The Wrong Mr. Darcy - Evelyn Lozada Page 0,41
out a deal? He was locked up. He couldn’t have had anything to do with this.
“We kept up our end of the bargain.” This was the gentle, breathy voice of Mrs. O’Donnell. “We brought her in, a no-name hack, to talk to Butler. Now we’re off the hook. We don’t have to deal with her again.”
“I don’t understand.”
O’Donnell interjected, “There’s not much more to tell. Isari and his daughter gamed the system so she’d win that stupid contest. We kept her here, to keep an eye on her, having no idea she’d weasel her way into an invitation to your after-party. But now it’s over. I’m sure you can see why it’s a bad idea to be seen with her again, Darcy.”
There was another pause. Hara had her head against the wall, trying to get her heart rate under control. Nothing made sense. Her dad set this up? How? She struggled to breathe normally. Why?
“Can I make you a martini?” Madeline asked, presumably to Derek, her voice dropping into that smoky purr she must have thought was seductive. “We were going to go to the library to watch the game footage. Care to join us?”
“I don’t think so. Thank you for your hospitality, but I better be going.”
“You be careful out there, son. Need to protect my investment, don’t I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you need anything,” Madeline jumped back in, “anything at all, you call. Anytime, day or night. You have my number, right?”
Hara fled.
CHAPTER 9
It was necessary to laugh,
when she would rather have cried.
—Pride and Prejudice
The sideways rain hit the windows, wide rivulets running down the plate glass in Logan Airport’s Terminal C. The air, stifling, smelled of Dunkin’ Donuts and french fries and body odor, somewhat reminiscent of the basketball stadium.
Hara crossed her arms and shifted on the hard chair, her feet propped up on her suitcase. She’d been in this seat for hours, listening to the never-ending rain. It was like being in Oregon, minus the clean air and decent airport.
Before taking up residence on the chair, she’d trudged through every airport shop, trying to kill off the stretch of infinite hours before her flight, moving slowly past Victoria’s Secret nighties and Bose headphones and Boston Beer Works. Her brain throbbed, her stomach churned.
When she’d first arrived, she’d been in shock. The giant world clock at the entrance to the airport had not yet hit midnight when she’d walked through the front doors; her flight did not leave until the next night. Hara had found a bench across from the American Airlines counter, where a steady stream of people dropped off luggage and speed-walked back to their departure gates. Where else was she going to go in the middle of the night? Her credit cards were almost maxed, she couldn’t afford a room. She could barely afford the taxi to the airport.
Hara was not ready to tell Carter, or her mother, about this massive cock-up, not yet, even if it meant sponge bathing in the airport bathroom.
Using her coat for a blanket and a sweatshirt for a pillow, she’d lain back on the bench and whispered passages from her favorite books to herself. She knew she looked crazy, but better that than having a nervous breakdown and sobbing it out.
When she allowed herself to think, she went right into dark and twisty.
He never believed I could do it.
He didn’t give me the chance to prove that I could. He stole that from me.
Eventually, her brain stumbled into the blackest place.
Her father knew she was not a good enough writer for the big leagues. He’d been protecting Hara from the truth.
She’d been fooling herself.
Her dream of becoming someone bigger, better, than who she’d been back home, it was stupid. She was stupid. Hara should have realized time did not heal all wounds—that people in the sports world would put it together that she was the daughter of Thomas Isari. Derek had known exactly who the O’Donnells were talking about.
Hara screwed her eyes shut. There was nothing wrong with working for Carter’s newspaper, where her past was no surprise to anyone. She’d have to cover city hall meetings and school board meetings and baby showers, but she could do write-ups on the high school games and cover the annual softball game between the police department and the fire department. It wouldn’t kill her. She’d be fine.
Being a small person in a small town is fine.
The distraught young woman had waited in the ticketing lobby for hours, zombie-like, for the rest of