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He’d shaved and changed into a better-fitting suit since his appearance on the news, but it was more than obvious that he’d suffered a lengthy ordeal. The light from the singular candle on the table illuminated his high, prominent cheekbones, and deepened the hollows around his eyes. His cheeks were gaunt. She wondered how much weight he had lost. It had to be significant.
Even in the orange glow, his skin was starkly pale in contrast with his hair. The silvery-toned suit he wore didn’t do much to dispel the perception that she was looking at a ghost.
As Amara approached, she noticed quite a few local big shots and society types scattered around the room. Dean Wilson himself was seated near the head of a long table, no doubt full of influential wealthy alumni. Their eyes met, and they exchanged nods in greeting. Amara turned quickly away, not wanting to be drawn into introductions, and nearly ran into a waiter carrying long, thin-stemmed glasses of champagne on an opulent silver platter.
While Amara hadn’t grown up poor in any sense of the word, there was nothing in her life quite like this. She’d never so much as held a diamond choker or donned a shimmering ball gown for some Cinderella-like dream date at a place like this.
Even in her most expensive clothing, she felt like she might as well have been wearing a t-shirt and flip-flops. She’d never craved or longed for the rich life, but breathing the rarified air of a wealthy, old-world establishment convinced her it might not be such a bad thing. That is, it would be if — and that was a big if — she could ever learn how to feel a part of it.
Still, that wasn’t why she was here. She wasn’t there to impress anyone, and she certainly wasn’t there for anything other than business. Quint made that much clear in his call. His tone was cold and reserved, as if he’d never talked to her in his life. There was pain under his words, but it was to be expected after a trial like the one he’d endured.
She returned her gaze to him, and as if on cue, he looked up from the menu and saw her. She was close enough to catch the slight hike in his brow and the brief smile on his lips before it disappeared as quickly as it had come.
The maitre’d pulled out her chair, and she took her seat, tilting her head slightly as she placed her small handbag on the table.
Quint straightened up awkwardly, lacking the grace and strength he normally radiated. Amara thought he probably should have still been in a hospital bed.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I was worried you might decline my invitation.”
“Of course I came. I was so glad to hear that you’d made it out of that terrible crash alive, but are you sure you need to be here right now? You’re not yet yourself, if you don’t mind my —”
The small flicker of light that seemed to come to his eyes when he saw Amara faded quickly, and he shook his head. “You didn’t bring him.”
Chapter Fifteen
SHE WAS TAKEN ABACK, KNOWING exactly who Quint meant by “him.”
“Hampton. My son,” Quint clarified unnecessarily. “You didn’t bring him. I admit I didn’t actually think you would, but a small part of me hoped you would anyway.”
Amara shuddered involuntarily and swallowed hard past a lump that had formed in her throat. “No. I didn’t think the other patrons would appreciate a fussy infant interrupting their meal. I left him with my mother.”
“Yes. I imagined as much. And there were likely other reasons I can imagine.”
They stared at one another, Amara contemplating what to say, this time unsure of what he meant. A waiter appeared at their table, his timing perfect for breaking up the uncomfortable silence. Quint ordered wine and sent the man away.
“I’ve seen news stories of your ordeal,” Amara said quickly. “I haven’t known what to believe. What happened to you?”
“It’s a long story. And it’s not one I feel up to sharing. Not tonight. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I was just … I was worried about you.”
“I appreciate your concern,” he said.
God, Amara thought. He was so cold, so detached. The only time there had been any life in his voice was when he said Hampton’s name, when he said “my son.” She took a sip of water to calm her nerves. Quint’s gaze stayed on her all the while.
She kept quiet, resisting the urge to babble to break up the tension.
Finally, he spoke, and as was his way, he didn’t bother with preliminaries. “You know why I’ve called you here. It’s not for my sake, or to be doted upon. You and I have some unfinished business, and I thought it would be best to meet you somewhere in public.”
That wasn’t good, Amara thought. People chose public meeting places to avoid scenes. Why would he think she’d make a scene?
Quint paused for a long moment, drawing a shaking breath, and delivered his demand. “I want my son.”
Quint was usually a man of tact — a kind man, too. He had to know things weren’t simple anymore. She’d been Hampton’s mother all this time.
She couldn’t just stop being his mother because of a contract she’d signed when she had no idea what being a mother would mean. Surely he knew how impossible it would be for her to let Hampton go, but he didn’t appear concerned about her feelings.
Amara clenched her hands together under the table. “I’m sorry, Quint. I know that what you went through must have been horrible, but you weren’t here. You were supposed to come get Hampton right away. It’s been three months, and I’ve been raising him. He’s my baby now. My baby.”
