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Perversely, knowing that he took a vow makes me want him even more. Yes, I’ve said it; I want him. And I don’t need to tell you exactly how I want him, do I?
Without even thinking about what I’m doing, I let my feet carry me forward. I stop right in front of him, still looking straight into his eyes, and then offer him a slight smile. "I’m truly sorry, Connor," I tell him, and I mean every word of it. "Your father was … he was my friend," I continue, not knowing what else to say.
"I know," he replies softly, returning my smile even though there’s a deep sadness in his eyes. Ah, I wish I could help clear all that sadness … and maybe I can. But, of course, I can’t do anything right now.
With a slight nod, I then turn on my heels and march straight to the place where I was, joining my father as the dirt starts to pile up on top of Edward’s casket. We stand there for a long moment, watching in silence, and only walk away when the sky turns grey. A light drizzle starts taking over the day, and that’s when the whole crowd starts heading out of the cemetery, heading for their cars, and preparing to make the drive toward the Donovan estate. Knowing that there’s no way that Connor could organize such a thing, being that he was in Rome and all that, my father decided to do the repast in our own estate.
In a way, it might seem like my family is taking up the spotlight. I know that, but what else can we do? Edward was, after all, one of the most important members of our family, even if he didn’t share the Donovan blood.
Following after my father, I start walking back to our limo. I stop for a few seconds as the driver holds the door for me, and I look back over my shoulder to see Connor standing in the rain, all by himself. His eyes are downcast, but there’s a kind of serenity and poise in the way with which he’s standing.
When I finally get inside the limo, I realize that I was holding my breath. There’s something about Connor, and it’s definitely more than him being eye-candy. No, he’s so much more than that. In a sense, it almost feels like he has the wisdom of his father and the confidence of a young man… And that in addition to his good looks, of course.
Oh, now I definitely want him.
5
Clarise
"If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask," I tell Connor, bowing my heads slightly as I offer him a sad smile. I’m still reeling from what I felt an hour ago, his eyes on my cleavage unleashing a boiling sensation inside my body, but I do my best to push it to the back of my mind. After all, this is his father’s funeral; I have to keep it together. For now, at least.
"Thank you," he replies, looking straight into my eyes, and I find my heart picking up the pace. I have to take a deep breath to stop myself from running my tongue between my lips and, somehow, I manage to restrain myself. Jesus, why the hell am I behaving like this? Sure, I’ve decided that I want him… But do I really need to be acting like a teenager right now?
Pull it together, Clarise, I think to myself, looking around the room and trying to think of something that’ll steer the conversation somewhere safe.
"It feels good to be back in the States," he sighs then, looking out one of the windows wistfully. "I just never thought it’d be… Well, I just never thought this would be the reason I came back."
"I know," I breath out softly, and then I place one of my hands on his shoulder, squeezing it tightly. "And I’m here for you," I whisper. "We all are."
"Thank you, Clarise," he replies, but then he looks straight into my eyes and a serious expression washes over his face. "But I’m the one who’s here for you, you and your family," he adds, that confidence and poise making him like a giant of a man.
"I’m glad you’re here for me," I tell him, not resisting with being just a little bit flirty. So what? Sue me. If me being a little flirty takes his mind off of everything that happened, is there any harm in it?
He doesn’t say anything, though. He just takes his eyes off mine and looks out the window again; I let my hand fall from his shoulder and slide down his arm, feeling the rugged muscles hiding underneath his suit. Jesus, how does the Church train the Order of the Temple? Is there a hidden gym under the Vatican, one where all the Order trains in order to become ripped gods?
"Connor, you know --" I start to say, but then I feel a hand on my shoulder and someone pushes me to the side. I spin around to face the man grabbing me and, surprise-surprise, it’s my brother. He has his hair slicked back from the rain, but even the rain doesn’t help to hide the smell of vodka on his breath. I’m not sure when it started, but shortly after he began working for my father, Earl developed a taste for the hard stuff.
"So, Connor, are you up to it?" Earl asks, staring him down as if this were one of those press conferences before a boxing match. "You seem too young to be able to help in here, you know?" he continues defiantly, a smirk on his lips.
"Age has nothing to do with it, Earl," Connor replies noncommittally, his tone of voice calm and steady.
"Yeah? Is that so?" Earl continues, slurring his speech more and more. "I think it does. And I don’t think you’ll be able to measure up to your father, Connor."
The moment the words leave Earl’s mouth, I wince by instinct, ready to see Connor’s fist flying toward my brother’s face. But that doesn’t happen; my eyes dart to Connor’s hands, but he hasn’t even balled them into fists.
"Maybe I won’t. Or maybe I will," Connor replies, not a trace of emotion in his voice. Even though Earl is acting like a complete bastard, Connor doesn’t even seem to be registering it. I’ve never seen anyone so in control of his emotions like this; it’s almost inhuman. "Either way, Earl, I’ll do my best to serve your family."
"Your best," Earl scoffs, placing one finger in Connor’s chest. "This family doesn’t need your best. What this family needs is someone with a strong pulse, someone capable of making the family even more powerful, someone --"
"Someone like you?" Connor asks him, and Earl just falls silent, his eyes narrowing into two evil slits.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? D’ya think I can’t handle this family? D’ya think I can’t run the company?" Earl continues, specks of spit jumping out from his mouth and onto Connor’s shirt.
"I’m not saying anything, Earl. You’re drunk, and this has been a long day," Connor continues, still keeping in control of the situation, almost as if Earl was a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. "Why don’t we call it a day? If you still want to talk about it, we can talk tomorrow."
"Fuck you, man! I don’t need to talk it out like a fuckin’ pussy! That’s what… That’s what pussies do." As he speaks, Earl’s cheeks flush, and now he’s the one who has balled his hands into fists. Connor’s patient and calm demeanor is affecting him, and not in the best way. But it’s not like Connor could do any differently; Earl strode in looking for an argument, and I guess he won’t let go until he has what he wants.
"No, Earl. Real men talk about whatever needs to be talked about," Connor replies, his tone becoming ice-cold. Even Earl seems surprised by it, and he takes one step back, almost as if he expects Connor to punch him straight in the face.
