Grayson's Vow

by Mia Sheridan

  "She blamed you?" Grayson asked, a strange edge to his voice.

  "Kimberly says she doesn't, but it's too painful to have any contact that reminds her of what my father did to her. She loved him, I believe. While he . . . well, he saw her as nothing more than a convenient way to keep his house clean and his bed warm."

  "I see," he said, his voice tight. I glanced at him, feeling as if, somehow, he really did see—even more than I was sharing with him.

  Frowning, I shook my head. "So, what were you and Kimberly talking about before I came downstairs yesterday morning?" I asked, realizing I hadn't had the chance to ask Kimberly before we'd been interrupted by his confrontation with Charlotte.

  He smiled over at me, breaking the somber mood that had existed as I’d discussed the subject of Rosa Maria and my father. The afternoon sun slanted through the window and hit Grayson's face, bringing out the deep, rich brown of his eyes and highlighting the ruggedness of his still-unshaven jaw. I looked away, biting my lip. Ignore the bright scales, I repeated in my mind. "You," he said, and when I swung my eyes back to his, his smile deepened. "She was telling me some interesting stories about the trouble she's had to pull you out of over the years."

  I snorted. "She's a nice girl, but she exaggerates. It's one of her worst flaws."

  Grayson's chuckle was deep and warm. "I don't know. I'm inclined to think she doesn't." He glanced back at the road, still smiling. "She says you get these ideas in your head . . ."

  "Just fun," I defended. "Not trouble."

  "With you, it seems to be a very fine line." I gave him an irritated look, but blinked when I saw the smile on his face—full of charm and genuine affection.

  I looked out the window again. "I've made a concerted effort to curtail the follow-through of my 'ideas' since I've been living with you."

  "Dear God," he groaned. "I shudder to imagine what happens when you don't hold back."

  I sighed, frowning. "Just ask my father," I said, secretly hoping he wouldn’t. "He'll tell you what a burden you've taken on when you meet him. I have no doubt." Biting my lip again, I turned my head to stare out at the scenery whizzing past us.

  "Hey," Grayson said, and I felt his warm hand grasp mine on the seat next to me. I looked down at our joined hands and then up into his eyes before he looked back to the road again. "This is going to be fine, all right?"

  I nodded, but somehow, I knew he was wrong. I could very well be walking into a situation where I would be completely humiliated in front of Grayson. No, this wasn't going to be all right. This was going to be decidedly un-all right.

  **********

  The soft yellow and vibrant orange of approaching twilight bathed the Italian Renaissance hilltop mansion in light. Nestled in the ritzy Pacific Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, it was among the most expensive pieces of real estate in the city, probably in the country. The Dallaire estate. Home sweet home. I cringed inwardly. There had been very little sweet attached to this place for me.

  Looking at this house made me crushingly aware that most of my life I'd lived behind the shadow of who my father wished me to be. And all I'd ever longed for was to stand in the sunshine of being loved for who I was.

  I glanced at Grayson's enigmatic expression as we got out of his truck, parked on the street in front of the massive structure. I noted as he turned in a full circle at the top of the sprawling outdoor staircase, admiring the undeniably stunning view of the Golden Gate bridge, Alcatraz, Angel Island, and all the way to the Marin Headlands. I could hear someone hitting tennis balls in the outdoor court behind the house.

  Grayson looked at me, remaining silent as I rang the doorbell. I refused to let myself into this house as if I belonged here. A few seconds later, I heard the click of shoes on the marble tile within and the door swung open to reveal a young Hispanic woman in a maid's uniform whom I had never met. I smiled. "Hello, I'm Kira Dallaire. I believe my father is expecting me." I had texted him on the drive, but he'd never responded, so I had no idea if he was actually expecting me or not. The young woman smiled and swung the door open and we stepped inside.

  "I will go get him," the young woman said in a heavy Spanish accent. "Would you like to wait in the—"

  "We'll wait here." I didn't intend on staying long. I already wanted to leave.

