Beautifully Forgotten (2 page)

It was with genuine pleasure and more than a little sarcasm that Lucien said, “To aspire to be as respectable as you and yours, a life mission.”

And then Lucien turned and walked away, feeling the judge’s glare burning holes into his back. He didn’t stop for anyone else, offering his regrets as he moved with purpose to the door. Once he was outside, he took a few minutes just to breathe deeply.

“Where do you want to go now?” his date purred after magically appearing at his side to press her body up against his. He knew what she wanted, but what Lucien found disturbing was that he didn’t want the same thing.

Probably frustrated since he hadn’t answered her, she moved her hand down his body to drive the point home. It seemed unwise for the newly honored humanitarian to get a hand job right outside of the event, so he called for his car.

As soon as the car appeared, he pulled the back door open before the driver could and gestured for his date to get in. His eyes found the driver’s.

“Take her home.”

He heard her protest as the car drove away, but he just didn’t care. He walked for a bit to clear his head before hailing a cab and heading to Sapphire, a local club. The place was packed when he arrived, but he easily moved through the crowds to Trace’s table: being friends with the owner had its perks. Rafe, his friend since they were kids, and Kyle, Ember’s best friend, were in the middle of a conversation when he settled into a chair across from them.

“Hey, Lucien. How did it go?” Rafe signaled to the waitress and pointed to Lucien.

“I think a root canal would have been more enjoyable.”

“You didn’t enjoy hobnobbing with the rich and powerful?” Kyle laughed because he knew damn well that Lucien detested all of it.

Lucien responded by flipping Kyle off. “Where are Trace and Ember?”

Kyle gestured to the dance floor and Lucien turned his attention to where their friends were dancing. Trace’s head leaned against Ember’s as he played with a lock of her hair that had fallen over her shoulder. They moved like one body: seamlessly and without thought.

He was happy for Trace even as jealousy twisted in his gut. Who would have thought the hard-as-nails player would lose his heart to the girl next door. He couldn’t blame Trace; Ember was great.

Not generally a jealous kind of guy, Lucien did envy his friend and the peace he’d found. But it gave him hope that maybe he’d be as lucky one day. Settling down was never something he thought he’d ever want—well, not for a long time anyway—but seeing it firsthand, the happiness and contentment that came from marrying the right person, he was beginning to think he didn’t know shit.

“Makes you jealous, doesn’t it?” Rafe said, which shifted Lucien’s attention across the table. His friend was watching Trace and Ember with a look on his face that he imagined matched his own.

“Yeah.” If you couldn’t be truthful with your friends . . .

The song ended and the two made their way back to the table. Lucien stood for a hug and noticed Trace’s scowl as he did so. To be an ass, Lucien also pressed a kiss on Ember’s lips, which earned him a growl.

“Troublemaker,” she said, but laughter shone out of those big brown eyes.

“Guilty as charged.”

“So how was it? Did you get a fancy award you can display on your desk?” Trace asked before he pulled out the chair next to Ember and folded himself into it.

“It was what I expected.”

“That bad? I’m sorry to hear it.”

“How’s Carlos working out?” Lucien asked, looking to change the subject.

“Good, thanks for the recommendation. It’s nice not being tied to the cooking school twenty-four seven”—Trace looked over at Ember—“so I can spend more time with my wife.”

Lucien didn’t miss the look Ember gave Trace. The fact that he didn’t pull her into a private corner right then proved that Trace had far more willpower than he.

She ran her fingers over the tat on his arm and said, “Sweet talker.”

Trace abruptly stood and pulled her to her feet. “Dance with me, beautiful.”

But they didn’t head in the direction of the dance floor. Lucien grinned to himself and thought maybe he won in the willpower department after all.

“Lucky bastard,” Rafe muttered before he reached for his beer and downed the rest of it. “I need to go. I’ve got to get up early to deliver a few pieces to a client in the morning.”

“I’ll leave with you. I’m beat,” Kyle said.

“I’m going to stay and have another drink.” What Lucien didn’t add was that the idea of going back to his empty apartment was completely unappealing.

“All right, see you later.” Rafe and Kyle disappeared into the mass of bodies.

Lucien signaled for another beer before he leaned back in his chair and idly glanced around. He didn’t miss the looks he was getting from several of the women at the bar, but he was just not interested. It should concern him, his total lack of enthusiasm, but caring was too much effort.

Maybe he needed to find a hobby. Or join a cult. He took a pull from his beer, but it had lost its taste. Jesus, he was in some serious shit when he couldn’t even enjoy a simple fucking beer.

He dropped some money on the table before heading to the bar where he signaled the bartender, Luke.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“If you see Trace and Ember, will you let them know they’re on their own?”

Lucien understood the smile that tugged at Luke’s mouth—eight months married and they were still acting like newlyweds.

“You got it,” Luke said before he moved down the bar to take an order.

Lucien stepped out into the balmy night and hailed a cab. When it stopped in front of his building on the Upper East Side, the doorman greeted him.

“Evening, Mr. Black.”

“Johnny, how are the kids?”

“Good, we have the grandkids for the month, but they’re in camp this week, which gives me and the missus some time to ourselves.”

Lucien grinned because Johnny was pushing seventy and his wife was just behind him in age. The most they were likely to do with time alone was watch
Jeopardy
while holding hands. He pulled a fifty from his wallet and passed it to Johnny, knowing both Johnny and his wife had a preference for fine Scotch. “To keep from getting parched.”

Johnny didn’t hesitate to take the offered gift. “You are a fine young man.”

