Fuck. I don’t want to tell her what my mother thinks of her, or what she said about her. It seems that no matter what I do, the truth ends up hurting someone.
I reach for her, my palms settling on her hips as I pull her close, fitting her warm, silky body against mine. ‘What did you hear?’ I ask.
Colour flushes her cheeks. ‘I heard a little. I know, I shouldn’t have been listening. I just woke up and you weren’t there, so I came to find you. I heard your voice and followed it.’ She puts her hands on my bare chest, her palms warm, and for a change her touch eases my tension, sanding away the sharp edges of my anger.
It’s strange to be touched for comfort’s sake instead of for pleasure, yet it’s not unwelcome. It feels…good.
‘You don’t want to know,’ I murmur, sliding my hands over the rounded curves of her bare behind. I want her closer, I want as much of her warmth as I can get.
‘I do,’ she disagrees. ‘It wasn’t a good phone call, was it?’
It seems clear she won’t let this go, and, since not telling her would be hypocritical of me, I have no choice but to do so. ‘No, it was not,’ I say at last. ‘It was my mother. I speak to her every night, but last night I missed her call and she wanted to know why.’ I look down into Beatrix’s blue gaze. ‘I had to tell her that not only did I marry my father’s widow, but that she’s also expecting my child.’
Chapter Seventeen
Beatrix
I lean intothe warmth of Santiago’s hard, powerful body. He’s wearing only a pair of jeans, his magnificent chest bare, and it’s difficult to think when he’s half-naked like this. He’s all hard muscle and velvety skin, with a sprinkling of crisp black hair, and it’s incredibly distracting.
But this is important, so I force away my hunger for him.
I heard the hard note in his voice as I stepped out onto the terrace, saw the tension in his broad shoulders after he finished the call. His back was to me, but I knew from his posture that he was furious and so my first instinct was to go to him.
I didn’t think about it. I didn’t ask myself why it was important to touch him or to find out why he was so angry. I simply went to him and put my hand in the centre of his powerful back. And, when he turned around and saw me, pleasure flickered in his gaze, as if he was glad to find me there.
I’d decided yesterday not to press him about what kind of marriage we were going to have, accepting the physical pleasure he gave me last night instead, and glorying in it. But reality is hitting me now, because marrying him will have wider implications for us, and we really need to decide what we do about them.
What will the world think of him marrying his stepmother? What will they think when our child is born? Does it matter? Does he care? Do I? And have I given him too much of myself as it is?
I care about what I’m seeing in his face now, though, as he finishes telling me about the phone call. There’s regret and anger, and beneath those a sharp pain that he probably thinks he’s hiding, but he isn’t. I can see it quite clearly.
‘She didn’t like that,’ I say and I don’t make it a question.
‘No,’ he says, more temper flickering in his eyes. ‘She did not. She’s very angry with me.’
His hands are cupping my rear, his fingertips pressing into my soft flesh and making my breath catch. I can’t believe I want him again so soon after everything we did last night, but, as it turns out, my desire for him seems to have no end.
But again, I can’t let sex distract me. This is too important.
I look up into his midnight eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, even though it feels like such a pointless comment.
‘It’s not your fault.’ His voice is flat. ‘She’s been holding on to my father’s betrayal of her for decades. And when he married you, that only reignited it for her. I knew she wouldn’t be happy knowing we were together and expecting a child, but she had to find out the truth some time.’
‘You don’t like upsetting her,’ I say, searching his face and seeing the truth.
His mouth tightens, his eyes shadowed. ‘The addiction issues she had were compounded by me telling her the truth about my father all those years ago. Now I’m giving her yet another truth she doesn’t want to hear. So no, I don’t like upsetting her. I’m supposed to be caring for her, not hurting her.’
I can’t stop staring up at him, because for the first time I catch a glimpse of the man who isn’t just the furious, spurned stepson, the passionate lover and the cold, rational scientist. I see a human being upset about hurting someone he cares about.
He loves her just as he loved his father.
My focus shifts, his face blurring, then becoming clear again as my reality alters to fit this new truth. I know he’s passionate—I experience his passion every night after all—but outside the bedroom everything else is kept under tight lock and key. Not now, though. His granite facade is cracking a little, and now I see a new facet of him. That of a loving son. A man who cares, and who cares deeply. It’s a vulnerability, this caring, and he’s showing it to me, and he probably doesn’t even understand the significance of it. But I do. I know.
He loved his parents, but they didn’t give him the same love in return, I’m sure of it. His father held a grudge for decades, reviling him at every opportunity, and perhaps his mother is the same. She’s shooting the messenger and the messenger is always him.
My chest feels tight and hollow, aching with a feeling I can’t quite place. It’s not pity, it’s something else, something deeper. It’s not fair that his father was so angry with him for so long that Antonio took his anger to the grave with him, denying Santiago any chance of a reconciliation. And it’s not fair that he’s been taking care of his mother for so many years, only for her to give him back nothing but anger. It’s not fair and I hate that it isn’t.
‘If it’s not my fault, then it’s not your fault, either,’ I say, wanting to give him this at least. ‘You didn’t do any of this maliciously or to hurt her.’
