Everything but the Truth Page 8

  “What was so bad about it?”

  I don’t want to admit it, but I know nothing of Nepal.

  “I’m sure there are better parts of the country, but where we were working . . . it was filthy. It smelled, and people were begging on every corner. . . .” His voice trails off, and he rakes in a deep breath, looking up again. “There were homeless children. Everywhere. I couldn’t turn around without seeing them. I’d practically trip on them if I wasn’t looking.”

  His eyes bore into mine. “The first time I looked a little girl in the eyes and saw her pain and hunger and despair . . .”

  He trails off again and abruptly stands, walking a few feet away and raising his arms, motioning to the orangery around us. “This is what I thought was normal. This is how I lived for eighteen years. And in that one instant, I hated it all. I felt stupid and selfish and like I’d been a complete and utter fool.”

  “You can’t help that you grew up like this.”

  “Maybe that’s true, but I’m grown now, and I should be out there helping people. Fixing things.”I stand, stepping into the grass, stopping when we’re toe-to-toe. “So do something about it.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. After I returned, I moved up here and took my place at Buchannan Industries like my grandpa wanted me to. I figured if I straightened out my act, I could develop a plan. I donate my salary and I volunteer as much as possible and it’s just . . . it’s not enough. I want to change the world, and it’s impossible.”

  I rest my arms on his shoulders, so we’re in a loose hug, and stare into his eyes. “So we’ll figure it out. Bill Gates doesn’t even run Microsoft anymore. He spends all his time on his foundation. You could start one.”

  “And do what? Every problem I’ve ever had could be solved by throwing money at it. But this is bigger than that.”

  “I don’t know yet. But we’ll think of something.”

  He reaches forward, tangling his fingers in my hair, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “You’re going to be good for me,” he says, his voice low and throaty.

  And then he kisses me.

  Unlike the last kiss, this one is longer than a single heartbeat. I almost believe Malik can turn back time—or at least pause it—because I lose myself in the moment. My eyes shut and the fragrant scent of the flowers mingles with the taste of Malik’s lips.

  When we finally part, he squeezes my hand, and the world comes back into focus. “So, I guess we should go find the antiques we’re supposed to be looking for, huh?”

  He leads me out of the orangery and back into the much cooler air of the hall. He clears his throat, and I can feel the awkwardness in the air, like he’s not sure how to transition from such intensity. “Um, I’ve got a short list of specific items, and then we’ll just wander the house and see what else we might find to fill his new place.”

  I follow him down the hall, passing the rooms we’d raced by earlier.

  “The study is this way.”

  I feel like I’ve gone back in time as we pass a full suit of armor inside a glass case and walk under a series of crystal and plaster chandeliers.

  “This place has a ballroom, doesn’t it?” I ask.

  “It does,” he says. “It’s in the other wing. I haven’t been in it since . . . hmmm . . . I was sixteen.”

  “You had a sweet sixteen in a ballroom?”

  “God, no. It was a Buchannan Industries event. I was required to make an appearance. That’s my grandfather’s version of charity work. Throw a ball, charge a thousand dollars per guest, and then write a check to someone else’s organization so they can do the work. But that’s not enough for me. I want to be part of it. I want to spend my time, not just my money.”

  He stops before a set of doors, then pushes them inward.

  Mr. Buchannan’s study is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The walls are covered, floor to ceiling, in shelves with leather-bound books filling every last shelf. One side of the room has a massive fireplace, the hearth tall enough that I think I could walk into it upright. A wingback chair sits next to it.

  He points across the room, to where a desk stately enough for the oval office sits, a leather chair behind it, and a second, different chair facing it on the opposite side. “So, I’m guessing that’s our . . . um . . .”

  “Fauteuil?” I ask, walking across the room, my fingers trailing along the carved wooden back of the chair. Even though I should’ve known better, some part of me expected a reproduction. This looks like it could’ve come directly out of 1700s France. The cushioned back and seat are crushed velvet so soft, I half expect it to fall apart as I touch it.

  “You really love furniture,” he says, watching me.

  I glance up, my cheeks warming. “Yeah. You could say that. Stuff like this has lasted so long, it should be loved and taken care of. . . .” I clear my throat. “There’s a reason my first class at WSU this fall is art history.”

  As Malik studies me intently, I give in to my urge to gently press my fingers against the crushed velvet of the chair. “That’s, um, the chair he’s after. What else have you got?”

  “I know where the sideboard is that he wants, but he also said ‘and stuff for display.’ Like to go on the sideboard and the mantel, and his coffee table . . . and I don’t know what he might want. I thought we could bring back the small stuff and then just note the location of the others for one of his assistants to pick up.”

  I follow him out of the study and down the hall, studying the perfectly tailored way his button-down hugs his shoulders. The sleeves are rolled up, showing just enough skin to make my mouth water.

  We round a corner, and then the hallway opens up into a cavernous space.

  “Wow . . .” I swallow, staring at the biggest hearth I’ve ever seen, with a huge, carved mantel above it. “I could stand inside that fireplace.”