Lucien laughed as he made his way up to his apartment. He dropped the keys in the Baccarat dish that one of his girlfriends insisted he had to have. His apartment had become a point of pride for him, especially coming from beginnings like his. The floors were bamboo, the walls were painted a dark tan with thick crown moldings, and he’d mixed several priceless old pieces with modern ones. A stand-alone linear fireplace separated the living room from the dining room and a massive kitchen took up the one entire wall. He didn’t cook often, since he was a single man living alone, but he could if he needed to.

He moved to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and popped the top before he settled on his sofa and took a long drink. Yeah, he’d come a long way since being a gravedigger sharing a studio with five other guys. Of course, he didn’t realize at the time that the graveyard was really a front and that most of the caskets were filled with guns instead of bodies. Trafficking in firearms using a cemetery was both twisted and fucking clever. The only bodies buried in that graveyard were ones that were better off never being found. At eighteen, Lucien had been blissfully unaware and at thirty-one, he really didn’t give a shit because that job helped him to get to where he was now. Of course, looking around his spacious apartment and seeing only his reflection in a mirror, where he was now wasn’t all that great. He thought bitterly,
I need to get a fucking life.

He switched on the television and when a picture of Horace Carmichael, the DA, flashed on the screen, he turned up the volume.

“. . . a crack in the case against the Grimaldi crime syndicate. District Attorney Horace Carmichael has testimony from a source close to the Grimaldi family that conclusively links them with several arson cases, racketeering, and the cold murder case of Elizabeth Spano, the NYU theater major found strangled thirty-two years ago in Central Park. That case has been kept in the public eye by the tireless efforts of the victim’s father, Anthony Spano. More to follow.”

Darcy MacBride climbed from the cab and wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt. She was nervous, but then, this was Lucien Black, whom she hadn’t seen in fourteen years. She remembered the first time they met at the orphanage. Even at sixteen, he was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. And his eyes, God, she could have happily drowned in them; but he was so serious, as if he bore the weight of the world.

She had been scared when she’d first arrived at fourteen, given up by her mom because she hadn’t wanted a kid anymore. She couldn’t lie, it had hurt to be cast off like an unwanted puppy, but she hid the pain behind humor and sarcasm. Only Lucien seemed to see beyond that and offered her the one thing she always secretly longed for: a place to belong. And she did. She belonged with him and they both knew it. For those two years they were inseparable, and she gave him her young heart with the reckless abandon of youth.

The day Sister Anne died was forever burned into Darcy’s memory. Even though Lucien loved Sister Anne, he tried so hard to not show how much her death hurt him. And when he did finally give in to his pain, he mourned so silently that watching his grief was even more heartbreaking than seeing Sister Anne waste away. It was that same night that Darcy gave him her virginity. Even at sixteen she knew that he was it for her.

When he said he was leaving the orphanage, he told her he wouldn’t go without her. But her fairy tale died before it had ever even had a chance to start. Not leaving with him was her most profound regret.

When her headhunter told her about the position he was looking to fill, part of her didn’t want to take the interview—some scars still hurt no matter how long they’d had to heal. But she missed him—had spent half her life missing him—and even if she didn’t get the job, the opportunity to see him again wasn’t one she could pass up.

She moved her hands down her black pencil skirt and absentmindedly touched her hand to her French twist before she reached for the door of Allegro. She had followed his successes through the years and knew that this was the first club he had ever opened. It looked like he kept his offices here too.

The bar and tables inside were as scarred as the floor. Of course those who came here were coming for the music, not the atmosphere. Darcy loved it. A woman at the bar looked up from washing glasses.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here for an interview with Mr. Black.”

“Oh right, he mentioned it. Please follow me.”

She came from around the bar and led Darcy down a hallway. “Lucien’s office is back here,” she said from over her shoulder, but Darcy couldn’t hear her words over the roaring in her ears. Her pulse pounded so hard she was surprised the other woman couldn’t hear it. If she didn’t calm down, she was very likely going to faint, which was not at all how she imagined their first meeting after all these years.

She heard his voice coming from down the hall, the cadence and pitch of it exactly as she remembered. When they reached the open door, she could see him behind his desk with his head down, working while he talked to someone on speakerphone.

He had been beautiful at sixteen, and at thirty-one he was simply gorgeous. His slightly longer hair brushed shoulders twice the size they’d been in high school. He wasn’t a boy anymore, but a full-grown man, and the reality of that hurt.

“Lucien, your interview is here.”

“Thanks, Tara,” he said without looking up as he finished his call. “Let me know what you find out. Yeah, thanks.”

His head lifted and Darcy found herself holding her breath when those teal eyes bore right into hers. Memories slammed into her, a mental collage of the two years they had spent together. The emotions they evoked made her almost throw herself into his arms.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t realize until he’d spoken that he didn’t remember her.

“Please sit, Ms. MacBride.”

And with those four words he gutted her, the pain slicing her open and leaving her empty. All the years she wished she could have gone back and done things differently—pained over the fact that she had hurt him—were all for nothing because he had forgotten her just like her mother had taunted.

She wanted to run from the room and him and the memories that were even now crumbling to dust, but her feet wouldn’t obey.

The idea of working for him, of being the only one to remember their young love, made her feel sick. She felt the tears and cursed them.

“Are you unwell?” There was genuine concern in his voice, and in that moment she hated him.

“I’m sorry. This was a mistake.” Somewhere she found the strength to turn from him and walk away, eager to put as much distance between them as possible. If only she could run from her memories as easily. She had hurt him once upon a time and now she had a taste of just how much.