Fallen Foe (Cruel Castaways, #2)

by L.J. Shen

I open my eyes, rolling onto my back. I prop myself on my elbows, looking to see who my savior is. A cherubic face shoves itself into my line of sight. Familiar and angelic and absolutely, beyond any doubt, pissed. “Now you’ve really done it, you conceited fool!” Winnifred growls, balling my bow tie in her hand, shaking a fist to my face. “What the heck were you thinkin’? What’d have happened if I weren’t here? I’ve no words to describe you!” She is standing above me, her face as red as a ripe tomato, her eyes so big I can see my reflection in them. “You don’t?”

“Well, here are some useful suggestions: idiot, moron, drunkard, imbecile, reckless asshole—technically, that’s two words, but—” She tries to slap me. I catch her wrist effortlessly, stopping her from doing so. Drunk or not, my instincts rarely fail. I stand up, her delicate wrist still captured between my fingers. She stares at me with undiluted hatred. It shines from her sapphire eyes. I find it disturbing that I can’t hate her as properly and thoroughly as I should. She is a simpleton. An anecdote in my life. Nothing more. “I’m sure you’ll find a good reason to slap me in due time, but that time hasn’t arrived just yet. You were saying?” I smile cordially when we are both standing in front of one another. She shakes out of my touch, jerking her hand back. “You’re a bastard!”

“Tell me what you were thinking. Have you had these thoughts long? No one just gets up on a banister like that. In the dark too! When I saw you through the window, I thought . . .”

My eyes are still focused on her lips. Pink, narrow, and luscious. She is impossibly sweet. That combination between virtue and rage is downright sinful. They don’t make ’em like this anymore. Especially in Manhattan. My mind may be slow, but my senses are sharp, and I know an opportunity when I see one. My lips crash against hers clumsily. I cup the back of her head and draw her to myself. Arya’s warning is a distant memory. So is Calypso Hall, and the fact that we are both in love with other people, and that those people are dead. Reality ceases to exist, and the only thing I’m focused on is the person in front of me. She is soft and sugary and different. So different I cannot close my eyes and imagine she is Grace, like I want to. There’s not a hint of alcohol on her breath. No bitter bite of an overpowering perfume. She is all toffee apples and lazy Tennessee summer nights. She is church bells and sweet tea and Moon Pies. The very thing I frown upon. Our tongues dance together. She fists the lapels of my tuxedo like I might run away. I’m not going anywhere. I want to pick her up and take her to my apartment and fuck her senseless. I want that girl who ate a peach like she was a forbidden Lolita under the Italian Riviera’s sun, oozing reckless sexuality.

Reckless sexuality. Jesus. Who am I? I need to screw this woman out of my system, ASAP. My thumbs are on her cheeks, under her lashes, as I deepen the kiss, crowd her until her back is flat against the wall . . . Winnifred rips her mouth from mine the minute her exposed back touches the concrete.

“You darn well earned this one,” she hisses. I bow my head. “When you’re right, you’re right, Bumpkin. Back to your words from a few minutes ago—I’m not suicidal. I am, however, shitfaced, which could explain why I overstepped the line.” “Overstepped?”

“You kissed me back.” “I did no such thing!” She blushes guiltily. Oops. This is the second time I drag Winnifred out of her perfect Stepford Wife comfort zone. “What annoyed you about my existence this time?” I inquire pleasantly. “And please spare me any claims you didn’t enjoy it. Your toes curled in your sandals, and I felt the goose bumps all over your skin.”

“Why astronomy?” she demands. “Why ast . . . ?” I stand between her and the closed doors of the elevator, confused. “Do not change the subject. Tell me more about the room.” She shrugs. “I’ll do whatever I want. You’re the one at a point of disadvantage here.” “How’d you figure that?” “Because you want to know more about what happened with Grace and Paul, whereas I’m terrified of the truth.”

“How’d you figure I’m into astronomy in the first place?” I turn the conversation back to her. I forgot to ask back at the New Amsterdam. “There’s always an astronomy book tucked under your arm. There was one in Italy, when you were on the balcony, and one the first time you came to Calypso Hall. It’s almost like your anchor. It grounds you, doesn’t it?” “It’s not a security blanket.” I scoff. “I think it is.” She arches an eyebrow. “Luckily you’re not paid to think, but to recite lines better thinkers have written.” “Spare me.”

you thought I was this stupid, you wouldn’t giggle like a schoolgirl every time I made a joke. Now tell me about your fascination with astronomy.”

And that’s when I realize no one’s ever asked me about my love for astronomy before.

