Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,125

send you a few cute dresses to pick from. But Harper, remember to be careful.”

“Beatrix doesn’t bite.”

“That’s not what I mean. Men like Christopher, they can be charming when they want to be.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. He doesn’t want to be.”

Which is probably the only reason I’m safe. In a weird way I’m almost grateful he’s such a pompous asshole. It would be so easy to fall for him again if he weren’t.

Chapter Six

PENTHOUSE

Beatrix Cartwright lives in the penthouse of L’Etoile. We met a long time ago at some party where my pink tulle itched me like crazy and the children mostly tried to stay out of sight so we didn’t get roped into reciting our life goals. Then tragedy had fallen on her family, leaving her orphaned and absent from elite society.

I found her years later on the online artist scene, where I recognized her voice and her hands and her inimitable talent with the piano. Despite her large platform and success, she had managed to stay anonymous—something that made me green with envy. There were memes about my untouchable fortune that I ended up tagged on with unnerving regularity. The Internet has a long memory.

She’s since gone public and found true love in the strangest place. I’m a fan of her boyfriend, Hugo Bellmont, even though he was a high-priced escort when they met. Or maybe because of that.

He’s the one who meets me when I arrive, devastating in his handsomeness, his hair in perfect disarray. It feels perfectly natural that he should kiss me on both cheeks and take my wine offering with a groan that sounds sexual. “Chateau Leoville,” he reads. “Nineteen eighty-nine. Merci infiniment. I love a great Bordeaux.”

I breathe deep, taking in the scent of spices. “It smells delicious, and I haven’t eaten all day. Don’t tell me Bea has taken up cooking?”

“Sometimes she helps me with the vegetables, where her fingers are as efficient with a knife as they are with the piano keys, but today she has been shut into her music room.”

“A difficult piece?”

“She plays it perfectly, again and again. It is the artist temperament,” he says, teasing because he knows I paint. “Never satisfied.”

I stick out my tongue, which only makes him laugh. “Let’s call the temperamental artist to the table, because I’m ready to eat.”

“Oh, but we’re waiting for one more guest.”

“Really,” I say, flopping onto the antique couch with its bits of fluff peeking out. The penthouse is a curious mix of the old world and the new, much like the couple who inhabits it. Though Bea makes limited appearances in Tanglewood since they got together, they’re both very private. I’m curious who else has made their way into the inner circle.

“It’s an old friend,” Hugo says as he stirs some kind of soup on the small freestanding stove. He sounds almost embarrassed, as if he should not have any friends. Or maybe not any old ones.

“From Morocco?” I ask, knowing he was born there.

“Non, he came to Tanglewood around the same time I did. We shared a one-bedroom apartment before either of us could afford anything more.”

I refrain from asking whether this man also worked as a professional escort, but only barely. Maybe he still does that job. I could be persuaded to hire a ridiculously handsome man with nimble hands and an expressive mouth. Knowing Christopher would see the charge is a bonus.

“You will be disappointed,” Hugo says, sounding rueful.

“Can you always read women’s minds?”

He dips a fresh spoon into the sauce and tastes it. “Ah, that’s perfect. Salt and pepper and enough heat that it feels warm going down. And in answer to your question, usually.”

“That must have come in handy.”

“It is…” He searches for a word, looking perplexed. “A curse.”

I have to laugh. “It’s a great loss to the female kind that you’re now monogamous.”

A small bell rings near the elevator, which I assume means someone is coming up. “Well, perhaps you will not be disappointed. Sometimes you remind me of my old friend. It is the way you both seem to be more alive than the average person, more… feeling.”

“That’s also a curse,” I say, a little wry.

The elevator door opens, and none other than Sutton Mayfair walks in. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, his slacks a little rumpled. He clearly has spent a long day at work, maybe solved a great many problems related to economics and real estate and law. From my perch on the sofa I can watch him without him