‘No,’ he snaps. ‘I’m perfectly capable of preparing breakfast for my wife.’
‘Santiago,’ I say, and before I know what I’m doing I reach across to him and put my hands over his. ‘Stop.’
His sharp gaze comes to mine and I meet it head-on. ‘Tell me what the issue is,’ I say. ‘You’re still furious.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you,’ he retorts.
‘It does if we’re supposed to be having a discussion about our future.’
He pulls away from me, putting the torn croissant down on the tray. His expression has hardened, his gaze sharp, glittering points of obsidian. ‘Perhaps a discussion is not the best idea now.’ He looks at me, his attention roving over my body to my bare legs and back up again, lingering on the button of his shirt that I did up half-heartedly. ‘Take off the shirt,’ he orders. ‘And lie down.’
I should do what he says. I don’t want to disturb the connection we’re starting to build between us, because it’s fragile. But…regardless of where our marriage takes us, we’re going to have to deal with each other for the rest of our lives because of our child. And I can’t let that be a one-way street. I can’t let his fury stop me from having the discussions we need to have for our baby’s sake.
So I look him in the eye and lift my chin. ‘No,’ I say. ‘If you’re too angry to discuss this now, perhaps you should go away and deal with it. Then come back when you’re ready to have a civilised conversation.’
Chapter Eighteen
Santiago
Her small, slender fingers barely wrap around my hand, and yet it feels as if mine is enclosed in hers. Her skin is warm and her grip is firm. Her gaze as she looks at me is open, a deep midnight blue, and I want to throw myself into all that colour. Let it cool the heat of my fury. Let her touch calm me the way it calmed me downstairs.
Yet all I feel is furious.
That moment when Beatrix laid her palms on my chest, and looked up and saw me… Not the man I am, but the boy I used to be. The boy who once loved his parents, and who didn’t understand why they didn’t love him back. Why they never forgave him for one stupid thing he did, years and years ago. Why for one parent he was the devil, and for the other a source of attention that was never enough.
There was so much sympathy and understanding in her face in that moment, and all I wanted was to grab hold of her and never let her go, so I would always have her looking at me that way, giving me that sympathy and understanding that I never knew I was desperate for until now.
But a moment was all I could allow myself. She sees too deeply into me and I’m too hungry for that to let myself have it. The lines have the potential to become blurred. She’s supposed to be my lover and legally my wife, and that’s all, and I can’t have her giving me sympathy or reassurance. I can’t have myself wanting to share things with her, wanting to give her parts of myself, because I can’t have this turning into something it’s not. Something dangerous, something involving any kind of deeper emotions.
Something like love?
No. I can’t let this be love. There’s no surety in love, no safety. No certainty. Love is fickle and it can’t be trusted, and it’s never enough for some people, anyway. I don’t want anything to do with it.
I stare back at her, forcing aside my anger, finding my usual rational, logical manner. ‘I’m not angry,’ I say, so determinedly neutral I’m sure I’ve betrayed myself. ‘Let’s discuss this marriage, then.’
‘Now who’s lying?’ Her gaze is steady and sharp as a spear. ‘I thought the truth was important to you.’
Yes, she sees me. She sees me even now, and she’s making me feel like a hypocrite and a coward.
You’re both of those things and you know it.
I ignore the thought, shoving it hard away, along with the helpless fury that I don’t understand and don’t want to. ‘I’m not a liar, Beatrix,’ I tell her coldly.
She shifts, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, and looks back at me. Something’s going on in that lovely head of hers, because I can see the way her blue gaze shifts and changes. God, I want to know what it is.
‘I’m sorry, Santiago,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry for choosing Antonio. I wanted you, though. I wanted you badly. But I was afraid of the way I wanted you. I had a plan for my future, and you weren’t part of that plan. But then you appeared that night of the fundraiser, and there was a part of me that knew I’d throw everything away just for a night with you. And I…couldn’t even bring myself to go near you.’
Shock grabs me by the throat and it doesn’t let go, and she doesn’t stop. ‘I haven’t wanted to trust anyone for years,’ she goes on. ‘Because after that family didn’t want me, I couldn’t bear the thought of yet another rejection. Antonio was safe because he didn’t require anything emotionally from me. He only wanted to have a pretty, young wife on his arm, and in return he would give me a home.’ She pauses a moment, her gaze direct, open. ‘I’ve never told anyone these things before. You’re the first one.’
I don’t know what to say to any of this. I don’t even know why she told me. I’m a hard, difficult man, and I haven’t given her any reason to trust me, and yet here she is, telling me all these things as if I have a right to them. She’s taking off her armour, showing me the vulnerable parts of herself, trusting me with them, and I don’t understand.
‘Why?’ I demand, my fury climbing, at her for being so stupid as to make herself vulnerable to me, and at myself for not knowing how to deal with it. ‘Why tell me all of this?’
‘Because you’re the father of my child,’ she says simply. ‘And we’re going to have to deal with each other in the future, regardless of whether or not we stay married.’ She pauses and I can see that this is difficult for her, and that she doesn’t want to say this next bit, but she does. ‘And I’m lonely, Santiago. I want to let someone in. I want to trust someone. I want to share my life with someone, and I would like that someone to be you.’
There’s nothing but truth in her eyes, and my chest tightens. I’ve had many lovers, women who don’t want anything more than a couple of nights of passion, and I’ve never felt inclined to want more than that, either. I have few friends, most of whom are colleagues, other scientists in various parts of the world, and I only ever talk research with them. I have no one I confide in or talk to about anything else, because I’m difficult, and I’ve accepted that about myself.
You want what she’s offering. You want it badly.