  The woman nodded and turned away. "Just give me a moment to talk to my father," I said to Grayson. "And then I'll introduce you." His eyes ran over my face and then he lifted his chin in silent agreement.

  Several minutes of standing in the lavish, marble foyer later, I heard footsteps approaching once again and looked up to see my father's tall figure appear at the top of the stairs. I glanced at Grayson who was leaning casually against a marble pillar a short distance from me.

  "Kira," my father said, descending the stairs quickly, his eyes trained on mine, his lips thinned in that same disapproving expression I was extremely familiar with. "I'm glad you've finally seen fit to come home." He sounded anything but glad. He didn't even glance at Grayson.

  "Come into my study so we can talk," he said, turning abruptly and heading in that direction. I lifted my chin.

  "This is fine right here," I said loudly, stopping him in his tracks. I had no intention of following my father into his study where he would sit behind his desk like a judge, handing down his sentence. My father turned slowly, his jaw ticking in warning as he walked back to where I stood. That's when he looked at Grayson.

  "And who are you?" he asked. I stepped forward. Here we go.

  "This, Daddy, is my husband, Grayson Hawthorn."

  For the span of three heartbeats, my father didn't utter a sound. A deep red color moved up his neck as he stepped forward. "You can't be serious."

  "I am serious. We were married several weeks ago. I'm sorry I didn't invite you, but I know how busy your social calendar is."

  The blow took me unaware, the sharp slap echoing loudly through the open foyer. I gasped, hot pain spreading across my jaw and up to my eye socket. I raised my head in time to see his hand moving toward my face again and braced for the second slap, but it never came. I jerked my eyes open to see Grayson holding my father's wrist, the look on his face filled with murderous dragon rage. "What the fuck?" he gritted out. He must have moved at the speed of lightning to make it from where he was standing to where he was now preventing my father from hitting me again. I let out a ragged breath.

  My father, his own face filled with hot anger, pulled his hand out of Grayson's grasp and trained his eyes back on me as I stumbled backward, away from him. I took a second to collect myself, standing as tall as I could and holding eye contact even though the whole left side of my face was throbbing.

  "Thank you," I said, lifting my chin, refusing to let him see how much he'd hurt me. "I'll consider that my wedding gift."

  "Only you, Kira." My father shook his head and made a sound of disgust in his throat. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?" He gestured his chin toward Grayson, but didn't look at him. "You've hooked yourself up with a damned fortune hunter, I imagine, and you're too stupid to see it." He did look at Grayson then. "She won't get a dime from me, so you're both out of luck, Grayson Hawthorn." He said his name as if he might be related to Satan, but my heart stuttered in my chest, when my father narrowed his eyes as if the name were familiar to him. He shook his head slightly and trained his glare back on me.

  "We don't want a dime of your money," Grayson said coldly. "Let's go, Kira." I started to turn when I heard footsteps coming from the direction of the back of the house. I turned my head to see Cooper. God, they had planned to ambush me. My stomach dropped as if I'd just jumped from a very high cliff. Cooper hurried toward me, his golden good looks highlighted by the tennis whites he wore.

  "Kira," he said, his eyes wandering over me. I cringed and turned my head again, away from him as he brushed his hand down the side of my hair. How had I ever thought I could spend a lifetime with this man? I could barely stomach being in the same room with him now. I
sensed Grayson stepping closer to me and suddenly felt his hand take mine. Cooper looked at Grayson in confusion and then back at me, his eyes questioning. "Kira?" He touched my cheek.

  "Did you hit her?" Cooper asked disbelievingly, looking sharply at my father. As if he himself had never struck me. Anger and contempt bubbled up in my chest until I felt like I'd choke with it.

  My father pressed his lips together. "She's married, Cooper," he said, his voice mocking and full of condescension. "Congratulate her." Cooper's eyes widened, suddenly swinging toward Grayson. I'd say he looked hurt if I didn't know better. Cooper's gaze shot between Grayson and me.

  "Who is he anyway? What's his story?" he finally asked, his eyes stopping on Grayson, although he was clearly talking to me.

