More than a Convenient Marriage?

by Dani Collins

  His limbs felt numb as a graveled weight settled into his abdomen.

  Unconsciously he found himself searching the grounds for her lissom silhouette. But she wasn’t at the gazebo, or in the swing under the big oak, nor among the rows of grapevines or even taunting him from the rocky outcropping at the beach. Yesterday he’d watched her wander the estate for hours, often looking back at the house. He’d thought she was waiting to see if he’d join her, but he’d been too disturbed by their discussions in the breakfast room. Too stripped of his armor.

  “I don’t want to be your mistress.”

  He hadn’t planned any of that: either the offering of a settlement or a continuation of their arrangement. It had come out of the situation as he’d realized she was setting herself up to be destitute. Shame had weighed on him for his arrogance in cutting her off. Rowan wasn’t a superficial user. She was too sensitive for her own good, putting other’s needs ahead of her own—even people who had deep flaws like her mother and father.

  Pushing away from the window, he strode from his office into her room—only to be brought up by the neatly folded sheets on the foot of her stripped bed. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t that.

  The night table and dresser top were clear. The closet held only hangers. All the drawers were empty. Even the shower had dried to leave no trace of her. The wastebasket was fresh, the long dark hairs shaken from the floor mat and swept away.

  A wild insidious thought occurred that he’d imagined her presence here. The rock music while she had worked, her burbling laugh after a leading remark, the feel of her naked skin against his... His breath turned to powdered glass in his lungs.

  She’d given her virginity to him. That meant something, didn’t it? She had said she wouldn’t forget him, yet...

  “Damn you, Rowan!” he squeezed out, instantly needing proof of her existence.

  He dragged drawers from their rails and in his impatience tossed their hollow shells to clatter across the hardwood floor. Empty. All empty. With nothing else to throw, he impulsively launched a drawer at the wild-eyed man in the mirror.

  His image shattered in a jarring smash that disintegrated into a glinting pile of shards on the floor.

  He was losing his rationality, but this was more than a man could bear. He’d dealt with the confusing pain of his father shutting him out and his mother walking away without looking back. He’d even met unflinchingly the gaze of his real father when Olief had looked up from smiling with pride at the girl who wasn’t his into the eyes of the man who was.

  All of it had devastated him, but this pain was worse.

  Driven to the master bedroom, he began overturning boxes. One of them must have photos of her. But they held only Cassandra and Olief, nothing of Rowan. No warmth, no affection, no laughter.

  No Rowan.

  She had left him.

  He’d been abandoned. Again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NIC’S PA BLIPPED into his computer monitor with a message that the auction house was on the phone. He instructed her to tell them to call back next week, not missing the subtle pause before her assent that silently screamed, Again?

  Pushing back from his desk, he moved to the window, where he rubbed the back of his neck. His whole body hurt from long work days and harder evenings in the gym. Blinking to clear the sting from his eyes, he tried to take in the view of Athens, but nothing penetrated.

  He was too aware that if the auction house was calling the week was up for the demolition team, as well. They’d get the same answer, since he couldn’t let anyone into the house while it was in the state he’d left it and he couldn’t face going back to clean up.

  Nicodemus Marcussen, the man who had looked into the wrong end of a rifle twice, not to mention coming face-to-face with a jaguar and surviving a bout of malaria, couldn’t find the courage to do a bit of housekeeping and get on with his life. These days he had a lot of compassion for men like Rowan’s father, who drowned in alcohol to numb the pain of being alive.

  He cursed and hung his head. Rowan’s father. She wanted to use the auction money to set up a trust for him. Twelve weeks was too long to put that off. Nic couldn’t keep doing it. Why hadn’t she contacted him to ask what was holding it up?

  Heavy-hearted, he suspected he knew. Drawing his hand from his pocket, he examined the key that seemed to end up in his possession every morning. He’d come to associate its rough-smooth shape and metallic smell with guilt, anger and loss, but he couldn’t make himself get rid of it. The key or the house.

  Rowan expected him to. Everyone did. The architect had delivered the drawings weeks ago. The builders were being put off as well. Nic was sole heir to everything Olief had owned. There’d been provision to support Cassandra and allow her the use of Rosedale, but the house, as part of Marcussen Media, was his. He had every right to knock it down, but he couldn’t make himself do it.

  Clenching his hand around the biting shape, he recalled the signed documents arriving that had allowed the declaration of death. The Italian painter’s signature had been a shaky flourish in all the right places, but there had been nothing from Rowan. No forget-me-not stationery with a snooty missive demanding Nic sort out her finances.

  He’d give anything for the privilege, he acknowledged with a wistful ache in his chest, but after a brief game of financial ping-pong with Frankie he’d had to leave Rowan’s modest balance for her to pay off. She didn’t want anything from him and it hurt so much he couldn’t bear it. But what did he intend with a gesture like that?

  Connection, he thought simply. He just wanted to know they were still linked in some way. He was becoming as sentimental about attachment as she was.

  The spark of irony glinted in his mind, no bigger than a dust mote catching in a beam of sunlight, but he held his breath, examining it.

