Insecure (Love Triumphs 1)

She turned the TV off and faced Tom. This would be interesting.

“You don’t have to congratulate me on being allowed to eat at the big kids table,” he said.

“I’d only be acting the part if I did.”

Tom grunted. “Very funny. But you know that’s your whole problem. Business is theatre, you never got that. You keep thinking if you work hard you’ll see the results, but it doesn’t function like that. It’s a confidence game.”

“You believe that?”

“Look at me; not half as talented as you, not as diligent, intuitive, or frankly all that interested. But I play the game better than you do.”

“And one day you’ll play it right into a sexual harassment suit.”

“What, like you’ve never used the business as a hunting ground?”

She stiffened. It was possible he knew; that Mace talked, or someone hanging around the hotel last Friday put two and two together. Speculation was all that was needed to start a rumour, and it would spread so much quicker if it were about her. There’d be none of the eye-rolling acknowledgement of the inevitable that was allowed for Tom.

“See, you’re hopeless. The fact I offended you is all over your face.”

She turned away so he didn’t see relief. “Did you want something?”

“Only to know how much you hate me now.”

She went to her desk and sat. “I don’t hate you, Tom.”

“You don’t love me.” He opened his arms wide, “And you don’t love this either.”

“How can you say that? You’re my brother, and the only reason I work hard is because I love this business.”

He folded into the chair opposite. Tom did everything slowly and with a deliberateness that dared you to watch him make the smallest movement. He was right about the acting. He had the ability to fascinate down perfectly. “The only reason you love me is because there was no one else except Bryan and me. The only reason you work so hard is because you want Malcolm to love you too.”

“That’s ridiculous and you know it.”

“It’s not. You were an abandoned little girl who loved ponies, things that were shiny and drawing pictures.”

“You just described lots of little girls. And I grew up, so what are you trying to say? You were a neglected little boy who burned ants with a magnifying glass, the hallmark of a serial killer.”

“I never killed cats and I’m too lazy to be psychopath. You gave up studying art because Malcolm said it was a waste of time. You gave up ballet because he said you had no talent. You were like your mother and he punished you for it. And you’re still trying to make him love you.”

She blinked in surprise. “That’s rot, Tom. I still paint.”

“Is it? When did you last paint anything you cared about?” Not paint, but sketch, body parts, a face, not well done, but their contours engraved on her brain.

“I was never going to earn a living as an artist. Malcolm was right.”

“Was he? You never tried, yet all your teachers said you were talented. You gave it up, like it meant nothing.”

She pushed into her chair and it rocked backwards. “Why are we talking about whether I still paint or not?” She adjusted and sat up straight again. “If I wanted Malcolm to love me I’d be doing what you do; keeping the boat steady, no waves, no splashes, not a single water spot on his blue silk ties.”

“That’s what I find interesting. You don’t simply want Malcolm to love you, you want him to respect you for who you really are.”

She put her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on top of her folded hands, trying to show Tom she cared nothing for his opinions and was only humouring him, but her own acting sucked. “And who am I really?”

Tom tilted his head. “I’m not sure.” He crossed his leg and clasped his knee. “I used to think you were going to be a brave artist, a woman creating her own destiny, but now I think you’re someone who’ll make do with second best.”

“You mean second best to you?”

“And other things.” He stood up, totally unruffled. “Mostly other things.”