by Dani Collins
Nic felt her climax arrive in a powerful clench that nearly took him alive. He let go with an explosion of molten heat so intense his skin went icy. The backlash of pleasure left him too weak to do anything but pin her to the wall, his hips finishing in uneven thrusts. She shivered around him, wringing magnificent throbs from him as he emptied himself into her. Her moans of rapture filled his mouth like spun sugar.
Drained, he stayed leaning on her for long moments, muscles shaking in strain.
Unprotected sex, he thought dimly, and a craven fear unfurled in him—something so apprehensive and insecure he drew in a sharp breath.
At his sudden inhalation Rowan quit playing her hand softly at the back of his neck. Her touch held a tenderness he’d only recognized when she’d moved her hand to his shoulder in a silent request for release. Another clench of loss hit him.
His head felt too heavy to lift. He didn’t want to disengage and experience the rush of cool air between them, or watch her nearly crumple because her legs refused to hold her. Chagrin poured through him as he reached to steady her, disturbed by how she trembled and avoided his gaze. “Rowan—”
“If I miss that ferry I’ll never forgive you.” There wasn’t much snap left in her voice. It was more a statement of fact. Weary resignation.
The service. Infuriated anger bled back, but there wasn’t anything he could do. Keeping her from it would only make both of them look bad.
“I’ll arrange the chopper.” He rubbed his face, already dreading the ordeal, his mind split with anger at her for putting him in this position and a more embryonic profound trepidation. She was at the door before he managed to say, “I didn’t use anything.”
“I know. The timing’s wrong. It’s fine.”
No, it wasn’t. Nothing about what had just happened was fine.
* * *
So that’s how babies are made, Rowan thought as she showered, dazed by the primordial way she and Nic had clashed like two cells intent on comingling their DNA. The fact that pregnancy was impossible should be providing her with a sense of relief, but it only increased the forlorn feeling of isolation that had been eating her all week.
Was that why she’d provoked him? To force his attention when she had been feeling neglected? She’d been so anxious about the tense distance growing between them. Had she just pulled the oldest trick in the female book? Trying to keep him with sex? Dumb idea. He wouldn’t hate her any less for goading him into losing control.
Filled with conflicted disappointment, she stepped out of the shower, thankful she couldn’t see her wan reflection in the fogged mirror.
Self-pity is not a good look, as her mother would say. Men are drawn to confidence.
Right. She had a performance to get through, she thought with a ripple of misplaced hysterical humor. She reached for her makeup case, determined to hide her pained wistfulness from Nic.
His perfunctory knock a few minutes later shattered her efforts at gathering her composure, but he was only informing her they’d leave as soon as she was ready. “We’ll dress at my apartment. I need a suit,” he said through the door.
“Okay,” she called back.
The impersonal exchange burned from her constricted throat all the way into the pit of her stomach. She’d told him the timing was wrong, but that wasn’t true. The body was wrong. Underweight. Infertile. Not uncommon in her former world of over-training and under-eating. She had never let it bother her, but it suddenly seemed like one more way she fell short, and that was too much to bear when she already felt like he hated her.
Thankfully, Nic didn’t seem to want to talk when she eventually faced him. Locking himself away physically wasn’t possible, so he did it mentally, acting like the sex hadn’t happened. He hustled her into the helicopter on the lawn and waited until they reached Athens to ask about the service. Where and when was it being held? Who was speaking?
She answered numbly, thinking about how anxious she’d been as she made the arrangements, dreading his anger, dreading attending alone. Now it was overshadowed by a chilly tension that had nothing to do with her going against his wishes.
“I tried to keep the press off the scent,” she assured him. “Well, as much as possible when the man owned half the world’s papers and news stations.”
No smirk, just a tic in his cheek. “And how did you pay for everything?”
It occurred to her he might be doing the same thing she was: talking about the service to avoid dissecting this morning. Or maybe he was satisfied with her answer that the timing was wrong and just wanted the service out of the way and her out of his life.
She swallowed, mentally balancing on that ledge of a week ago, with deadly waves threatening to engulf her and no way to get back to where she’d been.
He was leading her to the guest room in his high-rise penthouse. She craned her neck to orient herself. It was a surprisingly soothing expanse of rooms that flowed one into another, surrounding an outdoor pool and a view of the Parthenon that stole her breath. Rosedale must make him feel hemmed in, she realized, and accepted that she’d never win him over on the mansion. Perhaps she should have listened without judging, because she could stay in a place as private and sunny as this penthouse forever.
“My mother’s agent is floating me a loan,” she answered absently when she realized he was waiting.
“Introduce me to him. I’ll repay him.”
Her pride prickled. Hosting a service was her choice. She wouldn’t let it become his problem. “I’ve got it. It’s not like there’s caskets and burials.”
“It’s my responsibility. I’ll take care of it.”
“You cut me off because you wanted me to show responsibility,” she reminded. “Pay half, if you insist, but I refuse to owe you money. I’ll keep my loan with Frankie.”
“Don’t start a fight you can’t win, Rowan.”
“I’d rather not fight at all.”
