Нора Робертс - Hideaway

Aidan gave Noah a wide, toothy smile. “For some of us.”

Later, when she walked with Noah to the corner—in the opposite direction of her family—she covered her face with her hands.

“I’m so sorry!”

“No, it’s cool. It’s weird, but it’s cool. Maybe a little scary at first. No, a lot.”

He swiped a hand over his forehead as if swiping off sweat.

“So you know how he said he had to figure this part out? Well, he’s a fast study, your old man. He practically twisted my life story out of me before we got to the restaurant. And he’s all ‘What’s next for you?’ and I’m, like, ‘Ah, ah, I want to move up to principal dancer, and speaking roles and, okay, I want to headline. I’ll work for it, but I want to headline.’”

“You will.”

“I’m going to work for it. Anyway, he made damn sure I knew he’d come like the wrath of all the gods on anybody who hurt his daughter.”

As she had no problem hearing her father say just that, she clutched Noah’s arm, clung to it. “They’re protective.”

“It’s okay, I get it, and I said how I don’t hurt people, especially people I care about. I think he liked that. I think he almost liked me by the time we finished lunch.”

“You did great.” She kissed him to prove it. “And I’m sorry I can’t go back to your place.”

“No, that would be weird, too, now. And, you know, disrespectful. Besides, I think I’m going to need a little recovery time after the grilling.”

“You can take some comfort knowing I’m in for it next.” She glanced back. “Might as well get it over with.”

“Text me later?”

“Count on it. I’ll see you tomorrow, backstage, and then I’ll be front row center when the curtain comes up.”

When she walked into the condo, she saw immediately her grandparents had cleared the field. Her father sat, solo, on the terrace.

She went out, sat in the chair beside his. Waited.

“I love you, Caitlyn.”

“I know, Dad. I know. I love you.”

“There’s a part of me that’s always going to look at you and see my little girl. That’s how it is, that’s the deal. And you know the reasons I feel the need to protect you.”

“I do. I need you to know I’m getting good at protecting myself.”

“That doesn’t change my need. I’m not going to pretend those calls don’t worry me, or to accept I can’t just wrap you up and keep you safe.”

“I know I didn’t handle it well, but I will if it ever happens again. Not just because I gave you and G-Lil and Grandpa my word, but because I’m not going to let some faceless asshole scare me stupid again.

“New York’s been good for me,” she continued. “It’s given me some distance—not from you, from everything else. I panicked because I thought it was Noah, and I was half-asleep.”

“The first one came when you were alone and sleeping.”

“Yeah, but that’s easy to figure. People are more vulnerable late at night. Whoever it is had that advantage. I won’t let him keep it. It was months between calls, and if he’s not getting anything out of it, I think whoever it is will stop.”

“If they don’t?”

“I’ll tell you. I swear it.”

“The calls weren’t the only thing you didn’t tell me about.”

“It’s a little awkward for a daughter to tell her father about the guy she’s involved with. You’ve met him now, talked to him now, you must know what a good person Noah is.”

Saying nothing for a moment, Aidan just tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair.

Then relented.

“He seems to be. He can also have actual conversations, seems to know what he wants in life, has a work ethic. I still want to beat him off with a stick.”

“Dad!” She snorted out a laugh. “Come on.”

“That’ll ease off. Maybe.” He turned to her then. “I didn’t ask him because there were a lot of other things to ask. How long have you been seeing him?”

“A couple of months.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“It feels like it. I know being with him makes me happy. He got me back into dance class, something I’d forgotten I really enjoy. He’s not why I’m taking the classes at NYU, but I think I built up the confidence to try that because, well, because of the normal. It’s nice to have the normal.”

Watching her face, he nodded, then looked out over the city. “It was hard for me to let you come to New York. It’s not hard for me to say you were right. It’s been good for you.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, and Grandpa. And Consuela. I miss the gardens, and the pool. Boy, I really miss the pool. But…”

She rose, walked to the wall. “I love walking wherever I want, meeting friends for coffee, or going to a club. Going into a shop for jeans or shoes, whatever. Now and then somebody will give me a look, or even say I look familiar. But nobody really pays attention.”

“Your movie comes out soon. That could change things.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I hope not too much or for very long. Either way, I don’t feel as, I guess it’s vulnerable.” She turned back to him, smiled. “I’ve toughened up.”

Charlotte had it all. She’d bagged a gloriously rich, indulgent fiancé who believed her the most charming, delightful woman in the world. Sex wasn’t a problem—despite his age, he actually had some style there. Plus, the trade-off was well worth it.

She lived in the biggest mansion in Holmby Hills, all fifty-five thousand square feet, with its marble walls, twenty bedrooms, ballroom, two dining rooms—the larger boasted a custom-made zebrawood table for eighty—its hundred-seat movie theater. She had her own beauty salon, a dressing room suite attached to two rooms of closets, and a third dedicated to her shoes.

Her jewelry, and Conrad indulged her, resided in a vault.

More than six acres held a serpentine swimming pool, clay tennis courts, a two-level garage with elevator, formal gardens, six fountains—one that now centered on a statue made in her image—a putting green, and a small park with a koi pond.

She had a staff of thirty at her beck, including her own social secretary, two personal maids, a driver, a dresser, a nutritionist who planned her daily meals.

She had a media specialist under contract whose job it was to pitch and plant stories, to make certain she was photographed at every event she attended.

Of course, she had access to her choice of three private jets, the mansion on the Kona coast of Hawaii, the Tuscan villa, a castle in Luxembourg, and the manor house in England’s Lake District. Not to mention the three-hundred-foot superyacht.

On Conrad’s arm, she had entrée into the top levels of society, not only in Hollywood but anywhere.

He bought the rights to the script she personally selected, and would produce what she saw as her blockbuster return in a starring role that would, at last, bring her the fame and adoration she deserved.

It wasn’t enough. Not when she sat in bed with her breakfast tray—Greek yogurt with berries and ground flaxseed, a one-egg spinach omelet, a single slice of sprouted grain toast with almond butter—and watched that two-bit director Steven McCoy drone on and on about Cate and her stupid movie on the Today show.

“It’s very much an ensemble movie, a story of family, but Olive’s the heart of it. Caitlyn Sullivan brought that heart. She was a joy to direct, professional, prepared. The Sullivan work ethic, well, it’s legendary for a reason. She’s carrying that through to the next generation.”

“Bunch of bullshit.”

She burned inside, burned so hot the fire pushed tears out of her eyes as they went to a clip.

And there was Cate, young, fresh, beautiful.