  When had he last felt like this? Truly wanting someone in his life? He’d grown up wanting Olief in his life, but when the opportunity had finally arisen he’d been too tainted by the years of neglect. He’d held back from letting real closeness develop with his father, certain he’d lose in the long run.

  And he had.

  Everything in him still screamed that it was dangerous to yearn for love and the indelible link of family, but that was what he wanted with Rowan. He’d settle for scraps if he had to, but he couldn’t function under the belief that he’d never see her again. He needed to know that his future contained her.

  Even if it doesn’t include children, I still want something with a future.

  How many times had he replayed those words in his head along with his own response that what had passed between them had been only shelter from a storm? He’d been scared when he’d said it. He could offer her a lot of things, including a secure future, but when it came to love he feared his heart was too damaged. He was.

  He’d thawed a lot under Rowan’s warmth, though. It made him think that maybe, if she could be persuaded to keep seeing him... But he was getting ahead of himself. She might not want anything to do with him.

  A yawning chasm opened before him as he contemplated going to her and putting his soul on the line. But it wouldn’t hurt any more than he was hurting right now. At least he’d know.

  And, damn it, he was not a helpless six-year-old any longer. He was a man who knew how to fight for what he wanted. He would do anything to have her back in his life. To keep her in his life.

  The decision made him suck in a breath that burned. A flame of something he barely recognized came to life inside him. Anticipation of relief from pain. Hope.

  Wherever she’d gone, he’d find her and bring her back to where she belonged!

  * * *

  Rowan watched the little girl appear and disappear between the heavy coats of the bustling street, her face a picture of frightened despair as Ireland’s
ever-present rain drizzled into it. Her voice, clear and agonizingly uncertain, lifted in a shaky plea. Everything in Rowan wanted to run to her. She was overwhelmed with compassion for this waif who’d lost everything.

  Until a man in a modern trenchcoat, his dark blond hair foreign in a sea of black Irish peasant cuts, strode from between the carriages and ruined the scene.

  “Cut! What the hell?” someone yelled. “Security!”

  “Nic!” Stunned to recognize him, Rowan rushed forward, shock making her stumble. “It’s okay, I know him,” she assured the men in the red shirts charging forward.

  Her whole body trembled in crazed reaction. He looked so good! But tired. His face was lined with weariness, breaking her heart. And he was annoyed. He glared at the assistant director when the woman tried to take his arm.

  “Come with me, you crazy man.” Rowan grasped Nic’s wet sleeve and led him away, glancing back at her charge to say, “You’re doing great, Milly. I’ll be right back.”

  Little Milly beamed with pride, then stood dutifully still as Makeup approached.

  Rowan dragged Nic into a friend’s trailer and tried to catch her breath. It was impossible when he filled the space with his dominant presence and masculine scent. Everything about him hit her with fresh power: the authority he projected, the stirring energy he radiated into the air. The sexual excitement he sparked in her with the simple act of falling into her line of vision.

  Oh, that physical pull was so much worse now she knew how incredible it was to lie with him. All of her wanted to fall forward and kiss, hold, caress, be with him.

  She tried to conquer it, tried to quell the shaking and hold on to control. Tried to find her equilibrium and act like a rational human being when he’d just knocked her back after three months of learning to live without him.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked with growing defensiveness. “And like that? If someone barged into your board meeting you’d have them arrested.”

  “Not if it was you.” He narrowed his gaze on her mouth. “Why is your accent so strong?”

  The sound of his voice, the leading words he’d said, made her heart lurch. She could barely stay on her feet. “Living here does that. And I’m teaching that girl to speak like a native so they won’t crucify her for being American. I’m her dialogue coach.”

  Nic ran a hand across his hair, then dried it on his thigh. “Frankie said you were on a film set in Ireland. I didn’t know if that meant you were acting... Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  Seriously? She bit down on her lip, shocked by how badly she wanted to go anywhere with him, but self-preservation reminded her to keep her feet on the ground. “We’re in the middle of a scene,” she pointed out with forced patience.

  “Do you like this job?”

  His penetrating gaze had an effect that was nothing less than cataclysmic. She had missed those blue eyes, that stern expression, the way he looked at her like he really wanted to hear what she had to say.

  “I do. I get to tell people off if I think they’re pushing Milly too hard and she’s a doll. I’m not sure what will come next. Frankie’s looking into an Italian film. But for the moment I have a roof over my head.” She tried to make it sound like it was all sunshine and roses, not hinting at how badly she’d been missing him.

  “About that... A roof, I mean.” He cleared his throat and his hand went into his pocket. “I’ve done a few things.” The mixture of arrogance and sheepishness in his tone made Rowan tense.

  “What things?” she asked with low-voiced foreboding.

  His hand came out of his pocket and he set a key next to where she was involuntarily clutching the edge of the sink. Recognition hit in stages as she processed the bronze shape, the familiarity of it, the way its sharp angles seemed worn down—and the possessive longing and sense of privilege it inspired only now, after she’d given it up.

  “What—?” She couldn’t believe he’d come all this way to tell her the house was rubble. That would be too cruel.

  “It’s yours, Ro.”

