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“That was . . .” He grimaced and draped his arm over the back of the sofa. “Sorry for that.” He tilted his head and studied the ceiling for a moment before he leveled his gaze. “Birdie.”
“Jack.” Charlemagne rolled, and she stroked his belly.
“What would you say to Paris?”
“I wouldn’t say anything.” She felt something hard-cornered with her fingertip, a sticky fragment of leaf, and removed it gently from Charlemagne’s fur with her nails. “I don’t speak French.”
“Merde.” Jack flashed his teeth. “In that case, you’ll learn.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “I’m not getting on a boat.”
Billie’s back paws kicked against her thighs, and he was off, slinking toward the fireplace.
She swallowed hard. Alan’s voice was in her ear. Make your offer to Mr. Craddock.
She exhaled. “I can buy it now. The bakery.”
“And how’s that?”
She pressed her cheek to Charlemagne’s head. “An agreement I made. With Alan.”
“He is buying the bakery.” Jack said it carefully, too carefully.
She shut her eyes. A mess. From the very moment she and Alan had met. Broken china and betrayals. And yet, when she was with him, she felt whole, solid, every part of her put to rights.
“In return for what?”
She opened her eyes and the look in Jack’s made her wish she hadn’t.
“What did the bastard make you do?”
“It’s my affair,” she said, an unfortunate phrase. Jack’s eyes caught more of the room’s light and blazed.
She knew that expression. He’d detonate at a heartbeat.
“I’m not a child.” She locked eyes with him. “You’re not either, so stop your huff.”
He raised his clenched fist. She flinched, barely. His fist reached his lips. She registered for the first time that he’d stripped his rings. Maybe Laddie had demanded collateral.
“Tell me one thing.” He lowered his fist, drilling his knuckles into the arm of the sofa.
“Should I be sorry I didn’t shoot him?” His eyes darkened. “If so, I won’t be sorry long.”
“Sorry?” She detonated, rising from the chair. “I’m so sick of sorry I could scream. I don’t want you to be sorry, or not sorry.”
“Don’t you, now?”
“No!” she snapped. “I want you to be someone who keeps his head!”
“Doing a bang-up job of that yourself,” he observed. “Where’s your head, Birdie? De’Ath turned it, that’s clear as day. Bit of advice. Don’t pin your hopes on a ponce. You’re lower than dirt to the likes of him.”
“And to you I’m special?” She was staring at that naked fist. “Your beloved sister, who you can browbeat and knock around and use when and how it suits you.”
His fist jumped, and she hunched her shoulders, sheltering Charlemagne with her body. Jack didn’t sweep the lamp from the table or punch the arm of the sofa. He froze, looking up at her. She froze too, tense, miserable, not bothering to hide it. Hoping he saw it, saw her every strained nerve. Layers of fray, telling the worst story of their lives together. An undeniable record, like the rings in a tree.
He blanched.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
