I just had a peek?

  “Two minutes,” I said firmly.

  Jared grinned, looking incredibly boyish. “Come.”

  He led me into a large curtained-off room. I stepped into the dim, hoping I hadn’t made a terrible mistake. He flicked on the light and revealed the largest collection of Impressionist paintings I could ever hope to see.

  I walked around in a daze, trying to imprint each beautiful piece on my brain. Three months ago, I was a student in a tiny town in Japan. Today I was standing among art’s greatest. I was walking among history. How the hell did I get here?

  Jared kept a respectful distance as he walked beside me, occasionally punctuating my awed silence with comments about the artist or the piece, but otherwise giving me space to admire each one.

  I was quietly impressed. Perhaps Jared wasn’t so bad, after all.

  “So, why isn’t good old Drakey boy here with you? Has he lost you already?” Jared let out a boisterous laugh that echoed around the large room, reminding me that I was here alone with a man who was not my husband.

  The polite smile faded from my lips. “Enjoy the rest of your day.” I turned to walk away.

  He slid in front of my path, his hands raised in surrender. “Oh, come, now, Noriko, I was playing around.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “Noriko.”

  “It’s Mrs. Blackwell to you.”

  He chuckled. “Mrs. Blackwell, I want us to be friends.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Why? Because of your husband? Doesn’t he want you to have any friends?”

  I flinched. He was too on the mark.

  I shook his words off and lifted my chin. “I can have friends.”

  “Really?” Jared leaned in. “I’ve always known Drake to be such a controlling, possessive sort.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about him.”

  “I’ve known him since we were boys.” He let out a sigh and ran his hands through his hair, a gesture that reminded me so painfully of Drake when he was anxious. “Noriko, I think that you’re the one who has been blinded.”

  “Excuse me. I need to get back to my escort.” I spotted the door back to the main gallery over Jared’s shoulder. If only I could get past him. I was determined to find Franco and stick by his side for the rest of the day.

  “You know he killed his father?”

  I froze. What?

  I eyed Jared’s face, remembering Drake’s words, Jared Wright is the sneakiest, dirtiest, most self-interested snake you’ll ever meet. “You’re lying.”

  He shrugged. “It was deemed a suicide. Surprising how there was no note.”

  I shook my head, this possibility rattling around my brain like shards of metal. “Drake wouldn’t murder anyone.”

  “Wouldn’t he? Even to get revenge for the murder of his mother?”

  I sucked in a gasp. Was it true? Did Drake’s father kill his mother? A chill overtook me and I fought back the shiver. Was this why Drake avoided the west wing as if it were cursed?

  “They say that Drake looks more like his mother.” Jared spoke in a lower voice. “If there’s one thing Drake has inherited from his father, it’s his temper.”

  No. I wouldn’t believe it. “That’s just terrible gossip. Shame on you for repeating it.”

  I tried to shove past him. He grabbed my upper arm, stopping me from passing, pulling me too close to him. I could smell the sharp, spicy scent of his cologne, so different from Drake’s clean, fresh smell.

  “You might need a friend soon, Noriko. You might need someone to…help you.” He pushed a business card into my palm. “When you do, call me at Wright & Sons.”

  I stiffened. Even if I did want to call him, I didn’t have a phone.

  Jared frowned at me. “What? What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I said, a little too quickly.

  His frown deepened. “You’re right. Drake can’t find my card on you. Give me your phone and I’ll save my number in there.”

  I swallowed, debating my reaction.

  “Noriko? Where’s your phone?”

  “I left it at the hotel.”

  “You left it? Give me your number,” he pulled out his phone, a slim, black smartphone, “I’ll store it in mine.”

  “I don’t remember my number.”

  His eyes narrowed. I could see his mind working over all of
my protests. “You don’t have one, do you?”

  “I…do.”

  Jared shook his head. “He doesn’t even let you have a phone. Here,” he pressed his phone into my hand. “Have mine.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. I am serious, Noriko, about wanting to be your friend. If you ever need help. Use the phone. Call me. Just don’t let your husband find it.”

  “Are you okay, Noriko?”