  “Rosedale?” The magnitude of the gift was too much. She had to clap a hand to her mouth to keep her suddenly wobbling chin from falling off. At the same time the tears that filled her eyes stung with loss. She couldn’t face that big, empty house without him in it. “I can’t,” she choked.

  “You’d rather I destroy it?” He reached for the key.

  She was quicker, snatching it up and holding it in a protective fist against her heart, realizing when she caught the glimmer of smug satisfaction in his eye that he’d been bluffing. He was far quicker than her when he wanted to be.

  “Why, Nic? Something in Olief’s will?” She couldn’t believe it.

  He dismissed that with a brief movement of his head. “No, this is my decision. Olief made provision for your mother, but left everything to me. And you must have seen a copy of Cassandra’s will by now?”

  Rowan hitched her shoulder, dismissing it because it was exactly as she had expected. Gowns and empty purses. Jewelry she didn’t want to sell.

  “About the gowns—I’ve had emails,” she began with a concerned frown.

  “I know. I’ve...done something else. I went to see your father.”

  “What?” Dread poured into her, making her want to sink through the floor and disappear. One pained word came out. “Why?”

  “Cassandra was meant to be taken care of, and he was still married to her. It seemed right to make sure there was something in place for him. Don’t look like that, Ro. It wasn’t bad. I liked him. I see where you get your sense of humor. And I was there first thing in the morning, so he was relatively sober,” he allowed with a diffident shrug. “I’ve purchased his building, so rent will never be a problem again, and hired a caretaker to go in every day. A man who will cook and clean and has a background in addiction rehabilitation. We had a heart-to-heart, your father and I, about losing parents and that maybe you don’t need to face that again any time soon. I don’t know if it will make a difference, but...”

  “That’s incredibly generous, Nic,” she said to his shoes. “I’ll pay you back—”

  He took a firm hold of her jaw, his warm thumb covering her lips to still them as he drew her face up so he could look into her eyes. The impact of his touch, his closeness, the deep eye contact was earth-shattering.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “But—” She was coming apart inside, fighting the urge to shift her lips into his palm and kiss him. “I don’t want to owe you,” she whispered.

  “You don’t want to be my mistress. I know that. None of this comes with a catch. I’m not trying to buy you, Rowan. I just want to know you’re looked after, not breaking your leg or—” A completely uncharacteristic agitation seemed to grip him. He took his hand from her face to rub it over his own. “I want to know you’ll be at Rosedale sometimes and I might have a shot at seeing you, that you’re not out of my life forever.”

  “You want to see me?” A very fragile hope, one she’d had to tamp down on a million times, began to twine up from the depths of her heart.

  He reached into his pocket, drawing out a small velvet box that he set next to the sink with almost confrontational determination. “I want to marry you.”

  Rowan was so stunned she reflexively backed away until her legs hit the edge of the bench and she sat down in a clumsy heap, her head falling into her hands as she tried to deal with all he was throwing at her. The key dug into her closed fist. Too much to process. Now a ring?

  “All right, just see me,” he rushed out gruffly. “That’s enough. Just be in my life, Rowan. Even if it’s like it used to be—a few times a year. Whatever you want. Just don’t make me live with this loneliness that hits every time I think of that house without you in it. I can’t go near Rosedale, but I can’t knock it down and obliterate the only good memo
ries I have.”

  “Nic...” Her voice didn’t want to work, catching and quavering in her throat while her icy fingers shook against her numb lips. Her heart pounded as though she’d been running for her life and now she was cornered. Not safe, but maybe...just maybe...

  “Do you love me?” she risked.

  His face tightened and started to close, but before he could withdraw into the unreachable man she could only dream of from afar Rowan threw herself at him, wrapping anxious arms around his rain-dappled coat and big, unyielding body.

  “You don’t have to say it. This is enough.”

  “I want to say it,” he said tightly, as though struggling with a great burden.

  She squeezed him tighter. “It’s okay. It’s enough that you’re here. I love you. I always have.” Joy flooded through her as she finally admitted it to herself, to him—

  Hard hands caught her upper arms and pushed her away. He held on to her, but his incredulous and furious expression scared her. “You’ve always loved me?”

  Oh, she’d made a terrible, horrible miscalculation—opening her heart like this and assuming a bit of nostalgia on his part was anything like the soaring love she felt. Sickened, she could only stand there dumbfounded.

  “Then why did you leave me?” he asked in a voice of abject despair.

  Shock gave way to a slam of relief, followed by heart-rending regret.

  “You can’t just rip a man apart like that,” he rebuked.

  “But you hated me for years. You only asked me to stay as your mistress,” she reminded him with a spark of offense. Her pique crumpled as her view of a shared future with him struck a brick wall. “And since I can’t give you a baby, and you want one—”

  He groaned in a release of frustration and despair, hauling her against him under his wet overcoat and into the shelter of his warmth and strength. “I have been fighting letting you under my skin every second of my life. I knew you’d destroy me if I did, and you have. I hate trying to live without you, Ro. I need you in my life. And, yes, I will always wish we could make babies together. But we’ll make our family whatever way we need to. If it’s only us, that’s enough. I love you.”