He stared at it for a while before pushing the call button. Harris answered almost immediately.
“Yeah?”
“There are no vacant hotels, motels, or guesthouses in this fucking town,” he said gruffly. Yet another coin for the swear jar. This was getting too easy.
“Libby didn’t welcome you back with open arms, then?” Harris asked smugly, and Greyson’s jaw clenched as he sought to control his surge of temper. When he didn’t respond to Harris’s question, his brother asked, “What did you think was going to happen, Greyson?”
This time his hand clenched into a fist on his thigh. Harris sighed. He sounded tired.
“I rented a flat,” Harris murmured, and Greyson sagged in relief, recognizing the quietness in Harris’s voice as an acquiescence that Greyson damned well knew he didn’t deserve. “It has two bedrooms. You can have the spare room if you want. But the place is small, so you’re going to have to resign yourself to seeing more of me than you’d probably like.”
Greyson’s eyes drifted back to the house. The interior lights were still off, but he knew she hadn’t gone to sleep yet. She was probably watching and waiting for him to leave. He heaved a long, heavy sigh. He’d barely caught a glimpse of Clara. She’d been distraught, and he’d been to blame for that. Not exactly father-of-the-year material.
He needed to stay. He had to clean up the mess he had made. Had to be a father to the child he’d never believed he could have. And . . . if he was lucky enough, perhaps he’d even have another chance to be a decent husband to the wife he had so callously tossed aside.
“Where?” he asked and listened carefully as his brother gave directions to the place he’d had the foresight to rent, while Greyson hadn’t thought beyond, Must get to Olivia. Must see Clara.
Greyson had always prided himself on being an intelligent man, but of late he’d shown a marked lack of anything resembling brainpower.
Greyson parked his car beside his brother’s rented 4x4 and glared at the exterior of the shabby house in front of him. From what he could tell, the building had been divided down the middle to create two dwellings. It wasn’t much better than Olivia’s house. But at least this one was a rental. His brother had rented the one on the right. The one on the left was dark and possibly empty. Greyson would call the landlord in the morning to see if he could rent it. A much more tolerable solution than sharing a space with his pissed-off brother.
He shook his head and thought of the pub he had driven past on his way here. He could use a stiff drink. But his fast-growing dependency on alcohol after Olivia had left had scared him, and he had stopped cold after a seemingly endless three-week bender. He couldn’t remember much about that time and preferred not to dwell on it now, but his weakness had appalled him. And he was abstaining just to prove he could.
He got out of the car and grabbed his suitcase before making his way up the rickety porch steps. He didn’t bother to knock, knowing the door would be unlocked, and strode into the house with what he hoped was much more confidence than he felt.
Truth be told, he wasn’t at all sure how the hell this situation with his brother was going to work.
He cast his eyes around the interior quickly, assessing and finding it extremely lacking.
“This place is a hovel,” he said and then winced inwardly at how arrogant he sounded. Perhaps not the most grateful of openers, considering his brother was doing him a favor.
“Yeah, well, you don’t get to be choosy. The smaller room is yours. There may be some clean bedsheets in the linen closet in the hallway.”
Greyson frowningly looked at the door Harris was pointing at. “I’d hardly call this a hallway.” The place was tiny, and even at the best of times, he didn’t think he and Harris would ever have been capable of getting along in such a confined space. God, he really hoped the place next door was vacant.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Harris said, choosing to ignore Greyson’s unintentional criticism, even though Greyson could see the flare of annoyance in his brother’s eyes. “I’m off to bed.”
He turned to walk away.
“Why did you come?” Greyson couldn’t resist asking. He knew, of course, but he needed to hear Harris verbalize it.
His brother stopped and turned to face him again. “Libby. She seems happy here. Settled. You’re going to destroy that happiness if you insist on . . .”
To hell with this. Harris and Olivia might be the “best of friends,” but considering how much that friendship had intruded on his marriage, maybe it was time people started to remember that Greyson was her husband. Even if he didn’t quite deserve the title at the moment.
“It’s really none of your business,” he interrupted Harris coldly, and the other man sighed, the sound harsh with impatience.
“You know that’s not true,” Harris argued. “Contrary to what you may believe, Libby is like a sister to me. I care about her well-being.”
“But I’m your brother.” Greyson couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from his voice. Olivia’s and Harris’s loyalties had always seemed stronger toward each other than to Greyson, and he had always resented that. “You should care more about mine.”
Harris laughed in his face at that, the sound containing equal amounts of genuine amusement and incredulity. And honestly, who the hell could blame him?
“Yeah?” Harris said, his voice still brimming with bitter amusement. “I think you lost the privilege of being called brother when you accused me of fucking your wife and fathering your child.”
“I’m reconsidering my opinion,” Greyson acknowledged stiffly, feeling a surge of resentment at his brother’s words. His brother, who had spent more time with his wife during the first two months of their marriage than Greyson had. A situation that would have tested any sane man. But he forced that resentment back and kept his voice cool as he continued, “I acknowledge that I may have been hasty and unfair in my accusations.”
