“I’m originally from the East Coast,” she said, hoping that small snippet of information—even if it was a hugely broad one that could mean anything—would appease him.
She should have known better.
“Where on the east coast?” he asked.
She frowned at him and repeated stubbornly, “The east coast.”
“North or south?”
“That’s all I’m giving you, Marcus. Don’t push or that’s the only thing you’ll learn about me.”
He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it again. He was probably recalling how she’d told him she came from someplace hot, and he was assuming it was the latter. But he was clearly not happy about having to acquiesce to her demand.
She wasn’t sure whether or not to confess anything about her family, mostly because she hadn’t seen any of them for years. Even when they’d all lived under one roof, they hadn’t really been much of a family. It was a sad thing to admit, but Della really didn’t have feelings for any of them one way or another. Still, if Marcus wanted information, maybe that would be the kind to give him because it wouldn’t cost her anything emotionally. It would also potentially be misleading, since most people stayed in touch with their blood relations, so he might think she hadn’t traveled too far from her own.
“I have an older brother,” she admitted. “And a younger brother, as well.” The first had taken off when he was sixteen and Della was fourteen, and she hadn’t seen him since. The other, last time she’d heard—which had been about ten years ago—had joined a gang. At the tender age of fifteen. No telling where he was now, either.
On the few occasions when Della thought about her brothers, she tried to convince herself that they’d been motivated by the same things she had, and in the same way. She told herself they’d gotten out of the old neighborhood and found better lives, just as she had. Sometimes she even believed herself. But more often, she feared they had screwed up everything in their lives, too, the same way she had.
“Nieces and nephews?” Marcus asked.
She only shook her head in response to that. To her, the gesture meant I don’t know. To Marcus, let it mean whatever he wanted it to.
“Any injuries sustained as a child?” he asked, referring to his own.
She supposed she could tell him about the time she cut her foot on a broken beer bottle in a vacant lot during a game of stickball and had to get stitches, but that didn’t quite compare to skiing and riding accidents. So she only said, “None worth mentioning.”
“Schooling?” he asked.
The School of Hard Knocks, she wanted to say. It was either that, or her infamously crime-ridden high school or disgracefully underachieving elementary school. But neither of those would be the answer he was looking for.
Della knew he was looking for specific answers. He wanted her to be a specific kind of woman. The kind of woman who came from the same society he did and who lived and moved there as easily as he. She wasn’t sure if he was the sort of blue blood who would turn his nose up in disgust at her if he knew her true origins, but he would, without question, be disappointed. She was glamorous to him. He’d made that clear. She was intriguing. A woman of mystery and erotica. The last thing he wanted to hear her say was that she’d grown up in a slum, had no formal education, had clawed and fought to win every scrap she ever had, and had taught herself everything she knew by emulating others.
So she said, “Yes. I had schooling.”
He smiled at that. “No. I meant where did you go to—”
“My favorite color is blue,” she told him. “And my favorite food is fruits de mer.” Her French, she was proud to say, sounded as good as his Italian had last night. Unfortunately, fruits de mer was about the only thing she could say in French, and only because she’d practiced it for her menu lesson.
“After opera,” she continued, “my greatest passion is—”
She halted abruptly. Now here was a problem. Because other than opera, Della really had no passions. She’d never really had an opportunity to find any. After landing the job at Whitworth and Stone when she was eighteen, she’d focused entirely on it in order to stay employed there. She’d worked overtime whenever she could for the money, and she’d spent the rest of her time trying to better herself in whatever ways she could. Reading classic novels from the library. Emulating the speech of actors in movies. Swiping magazines she found in the apartment’s recycling bin to educate herself about fashion and etiquette and how to act like a refined human being. Opera had been the only indulgence she’d allowed herself, both because she loved it and it contributed to the kind of person she wanted to be. Beyond that …
Beyond that, she’d never had much of anything else to love.
“After opera …” Marcus prodded her now.
She looked at him, biting back another surge of panic. Never had she felt like a greater impostor than she did in that moment. She really did have nothing. Not a thing in the world. For the first time since leaving her life—such as it was—in New York, she realized how utterly empty her life had been and how absolutely alone she was.
“After opera …” She felt the prickle of tears sting her eyes. No, please. Anything but that. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Marcus. She hadn’t cried since she was a child. Not once. Not when things had fallen apart in New York. Not when Geoffrey had told her she had to leave with him. Not during the eleven months since, when she’d had to turn her entire life over to someone else. Why now? Why here? Why in front of the last person on earth she wanted to see her cry?
She lifted a hand to shield her face and jumped up from the bed. “Excuse me,” she said hastily as she headed for the bathroom. “I think I have an eyelash in my eye.” As she was closing the door, she said over her shoulder, “If you don’t mind, I’ll take the first shower.” Without awaiting a reply, she pushed the door closed and locked it, then turned on the shower full blast. Then she grabbed a towel and dropped to the floor, shoving it hard against her mouth.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
Her eyes grew damp, so she squeezed them shut.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
And somehow, by some miracle, Della kept the tears at bay.
The moment Marcus heard the rattle of the shower curtain closing in the bathroom, he crossed to the dresser where Della had laid her purse the night before. Okay, so maybe this one couldn’t hold as much as a computer’s hard drive, since it was one of those tiny purses women carried to formal events that was roughly the size of a negative ion. But it was large enough to hold a driver’s license, cash and a cell phone, all of which he found inside, along with a tube of lipstick, a collapsible hairbrush, a plain metal keychain from which dangled a single key—house key, not car key—and, curiously, a computer USB drive. But no credit card, he noted, thinking it odd. Meaning she’d paid for her dinner and whatever else last night—a not inconsiderable sum—with cash. Interesting. He just wasn’t sure exactly how.
He looked at the driver’s license first and saw that it was from New York State. So she had been honest with him about being from the East Coast, but hadn’t dissuaded him of his assumption that she came from a hot climate. Also interesting. But again, he wasn’t sure how. Looking closer at the license, he saw that her full name was Della Louise Hannan and that she was thirty years old. In fact, she’d turned thirty yesterday. So last night was her celebration of reaching that milestone. The fact that she’d celebrated it alone heartened him—more than it really should have.
He glanced