Winnifred actually cares. The elevator slides open. We both walk inside. I have no idea where we’re going. Actually, I have no idea where she is going. This woman is not going to let me tag along, wherever she’s headed. “So why did you opt for hedge funds? Why not NASA?” She studies me. “I knew from a very small age that I’d inherit the Corbin fortune and portfolio. In order not to shit all over the family legacy, I needed to work in finance.” “Do you care about your family legacy?” “Not particularly,”

Smirking, I lean back against the mirror. “We always fall for the wrong girl. In fact, all of the last seven generations of men in my family ended up divorcing their wives.” “That’s really sad.” “I could think of sadder things to torture your mind with.”

actually don’t care enough,” I say casually. “Unlike you, who cares too much. The charities, volunteer work, the cookies, the smiles. You need to live a little more for yourself and a little less for everyone else.” She stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. I hit a nerve, and I know she’ll think about it when we say our goodbyes. Nonetheless, we still have a few minutes to burn together. “So tell me—what are you passionate about, Winnifred?” She rubs at her chin, a tic she cannot conceal. “Mostly theater. Since I was a little girl, the stage has been my escape.” “What did you escape?” “The same thing we all escape.”

“Reality, mostly.” The elevator slides open. She is quick to get out. “What was so wrong with Winnifred’s reality, growing up?” I’m a dog with a bone. I’m chasing her across the lobby, making a spectacle of both of us, and I don’t care. I won’t care tomorrow either. I never cared what people thought of me. It was always Grace who gave a shit. “Well, if you really must know, I hated to be the small-town gal, with the big aspirations, who knew full well people like you would always stand in my way, ridicule and belittle me whenever possible. I wanted to believe I could be something amazing, and the world didn’t always let me.”

She pops the back door of the Camry open. I want to chase her. To steal another kiss, while the getting’s good. Perhaps even tell her my sole reason for taunting her in Italy was because she was alluring, too damn fuckable, and I hated her for it. But what’s the point? Winnifred is too engrossed in her love for her dead husband. Even if she wasn’t, I’ve only ever wanted one woman. Wanting another one seems foreign; unlike riding a bike, it is not a skill you can neglect and pick right back up. “Oh, and by the way.”

“That kiss? Four out of ten. Maybe that’s why Grace cheated on you. You’re a bad kisser.” She dips her head and disappears inside the vehicle before closing the door. The car slides back into traffic, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust smoke. I laugh to myself, shaking my head. Bumpkin is ten out of ten entertainment.

“Yes.” I scraped the pimple on my chin. “On the flight here. I didn’t want to—” Tell you. Disappoint you. Have you look at me the way you are right now, like I failed some kind of test.

And I hated the suffocating pressure of falling into bed with my husband, knowing what he had in mind was impregnating me alone.

Angling my face up to the sun, for it to dry my tears, I looked upward. A few floors up, I noticed another person sitting at his hotel balcony. A man. Tall and tan and maybe older. My hands twitched. I was tempted to wipe my face clean so he wouldn’t see me cry. But then I realized he was staring at me so openly, with such intense interest, there was no point. I was busted. I met his gaze head-on, daring him to say something, to do something. He looked like the angel of death. Not beautiful. Not homely. Just . . . different from everyone else. In an impressive, frightening way. He was holding a hardback with a photo of outer space on the cover. Why are you here, in the most important moment of my life? Why do you care? He stood up, turned around, and walked away.

“Times Square billboard?” I whip my head in his direction. “He did that?” “Yes, girl.” Sloan gathers me into a hug, spinning me in place. “And it’s big and glorious. It’s only got your face on it, but all of our names. You should take a picture of it on your way to the bar.” Arsène humored my one, sole selfish desire. Allowed me the indulgence of a billboard with my face on it. Even though we left off at the New Amsterdam without finishing our game. But why? Because he wants you to give him all the information that you have about Paul and Grace. He doesn’t care one iota about you.

I can’t stop thinking about our kiss. I’m not sure if it made me exhilarated, offended, delighted, or all three. It was

urgent, so dark, so desperate that it felt like sipping a magic potion.

The entire time, I remind myself that I hate Arsène Corbin. And even if I want to see him tonight, it is only because he is the main source of entertainment in my life these days. Nothing more.

A magnetic force pushes me to look to my right. There, I find him. Leaning against the wall, a beer bottle in his hand,

Maybe he is regretting the kiss that came after it too. Maybe he doesn’t even remember kissing me. Why do I care? I’m a widow still very much in pain from losing her husband. I shouldn’t give a darn what he is thinking. That’s when I notice he isn’t alone. He brought a date? Yes, he brought a date. So what? Again, you don’t care, remember?

“A knight, you say?” My heart leaps in my chest, and I feel my neck flush. “Who would that be?” “Rahim, of course. Who else?”

Disappointment slams into me. I’m so stupid. Did I actually expect Arsène to notice? To send me wine? The man brought a date here after kissing me silly, minutes after I saved him from death. He is a train wreck and the last person I should be warming up to.