  “Yeah. I’ve never seen it in use, but it still looks pretty cool.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  I step farther into the room, taking in the huge pool table with carved claw-foot legs. In front of it, two sofas face each other, a low coffee table between them, holding a crystal decanter and two snifters.

  Malik flashes me a brilliant smile. “I was hoping you could help me move that couch.”

  I smack his shoulder. “You’re such a smart aleck.”

  I’m drawn toward a table in the corner of the room, where the light from an adjacent window reflects off the jewels of . . . whatever it is . . . some kind of fancy jewelry box. I walk closer, fascinated. “The enameling . . . it reminds me of a Fabergé egg.”

  “That’s because it is Fabergé. I mean, not an egg, obviously, but it is made by Fabergé.”

  I raise a brow. “I’ve never seen one in real life before.”

  “I used to love them. Now they just remind me of excess.” He frowns. “I guess I like the idea of the surprise, though, inside the egg.”

  I step away from the Fabergé jewelry box, walking around the room, my hands tracing over the pool table. “Yeah? You like surprises?”

  “I like you,” he says.

  I raise a brow. “What’s that got to do with surprises?”

  “That’s what you are. A refreshing surprise.”

  Yeah, I’m a surprise all right. As in, Surprise! My name’s not Lucy and I’m not rich!

  “What about that?” I ask, pointing to a brass mantel clock. “It would look good on a dresser or even a side table.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “It doesn’t really match what he has so far.”

  “You don’t want to be too matchy-matchy. Sometimes an eclectic piece is better. And all the gold tones he’s got in the apartment will go with the brass, but the gothic style will make it stand out.”

  I realize he’s staring and grinning. “What are you going to do with all that knowledge you’ve got crammed up there?” he asks, motioning to my head.

>   “I want to be a curator. I want to spend my life finding lost pieces of significance, and then making sure people get why they’re so important to keep. It’s easy to lose pieces of our history, you know. People toss stuff in the trash, and they have no idea it’s important. If something has lasted two hundred years, it should last two hundred more.”

  “Well, then, maybe you should give me a tour of this house. Pretend I’ve never been here, and you want me to see the significance in all this . . . stuff. And then maybe, for once, I won’t view it as a giant pile of spent money.”

  I grin. “I’m in.” I point to a pair of candlesticks. “Those, for instance, are in the style of Louis the Sixteenth. They’d be from the late 1700s, if they’re real. Part of the style was influenced by all the excitement around the excavation of Pompeii.”

  I glance over at him to find he’s studying the candlesticks with interest. “He was married to Marie Antoinette, you know. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”

  He laughs. “Once or twice.”

  I lead him over to the fireplace, staring at the portrait hanging over the mantel. “This is baroque.”

  “I hate it.”

  “I figured you would. The baroque period was known for its excess.” I glance over at him. “How do you live in this house . . . and drive that car . . . if you hate it so much?”

  He steps up beside me, so we’re shoulder to shoulder, and stares upward at the painting.

  “The car is just one of many in the garage. It’s not like I went and bought it. And the house . . . It would be a bigger waste to pay rent somewhere else and let it sit empty, I guess.”

  “Makes sense,” I say.

  “Does it?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not so sure,” he says, stepping closer, letting his hand trail down my arm. “Lately I think the only thing in my life that makes sense is you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Three hours later, Malik and I are at Mr. Buchannan’s front door. I’m walking slowly, holding the brass mantel clock, paranoid Malik will say something flirty and I’ll get flustered and drop it. Malik has the candlesticks, and he tucks one under his elbow so he can unlock and hold open the door for me.

  Like he’s not at all worried about dropping such priceless antiques.

  “Grandpa?” he calls out.

  “In here,” comes the muffled reply.

  We set the items down on the granite counter in the kitchen, and I follow Malik down the hall, to where an open door lets in a slant of light.

  “We brought back a few things for you,” he says.

  “We?”

  I step into the room just as he speaks. He glances up, his surprise evident, before his scowl takes over. He’s sitting behind a mahogany Victorian-style pedestal desk, a shut laptop in front of him.

  With his brow furrowed and his lips turned down, he looks so much older. “I don’t want guests.”

  “Oh,” I say, taking a step back. I really shouldn’t be here, anyway, since I’m supposed to stay away from him. “I’m sorry, I’ll—”

  “She helped me pick out a few things at the house,” Malik says, reaching for my hand to stop me. “I don’t know a thing about your antiques.”

  “And?” Mr. Buchannan says, crossing his arms.

  “And she—”

  “Not her. I don’t care about her,” he says, propping his elbows on his desk and leaning forward with an intense gaze. “I meant, what did you bring me?” he says, his tone still biting. It’s hard to believe this is the same man who had so gleefully dragged us to Cartwell’s house. He’s reverted to the grumpy, caustic man I first met, when he wanted me out of his place.

  I want to leave, but Malik is still grasping my hand.

  “A clock. And some candlesticks,” he offers.

  “I pulled together a list of some of the larger items I thought you could use,” I say, pulling it out of my back pocket. “Malik arranged for them to arrive tomorrow.”

