Scandals Of The Rich: A Façade to Shatter. Maisey Yates
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to tick off his social calendar.
Afterward, he would take Lia home … and then he’d finish what he’d started here tonight.
Lia was shell-shocked. She sat through the rest of the evening in a daze. Her mouth still tingled where Zach had kissed her. Her body throbbed with tension and need. She’d been so furious with him, so convinced she would never, ever be susceptible to his charms again.
She’d been wrong. Woefully, pitifully wrong.
She was still the same lonely girl she’d always been, the same girl looking for acceptance and affection. She despised herself for that weakness, despised Zach for taking advantage of it. She took a sip of her water and let her gaze slide over the crowd before turning back to Zach.
He stood at a podium close to their table, talking about his father, about the war, about the night he was shot down over enemy territory. He said the words, but she wasn’t convinced he felt any of them.
He was detached. Cold. The crowd was not. They sat rapt. And Lia couldn’t help herself. She was rapt with them. She learned about how his plane took a hit and he’d had to bail out. How he’d broken his leg in the landing, and how he’d had to drag himself to shelter before the enemy found him.
Then she listened to him talk about the six marines who’d been sent in to extract him after several days. They had all died trying to save him. He was the only survivor. It sent a chill down her spine and raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
He’d suffered much, she thought. So much that she couldn’t even begin to understand. She wanted to go to him, wanted to wrap her arms around him and lower his head to her shoulder. And then she just wanted to hold him tight and listen to him breathe.
Toward the end of his speech, a photographer started to take photos. His flash snapped again and again. Zach seemed to stiffen slightly, but he kept talking, kept the crowd in the grip of his oratory. The photographer moved in closer. No one seemed to think anything of it, but Lia remembered that night in Palermo and her palms started to sweat.
Zach gripped the sides of the podium, his knuckles white. The flash went off again and again and she didn’t miss the way he flinched in reaction. It was so subtle as to seem a natural tic, but something told Lia it was not. Then he seemed to stumble over his thoughts, repeating something he’d just said. Panic rose up in Lia’s chest, gripped her by the throat.
She couldn’t watch him lose his way like he had in Palermo. She couldn’t let him suffer that kind of public meltdown. She didn’t know that he would, but she couldn’t get past the memory of the way she’d met him, plastered against that wall with his eyes tight shut and the flashing and booming of lights and bass all around.
She didn’t have to look at this crowd any longer to know it would be disastrous if he did.
Right now, everyone seemed to be paying attention to Zach. She didn’t quite know what to do, or how to deflect their attention—and then she did. She coughed. Loudly. After a moment, Zach’s gaze slid in her direction. She kept coughing, and then she reached for the water, took a swallow as if she were having trouble. Zach’s attention was firmly on her now. He darted his eyes over the crowd, but they inevitably came back to her.
She coughed again, sipped more water. The photographer seemed satisfied enough with his photos thus far that he lowered his camera and melted toward the back of the crowd.
Lia stopped coughing. A few minutes later, Zach wound up his speech. The room erupted in applause. Lia breathed deeply, relieved. Though, perhaps Zach had been in control the whole time. Perhaps he’d never needed her intervention, lame though it was.
She watched him walk toward her. People stopped him, talked to him, making his progress back to her side take quite a long time. But then he was there, and she was gazing up at him, searching his face for signs of stress.
There were none.
He gazed over her head, his attention caught by something. Just for a moment, his mouth tightened. The flash went off again and Lia whirled toward the source.
“Come, darling,” Zach said, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you home.”
Several of the Washington elite slid sideways glances at them, but Lia didn’t care. She gave Zach a big smile and put her hand in his. He helped her from her chair and then they were moving toward the exit. They were waylaid a few more times, but soon they were on the street and Lia sucked in a relieved breath. They were facing the National Mall and the street was far quieter here since it fronted the museums instead of busy Constitution Avenue.
Raoul pulled up in the Mercedes on cue. Zach didn’t wait for him to come around and open the door. He yanked it open and motioned Lia inside. Then he joined her and they were speeding off into the night. Zach leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. His palms were steepled together in his lap.
She found herself wanting to trace a finger along the hard line of his jaw. She would not do it, of course.
“Are you all right?” she asked presently.
His eyes opened. “Fine. Why?”
She fiddled with the beading on her gown. “I thought the photographer might have disturbed you.”
Zach was very still. “Not at all,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “It goes with the territory. I am accustomed to it.”
His answer disappointed her, but she decided not to push him further. She remembered how angry he’d been in Palermo, how disgusted with himself. She’d hoped he might confide in her tonight, but she had to understand why he did not.
Still, she ached for him.
“I’m sorry those things happened to you,” she said. “In the war.”
He shrugged. “That’s what war is, Lia. Brutal, inhumane. People get hurt and people die. I’m one of the lucky ones.”
Lucky ones. He didn’t sound as if he believed those words at all. And yet he was lucky. He was here, alive—and she was suddenly very thankful for that. Her chest squeezed tight as she thought of what he’d said tonight—and how very close she’d come to never knowing him at all.
“Why don’t you fly anymore, Zach?” She remembered that he’d said he couldn’t but she didn’t know why. She’d asked him that night in Palermo, but then she’d told him not to answer when she’d thought she’d crossed a line into something too personal.
Now, however, she wanted to know. She felt like she needed to know in order to understand him better. Her heart beat harder as she waited.
He sighed. And then he tapped his temple. “Head trauma. Unpredictable headaches accompanied by vision loss. Definitely not a good idea when flying a fighter jet at thirty thousand feet.”
He sounded so nonchalant about it, but she knew how much it must hurt him. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes gleamed as he looked at her. “Me, too. I loved flying.”
“I don’t like to fly,” she said. “I find it scary.”
He grinned, and it warmed her. “That’s because you don’t understand how it works. By that, I mean the noises the plane makes, the process of flight—not to mention the fact you aren’t in control. It’s some unseen person up there, holding your life in his or her hands. But it’s all very basic, I assure you.”
“I know it’s mostly safe,” she said. “But you’re right. I haven’t flown much, and the sounds and bumps and lack of control scare me.”
She’d longed for a sedative on the long flight from Sicily, but she hadn’t dared take one because of the baby.
His laugh made a little tendril of flame lick through her. “A fighter jet is so much more intense. The engines scream, the thrust is incredible and the only thing keeping you from blacking out is the G suit.”
Lia blinked. “What is