  I flinched as Drake’s hand came down on my arm on the leather plane seat. Drake and I were in his private plane again two days later, this time on our way back to Los Angeles.

  “Fine,” I croaked out, my throat having gone dry. Jared’s phone was burning a hole wrapped in my underwear in the bottom of my bag.

  “I’m sorry how this trip turned out,” he said, apologizing for the fiftieth time.

  I gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not,” Drake’s voice was so vehement it caused me to start. He gripped my chin in his hand. “Tell me what I can do to make it up to you. Do you want diamonds? More clothes? Shoes?”

  I shook my head. “No, Drake. I don’t need any of that stuff.” He’d already sent me shopping yesterday at Harrods, London’s most famous department store, hired a personal shopper to aid me with a budget that was worth more than my father’s yearly salary.

  “Then what do you want?”

  I paused. I was still conflicted over what Jared had revealed to me. I wanted to hear my husband tell me the truth. “Tell me about your parents.”

  He sank back into his leather seat. “What?”

  “I want to know about them. About your father, who he was… Why…why I’m not allowed in the west wing.”

  Drake’s eyes widened. He looked at me as if I’d asked him to murder a puppy. The flash of honest feeling was quickly covered up by his cold façade. “I don’t want to talk about them.”

  The distance between us widened, the space between us becoming more hollow. “Not now…or ever?”

  Drake’s jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together. “You can have anything else, Noriko. I can give you the world if you ask for it. Just don’t ask for that.”

  I drew back into my chair, studying my husband. He suddenly appeared so foreign. Like a stranger.

  Why wouldn’t you tell me about your parents? Were you hiding something, Drake? You were controlling and possessive, but…were you a murderer?

  Back in my bedroom I unpacked my bag, glancing at my door before I took out my hidden phone and slid it into the toe of a pair of boots in the back of my closet where I also kept my pills.

  Another secret.

  Another source of guilt.

  But I wasn’t going to refuse Jared’s phone. Now I had a way to contact my father.

  I waited until the next afternoon, after lunch. Drake was long gone and the staff had already cleaned our bedrooms and were now busy in other parts of the house. I would be mostly left alone until dinnertime.

  I locked myself in the bathroom so I wouldn’t be disturbed.

  It was three o’clock in California. Japan was sixteen hours ahead of us. It would be seven o’clock in the morning at home. They should be awake by now.

  My hands shook as I dialed the number of my family home, numbers that would forever be etched across my heart. My body thrummed with anxious energy as the ringtone sounded in my ear.

  I heard a click. “Moshi moshi.” My father’s warm voice in my mother tongue filled my ear. Instantly my eyes flooded with tears, blurring my vision. I didn’t need sight. I clung onto his voice as if it were all my senses.

  “Papa? It’s me,” I said in Japanese, trying to keep the sobs out of my voice.

  “Hime?”

  My father called for my auntie and they squabbled as they tried to share the phone receiver. There was a speaker button on their phone but they hadn’t learned how to work that yet. I wasn’t there to show them. My auntie had come to stay with them to look after the girls while my father was in and out of hospital.

  They told me that everyone was fine and that my father had started chemotherapy and radiation. His second surgery was scheduled in a few days.

  “Where are you?” my father asked.

  “I can’t answer that.” It was part of my contract that I couldn’t tell anyone from my old life where I was living now. They only knew America.

  “Just tell me…are you okay?” He couldn’t hide the worry in his voice.

  “I’m okay.”

  “When are you coming home?” Auntie asked.

  “At the end of the year. Like I promised.”

  “Hime,” my father’s voice broke, “come home. What you did for all this money, it doesn’t matter to me. I love you.”

  “But your treatments. Your surgery.”

  “I’d give up these treatments, surgery, everything. Just come home.”

  “I have to go,” I said, trying to keep the sadness from tearing at my voice. I didn’t want to get off the phone. I wanted to listen to my papa’s voice all day. But I couldn’t take his begging for me to return earlier, my insides were already raw from guilt. “I promise I’ll try to call again soon.”