  Grayson narrowed his eyes, regarding Cooper with a mocking half-smile. "He runs his family business in Napa," I said. "It's where we met." I hoped that would be enough information for both of them.

  Cooper's head swung toward me. "Where you met? What? Two weeks ago?" There was the hint of a growl in his voice. I straightened my spine.

  "It's not any of your business, Cooper," I said. "I'm no longer any of your business."

  "The hell you're not," he said, stepping closer. Grayson moved right next to me in a protective stance and before I could think, I turned just slightly into him, keeping my eyes on Cooper.

  "Do you expect I'll ever want anything to do with you again?" I asked Cooper.

  "We could have worked it out, Kira," he said, his voice sounding pained. He really should have taken to the stage rather than become a judge.

  "I assure you, we couldn't have, nor will we ever, for reasons far beyond my marriage to Grayson."

  For several seconds, we all stood in this tense standoff.

  "Stop this nonsense," my father barked.

  Cooper took a deep breath, regarding me for a second longer before he said, "We're going to need to figure this out, then." There was a note of resignation in his voice. I looked up at Grayson, letting out a breath. They'd go into "fix it" mode now—we didn't matter anymore.

  My father's overheard words from a year ago suddenly came back to me. Don't worry, Cooper. I'll send her away until things die down. Just keep focused on the end goal.

  "This is their territory. Let's leave them to it." I knew I sounded bitter. My voice hitched at the end, betraying the deep hurt pommeling my heart.

  "Kira—" Cooper started, but I shook my head and pulled at Grayson's hand. Grayson resisted, letting go of mine. He moved closer to my father.

  "You may be her father," he said quietly, his voice deadly calm, "but you will never lay a hand on my wife again. Am I clear?" My father looked contemptuously at Grayson and then at me.

  "Have a nice life, Kira Hawthorn," he said scathingly. His words hit me like another slap to my face. It was what I had wanted, wasn't it? So why did it hurt so badly? With that, my father turned and strode out of the room. Cooper remained where he was, as Grayson and I turned and let ourselves out. Grayson gripped my hand as we descended the outside stairs silently. It felt as if his hand in mine was the only thing keeping me standing.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Grayson

  I dropped Kira's suitcase on the hotel room bed and turned toward her. She still hadn't spoken since we’d left her father's house. I hadn't attempted any conversation either—I'd needed to process what happened, too. I would have driven straight back to Napa, but I knew Kira wanted to visit her drop-in center, and I imagined it was already closed by this point. We'd stop by in the morning after a good night's sleep and some time to shake off what had happened with her father.

  I turned to look at her and those stunning eyes met mine, large and luminous and filled with pain. Her suffering affected me like a fist to the gut, and I let out a sudden exhale. That was what this beautifully vibrant girl had grown up with? I understood the pain of being a constant disappointment. But how had she retained that free, open spirit in the midst of nothing but coldness and contempt? How had she risen above it? When she'd told me the story about Rosa Maria, I had thought I’d understood. Her father—though not the nicest of men to his staff—had been hard on his daughter, not knowing how to handle a highly spirited, motherless little girl. But I had given him way too much credit. Far, far too much credit.

  "You must hate me for involving you in that," she finally said, looking away and worrying her lip. "I'm so sorry."

  Hate her? I moved toward her. "No, I'm the one that's sorry." I ran my knuckles softly down her bruised cheek. "If I'd had any idea he was going to hit you, I would have been close enough to stop it."

  She shook her head. "I should have taken the time to come up with a better way to break the news to him. But, he's rarely ever hit me. I didn't expect that. And I did goad him. I don't seem to be able to help it." She let out a deep sigh.

  "It's not your fault he hit you, Kira."

  She nodded, but didn't look convinced. "I think I'd just like to take a long, hot bath and get cleaned up. Maybe order dinner in . . ."