“Big of you,” Harris said sardonically. “So I can expect an apology soon, then?”
Greyson knew his brother deserved an apology—because no matter how much time Harris had spent with Olivia, Greyson should have trusted him. Trusted them both. Harris and Olivia had always been friends, and maybe if he had said something about how he felt, things wouldn’t have escalated the way they had. But he didn’t quite know how to say sorry for something so completely unforgivable. And God knew if he couldn’t apologize to his brother, he didn’t stand a chance in hell with Olivia, because she deserved more than apologies. She deserved nothing less than to have him standing in front of her barefoot on broken glass, begging for her forgiveness. And even that wasn’t enough.
Not for the first time, the daunting task that lay ahead of him nearly made him turn tail and run. Or head for the closest bar, where he could drown his fear and anguish with more alcohol.
He was such a coward. A fucking coward. He blinked and tried to focus on the here and now with Harris.
“Is that what you want, Harris?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and controlled. “An apology? Will that fix everything? Make it all right again?”
Harris tilted his head and watched him for a long moment as he considered his question. Eventually he shook his head, and Greyson’s heart sank.
“I don’t know. But it’s a step in the right direction.” Harris watched him expectantly for a moment, but Greyson, never very good at expressing emotion, could find nothing further to say. Harris’s face reflected cynicism and exasperation, and he shook his head before walking away, retreating to his room.
Greyson’s shoulders slumped, and he picked up his bag. Best to get some sleep. He was going to need to keep his wits about him and his energy up. God knew he had an uphill battle ahead of him.
Libby couldn’t fall asleep. She tossed and turned for hours, hating that she was allowing Greyson to upset her this much. She groaned and sat up in frustration, throwing the bedcovers off and pushing herself out of the bed. She crossed the short distance between
her bed and Clara’s crib and checked on her baby. It wasn’t time for her feed yet, and she was sleeping peacefully, sprawled on her back, one chubby little arm flung up over her head.
Naturally Libby tried to sleep when Clara slept, but that was proving impossible tonight. She ran a frustrated hand through her bed-mussed hair and shuffled her feet into her fuzzy slippers. Then she padded into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove top. Maybe some chamomile tea would help her relax enough to get some sleep.
She stood in the kitchen, impatiently drumming her fingers on the cracked Formica countertop closest to the gas stove while she waited for the kettle to boil. The wind was howling, and rain lashed against the kitchen window. A vicious stormy night, perfectly suited to her mood.
The kettle finally boiled, and she dropped a tagged tea bag into a mug before pouring hot water over it.
She dunked the tea bag in and out of the water in a restless up-and-down motion while she stared out into the black night. She didn’t know what she was going to do about Greyson. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe he would leave her alone, now that he was here. He would want to see Clara. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t believe the baby was his. What had changed his mind was anybody’s guess, especially since he’d said he hadn’t had any paternity tests done. She refused to be curious about whatever the hell motivated him. All she needed to do was maintain her resolve to not allow him any leeway.
He didn’t deserve it. And more to the point, she and Clara didn’t deserve to be treated like second-class citizens finally good enough for his notice. In hindsight, so many things bothered her about their hasty marriage.
The secrets more than the distrust.
If he had truly believed he was infertile, he had married her without once considering how she might feel about possibly never having children.
Selfish bastard.
She thought back to the first time he had proposed. That should have been a strong indication of what she was letting herself in for. She had laughed it off at first, but after just six weeks, she had been unable to resist him. Stupid. So stupid.
Libby shook herself and stared down at her forgotten tea. She had been so lost in her memories that the tea had gone cold and the bag was completely submerged. She clicked her tongue and tossed the cold liquid down the kitchen sink. She briefly contemplated making another cup of tea, but Clara started fussing and then crying.
“All right, sweetie,” she called, making her way back to the bedroom, where she lifted her crying baby into her arms. “Mummy’s here. I know you’re hungry.”
She sniffed and grimaced.
“And stinky. Let’s make you comfy first.”
She deftly changed Clara, keeping up a soothing stream of nonsensical chatter throughout the process. Her concentration drifted as she went through the now-familiar routine, her mind still caught up in the past.
She and Greyson had seen each other exclusively for two months after that first night together. In London on business, he had extended his stay as long as he could while he wined, dined, and bedded her every day without fail. She had gone on the pill, and he hadn’t used condoms again after that first night. They hadn’t explicitly spoken about birth control, but she’d assumed that he expected her to be on the pill, since he hadn’t bothered with condoms after their obligatory talk about sexual medical histories.
Now, of course, she knew the rat had simply assumed he couldn’t have children and hadn’t told her. No need for condoms when you thought you were shooting blanks. When she thought of how often he had spoken of marriage, pushing in that noncommittal way of his, she just about wanted to blow a gasket and punch something.
How could he in good conscience have gone into a marriage with her without disclosing something so vital about himself? She wasn’t sure how she had gotten pregnant while on the pill, but she surmised that she had conceived shortly after their rushed civil-ceremony wedding. It had been a chaotic period, with them traveling from London back to Cape Town; she must have missed a day.
