by Dani Collins
The vilification kept rubbing at Demitri’s rawest edges because he couldn’t refute it. He didn’t know if he had anything meaningful to offer a child.
But he wanted Natalie. So he was willing to try, or better yet, stay the hell out of the way so he didn’t cause any emotional scars to the girl.
“I realize she’s your priority,” he said, trying to convey his willingness to accommodate. “But surely there are times when you have an evening free? When she’s with her father?”
Natalie’s eyes grew glossy as she stared at him. Her brow crinkled in a flinch and she looked down, bottom lip pouting out while she twisted her fingers in her lap.
“So that really is what you’re suggesting? Except, rather than sneak around on your family, we should hide from mine.”
“You’re making it sound... No. Look, I can see why single parents don’t want a revolving door of partners paraded in front of their child. If you want me to meet her, fine. I will.” Even though it made him feel like he was offering to lock himself into the Mixed Marital Arts ring with the reigning champion. “I want to see you, Natalie. I’ve quit Makricosta’s. There’s no reason we can’t date.”
“The sex wasn’t that good, Demitri. Find someone else,” she dismissed with a fracture in her tone.
He had to check himself so he didn’t leap out of his own skin.
“Do you need a reminder?” he challenged in a voice that rose with astonishment and dismay.
She shrank into her seat, giving him a helpless look not unlike the one she’d worn that first night when he’d dragged her into his room.
He remembered every single thing about every single encounter with her. Did she think that was normal?
Her brow crinkled with disgruntlement and she set her chin mutinously, but there was something incredibly vulnerable in her expression. She was trying to resist him and finding it hard. If he had any morals, he’d protect her against the lothario in him.
Damn it, he was so desperate to kiss her and show her...
Jamming a desultory foot against the opposite seat, he tilted back his head and groaned at the roof. Since when did he show mercy? Care? Use words to communicate rather than actions?
“I realize that walking out on you that night, when you took that call from her, was insulting,” he said, searching for the right thing to say. “I’ve been regretting ever since that I didn’t stay and try to find a compromise. I want to keep seeing you, Natalie. I like what we had. You told me you weren’t looking for marriage and picket fences, either. Was that a lie?”
“No,” she admitted after a weighty moment, voice low. “I have my own version of that already.” She nosed toward the suburban street the limo had slowed to navigate.
It was a quaint old neighborhood of new mansions and restored heritage homes, mature trees and lopsided snowmen waving from the front yards. Not far from the city center, he noted. Quite the upscale location.
“Exactly how much does my brother pay you?” he asked.
She chuckled self-consciously. “My grandfather was an architect. He built the house and my mother inherited it, then it came to me. My mortgage paid for a new roof and some other updates along with the estate taxes, but the actual house was paid off years ago.”
The limo turned into her drive and stopped. He leaned forward to look up at the charming two-story—three, since she appeared to have a basement. Steps rose to a covered and recessed front door. He liked how she’d married the 1940s architecture with efficient replica windows and modern siding.
“Invite me in to see it,” he said as the chauffeur left to come around to her side.
She shook her head, gaze flicking to the back window of the limo. He glanced across the street to where a pair of little girls, bundled in snowsuits, climbed the berm of plowed snow to exclaim at the fancy car.
“Zoey walked home with her friend’s mom, but will be hungry for dinner.”
Inexplicably, he found himself about to insist she introduce him to her daughter, but he could already see the shadows of refusal building behind her eyes.
“When can we have dinner? Friday?” he asked, holding her pensive gaze. Willing her to capitulate.
She hesitated. “I don’t know where this could go.”
“Don’t you?” he wanted to ask, but schooled himself from stealing a kiss to demonstrate.
She gave him a look that was a mixture of scold and hurt and yearning. Then she shot another look out the back window. “I have to go,” she insisted, reaching for the door latch.
The moment she did, the chauffeur, who’d taken himself around to wait for her, opened her door.
“Friday,” Demitri said, helping her gather her bags. “I’ll be here at six.”
“I...” Her attention was torn between him and the girl across the street. “I’ll meet you in the city,” she finally ceded.
He howled with triumph inside, but shook his head sternly. “You know my feelings on that. I’ll be here.”
She might have protested, but a happy cry of “Mom!” cut her off.
She straightened and urged the chauffeur to close the door, calling, “Stop and look for cars! Is it safe? Then yes, you can come across.”
A moment later, she took a full-body hit in the middle from a girl with a purple hat and a yellow jacket who wrapped her arms around Natalie and beamed up at her. Her reddened nose topped a profile that was a rounder, younger version of Natalie’s. He hadn’t anticipated that she’d look like her mother, or have that same bright glow of optimism that he found so likable in Natalie.
“Why did you come home in this big car?” her high voice asked, audible through the glass. “Can I see inside?”
“A friend gave me a lift. How was school?” Natalie steered the girl to start up the front steps with her.
Natalie’s daughter stopped and turned as the limo began to back out. She waved, but Natalie only watched, a troubled look on her face, bottom lip worried by her teeth.
* * *
Arriving home to find Zoey outside at the neighbor’s had forestalled Natalie really working through everything that Demitri had said. She kept trying to tell herself that it didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Or that, according to him, he hadn’t used her, either. He thought what they’d had was good.
