Page 147

A bald-faced lie. It’s not the travel keeping me up. It’s her. Her and the selfish need to take her, to take and give pleasure for as long as I have her, even knowing that I can’t give her anything but.
I hold up a glass. “Drink?”
She hesitates, and then smiles. Ever since I invited her to dinner and she surprised both of us with how much she opened up, she’s been more carefree, relaxed. The feistiness is still there, the strength. But she smiled more in the past few hours than she has in the past month. I saw more unabashed delight toward things I take for granted, from the dessert that could have been a work of art to the private champagne toast I arranged at the top of the Tower after dinner. It makes me remember a time in my life I’d mostly blocked out. The moments of wonderment as I’d adjusted to a life of luxury after being crushed under the weight of poverty. I had lost that awe.
Now, as I watch her, I wonder what else I’ve missed by becoming just like everybody else. Focused on money, reputation, power.
I pour her a glass and hand it to her. Our fingers brush. Her eyes flare and stay fixed on mine as she raises the glass to her lips. I turn away when I realize I’m jealous of a damn piece of barware.
“I can almost feel how hard you’re thinking.”
I smile but keep my gaze fixed on the city. “What does it feel like?”
“Like it hurts.”
I laugh. She joins in, the sound full yet silvery, a dash of bright against the night.
Silence falls. She gazes out over the city, her body relaxed, her face calm and serene like I’ve never seen her before.
“The two million you asked for.”
The glass freezes halfway to her lips. Her gaze slides away from mine as she takes another sip but doesn’t reply.
“It’s for Dessie.”
She hesitates, then nods once. I watch her, my eyes roaming over the hair falling freely now over her shoulders, then dipping down to her bare feet. The heels were sexy and gave me lurid daydreams of her wearing them and nothing else as I laid her out on the bed in my room.
But I like her this way too: natural, relaxed. She follows my gaze down to her feet.
“I did buy the dress. One set of shoes was for me.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
Another insensitive comment. I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been cruel to a woman before. I have no excuse. I was an ass.”
Juliette blows out a harsh breath.
“Thank you.”
The simplicity surprises me, as does the genuineness. I smile at her.
“No reassurances that it wasn’t that big of a deal?”
“No. You hurt me. Thank you for acknowledging it.”
How am I supposed to resist this? A woman who knows her own worth, who stands up for herself yet gives grace? Who uses money not to further her own agenda but to help someone else? Her actions make me look exactly what I accused her of being: greedy and selfish.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I ask softly.
I close the distance between us and reach up, doing what I’ve imagined doing for so long and brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face.
“Like I’m something good,” she whispers. “I’m selfish. I want her close. I want to do something to pay her back for everything she’s done for me.” She bites her lip. “And you were right. I’ve done a lot of good things with my work. But it wasn’t just a desire for justice that drove me. It was revenge, retribution.” A shudder moves through her as shadows shift in her eyes. “I don’t like who I’ve become.”
I think of the first eight years of my life, the most vulnerable and painful years I’ve ever experienced. I think of those first few years in Lucifer’s house, especially the initial days when I thought perhaps, just perhaps, I could turn myself into enough to gain my father’s love.
I want to give her a fraction of what she has given me tonight. But I can’t. The words become lodged in my throat. So instead of talking, instead of giving her trust and secrets, I give her the one thing I can.