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ROCCO WRENCHED HIS tie off and cast it down to the marble floor in the entryway of his home. He had gone out, and he had stayed out all night. He had found a beautiful woman, and he had bought her a drink. However, when it had come time for him to take the beautiful woman to bed, he had changed his mind. He had not even kissed her, not even tried to seduce her. He had bought her a drink, chatted with her and realized that his body had no interest in her.
He wasn’t entirely certain what to do with that realization. She was a beautiful woman, and there was no reason for him to do anything but take her to bed. However, he found he simply lacked the desire. And so he had spent the rest of the night drinking, attempting to get himself into a place where he might not be so aware of the woman he wanted to seduce. But still, as he had approached a blonde later in the night, Charity—her dark curls, beautifully smooth skin, like coffee and cream—swam before his vision, the pale beauty before him washing out into insignificance.
He had ended his time out as the sky began to turn gray, the sun preparing to rise over the sea, walking through the city using the frigid early-morning air to help sober him up.
And then he had walked back to the villa. He would send someone for his car later.
But, though his head was clear, he was not in a better mood.
He did not understand why he had been immune to those women.
He started up the stairs, unbuttoning the top couple of buttons on his shirt, and the cuffs, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows.
As he made his way down the hall toward his bedroom he heard a thump and a groan.
He paused, turning in the direction of the sound. It was coming from Charity’s room.
He did not stop and think; rather he charged toward the door and pushed it open, just in time to see her crawling on all fours into the bathroom. He frowned and strode across the room. In the bathroom, he saw her kneeling in front of the toilet, retching.
He walked in behind her, lifting her hair from her face, until she was finished being sick.
“Go away,” she said, her voice pitiful.
“No, I will not go away. You are ill.”
“I’m not,” she said, sputtering, before leaning back over and being sick again. He made sure her dark curls were pulled away from her face, his fingers making contact with the clammy skin on her forehead, the back of her neck.
“Yes, you are.” She slumped backward, her limbs shaking, a shiver racking her frame. “Are you finished?” he asked.
She nodded feebly, and he scooped her up into his arms, conscious of how cool her skin felt, even though it was beaded with perspiration. “Water,” she said.
“Of course, but let me get you back into your bed.”
“You getting me into bed is what caused this in the first place,” she mumbled.
“This is because of the pregnancy?” He set her down at the center of the bed, debating whether or not he should put a blanket over her.
“Well, it isn’t food poisoning.”
“I have no experience with pregnant women,” he said, feeling defensive. “I knew that pregnancy could make you ill, but I did not realize how severe it might be.”
She drew her knees up to her chest, curling into a little miserable ball. “Mine is quite severe.”
“You seemed well yesterday.”
“It usually only does this in the morning.”
“Are you cold?”
She shivered. “No, I’m hot.”
“You are shivering.”
“Okay, now I’m cold.”
Rocco didn’t know the first thing about caring for another person. He had never done it before. Since the death of his mother he had spent his life renting out connections. Foster families that never kept him for longer than a couple of months, lovers who lasted a couple of nights. In his experience, the only thing that was permanent were the things he could buy. So he invested in things. In brick, and marble. In cars and land. People were too transient in nature. Too temporary.
He remembered—a hazy image—that when he had been ill as a child his mother used to bring him a drink. With a lemon. Or maybe it wasn’t a real memory at all. Maybe it was just something his mind had given him, something he had created for his mother’s image to replace the more concrete memories of her looking desolate, tired.
Either way, he imagined Charity might like tea.
* * *
Charity watched as Rocco turned wordlessly and walked out of the room. She hadn’t really expected him to leave without a word, but all things considered she was relieved. Having him walk in while she was throwing up had to be one of the most humiliating experiences of her life. Vomiting was bad enough. Vomiting in front of Rocco was even worse.
She did not want him seeing her when she was so low. He didn’t deserve it.
She crawled to the head of the bed and slipped beneath the covers, exhaustion rolling over her in a wave.
Dimly, she registered that he was wearing the suit he had been wearing last night, though he did not have his tie or jacket on. So that meant he had gone out all night. Very likely, he had slept with someone else.