“That’s funny,” he said without a shred of humor, and closed the door.
* * *
Nursing anger at Rowan for putting him in the position of owing a stranger for the cost of his own father’s service kept Nic from brooding on the disquiet eating a hole in his breastbone. It allowed him to lock his emotions so deeply in his personal dungeon he almost forgot what he was dressing for until he walked into the lounge.
Rowan wore a simple black top over a knit black skirt. Slits in the skirt revealed her high boots and black stockings. Her silhouette, graceful as always, was startlingly slight, making his breath catch. A deep purple scarf held her straightened hair so the length lay in a gleaming line down her right shoulder. She clutched a black pocketbook and opened it when he appeared, walking toward him with purpose as she extracted something.
He tensed, anticipating the hint of sexual awareness that always struck with her nearness, and found himself thrust back to their wild copulation in his lounge. Her invitation might have been more of a dare, but she had participated, welcomed him, taken him in like it was as vital to her as it had been to him. It had been raw and primeval and mind-shattering. He’d never wanted or needed anyone like that before. The culmination had been more than physical. It had been spiritual.
And exceedingly careless of him.
She’d said the timing was wrong, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was bang on?
His gut was a cement mixer as he stared at the part in her hair, trying to see into the workings of her mind. What if she fell pregnant? What would she do?
His palms began to sweat.
Her subtle scent invaded his dark thoughts, disguised by a designer bouquet of grigio citrus, but he detected the almonds and fresh tea, unique as the rest of her. It was a punch of homespun warmth, gentle and feminine and familiar.
He wanted to reach for her, but the last time he’d done that he’d behaved like an
animal. It underlined exactly what he’d told her: he was incapable of true caring.
Guilt hardened in him, stiffening his muscles as he waited to see why she had come so close. Searching for a clue to her motive, he noted that the only adornment on her outfit of unrelieved black was a pair of pins above her heart: one a small emerald brooch that formed a lucky four-leaf clover, the other a familiar insignia—the Marcussen Media four-color shield with an inlaid “O” of white gold.
“How is that a pin?” he asked as he recognized Olief’s cufflink.
“I sent them out to be converted.” Rowan removed the tiepin he was wearing and replaced it with the matching cufflink inlaid with an “M.” She took care to ensure it sat straight. Her nearness, the light graze of her touch between the buttons of his shirt, was like a magnetic interference against his invisible force field, making his self-control shiver and threaten to short. The gesture was so simple and inclusive he felt his throat close over any words he might have found to remark on it.
At the same time he was devastated by the familial connection it symbolized. That wasn’t him. He’d been rejected as a son. He’d never make a decent father. His lungs shrank and he began to grow cold.
With a critical eye Rowan scanned his appearance, her hands sweeping across his shoulders, smoothing his lapels, adjusting the kerchief poking out of his pocket.
“Don’t.” He couldn’t bear her touch when he felt so raw.
Her gaze came up. Her mouth still looked bruised, and now so did her eyes. Her vulnerability made his gut clench, sending a spike of regret through him. When he ran his tongue behind his lip he could still feel where her teeth had cut in, leaving a taste of rust. She’d been lost in rapture, but his behavior had still been incredibly crass.
Reckless.
She flinched under his scowl and turned away. “I know you think this is just one more selfish act by a spoiled socialite, but I’m doing it for them. Well, maybe a little for myself.” She dropped his original tiepin into her pocketbook. “I let Mum down so many times. I need to give her this at least.”
The defeat in her was so tangible, his throat ached as she crossed the room away from him.
“I’m not angry about the service,” he blurted.
“What, then?” She drew herself to the full extent of her slender height, seeming to brace herself. She knew. She could see the elephant in the room as well as he could. What they’d done this morning shouldn’t have happened.
Could she also see how much he hated himself for putting them in this position? That he wanted to lock his arms around her and beg her not to do anything rash? But he knew it would be better to send her away and let her make her own decision, because he could never be the kind of man capable of involving himself with a woman and their child.
Maybe there wasn’t even a baby to worry about. She’d said the timing was wrong.
Shades of regret rose in him, but his ingrained hesitation against emotions—experiencing them, labeling them, acting on them—prevented him from examining that.
The intercom buzzed, making them both jump.
“It’s just the car,” he managed through a dry throat.
Rowan nodded jerkily and shrugged into her coat before he realized what she was doing. He didn’t move forward in time to help her and his hand closed on empty air. It stayed locked in a fist that her sharp gaze detected on her way to the door.
“After this I’ll finish packing her things and get out. I promise.”
The words scooped into his chest, leaving a gaping space in him. Grief, he told himself. For the last year he’d taken refuge from it in work or the gym. His refusal to host a service had largely been an attempt to avoid revisiting the loss.
The choke of sorrow and missed chances had moved into the background of his psyche, though. All his tension and misgivings were rooted in Rowan’s behavior right now. She was on the run, and he didn’t blame her, but it filled him with anxiety.
The elevator floor dropped away from beneath his unfeeling legs and the blurred city passed before his eyes. He could only clench a hand on the nearest surface and try to hold on to his equanimity while trying to convince himself that facing the memorial service was eating him alive. Not something else.
