the offer but I’d like to suggest that we not make any major decisions, especially financial ones, yet.”
Linc exchanged a long look with his siblings and Lachlyn sensed that she’d somehow passed a test, that their approval of her was climbing.
“I came here,” Lachlyn said, sounding hesitant, “thinking that I would have a drink and then go back to my life, my very normal, solitary life. However, hearing about the impending press attention changes that. I can’t ignore the impact this will have and I can’t just walk away. Nor can I accept your very generous offer.”
“Do you think that there’s a chance that you might be able to one day?” Sage asked.
“I don’t know,” Lachlyn said, standing up. “I need to think. And I need to go.”
Too much information, too many people. She had to leave, get out, find a quiet spot where she could make sense of this crazy turn her life had taken. Lachlyn, needing air and needing to get away, snatched up her bag and ran.
* * *
The news that Lachlyn Latimore was Connor Ballantyne’s daughter had not generated the firestorm of attention Beck had predicted. It was far worse than that, Lachlyn decided. She could only describe the constant media presence as the love child of a swarm of locusts and the apocalypse. Because every word she uttered was dissected and every step she took was monitored, Lachlyn agreed to take a two-week vacation from her job as an archivist at the New York Public Library, hoping that the furor would soon subside. She also, reluctantly, agreed to move into The Den because journalists and photographers blocked both entrances to her apartment in Woodside.
To a woman who craved solitude and privacy, Lachlyn felt like she was under siege and that there was no end in sight. She was, mentally and physically, about to jump out of her skin.
It was Cady, Beck’s wife and Ballantyne’s PR guru who finally persuaded her that it wasn’t in her interest to hide from the press—the sooner she gave them the access they wanted, the quicker the attention would die down and life would return to normal. Well, a new type of normal. Cady suggested a photo shoot, interviews with Ballantyne-friendly journalists, and a live spot on morning TV watched by—eeek!—millions, along with other magazine and print interviews.
Lachlyn said no to everything and prayed that some celebrity would do something truly shocking to draw attention away from her. Sage provided some distraction by accepting Tyce’s proposal and their engagement was an excellent excuse for a ball. It was also the perfect vehicle, Cady decided, for the Ballantynes to introduce Lachlyn to their friends and business associates. And that was the only reason Lachlyn was standing in the fantastic ballroom of the iconic Forrester Hotel, dressed in an on-loan-from-Sage designer cocktail dress that cost more than she earned a year, making small talk with people who were sometimes sweet, sometimes rude, and always curious.
It was a shark tank, Lachlyn thought, taking a tiny sip of her now flat champagne. And she was the minnow trying not to be a snack.
“Are you okay?”
Lachlyn felt fingers on her elbow and turned around to see Sage. Sage glowed from the inside out, her blue eyes luminous with happiness. Her brother’s declaration of love had done that, Lachlyn thought, proud of her sibling. Tyce had taken a chance on love and looked as happy as Sage did.
Brave Tyce.
Sage’s inquiring eyebrow reminded her that she’d been asked a question. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Are you thoroughly sick of everyone asking the same questions?” Sage tilted her head to the side, her bright blue eyes frank.
Lachlyn pulled a face and nodded her agreement. Sage took her half-empty glass from her hand, half turned and nodded to a large ornamental lemon tree in the corner. “You look like you need a break.”
“I really do,” Lachlyn agreed. She was thoroughly peopled out.
“Behind that lemon tree is a small spiral staircase. It leads up to a small, secluded balcony with a great view of the ballroom. It’s not big enough for any illicit shenanigans so nobody goes up there, but it’s a great place to hang out for a little while and get your breath back.”
Lachlyn looked up and she could see a tiny Juliet balcony, partially obscured by a wrought-iron trellis. Yes, that was exactly where she needed to be, for an hour or three. For the rest of the night if she got really, really lucky. Then Lachlyn remembered that she was one of the reasons for the ball and frowned. “Are you sure it will be okay?”
“Just go, Lachlyn, because Old Mrs. Preston is heading in your direction and she’s wearing her ‘I’ll harangue the truth out of her’ expression. I’ll head her off while you make your escape.”
Lachlyn flashed her a quick smile. “Thanks, Sage.”
“Sure.” Sage returned the smile and moved to intercept the super-thin, super-Botoxed specimen heading in her direction. Lachlyn skirted two men in tuxedos who looked like they wanted to talk to her, ignored the call for her attention and headed for the waiter standing near the hidden staircase. She picked up a fresh glass of champagne and ducked up the spiral staircase, holding her floor-length chiffon dress off the stairs. She stepped onto the small balcony and rested her back against the wall. A little peace, finally.
Needing to mentally escape, her thoughts drifted to the collection she was in the process of archiving for the New York Public Library. The grandson of a noted French art collector and critic had recently bequeathed his grandfather’s entire collection of diaries, letters, art and mementoes detailing the Parisian art world of the 1920s. It was a fascinating look back into the glamorous era between the two World Wars and the project of a lifetime.
She couldn’t wait for her two weeks’ vacation to be over so that she could get back to work, to her quiet, empty-of-people apartment. Hearing shouts of laughter, Lachlyn looked through the trellis onto the ballroom below. She took in the exquisite gowns and breathtaking jewelry, carefully made-up faces and sophisticated conversation. A jazz band played in the corner and a few couples were on the dance floor, swaying to the 1940s ballad.
Lachlyn’s eyes drifted over faces, easily finding her brother Tyce, his arms wrapped around Sage’s baby bump. Tyce couldn’t understand her need to hold the Ballantynes—and the world—at an arm’s length. However, their agreement that she deal with the Ballantynes on her own terms was holding. Just.
Tyce didn’t realize that Lachlyn was perfectly fine on her own, that he needed this amazing family, a great love affair, more than she did. She hadn’t told him, or anybody, what happened that summer so long ago...
She didn’t need to try hard to remember the sour smell of his breath on her face, the taste of his slimy tongue, the feel of his rough hands inside her shirt, between her legs. She’d yelled and screamed but her mom—thanks to depression, sleeping pills or, most likely, disinterest—hadn’t lifted her head to help her. Before the assault had turned from horrible to devastating, Lachlyn’s elbow had connected with her assailant’s nose. She’d followed that up with a knee to his scrotum and he’d scuttled off. She’d sat on the floor of her bedroom, weeping and alone. As a result, asking for any type of support or help, emotional or physical, transported her back to feeling like a helpless little girl, and that was something she never wanted to be seen as. Yeah, it also stopped her from making friends, from having normal relationships with normal men, but that was a small price to pay.
Sometimes, in the early, honest hours of the morning, she suspected