Misery joined the exhaustion, and she shivered. At least when he’d come into the bathroom he hadn’t been cruel. He’d held her hair. Had carried her to bed. It had almost been as if he cared about her comfort.
Which was silly. Because he didn’t care about anything. Least of all her.
A few moments later, Rocco reappeared, carrying a tray, his black hair disheveled, his shirt open at the collar, revealing a wedge of tan skin and dark chest hair. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, the weight of the tray enhancing the muscles of his forearms. And the strength of his hands.
He really did have wonderful hands.
She liked his hands much better than she liked his mouth, though that was beautiful, too. His hands had only given her pleasure. His mouth did a lot to administer pain.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as he set the tray, which she now saw had a teapot, a cup, a small plate with toast and a little jar of jam, down on the bed.
“This is what you do when people aren’t feeling well. Isn’t it?”
“Well, it can’t hurt.” She readjusted herself so that she was sitting, leaning back against the nest of pillows that were on the bed, and the headboard.
Rocco picked up the teapot and the cup, pouring a generous amount for her before handing it to her. “Careful,” he said, the warning strange and stilted on his lips, “it’s hot.”
She lifted the cup to her lips and blew on it gently, before looking over the rim at her delivery service. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He cleared his throat, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. “I’m not being nice. I am being practical. It does not benefit either of us for you to die.”
She sighed heavily into the sip of her tea. “I don’t know. If I died you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. You wouldn’t have to face fatherhood.”
His expression turned grim. “I have dealt with quite enough loss, thank you. I should like to keep you alive. And the baby.”
She looked into her tea. “Sorry. That was gallows humor at its worst.”
“I think you believe I’m a bit more of a monster that I really am.” He said the words slowly, cautiously.
“Probably. But can you blame me, considering our introduction?”
“Can you blame me, considering our introduction?” His dark gaze was level, serious. And that guilt, that newfound guilt she felt deep down, bit her.
“I suppose not.” She didn’t really know what to say to that. Because she couldn’t justify her actions, not anymore. She had spent a lot of years doing just that. Because from the cradle, her father had educated her in an alternate morality that was not easy to shake. But the older she got, the more difficult it had become to justify what she knew was stealing.
It had been easy to hold on to righteous indignation where Rocco was concerned because of what had happened between them.
“I’m sorry,” she said, before she could fully think it through.
“Why are you apologizing?” he asked, his lips thinning into a grim line.
“Because we stole from you. It was wrong. You can dress things up...you can call them cons. You can call your victims marks. You can pretend it’s okay because they have money and you don’t. But at the end of the day it is stealing. And regardless of the fact that there was a time when I truly didn’t know better, I do now. But...if you knew my father, you would understand how easy it is to get sucked into his plans. There is a reason he is able to talk people into parting with their money, Rocco. He’s very convincing. He has a way of making you think everything will be okay. He has a way of making you think that somehow, you deserve what it is you’re going after. Regardless, my involvement was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
Hopefully, he wouldn’t have her thrown in jail.
But she felt that these things had to be said before they could move forward. Or maybe she was just half-delirious because she still didn’t feel very well. Or maybe his little gesture with the tea had meant a little bit more than she should let it. Either way, here she was. Confessing.
And she wasn’t just confessing to him, but to herself.
Suddenly, she felt drained. Dirty. Desolate.
Acquiring a moral compass was overrated.
“Do you suppose there’s a place in life where you become past the point of redemption?” she asked.
“I’ve never considered it.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “But then, that could be because I never imagined I had the option of redemption.”
“I probably don’t either then.”
“Is it so important? What’s the purpose, anyway? Is it that you want to be considered good?” he asked.
“I...I never really thought very much about whether or not I was good or bad. I remember asking my father one time why we were afraid of the good guys. The police. Because, even I knew from watching TV that they were supposed to be good. And people who ran from them were bad. So, I asked him if we were bad. He said it isn’t that simple. He said sometimes good people do bad things, and bad people do good things. He said that not everyone in a uniform is good. But I just wanted to know if we were good. Maybe I still do.”
“Does it matter?”
“Doesn’t it? I don’t know that anybody aspires to be one of the bad guys. And...I want to teach our child to be good so...I should be, too.”