After this I’ll finish packing her things and get out.
His cold fog grew worse when the car slowed outside a low building. Nic finally came out of himself long enough to see how gray her complexion had gone, leaving her makeup as slashes of garish color against her waxen face.
“Are you going to throw up?” He reached for the ice bucket.
“It’s stage fright.” Her shaking hand went to her middle. “I didn’t eat, so nothing to toss. It’ll go away as soon as I’m on.” She left the car like a ghost rising from a grave, her movements elegant as always, her collected expression niggling at him.
Was she really not the least bit worried? If timing was so reliable there wouldn’t be an overpopulation problem. Or had she already made a decision that a baby wouldn’t happen, no matter what?
He took Rowan’s elbow as they climbed the stairs, consciously easing a grip that wanted to tighten with urgency. His heart pounded. Don’t, Rowan. Please don’t.
People were already seated inside—hundreds of them. Once they sat, a man in robes invited them to bow their heads. It was surreal, given his state of mind, but cleansing. This was the right thing to do. He should have known, should have trusted that Rowan understood these things better than he did.
As she moved to the podium a few minutes later he noted that she had regained some color, but her eyes were still too big for her face. He watched her with a fatalistic rock in his chest. She was so much better than he was, rising above a difficult childhood like a phoenix, able to sing her mother’s praises, warm and beautiful, while he carried only the ashen darkness of his childhood with him, staining everything black.
He had nothing to offer a woman and a child but the same bleak void he’d grown up in. Making her pregnant would be a disaster. He had no choice but to pray it wouldn’t happen, yet a torturous want crowded into him. A deep, undeniable ache filled him to be better than he was. Damn Olief for never setting an example or instilling confidence in him when it came to interpersonal relationships. He’d left his son floundering, armed only with a shaky desire to succeed without any skills to back it up.
Rowan’s eyes met his as he struggled with his need to be everything his own father wasn’t. Her voice cracked and her hand came up to cover her trembling lips. Her self-possession began to fall apart and threatened to shatter Nic’s. Purely out of instinct he pushed to his feet, moving to stand beside her. It was like stepping into cold fire. He hadn’t meant to put himself in this position. Public speaking didn’t bother him, but this was different. He never put his emotions on display, and his intense feelings were just under the surface while a sea of faces stared.
He took Rowan’s hand. It was so icy his heart tripped in concern. He closed his fingers tightly over hers. She pointed to a place on the page and he began to read.
“‘Olief tried hard to be a father figure to me...’” he began, the words evaporating on his tongue. Olief had tried with Rowan, and maybe that was the takeaway lesson. He had to say goodbye to Olief’s failings as a father and look forward with his own purpose and approach and simply try.
Rowan squeezed Nic’s hand with all her might, fighting back the breakdown that had come down on her like an avalanche when she had met Nic’s tormented gaze. He was genuinely worried she’d turn out to be pregnant. She’d seen it back at the apartment, had even tried to brace herself for reassuring him how remote a possibility it was, but dread turned like a medieval torture device in her. He’d be relieved and she would be crushed.
The arrival of the car had saved her, but as she’d stood up here, playing the part of the good daughter, all she’d been
able to think was that it was her mother’s fault she had no periods. Even before the intensity of ballet classes the pressure had been on to mind her calories. Rowan had felt like a hypocrite, talking up the woman she resented deep in her heart. Then she’d looked into Nic’s eyes and known he didn’t want her to conceive, and with equal fervor knew she wished she could.
Yet wouldn’t.
It had been too much, and she was clinging to composure by her fingernails.
Nic closed with a few personal words of his own, Rowan swallowed, and thankfully they were able to sit down. But Nic didn’t let go of her hand. Maybe that was her fault. Her fingers were white where she entwined them with his. She stared at their linked frozen hands as one of her mother’s friends rose to sing an Irish ballad.
The worst was over. She only had to get through the reception in the adjoining hall without betraying her inner tension. As they stood to move through the doors that were thrown open for them she disengaged from Nic’s grip. “You don’t have to stay,” she offered, even though he’d said he wasn’t angry about the service anymore.
His dark brows came down like storm clouds, scolding and chilly. “I’ll stay.”
She felt a lash of fear. A wild impulse to bolt from here whirled through her. Very mature, Ro. But there was something resolved in his expression. She sensed a Talk looming and wasn’t prepared to face it.
“Suit yourself,” she murmured, and let herself be drawn by people who were anxious to express their condolences.
Nic wondered if he had imagined her clammy grip on his hand. She was so willing to have him disappear now. Because she blamed him? She had every right. He was the experienced one—in more ways than one. He shouldn’t have taken such a risk with her.
He wished it was as simple as saying she had provoked him, but that wasn’t right. Hearing she’d been hurt by his neglect had rattled him. “Maybe if you’d spoken to me...” But he’d been afraid to speak to her, afraid she would hurt him again with all that he’d told her. He hadn’t liked facing that he was a coward who had avoided her out of fear.