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Or guilt, I amend.
I knew as soon as she belted her robe this morning and went back into her room after she’d come apart in my arms that I had made not one, but two horrible mistakes. The first had been accusing her of using our marriage to further her career. No, she shouldn’t have looked. Yet I caught her doing what anyone would have done in that situation; glancing at a piece of paper laid out on the table. She hadn’t rifled through private papers or even opened a closed folder. I had still jumped to the worst possible conclusion. Then, just minutes later, I’d let my need to keep myself emotionally removed trump kindness when I made light of the intimacy we had shared.
I was already tense from our interlude this morning and my pervading guilt when she’d come out tonight looking like a goddess in that dress and her damned heels. When she shared what she had about her father, it had awakened something inside me. The need to not only show her she wasn’t alone, but to reach out to someone, just for a moment, who understood what it was like to lose a parent you loved and despised in equal measure.
I hadn’t thought about that noise in a long time. The scratches in the wall, the softness almost worse, making me strain to hear if they’d infiltrated the barren room my mother and I shared. The occasional heavy weight on my legs as the bolder ones scurried across in search of food.
The one time one had bit me on the leg and I’d cried out. My mother had sobbed that night when she’d seen the tiny red welts, the blood staining the dirty sheet. The weight of her guilt had still not been heavy enough to spur her to action.
Well, hell.
Not the way I pictured spending the third night of my honeymoon. Remembering some of the worst moments of my childhood. This is what came from giving into one’s emotions. It took those cracks one had worked so long to patch up and wrenched them wide open. Plenty of room to let old hurts and insecurities crash back through.
Intimacy complicates that, although I was the one who had pushed that button this morning. I enjoy sex. I enjoy women. Never have I felt more like a god than I did when Juliette’s cries filled my mind, when the barest of touches pushed her over the edge into uninhabited pleasure.
But it was that sweet smile on her face, that touch of innocence mixed with womanly sensuality as I’d laid her back on the couch that had reached into my chest and wrapped its fingers around my heart. Never once did I think about that physical passion coming with the claws of feeling something more than casual affection for her.
It was there, though. No matter how much I wanted to pretend otherwise. The admiration I felt when she had stood up to me, the regret of knowing I caused her pain with my senseless attempt to put distance between us.
And respect. Respect for how she continued on through the worst of circumstances. I don’t know which is worse—having the love of a parent and then having it wrenched away? Or growing up and watching those who have it with envy? Envy and the ever-present question of what you did wrong to not at least have a little taste of that love.
At least one good thing had come out of that. I’d channeled that envy into the motivation I needed to climb out of the hellhole my mother had thrown me into, the same hole my father had then tried to bury me in. I fought my way to the top and finally achieved what others could only imagine: incredible wealth, an international reputation that opened doors wherever I went, and the envy of some of the richest people in the world, who never would have glanced twice at a street urchin from the slums of Santorini.
I’d given Juliette a piece of power tonight. No one, not even Rafe, knew the depths of what I’d suffered those first few years.
But Juliette hadn’t looked at me with pity or disgust. No, it had been empathy, compassion, understanding for the dichotomy of emotions I’d hinted at when it came to my mother. I saw a different side of the reporter, the side that made someone feel heard as they shared the harsh circumstances inflicted on them by people like my father.
Even though I had hated the attention her report had brought to Drakos Development, I’d always admired her for facing down the devil and appreciated that her work had finally removed an obstacle from my path. Learning the reason why, the true depths of what her family had suffered simply because my father had decided he wanted to play Realtor for a day and buy a house for a mistress who eventually became a wife, had added yet another layer.
Unlike many people, Juliette had played quite fair when it came to taking her revenge on my father, going after him for the sins he’d committed. She’d shown more strength and resilience than most people I’ve met.
They were all reasons for why I should never touch her again, all reasons that made me want to let down my guard for the first time in decades. If that hadn’t been enough, her nonchalant words at dinner had been the final clue to the puzzle I’d been trying to solve since she added her own financial stipulations to the marriage contract.
Dessie. She had loved and supported Juliette in her time of need. And now Juliette was doing the same, selling herself to me to get Grey House back and provide a home for a woman who, despite being an incredible person, had nowhere else to go. My suspicions had been confirmed during a quick text conversation with my investigator on the ride back to the hotel. Dessie had been living with Juliette in that little cottage for over a year now. Or rather, up until her illness had relapsed and she’d gone to live at Catherine’s facility. I’d bet my company that Juliette was footing the bill for it all.
The only question left unanswered was the amount of money she had spent on our wedding. Although I now had a pretty good guess what had happened there. The woman is a fighter. I can easily picture her taking my order to turn it into the wedding of the century and deciding to spend as lavishly as she knew how as pure revenge. It makes me like her even more.
Which leaves me at a crossroads. I like my wife. I respect her. I want her. I want her so badly it’s a physical ache in my body, a compulsion that’s getting increasingly harder to ignore.
But unlike this morning, when all we’d shared was a halfway pleasant conversation over coffee, a bond has been forged between us. Fragile, but it’s there. Shared loss, overcoming adversity to succeed. Our mutual confessions reek of emotional intimacy. Something I want no part of, no matter how much I want Juliette in my bed.
Another sip of bourbon hits my tongue, the smoky flavor lingering as I stare out over the City of Lights. No one will negate my past, my inability to love. Three times I’ve risked caring for someone. My mother. My father. My brother. Being rejected time and time again could have left me like my mother: broken, defeated. That I not only survived but thrived is a miracle. I’m not risking it a fourth time.
Yes, Drakos Development is an anchor for me. It was the only thing I felt safe pouring myself into because whatever I invested, I and I alone was responsible for what came back. There was no trusting another person, no risking a change of feelings. No romance strained and then broken under the reality of parenthood, age and all the other surprises life dealt.
Her door opens behind me. I turn. My heart stops. She’s still wearing that dress. Conservative compared to many. But I know now what lies beneath. Small, pert breasts that I’ve touched with my lips, my tongue, my hands.
My gaze drifts lower to her narrow waist and slim hips. She doesn’t know the allure of her body, the sexiness of feeling the subtle muscle beneath her skin. I’ve never felt attracted to a woman before because of what she’s capable of, the hard work she puts into something. But with Juliette, everything entices me to go just a little deeper.
Not too deep, I remind myself as I step closer.
Just one more step. I’ve kept my emotions separate from sex for years. I can do it again now, resist the temptation to share any more of my past while I enjoy what’s building between us.
Except, I wonder as she joins me on the terrace, at what point will I take that one step too far and tumble over the edge?
“I didn’t think you’d still be up.”
“Not used to the change in times yet.”