He still didn’t want a future. He didn’t want anything more than the casual arrangement they’d had in Paris. Actually, he wanted less, since he lived in New York. How would a relationship—an affair—even work? She definitely shouldn’t cheapen herself by agreeing to one.
Except when he’d reminded her that she’d claimed not to want marriage and more children, an unexpected greed for something had risen in her. No, she wouldn’t dare ask for the full package. Look how dreaming too big had stung her in Lyon. But it felt awfully good to have someone tell her she looked good, stroking her ego and her skin, before kissing her in a way that made her blood race.
Oh, she knew exactly what had happened. The charm train had rolled into the station and she was tempted to climb aboard, forgetting that she’d been dumped from it once before.
She agonized all day Thursday, then spent every spare moment on Friday drafting lies and excuses, going so far as to type them into her phone, but never hitting Send.
I have to work late.
I’ll be in the city anyway.
I’m sick.
Zoey is sick.
Zoey was away for the weekend at her grandmother’s. Yes, a wicked part of Natalie had wanted to be available to whatever Demitri might plan, but now that her workday was done and she was ruminating in front of her closet, she had to ask herself what the heck she thought she was doing.
She’d made her peace with being single after breaking up with Heath. Demitri had stirred up a pile of longings in her while they’d been in France, a vision she’d blacked out because it was so far-fetched, especially because it starred him. It would definitely be better if he disappeared as abruptly as he’d shown up.
&nb
sp; Which was exactly what she’d tell him over dinner, she assured herself.
Then he showed up looking all alpha and sexy in a cream-colored mock turtleneck under a fitted blazer in chocolate brown. It had a casual formality that lent him authority and command. And he brought flowers and a bottle of wine, which nearly finished off whatever defenses she had.
“No chocolates?” she mused facetiously, trying not to melt into a puddle of submission.
He looked at the items in his hands, expression blanking with surprise. “They’re in the limo.”
“No way!” she burst out with a laugh. “I was joking.”
He stared at her, making her self-conscious. A pleased, answering smile twitched his mouth. “That laugh gets me every time,” he said, voice husky and intimate. Affected? “I’ll be right back.” He pushed the wine and bouquet into her hands and left.
She did the only sensible thing she could do. She moved through to the kitchen to put the flowers in water, using them as a shield of busywork so he didn’t completely disarm her when he returned.
Snowflakes glittered in his hair when he came back. He set a large, flat wooden box on the kitchen table.
Her eyes popped when she saw the gold-embossed name. He’d bought them a pair of those truffles from a specialty shop in Switzerland as if it was penny candy, even though he’d turned over a very large note for them. Eating hers had been a peak life experience. Now he’d brought her a whole box of them?
Shrugging out of his jacket, he draped it over the back of a chair and reached for the wine, beginning to peel the foil off the neck. “You look fantastic.”
“Tickets, please,” the conductor said, and she found herself with one foot on the Demitri Heartbreak Express, all of her tingling with excitement.
Check yourself, Natalie. Where on earth did she think this train was going? This wasn’t France and fancy-free time. This was nine-to-five, get-the-groceries, be-a-mother-and-set-a-decent-example time. Sure, he had money and turned up with fringe benefits, but she couldn’t count on him any more than she could on Heath.
“I bought it in Lyon,” she said of the dress. She’d found it on one of her many excursions out of the hotel to avoid all those speculative looks. Remember that? she scolded herself.
The dress was a thick knit that fell to just above her knees, the wool speckled with green-and-gold tones. She’d paired it with a filmy gold scarf and a narrow belt. Her tall boots, pretty much her regulation attire from November to February, would jazz it up, but it wasn’t deliberately sexy or seductive. She might as well be in a bikini, though, given the way he scoped her from top to bottom and back.
“The chauffeur is waiting, isn’t he?” she hazarded as he opened a drawer in search of her corkscrew.
“I pay him very well to do exactly that.”
Of course he did. Nipping the ends off the stems in the arrangement, she set the whole thing into her largest vase and filled it with water.
“How, if you don’t mind my asking? There was an announcement that you’d left Makricosta. Did I get you fired?”
“No, I did that all by myself,” he assured her, opening a cupboard at random, forcing her to point out the correct one. “Actually, it was a mutual parting of ways. I’ve wanted to leave for a while, but didn’t feel right about it.” He carefully positioned two glasses on the table. “I’m starting my own firm, so I can pick the jobs that interest me.” He lifted a dark look at her that was vaguely insulted, but amused, too. “So I’m temporarily unemployed, but I’m not here to couch surf at an old flame’s if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She bit her lips together, suspecting she was being chastised for her man-child remark. “So I shouldn’t feel guilty about the way you left? You and Adara have made up?”
“No,” he said shortly. “I mean, no, you shouldn’t feel guilty. My leaving was a long time coming, and no, my family isn’t speaking to me right now.” He poured and offered her a glass. “But I’m angry with them, too, so the radio silence is also a mutual thing.”
She dried her hands and accepted the glass of chilled, lightly sparkling rosé, glancing up at him with concern.