“What about going to the doctor?” she persists, her eyebrows puckered. “Please tell me you have an appointment. You’ve been neglecting it for months.” The words hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water. I’ve done my best to ignore this subject—this problem—since Paul passed away. Everything took a back seat after the funeral, my health included. “I haven’t forgotten,” I mutter. “What’re you waiting for?” She tries to catch my gaze, to no avail. My eyes are firmly stuck on an invisible spot behind her. “I’ll do it next week.” “No, you won’t. You haven’t done it so far!”

We talk about other things, but the damage is done. I can’t unthink about what she said. Because she is right. I’m not well. I do need to go to the doctor. Sooner rather than later.

But bailing without saying goodbye is rude. Reluctantly, I drag myself back inside. I see Lucas’s trilby hat in the distance. He’s bobbing his head, talking animatedly to a few Broadway-type people. Moving toward him, I feel fingers wrap around my wrist. I stop, looking up to find Arsène’s dark, hooded eyes on mine. His lips are drawn in a shrewd smile. “Bumpkin. Was that your mother?” Remembering he brought a date, I shake out of his touch with a scowl. “What’s it to you?”

“Why, twentysomething me wants you to take a hike. How about you try being a gentleman and cater to me once?” The cad kissed me and didn’t even address the subject. “Now, Winnifred, don’t be a sourpuss. It’s your big night.” “It’s diminishing, now that we’re talking,”

He tips his head back and laughs. “Here. Have you met Gwendolyn?” He motions to his date with his beer bottle. She steps forward and smiles at me, offering her hand for a shake. “Gwen, this is Winnifred. She plays Nina, as you’ve gathered from the play.” So he did come to see it. With a date, Winnie. I shake Gwen’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I hope you enjoyed the show?” “It was fantastic. You and Trigorin knocked it out of the park.”

“That’s kind of you.” I dip my head down, blushing. “Well, I don’t want to keep you two. I should go and say my goodbyes—” “Leaving so soon?” Arsène gives me a faux-wounded look. “The evening’s just begun.” “For you, maybe. I’m calling it a night.” “Before the cake’s been cut and speeches are made. My, my, you’re not even trying, are you?”

“Especially when the future of Calypso Hall is hanging by a thread. You do know, Winnifred, I’m not a big fan of theaters, and even less of slacker employees.” “Yes, I’m aware.” I cross my arms over my chest. Gwen grins privately, amused by our exchange. “I’ll take my chances. Any parting words?”

“You seem preoccupied. What’s on that simple mind of yours?” He tilts his head sideways, entertained more than worried. “None of your business.”

I’m almost at the wooden door when something occurs to me. I stop, softly curse myself, then turn around sharply and head straight back to where he’s standing. Which is exactly where I left him. There’s a cocky smirk on his face. He leans against the wooden bar nonchalantly. The jerk knew I’d make a U-turn. It’s written all over his face. “One more thing.” I raise a finger between us. “Hit me with it.” “The billboard.” His eyes turn from mocking to alert, but he says nothing. “Why did you do it?” I ask. “You didn’t have to. We never finished that billiard game.” “Chivalry, of course.” He opens up his hands theatrically. “You told me to start somewhere, didn’t you?” Yeah, but that was a second ago. “I doubt you can spell the word, let alone practice it.” He laughs, pleased. “You’re right. I did it for purely selfish reasons. I wanted to ensure a good return on my investment, and The Seagull looked like it might actually make a few bucks.” “That can’t be it either.”

“There are many ways to advertise a play that don’t include stroking my ego.”

“Ah, so you admit that you have an ego.” “A small one.” I pinch two fingers together. “Yes, yes, I know. I’m trying to change that. No one likes altruism, Winnifred. It’s such a boring trait.” “Is that why you gave me a billboard? To prove to me that I’m vain?” I press. He steps forward, his mouth a breath away from my ear. The back of my neck blossoms in goose bumps, and my breathing becomes labored. “Maybe I simply needed a bait to lure you into the conversation you walked away from that night at the Pierre. Have I succeeded?”

I jerk back from him, realizing that he has me exactly where he wanted me. “What do you wanna talk about?” “We only have one mutual interest, and it keeps both of us awake at night.”

“Actually, judging by tonight, what keeps you awake at night has nothing to do with your late fiancée.” I glance coolly behind him, looking for Gwen. “Jealous?” He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I splutter. “I should be so lucky. A young, beautiful admirer. Fresh out of the Bible Belt too.” I laugh incredulously, pushing him away. “I’m not the dumb farm girl you think I am.”

