We find a private room with a handful of old chairs and a fireplace. How many corrupt deals were forged between these four walls? How much money changed hands?
Christopher stands in the corner by the window, his back turned toward us. What does he see? Is he like some conquering warrior, looking at what he plans to take?
In contrast Sutton takes a seat near the fire, one leg slung over the other. His pose is casual, but I’m not fooled. His blue eyes are watchful. He’s a powerful adversary, but I’m not sure who he’s opposing. Christopher? Or me? Maybe the both of us.
We might be enemies, all three of us.
“You stopped payment to the hospital,” I say without preamble. He knows what he did. “I honestly thought you couldn’t sink any lower, but you proved me wrong.”
“It’s not that simple,” Christopher says, his expression grave.
“In case you’re wondering, I would have asked for Daddy’s help with this if he were alive. And you know what? He would have said yes, so don’t pretend this is the high road.”
“The instructions didn’t leave any ambiguity.”
“And you’re such a rule follower, are you? You didn’t even contact the Tanglewood Historical Society when tearing down a historical property.”
“I follow the rules when I agree with them.”
My mouth drops open. “You don’t agree with helping my mom beat cancer?”
“Hell,” he bites out. “That money wasn’t going toward medicine. You were buying a butterfly garden for the hospital. And what was that going to get her? A California king-sized hospital bed? A marble bathroom? A doctor to wait on her hand and foot like a goddamned pool boy?”
“I hate you.” Not the most logical and persuasive argument, but there’s something about Christopher that always cuts through my defenses. He turns me into the wild child that he thinks I am, no matter that years have passed since that night on the yacht.
He runs a hand over his face. “I’m not a monster. I cut off the hospital from taking any more installments from you, but I made sure there was a card on file for her medical expenses.”
“Your personal credit card.”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m not letting you pay for her medicine. We don’t need your charity. It’s my responsibility, and it will be paid for with my money. As soon as you call the bank and tell them to lift the hold.”
Christopher stares at me, and I feel my stomach drop. I know determination when I see it, and it’s there in spades in his cold, black eyes. He’s not going to budge, but neither am I. We’re at an impasse, the same one we’ve been in since that night in New York City.
Sutton clears his throat. “It’s quite a moral dilemma you’ve got yourself.”
“She finds herself in those often,” Christopher says.
“I was talking to you,” Sutton says in that slow drawl that smooths his sharp words, a flowing stream over sharp rocks. “I knew you were mercenary, but this is cold even for you.”
Christopher gives him a sardonic look. “Is there any reason you’re here or do you just like seeing me at my worst?”
I’m mildly appeased to hear that I’m the reason for his worst days, but he looks remarkably composed if that’s true. Remarkably put together in his tux and shiny shoes. He fits into this room better than Sutton does, better than I do, even if he doesn’t respect the order of things.
“I have a solution to propose,” Sutton says. “Something that might appease everyone in the room. We need someone to smooth things over with the historical society. Neither you nor I have the time or the ability to make nice with them.”
Christopher barks a laugh that makes me flinch. “You’re not suggesting Harper.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” I ask, stung more than I should be. Nothing he says should matter to me. It’s a weakness that it does. “That someone thinks I’m good for something more than shopping or spa days?”
Christopher blinks, looking, for maybe the first time in his life, uncertain. “Is that how you think I see you? You’re a talented artist, Harper.”
“And I’m stuck begging for my mother’s life.”
“She’s in remission.”
“How would you know that?”