  I understood; she was asking to be alone. "Of course. I'll go get settled in the other room." Kira nodded and I moved to the door separating her room from the rest of the suite, picking up my overnight bag from the floor where I'd left it. I would have liked to make myself comfortable in the room she was sleeping in, but after what happened with Kira's father and her ex-fiancé, I knew this was not the time to push my physical agenda on her. I felt a new sense of guilt for trying to push anything on her at all—it seemed she'd had enough of that for one lifetime.

  "Oh and Grayson," she said, turning halfway toward me. "Thank you for what you said to my father about me being your wife . . ."

  I paused. "You are my wife."

  She smiled softly. "You know what I mean. You made it sound like I was your real wife. It was very convincing."

  I frowned slightly, but wasn't sure what to say. It was true—she wasn't my real wife. If she were, I would know what to do right now to clear that haunted look in her eyes. I just nodded instead. "I'll see you in the morning."

  I went into my room and took a shower, washing the road dust from my body and trying to cleanse the feel of the confrontation with Kira's father from my mind. Everything in me had wanted to punch Frank Dallaire in his face when he'd slapped Kira. But I'd held back. Assaulting someone would only send me back to prison and I wouldn't risk it. In that way, the incident had served to remind me of my shame, brought home my limitations as a man. If I needed to, how would I even fight for my woman now? My woman. No, perhaps Kira wasn't my woman in that sense, but the point still held weight.

  I sighed, moving my mind back to Frank Dallaire. I'd never paid a whole lot of attention to San Francisco politics, but I’d perceived him to be a well-liked mayor, tough, but fair, a friend to minorities and the middle class. I guessed it just went to show what a game politics was. I found it hard to believe a man who treated his beautiful daughter so abominably was much of a real friend to anyone but himself.

  And now he was my temporary father-in-law. God, what had I gotten myself involved in? I could only hope Kira was right—he'd put some spin on it for the public if need be, and let us both go about our business. Why did I have a bad feeling that wouldn't be the case? I shook it off, got dressed, and went to sit on the balcony for a little while, wondering what Kira was doing in the other room. I couldn't help but picture her naked body submerged in water, her skin slick and wet, that wild hair falling in disarray from whatever clip she'd used to hold it back. Heat surged in my veins, but at the same time, I wanted to take her in my arms and soothe the hurt and embarrassment I’d seen on her face as I'd left the room. I didn't know how to classify these new and confusing feelings. But sitting there, something powerful grew inside me—a masculine need to possess my wife, combined with a protectiveness I wasn't prepared to feel.

  Stop this. Stop this right now.

  But I couldn't help it. I wanted to put that bright light back in her eyes, to comfort her,
see that witchy little dimple. I leaned my head back and let out a groan. This would never work. I had to rein myself in. None of that was my job. We had started this marriage as a business arrangement and even if we gave in to our attraction to one another, it had to remain on those terms. We were married—our relationship had to be all or nothing. We couldn't wade into the murkiness of something that couldn't be defined. It wouldn't end well for either of us. Knowing about Rosa Maria and her father, I had a little more understanding about her hesitance to get involved with me. She probably saw a physical relationship between us as little more than what they'd had. Was it?

  Confusion swirled within me. Perhaps I should abandon the idea of satisfying my physical need for her now that I could admit there was more involved than just sexual desire, now that I could admit I cared about her as a person. But for some reason I lost control around her and all my best intentions went by the wayside. Every time. And I still couldn't understand exactly why. What was it about her that unbalanced me so much?

  What I did know? Kira was in the same hotel suite and maybe she needed company. Maybe she needed me. Or maybe I was just hoping she did.

  After looking over the room service menu and putting in an order to be delivered to our suite, I knocked on the door to her bedroom. She answered wearing a pair of jeans and a black top, her feet bare and her hair still partially wet. Her face was free of makeup and she looked very beautiful and very young. Of course, she was very young, only twenty-two. I didn't think about her age very often, perhaps because sometimes she acted like a naughty child, and sometimes she seemed so very wise. And of course, those glimpses of depth and insight had only served to make her more interesting to me. Intriguing little witch. I entered, inhaling the light flowery scent that was hers.