“Wait, where’s Gwen?” His white teeth gleam. He is enjoying this exchange too much. “Who, now?” “Your date!” I’m about to kill him. I’m sure of it. He looks around, as if just realizing she is gone. “She must’ve left. Beats me as to why.” “You gave me more attention than you did her,” I say hotly, knowing I’m falling right into his trap. “Which is incredibly rude.” “Rude?” He looks genuinely surprised. “Grace used to love it when I brought dates over and neglected them in favor of her halfway through the night. Dare I say, it was her favorite pastime.”

Approaching Arsène, I grab the small water bottle he handed me and unscrew it. “And when do you expect us to be done with each other?” “That depends on your cooperation, Bumpkin.” “Stop calling me Bumpkin.” “Stop being offended by it,” he fires back. “You shouldn’t care what anyone thinks of you. It never does a person any good. And, at any rate, people’s opinion of you is a reflection of themselves. Not you.” “I always feel like you’re expecting me to be embarrassed about where I come from.” “And what if I do?” He lingers on this point. “Why should you succumb to other people’s wants and expectations? You have free agency and an admirable mind. Keep shutting me down. Fight back. Never be ashamed of where you come from. A person has no future without first owning up to their past.” “And you?” I tilt my head sideways. “Have you owned up to your past yet?” His eyes meet mine. He looks pensive. “Next question.” I grin. I got him there. It’s a small win, but a win, nonetheless. “You’re hiding something.” “We’re all hiding something.” He rolls his eyes. “Some of us are just better at keeping secrets.”

“Why didn’t they leave us?” I croak, opening my eyes. I find Arsène looking at me in a funny way. Something between annoyance and surprise. “Well.” He smiles wryly. “Because I was too rich, and you were too good a catch to give up. I don’t think Paul and Grace planned to leave us for one another. They simply wanted to stick it to us. For Grace, it was about not belonging to me. This was her way of assuring herself she hadn’t given in to me completely. With Paul . . .” He trails off, giving me a sidelong glance. “Hmm, now I wonder. What did you do to piss him off? Burned your famous apple pie?” If only . . . I know exactly where I fell short for Paul. Of course, I’d rather die than share this with Arsène. “You don’t have to say.” He pats my knee. “The answer’s plain on your face. Poor Winnifred.”

“They treated you like you were garbage,” he says plainly. I shake my head. “They treated me like I was powerless, because I was.” “To them,” he highlights. “Never put yourself in a position where you let people think you’re powerless again, Winnifred. They’ll always take advantage of it. I know I did.” I know he is talking about our exchange in Italy, and my stomach turns.

I glance down at my phone. “It’s one in the morning.” “Yes, it is, and neither of us had dinner. I know because I’ve had my eyes on you for the last six hours.” This foreign feeling of flourishing under unexpected sunlight crashes into me. He did? He looked? He noticed? It is tempting to pretend he likes me, even if I know it can’t be true. “I don’t think we have the same culinary preferences.” I try to dodge the offer. “You’d be surprised.” “Where do you want to go?” I’m on my feet before I know it, following him. He waves me off. “You’ll see.”

“Grace was a once-in-a-lifetime woman.” He takes a generous bite of his asado. “I only have one lifetime; therefore, I don’t expect to find someone like her.” “So you never plan on moving on?” I ask, oddly sad, even though I shouldn’t care for him. “Do you?” He looks up from his plate. Biting down on my lip, I think about it. “I hope so. Logic dictates that I will, at some point. And to be honest, ever since I found out he really did cheat on me . . .” “It should make things easier,” Arsène completes. “Emphasis on the should part.”

Arsène leans forward, catching my gaze. “I wish someone had corrupted you long ago, and thoroughly enough for you to sniff out a weasel like Paul Ashcroft and never give him a chance. I could’ve spared you a lot of heartache, you know. If I’d met you first.” “You were with Grace.” “On and off.”

“I want you to let me inside it.” “Is that why you let me into Grace’s apartment?” Even though we’re not friends, I find it disappointing that everything he does to me, for me, with me, is always as a result of his obsession with Grace. “Yes,” he says honestly.

“I can’t let you into his office. That would be a breach of Paul’s trust in me,” I say slowly. “Even though he was a certified dirtbag, I hold myself to a higher standard.” “But don’t you want to know?” His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Know what?” “What other cards I hold up my sleeve. I still have more info about him,” he coaxes. “So much more for you to explore, to learn, to hate.” “I want to see the file first,” I say. “From the private investigator.” “Knock yourself out.” He chuckles. “And there’s a ground rule I wanna lay out right here and now, before we continue this journey toward detonating our loved ones’ privacy and our loyalties to them.” “Lay it on me, Bumpkin.” I bite down on my lower lip. “Never, ever kiss me again.” There’s a beat of silence before he throws his head back and laughs blithely.