He offered a blithe smile, uncaring, always trying to pretend he was superficial and lazy, spoiled and arrogant, but he had so much more going on below the surface.
“Demitri...” This would be a massive invasion of privacy, going a lot deeper than any conversation they’d delved into in Europe, but she felt she had to know. It was the reason he’d ended things so abruptly in Switzerland. Searching his eyes, she asked, “What makes you so averse to family? What happened with yours? Why are you so angry?”
His lips thinned, rejecting her question, gearing up to refuse to answer, she thought.
“They kept something from me,” he surprised her by replying. “Until a few years ago, I didn’t know that I—we—have an older brother. Half brother.” He tilted his glass, staring into it so hard it should have sizzled and boiled dry. “Nic Marcussen.”
“Nic... The Nic Marcussen? The media guy? Who owns, like, half the world’s magazines and news channels?”
“Yes.” He sipped, blinking to contain what she sensed were volatile emotions.
“That’s quite a secret big brother.”
“Right?” he challenged, fury creeping like lava under his tone.
“Why didn’t they tell you?”
“I don’t know. But he’s back in our lives—their lives—and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with that, so I’ve been keeping my distance.” He set aside his glass, pushing his hands into his pants’ pockets broodingly. “Adara seems to think we should all get together in some sort of family reunion. I’ve been resisting, finding other things to do, which annoys her. That’s why she thought I was using you to get at her and Theo, but I’m not that childish. I just don’t want anything to do with him.”
Not all families were as close as she’d been to her mother and brother. She knew that, but it still made her sad for him and his siblings. And keeping such a huge secret was a curious mystery that made her want to quiz him further, but he changed the subject.
“Show me around. Is this flooring maple?”
* * *
Thankfully Natalie could take a hint. She took him upstairs for a brief glance in the three bedrooms, a tidy master just airy and pastel enough to confirm it belonged to a woman.
“Queen,” he commented, eyeing the mattress, thinking it would do.
“Because my daughter sneaks in,” she said with a don’t-even-think-it smile.
He was thinking it. Of course he was. That dress she was wearing was a statement in subtle eroticism, clinging to her curves in a mysterious way that hinted while hiding, driving him insane with desire to press and feel and stroke.
He let her take him along to the princess-themed girl’s room full of stuffed animals and well-stocked bookshelves, and then another bedroom converted to her home office.
His interest in the house had been piqued from his first glimpse. He’d thought it was basic curiosity in things like architecture and workmanship, but he realized he’d really wanted this glimpse into Natalie’s true self. He wanted to know why she held such a grip on him. Despite her sunny nature, she kept a lot of herself private. Her child, for instance.
Her office was as efficient and practical as he knew her to be on the job, but the framed child’s artwork down the stairs and newspaper article above the fireplace congratulating her grandparents on their fiftieth wedding anniversary reflected her less obvious, but very endearing qualities: warmth and sentimentality and hints of a romantic.
“The dining room is a mess. I’ve taken up scrapbooking.” She flicked on the light, but hung back as though she’d rather he didn’t enter.
“You know you can do that sort of thing on computer now?” He purposefully brushed past her through the arched doorway, taking advantage of the movement to graze a light touch on her shoulder and upper arm, liking the way she jumped under his caress.
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br /> “I spend all day on computers. I like doing something real. Don’t look. You’re Mr. Marketing and Ad Campaign. I’ll never measure up,” she protested, catching up a handful of crumpled paper in a tight fist.
When they called it scrap, they meant it. The table was covered in bits of colored paper, buttons and ribbons, and novelty stickers, but the chaos was nothing he hadn’t seen on his own desk when he needed a cut-and-paste mock-up.
“You have a good eye for composition,” he said sincerely, taken with a collage of black-and-white snapshots of her grandparents that she’d arranged with silver borders on a sheet of pale green.
“It’s, um—” she edged protectively toward a finished book “—just something to do with all my mom’s boxes of photographs.”
He spied the photo on the front of the finished book, a baby in an incubator. Something in the colors of the snapshot told him it was real, not a print from digital. Older. He set his hand on the book to draw it across the cloth on the table so it was before him. “Gareth,” he read. “Your brother?”
“Yes, it’s...” Her hand wavered as she decided whether to stop him opening the cover. “I wanted something that Zoey could keep, so he’s not forgotten.”
Her voice had gone husky. He could tell she wasn’t comfortable with letting him see, but he couldn’t resist turning the pages, admiring the care she’d taken with designing each page, but more ensnared by the story she told.
Natalie had said her father had left, and there was no evidence of him here. As for her brother, he had spent his life in hospital and sick beds, occasionally a sofa or a picnic blanket. Her wearily smiling mom was usually behind the camera rather than in front of it, capturing her underweight but grinning son and his vibrant, obviously devoted older sister. In the early ones Natalie cuddled and coddled him; as they grew up, she did terrible things to his hair with clips and bows. She made faces at him over a hand of cards, sat with him in front of a bin of building blocks and eventually aligned herself behind a computer screen next to him.
That was where her interest in IT had come from, Demitri would bet. She couldn’t throw a ball with this boy. She would have had to race him in video games.