Thinking Greyson could not have children probably wouldn’t have affected her decision to marry him. Career driven, Libby hadn’t been immediately concerned with having children. Sure, a few years down the line she would definitely have wanted a couple. But she would have been happy to adopt if he had proven infertile.
All that was moot now anyway. Clara was here, she was beautiful, she was loved and wanted. At least by her mother. It just astounded her that Greyson hadn’t immediately doubted his doctor’s diagnosis after she had announced her pregnancy.
Libby had foolishly allowed herself to become more and more infatuated with him during those two months. Falling in lust, then like, and then love with him.
In love. With a man who had never truly told her anything about himself. Now when she looked back on those first few weeks, she could so clearly see herself believing that infatuation and intrigue were something more. Something real.
She had known nothing about him. Sure, she knew him intimately, knew what he liked in bed . . . but again, that was just what he liked. She had never been certain if he loved it or was blown away by it. He was great in bed. She had never found his performance lacking, but she didn’t think he’d ever truly lost control of himself. Not even when he’d been buried inside her and at his most physically vulnerable.
If anything, that was when he was most guarded. As if he couldn’t bring himself to let go and truly trust her with his body, heart, and mind.
Their marriage had been so flawed. But she had fooled herself into thinking it was real.
She shook her head, rocking gently back and forth while she listened to the soothing sound of her baby suckling contentedly at her breast. Libby was finally getting her life back on track; there was simply no place in it for Greyson and the emotional upheaval he would create.
Greyson woke up just after dawn. His head was throbbing, and his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. His entire body ached, the bed was ridiculously lumpy, and the room smelled rank, like something had crawled into the walls and died. His first order of business was to find a better place to stay. If not the place next door—which he doubted was an improvement on this flat—then somewhere. Surely this hole-in-the-wall town would have more to offer in the way of accommodation. In Greyson’s experience, opportunities always presented themselves at the right price.
He sat up and stretched, trying to get the kinks out of his muscles. Maybe he’d go for a jog. Or to the gym. He had spotted one last night. Above the large sporting-goods store. He muttered a mild curse word beneath his breath when he remembered that he hadn’t packed any gym clothes. Maybe he’d just buy something at the same store.
He got up, and his toes curled on the sticky, cold linoleum floor. God. It felt disgusting beneath his bare feet. He had only packed dress shoes. Not exactly appropriate for wearing around the house. He picked his suitcase up and dropped it on the bed, scrounging around for a pair of socks. He was an organized packer and found a pair almost immediately in the left-hand, lower side of the suitcase, where he always kept his socks and underwear. He tugged them on and tested them on the floor. Still gross, since the fuzzy cotton stuck slightly to the floor with each step he took. Nevertheless, it was better than having his bare feet on the revolting surface.
He didn’t bother closing his suitcase again, instead opening his bedroom door and sucking in a bracing breath when a wall of cold air hit him. He was wearing long pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, his usual sleeping apparel, but it was no defense against the frigid cold of this place. He could see his own breath, for God’s sake!
There was no sign of Harris, but the coffee maker had some coffee already brewed, and he made his way to the machine and gratefully poured himself a mug. He had his phone out, checking his messages, when he took the first sip and nearly spat it all over his screen.
“Damn it!” he muttered, glaring into the mug. The thick, black witch’s brew was bitter and practically undrinkable. He scowled as he thump
ed the mug back onto the cracked kitchen counter.
He could hear voices coming from the patio. Harris’s and a lighter female voice. He tilted his head as he tried to figure out why the voice sounded familiar.
Martine Jenson. Why would she be here? And why would she and Harris be speaking? As far as Greyson knew, Martine hated his brother. Justifiably so, considering what Harris had done to her when she was eighteen. There was no reason for them to be speaking . . . unless . . .
Could it be about Olivia? If it was, Greyson felt that he should be privy to said conversation.
He strode confidently to the door and dragged it open, his head turning to the swing on the right, where—shockingly—his brother and Martine sat side by side, deep in an amicable and intimate-looking conversation.
The amicability faded the moment the woman caught sight of him. She gasped, and her entire body tensed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She turned her fierce glare on Harris and rephrased the question. “What’s he doing here?”
“He needed a place to stay,” Harris said, and Greyson took exception to the note of apology and pleading he picked up in his brother’s voice.
“Good morning, Martine,” he greeted her pointedly. She ignored him, keeping her eyes on Harris like Greyson didn’t exist, and that just got his back up further. He did not appreciate being ignored.
“And you’re letting him stay with you? After everything he’s accused you of? After what he did to Libby and Clara?”
Harris had told her about that? Greyson immediately felt both defensive and unbearably mortified. Did that mean Olivia knew too? For some reason he’d never considered the fact that Olivia might know about his initial assertion that Harris was Clara’s father. The thought of Olivia knowing about his awful accusation made something inside him shrivel up into an ugly ball of shame. How could he face her after that? Accusing her of cheating in the first place had been horrible enough. Falsely accusing her of cheating with Harris was unforgivable.
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