“I only want what’s best for you. I know you have terrible taste in men, myself not included, of course. But this brute is worse than the—”
“Shut. Up,” Kate hissed at him.
The waiters had come over to hover around their table. Grant towered over everyone.
“Sit down, Grant,” she said. They were causing a scene. “We should leave,” she mumbled.
Grant had a napkin wrapped around his bleeding hand. He silently followed her out, steadying her as she swayed.
Of course she couldn’t have one nice evening, she fumed as they entered the hotel room.
“Who was that?”
“No one,” she said.
Grant went into the bathroom and ran water over his hand. There was a knock on the door, and she went to open it. One of the hotel staff had brought up bandages and first aid supplies.
“Do you need a doctor?” the man asked.
“No,” she said. “Thank you. He should be fine.” She carried the container of first aid supplies into the bathroom.
“Let me do it, Grant. Maybe I should take you to a clinic,” she said, trying to sober up. “Your father will kill me if you’re maimed.”
He pushed her away when she tried to help him with his hand. “I’ve had worse than this. It’s nothing.” Grant’s face had a dark expression, and he used his teeth to tie off the medical tape.
“I’m going to bed,” he told her then stepped out of his clothes and got into the shower. She showered after he was done then went into his room to lie down next to him.
“I want to sleep alone,” he told her.
“Oh.” Kate felt stupid. Of course this wasn’t real. She hurried back to the other room, curled up in the bed, and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 22
Grant
The next morning, they didn’t talk. They quickly ate breakfast then headed to the plane. Charles Brassard saw them off.
“Do come again,” he said with a wan smile. Grant wondered if Brassard would tell everyone about the violent American who had bled all over his hotel.
Looking out of the window as the plane sped into the clouds, Grant was glad to be out of Geneva. He didn’t belong there. He kept turning over Jean Claude’s words in his head.Murderer. Conquistador. You should be in prison.Heshouldbe in prison, he thought. He couldn’t bear lying next to Kate, not that he could sleep. He was afraid he might kill her while she was vulnerable.
When they were back at the estate, Walter came to greet them.
“What happened to your hand?” his father practically shouted when he saw him.
“It’s fine,” Grant said, pushing past his father.
“Stefan, call a doctor. Kate, how could you let him walk around like this? These bandages are filthy.”
“I’m fine,” Grant repeated. He was so tired. He hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane; his thoughts had led him down a dark path of all thewhat ifsthat had led to the worst moment of his life.
“Grant. Grant?”
He came back to himself.
His father was looking at him, concerned. Walter felt his forehead. “You seem feverish. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“I don’t need—” he protested. But his father was already hauling him to the car. Kate hurried after them.
