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As soon as the words were out of his mouth Blaise sensed the abrupt shift in Maya’s mood. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned her head to glare at him.
‘I don’t care about its monetary value!’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘Do you think that means anything to me?’
‘Then what does it mean to you, Maya?’ he asked gently.
Moving back towards the bed, she collected the cream pashmina she’d left lying there. ‘It’s a piece of my father. The piece he couldn’t give to me when he was alive.’
Seeing her wrestle with whatever powerful emotion was flowing through her, Blaise judged it best not to speak right then. Instead he moved across the room to join her…waiting.
‘You see…he was always busy working, or—or partying with his celebrity friends, and he didn’t always have much time for me. That day—the day he started work on the portrait—he was more like the father I’d dreamed of him being. And although I was grumpy, because he rarely ever gave me much attention and I barely knew how to handle it when he did, I secretly loved him doing that portrait of me. That’s why I wouldn’t sell it…no matter how much it’s worth.’
‘And that’s all he left you after he died? His career was amazing. He must have had other assets, surely?’
‘What assets? Everything he had was either sold to help pay off his debts or given away to some—some sycophant whilst he was intoxicated! We even lost our house…But he’d died before that happened, and it couldn’t have mattered less to me that everything material had gone.’
Suddenly understanding why she lived in a poky studio flat, with not much evidence of anything of material value, Blaise took the soft pashmina out of Maya’s hands, threw it back on the bed, then placed his hands either side of her waist. It was slender as a reed—no more than a man’s hand span—and he easily sensed the heat from her body through the silky material of her blouse.
‘What was he like as a man…your father? Will you tell me about him?’
Clearly startled by the question, Maya momentarily withdrew her gaze, as if to regroup her thoughts, but to his satisfaction did not move out of the circle of intimacy he’d instigated.
‘Like many artistic people he was very complex…brilliant and driven, but easily led too. His weakness was anything addictive—anything that was ultimately bad for him. When he lost my mother he lost a little of his grip on reality, I think. He tried to take care of me in his own muddled fashion, but he really wasn’t the type of man who could cope with children. He just didn’t have a clue what I needed. Often he left me on my own for long periods. At one time we lived in a house a bit similar to this, and I can remember at nights huddling in a corner of my bedroom terrified of every sound, every creak of a floorboard or tree branch moving in the wind, convinced someone was going to break in and either kill me or…or take me away.’
The long, tremulous sigh she released feathered over him, and Blaise realised that his heart was pounding like a sledgehammer in his chest at what she’d told him. Now a couple of the disparaging references she’d made to fame started to make sense. What had Devereaux been thinking of, leaving his young daughter to fend for herself? Surely the neglect of a child was one of the most despicable cruelties of all? The man had obviously been too wrapped up in chasing his desires and addictions to tend to his daughter’s welfare, and in Blaise’s book that was pretty damn unforgivable.
‘No wonder you were frightened.’ There was a slight break in his voice as his hand lifted to brush away some soft dark hair that had drifted across her cheekbone. ‘You had a right to be. You were just a child, Maya.’
Her lip visibly trembled. Then her stunning eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t do that!’
‘Do what?’
‘Be so understanding and…and say nice things to me. Kindness is the hardest thing to cope with of all. Better that you just tell me to forget about the past and concentrate on the present. Isn’t that what people say?’ Anguished, her beautiful emerald gaze latched a little desperately onto his. ‘Trouble is…sometimes I can’t forget about the past. I feel like I’m still waiting for him to come back, you know? Still waiting for him to walk through that door and say all the things I longed for him to say to me when I was a little girl…most of all to tell me that everything would be all right…even if it was a lie. But of course he won’t come back, will he? He even took his own life to get away from me!’