  I pull my hand free of Malik’s, stepping farther into the room and wondering if it’s actually a lion’s den. He stares at the paper for a long, silent moment.

  “I’ve lost my glasses,” he finally mumbles.

  “Oh,” I say. “I could read you—”

  “I can read just fine, I’m not an idiot. I simply need my glasses.”

  He doesn’t look up as he speaks, just keeps staring at the page.

  “Um, right,” I say, feeling horribly awkward. Does he want help? Does he not want help? I glance over at Malik, pleading for assistance.

  “We’ll look. Where can you last remember having them?”

  “My bedroom. Or in here. I don’t know.”

  His shoulders slump and his voice drops, becoming almost a defeated mumble. I suddenly realize this is a portrait of him I was never meant to see. “I can’t remember a dang thing anymore.”

  Watching this powerful man be reduced to this causes a lump to rise in my throat.

  “I’ll help you look in here,” I say. “Malik can check your bedroom.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they’ll turn up.” Malik disappears then, leaving me and Mr. Buchannan alone together.

  I turn to the long table spanning one wall, lifting papers and peering into open boxes. When I feel the weight of his gaze, I glance over my shoulder to find him watching me.

  Studying me.

  “You’re not his usual type,” he says.

  “Uh,” I say, not sure how to respond. I picture Selena and Emma and their megawatt smiles, their sparkling dresses. “No, I guess not.”

  I pick up a newspaper that’s been spread out on the table, folding it carefully, hoping to find the glasses underneath. But it’s just the table and a paperweight.

  “What is it you’re after?”

  I swallow, glancing back at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Why are you pursuing my grandson?”

  I furrow my brow. “I mean, I’m not . . . really . . .” I clear my throat. “Pursuing him. It’s more the other way around, I guess.”

  He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and staring me down. I know he’s supposedly half-blind without his glasses, but right now, it feels like he’s trying to peer into my soul. “Can he trust you?”

  “What?”

  “Can. He. Trust. You.” He repeats, drawing out each word as if I’m stupid.

  Wow. Is he worried I’m going to break Malik’s heart? Or that I’m using him for his money? “I’m not planning to rob him or screw him over or something. I like him. We’re having fun.”

  “He’s a fragile boy.”

  I make a funny choking noise. “I hardly see him that way.”

  “He’s not like me. He has so much to learn to take up where I left off, and he’s not ready.”

  I swallow. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think he wants to be exactly like you.”

  “Nonsense. He’s a Buchannan. Everything I built could be his if he’d put in a little effort, but he doesn’t have the drive.” Frustration leaks through his stoic demeanor, and he throws his hands about as he speaks. “His mother gave him too much freedom, and he spent all his time running around with his little friends in the Hollywood Hills. Now he doesn’t know what hard work is.”

  And that’s it. I can’t fake being polite anymore. My jaw drops, and indignation sets in. “You think he’s lazy? You think that’s why he’s not taking over your company at nineteen? Maybe he doesn’t want to be you. Maybe it has nothing to do with hard work.”

  “He’s exactly like me. He doesn’t want to take the company because he didn’t build it. He wants to create something of his own. His mother did, too, and I supported the real estate branch she wanted to create. But because of that, the mantle has fallen to him, and he will take over my position.”

  I lean on the table and cross my arms. “Have you even bothered asking why he’s not driven to become the next Buchannan Industries CEO?”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “He’s destined fo
r big things; you just don’t see it. Because you’re too busy trying to see him as something else.”

  “Found them,” Malik says, behind me.

  I startle, and my cheeks burn, wondering how much of our conversation Malik heard.

  Mr. Buchannan holds out a hand, and Malik deposits the glasses in his palm. He puts them on, pushing them up his nose as he picks up the list I’ve created, as if the whole conversation we had never existed.

  The room falls silent as he holds the list up to the light, his eyes roaming the page. I get the sudden feeling I’m a student watching her teacher grade a test.

  When he’s done reading, he folds the list in half, sets it on his desk, and then looks up at me.

  “Good,” he says. “You can go now.”

  “Um, okay,” I say, stepping away, unsure if that was a stamp of approval or an annoyed dismissal. “Uh, it was nice to see you again.”

  Moments later I’m standing in the entry and Malik is giving me an apologetic look. “Sorry,” he whispers. “He’s not one for guests.”

  “I noticed.”

  “It seemed like he liked you, after the whole Goya excursion. But he’s been like this since he retired.”

  “What? Grumpy?”

  He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. The truth is, he . . . was forced into retirement. The board voted him out.”

  “Of his own company? They can do that?”

  He nods. “Yeah. A few key members didn’t always agree with his decisions, and as soon as he got a little forgetful, they used that to force him out. He didn’t take it well. He’s been angry and bitter for a while.”

  “And that’s why he’s so keen on you getting into his business, isn’t it?” I say as the truth finally dawns. “He wants you to be there because he can’t be.”

  “Yeah. I guess I’m the next best thing. So I do what he asks, and I go to the office every day and put in the time. But my heart’s not in it. And he knows it.”