The Man Behind the Scars(10)

A phone call from Ben, her would-be big brother, only made it worse. Her  steps slowed as she answered, and she forced herself to adopt her usual  flippant tone. It was harder to do than it should have been, and she  didn't want to think about why that was.

"What are you doing with the Earl of Pembroke?" Ben asked directly, in  that way of his that reminded Angel that he did, in fact, worry about  her. And about all of the many Jacksons, as if worrying was his foremost  occupation, in place of his usual world-conquering.

It made her stomach clench in shame, around another bitter surge of  panic. What would she tell him? How could she face him again if she did  this crazy thing? Ben had never wanted anything but the best for Angel,  however unlikely that seemed, given the cards she'd been dealt and the  choices she'd made. This would disappoint him, deeply, as he was one of  the few people who Angel had ever let get somewhat close to her. Because  he had, despite her best efforts, she opened her mouth to tell him what  was really happening.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it, to tell him the truth. She  realized she couldn't quite bear to say it out loud. Not to Ben. Not to  someone who would care, and would be so very sad for her. That made it  all so squalid. So desperate and pathetic, somehow.

She mouthed something careless and shallow instead, hardly aware of what  she was saying. What did it matter? When she got home, she would call  Rafe and end this madness, and none of this would signify.

"Be careful, Angel," Ben said. It made her throat feel tight. As if he  could see. As if he knew. But he didn't, she reminded herself. He  couldn't. He'd only seen that terrible photograph, which didn't even  show Rafe's scars, and certainly didn't show Angel's true, mercenary  colors. It was, in all the ways that mattered, a lie.

"I always am," she replied lightly, and while that certainly wasn't  true, what was true was that she survived. She always, always survived.  So what else really mattered, in the long run? It was better than the  alternative. "He's rich and titled, Ben," she said then, interrupting  him as he tried, yet again, to step up and fix things in a life that,  she was afraid, could never be fixed, not really. And certainly not by  Ben, dear though he was to her. It meant more to her than she could say  that he still tried. "What more could I want?"                       
       
           



       

That question rang in her head after they'd talked for a few more  moments, after she'd evaded his questions and waved away his concern,  and after she'd slipped her mobile back into her pocket for the  remainder of her walk home. The April day was cold and gray, with a  blustery sort of wind that made Angel feel empty inside. Spring seemed  like a fairy tale itself on the chilly London street, an unlikely story  at best. She tucked her chin into her warm wool scarf, and had her head  bent against the relentless slap of the cold, and that was why she  didn't see the slender, tousled-blonde-headed figure standing at the  door to her building with a cigarette in one hand and a newspaper in the  other until she was very nearly on top of her. When she did, her breath  left her in a great whoosh, as surely as if she'd been kicked in the  stomach. Hard.

Chantelle.

Of course.

* * *

"Aren't you the dark horse," Chantelle said in her insinuating,  insulting way, lounging in one of the chairs in Angel's tiny kitchen as  if she was perfectly comfortable there, which, Angel reflected  balefully, she undoubtedly was. Having no shame at all removed all  manner of discomforts that others might feel in similar circumstances,  she imagined. Chantelle had not bothered to put out her cigarette  outside, and so still smoked it, even as she tapped the tabloid that  she'd flung on the table between them with the restless, manicured  fingers of her other hand. "An earl, no less! You've learned a little  something from your mother after all."

"Do you have a cheque for me, Chantelle?" Angel asked pointedly,  unwinding her scarf and tossing it with far more force than necessary  toward the empty chair. "Because I know this can't be a social call. Not  when you owe me fifty thousand quid with interest mounting by the day."

Chantelle blew a stream of smoke into the air. "No wonder I didn't lay  eyes on you once in Santina," she said, as if Angel hadn't spoken. As if  what she'd done wasn't hanging between them like an ugly screen. "I  thought you were avoiding me, but the whole time you were holed up with  his lordship playing-"

"How could you?" Angel said tightly, cutting her off. "Fifty thousand pounds? What could you possibly have been thinking?"

She told herself that her mother looked abashed then, but she knew that  was wishful thinking at best. Chantelle didn't know the meaning of the  word. Angel had learned the truth about her mother over the years,  whether she'd wanted to or not. Over and over again.

"It was an accident," Chantelle said now. Just as she always did, her  voice slightly husky as if she was in the grip of strong emotions.  Which, Angel reminded herself

angrily, she was not. She had no emotions-only the ability to feign  them. "You know I'll pay you back, love. It was just a little bit of  help to tide me over."

"You won't pay me back," Angel said flatly. As much to herself as to her mother. "You never do."

"It won't matter, will it?" Chantelle replied without missing a beat.  "You could be a countess soon enough, if you play this right, and what  will you care about money then? You'll have pots of it."

She made no effort to disguise the tinge of bitterness in her tone, much  less the avaricious gleam in her eyes-bright blue eyes that were  identical to Angel's. Angel hated the fact that she so greatly resembled  this woman. It horrified her that anyone believed she was anything at  all like her-and she knew they did. The whole wide world did.

Even she did, if she was honest. And hadn't she walked up to Rafe at  that party and proved it? Like mother, like daughter. It made her throat  burn with something like acid.

"You can't possibly imagine that after stealing my identity and sticking  me with a huge bill, I'd be likely to give you any money should I marry  into it, can you?" Angel made her voice incredulous when, really, she  wasn't at all surprised. Chantelle twitched herself up from the chair  opposite and moved toward the sink to toss her cigarette butt away.  Leaving a soggy mess for Angel to clean up, no doubt. Like everything  else she ever touched.

"I raised you all on my own, Angel," Chantelle said without turning back  around. Her voice was wistful. Something like nostalgic. And was, Angel  knew, no matter how much she wished otherwise, entirely fake. "I was  only eighteen when I had you, and it wasn't easy."

She wished, for only a moment, that her mother was someone, anyone,  else. Someone who might say the things Chantelle did and mean them. Even  once.

"Does it count as "on your own' when there was a parade of men in and  out of the door at all times?" Angel asked musingly. "Some were simply  your lovers, I suppose, but others were honest to goodness sugar  daddies. Which I suspect is just another way of saying married, isn't  it? Just like my father?"                       
       
           



       

"Some daughters in your position would be a little bit more grateful,"  Chantelle continued, only the hardening of her voice any indication that  she'd heard Angel at all. "I made the best choices I could for you,  when I was barely more than a child myself."

"Chantelle, please." Angel laughed, entirely without humor. "You were never a child."

"Because I had no choice," she retorted. "I had to make do, didn't I? How else would you have been fed?"

Chantelle twisted around then, and Angel met her mother's gaze. So blue, so bright, and so endlessly conniving.

"Why are you here?" she asked quietly. "I know you're not going to pay  me back. I even know you're not going to apologize. So what can you  possibly want?"

"Can't a mother drop in to see her own daughter?" Chantelle asked, her  blue gaze guileless. Which meant she could be up to anything at all.  Anything and everything. "Especially when you haven't answered your  mobile in days?"

"I know how this goes," Angel said, too weary even for bitterness. Too  numb, she thought, and was grateful for it. It made everything easier.  What hurt the most was when she actually believed that Chantelle could  change-that she even wanted to try. How many times would she fall for  that? After all these years? "You'll keep at it until you say something  that makes me feel guilty. Then you'll work that until I end up making  you feel better for what you've done. Until I've apologized for what you  did to me." She shook her head. "You do it every time. It's like  clockwork."