“I suppose you can only really be a good or bad guy in your own life, at least, in my experience. There are a great many people who would characterize me as a villain, though I have never broken the law. However, I have accomplished what I set out to accomplish. I have created the life for myself that I always wanted. What does being good have to do with any of that?”
Charity frowned. “I don’t know. But I’m not sure I really know who I am. How can I know if I’m good or bad if I don’t know the answer to such a simple question?”
“Do you suppose if we get a nanny she can help us with these sorts of questions?”
Charity laughed, in spite of herself. “You mean, do you suppose she would mind helping a couple of emotionally stunted adults?”
“I suppose you and I don’t make the most functional pair.”
“Are we a pair?”
“Only in the sense that there are two of us, and we will be raising this child. Though, in what capacity I’m still not certain.”
She wanted to ask him about last night. Wanted to ask him if he had slept with someone else. But it seemed strange, and not her business. Since she had made a grand declaration about the fact that she would not be sleeping with him again.
Though, right now she felt less resolute in that. Possibly because she felt less resolute about everything. Because as soon as she had spoken the words about not knowing who she was, she realized that they were true. She knew how to put on masks, how to play parts. Even when she had decided to step away from her father, from the con games, all she had done was put on the mask of waitress, woman in her early twenties. She hadn’t made real connections with anyone, hadn’t made friends. Had not assigned any kind of depth to the persona she had been playing for the past couple of years.
For a moment, she was worried that was all there was. That she had played too many parts on too shallow a level to ever find anything beneath them. What kind of mother would that make her? What did that mean for the rest of her life?
No wonder it had been so easy for her mother to leave her. No wonder it had been so easy for her father to detach from her in the end. There was no substance in her to hold on to.
That can’t be true.
At least, she wouldn’t let it continue to be true. And she’d...she’d felt the implications of what she’d done. She still did. That had to mean something.
She needed dreams. She hadn’t let herself have any, not since the last con. Because, she was afraid that her dreams would outstrip her means, and that she would fall back into the same behavior she’d been raised in. But she couldn’t live like that. For the sake of her child, she had to be more.
Of course, she had no idea what her future held, because it seemed as though Rocco was currently clutching it in his palm. For those brief moments outside of his office, back in New York, she had imagined a life blissfully raising her child, alone. That had seemed satisfactory. But once again everything had been uprooted. Her fantasies proving impossible.
“Don’t worry about whether or not you are good or bad,” he said, finally. “What you really need to focus on is making it to a day where you don’t vomit in the morning.”
“Oh, Rocco. You do fill a girl with hope and butterflies.”
He frowned. “I am trying to help.”
“But you aren’t being nice,” she said, a small smile curving her lips. “According to you.”
He shook his head. “No, I am being practical. My mother used to bring me tea.”
Charity’s chest tightened. Imagining Rocco as a little boy, a little boy she knew had ended up alone. It made her ache for him. And it made her feel swollen with emotion. Because, this one bit of tenderness he seemed to know, he had chosen to pass on to her. Whether he called it practicality or kindness, it didn’t change the fact that he was giving some to her.
“Well, I appreciate it. I really do.” She cleared her throat and picked up one of the pieces of toast, neglecting the jam, because she wasn’t certain her stomach could handle it yet. “Though, you don’t need to come and hold my hair when I’m... It’s gross.”
“I find nothing gross about it. You are sick. You are sick because of my baby. It seems only fair that I should take care of you.”
“Is that what this is? You’re going to take care of me?”
“I confess, I hadn’t really thought it through.”
“Somehow, I feel like that’s the story of every single interaction you and I have had, indirectly or directly,” she said.
“Probably. Had one of us been thinking more clearly at any stage of this, things could’ve turned out quite differently.”
“Yes, we should begin that soon.”
“I’m thinking quite clearly now.”
Charity opened the small jar of jam and began to spread a little bit onto the piece of toast, feeling slightly more emboldened as she had taken three or four bites and not felt her stomach turn once. She lifted the toast to her lips, a little bit of bread crumb getting on her thumb, sticking to where some jam had made contact with her skin.
