Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she paused, unsure of where to start.
She explained, “Creeped out means I felt uncomfortable, uneasy, because I thought someone was standing outside the powder room waiting for me.” Thinking back to their earlier confrontation over the misplaced, or rather, purposely placed glove, she continued. “Apparently, I was right. My glove didn’t get up and walk into the gallery by itself. Someone followed me to the powder room, waited for me to go in, stole my glove, shredded the painting, and then left my glove there as planted evidence.” Fury unfurled within her like a slow burning blaze. “Who the hell would do that? What could they possibly gain from framing me? I am nothing, no one.”
Especially to you....
She looked at him.
He sat silently, a quizzical look drawing his brows together.
“Why didn’t you tell me this immediately?”
She huffed in frustration. “I tried. When you get on your high horse and are hell bent on cramming someone’s guilt down his or her throats, there’s no getting through to you. Although, you must have heard some of what I said.”
Chagrin flooded his expression. “I do hear you, Haven.” She pinched her expression in disbelief and he amended, “Iheardyou. The words just didn’t fully form in my mind until the heat of the situation cooled.”
She laughed. Their current situation was much hotter than that of their earlier argument.
Much hotter.
Trying to get her mind out of the gutter where it swam amongst debris shaped like rock-hard cocks, she bit her lip. The sharp pain focused her mind.
“Who’d want to slash a painting of your mother, and then blame me? Who would have motive?”
Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he made to stand up, but turned to her instead.
“Honestly, I do not know. My mother didn’t have an enemy in the world. As per her wishes, everyone loved her, would do anything for her, and she thrived on the attention. She would do anything for the adoration.” His voice hitched as the last words rumbled passed his lips. His face darkened, and his eyes turned a smoldering black.
A bitter, inky black.
She should tread lightly, change the subject and let the cards fall where they may, but where had that gotten her so far? In a sweltering, loveless hell, that’s where. She wanted to pull out the sledgehammer and smash through the walls he’d erected around his heart, and show him he didn’t have to be bound by the shadows of his past.
She swung the hammer.
“So you can’t think of anyone who would want to destroy your mother’s portrait? Maybe someone she’d wronged? She can’t have been a saint, no one is.”
“No,” he ground out, “not a saint.”
His voice flattened, and his expression blanked. “She tried to kill me.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Haven’s mouth dropped open. A look of horror and pity drew over her face.
No! He didn’t want her pity.
“Oh my God!” Her hoarse whisper played havoc on his nerves.
“Don’t do that,” he growled. “Don’t look at me like I am some sort of victim. I’m a grown man, I’ve lived my life. I’ve suffered no ill effects from my experience.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true. No ill effects? Are you kidding me? What your mother did, the fallout it left behind, is exactly why we’re having this conversation. Because of what she did, and Iwillknow exactly what happened, you are incapable of trusting any woman with a pretty face. What did she do, huh? Did she try to drown you, cut off your head, or poison you? Why would she try to kill you? What was wrong with her that she’d try to end her own son’s life?”
When she reached the end of her tirade, she took a gulp of air and ran her hand over her face.
She looked up at him with pleading questions in her eyes. Her presence did something to Logan, twisted his brain and heart with an undeniable pull to bare his soul.
Breathing deep, he swallowed the lump of anxiety and shame in his throat.
“My mother was a beautiful woman. Everyone loved her, including herself. There was nothing in the world she couldn’t have, and one day she decided she wanted power, prestige, and the influence she’d gain if she married a duke. She set her sights on my father. He was twenty-seven years her senior, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was that he adored her more than life itself. As the first year of their marriage came and went, my father continued to pour money, attention, and words of affection over my mother’s head, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. In an attempt to garner more favor from him, she conceived and bore a son. Me. Unfortunately for her, she’d begun to despise my father and I bore my father’s coloring and features. From the moment I emerged from her body, she despised me.”