  I asked my father to give each of my sisters a kiss and cuddle for me. I didn’t ask to speak to my sisters because I knew that this phone conversation would last an age, each sister wanting to give me a full update and get one in return. I was conscious that the longer I spent on this phone call, the more expensive it would be for Jared. I knew he had the money to pay for long distance. I didn’t want to take advantage of his kindness. I didn’t want him to have any reason to cut off the phone’s service.

  “I love you,” I said into the phone.

  “To the stars and back, Hime.”

  Then I hung up.

  I sank to the edge of the huge bathtub and pushed my face into my hand, a torrent of emotions I’d been repressing for months thundering over me. Had it been almost four months since I left them? It felt like forever ago, and yet it felt like yesterday.

  I wanted to go home, I desperately wanted to see my father and my sisters again.

  But Drake had become so precious to me over the last two months, this broken, confusing beast who just needed me to love him.

  I sucked in a breath as realization struck me.

  This was a smartphone.

  It had internet.

  I could look up Drake’s parents.

  I wiped the last of my tears from my eyes and opened an internet browser on the phone. I typed in: Louisa Blackwell, the name of Drake’s mother.

  The search results populated instantly. As I read over the headlines, my limbs grew colder and colder.

  Wife of Millionaire Found Dead

  Louisa Blackwell (nee Hamilton), wife of millionaire Pierson Blackwell, owner and founder of Blackwell Industries, was found dead today in her bedroom. Coroner has ruled it an accidental overdose of heroin.

  Her son, Drake Blackwell, discovered her body late this morning. He is sixteen.

  Oh my God. Poor Drake. My stomach twisted as I imagined him as a teenager, barely a man, finding his mother’s body in her room. No wonder he didn’t want anyone entering the west wing. He’d never gotten over his mother’s death. He’d buried his pain underneath his work, driving him to become an obsessive workaholic, making him the outwardly successful yet broken man he was today.

  I found more articles, cruel articles, outlining the breakdown of her marriage to Pierson, their many public fights, Louisa’s many affairs and the number of suspected incidents of domestic abuse, thanks to the bruises that appeared on her body that she tried to cover up.

  My throat grew tighter and tighter.

  I found articles on Drake’s father next.

  Millionaire Found Dead. Suicide or Murder?

  Less than six months after his wife’s death, millionaire Pierson Blackwell was found dead of a gunshot wound in his home. Mr. Blackwell was discovered by his son, Drake Blackwell, seventeen, his s
ole heir who stands to inherit the entire Blackwell fortune, worth just over a billion dollars. The coroner has ruled it a suicide but sources close to the family say they heard father and son arguing only minutes before the gun went off. Was this truly a suicide? Or something more sinister?

  Fear gripped my throat. I could not believe that my husband could be a murderer. I could not. He was only seventeen, for Christ’s sake.

  “You know he killed his father? It was deemed a suicide. Surprising how there was no note.”

  “Drake wouldn’t murder anyone.”

  “Wouldn’t he? Even to get revenge for the murder of his mother?”

  “They say that Drake looks more like his mother. If there’s one thing Drake has inherited from his father, it’s his temper.”

  40

  ____________

  Drake

  Thanks to that photo at the charity auction, and no doubt Wright helped supply them the details, the press had discovered the name of Mrs. Blackwell. They hadn’t gotten any details about her. Yet. It’d stay that way if I protected her from this city’s vultures.

  Something my father could never do.

  It seemed to me that Noriko didn’t appreciate my protection. She was like an insolent child trying to make things worse, demanding that she attend a public art class, wanting to make friends with people who wouldn’t think twice about selling her out to a reporter, giving Franco the slip in London and wandering the goddamn public gallery alone. My hands curled into fists when I thought of it. Thank God nothing had happened to her. This time.

  She didn’t know what people were truly like. She hadn’t been burned enough. She continued to be obstinate, glaring at me as if I was trying to repress her. I was keeping her safe. Everything I did was for her own good. Couldn’t she see that?

  No. Apparently she couldn’t.

  She had to fucking test me.

  That evening, Sam stuck her head into my office, even though I threatened to cut off the balls of anyone who dared disturb me. I’d been in tense board meetings all morning and barely had time to check my damn emails, let alone have lunch.

  “Somebody better be dead or dying for you to risk coming in here,” I snapped.