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“Your mom.” Then my stomach sank remembering the hospital and that he had been twelve when his mother died. “Harry, please tell me you were with her, when…”
He shook his head. “I was at school. My father called the school when she had died. I couldn’t speak when I was told. I never got to say goodbye. I knew she’d been having tests, but I wasn’t told anything else. I found out later, my father didn’t want it to affect my studies.”
“He kept you from her?” I whispered, stopping what I was doing.
Harry rubbed a hand over his head. “You have to understand, my mother was the lifeblood my father had been denied growing up. It was an arranged marriage of sorts. He had to marry well, as did she. My mum once told me that they never expected to fall in love. But they did, fast and deep. When she got sick, he went into denial.”
Harry took a breath then continued. “I think he felt that if he didn’t send for me, then it wasn’t really the end for her.” Harry lifted his head when I walked to him and sat on his lap. “When I went home for the funeral, the man I knew and loved was gone. And in his place was the man he is now. Cold, distant. Missing half his heart and soul.” Harry looked up into my eyes. “I never used to understand how he changed so much…” He swallowed and let that hang in the air between us.
I became dizzy with the amount of affection in his eyes when he looked at me. Harry kissed me. “When I was eighteen I went to university. But I always knew I would go into the family business. I wanted to. It can just be hard at times.” I knew he was talking about his father again. I kissed him on the cheek and went to cut up the pumpkin for the filling.
As I sliced into the orange skin, something Harry had said circled in my head. “Harry,” I asked and met his eyes. “You mentioned that your father and mother had an arranged marriage of sorts.” Harry stilled, paling a little. “I’ve seen you in magazines, with a woman with blond hair and pretty eyes.”
“Louisa,” he said stiffly, the old Harry rearing his head.
I dropped the knife. “Are you expected to marry well? As in to money? Another member of the aristocracy?”
Harry stayed still for so long I thought he might never move again. “I’m going to refuse to,” he said and rose from his seat. He walked around the counter and lifted me to sit on it. Cupping my face, he said, “There are certain expectations of me. To marry well, to produce heirs, to never step out of line. To not embarrass the family, to not do anything that would rock the status quo of the famed Sinclair dynasty.” My heart plummeted with everything he said.
“I write a sex column, Harry. A filthy one. I’m the daughter of an Italian immigrant and a first-generation American, neither of whom have ever known what having money was like.” I felt my eyes glisten and hated myself for it. “This,” I said pointing from him to me. “Is just sex, right? A story to tell your mates back in England. You fucked Miss Bliss and gave her some of her own medicine.”
“No, Faith. Most certainly not.” I tried to turn my head away from his gaze, but Harry’s hands on my cheeks kept it in place. “Has any part of being together felt like nothing? Has any part of it felt like just a fuck?”
“No.”
“Because it’s not. Look at me, please,” he begged when I lowered my eyes. I lifted them and saw with crystal clarity the conviction written on his face. “That won’t be my life.” Harry kissed my forehead. “I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want it. Then you came along, annoying me and getting under my skin. Smiling sarcastically at me, hitting me with your quips, and I knew I was done. And those bloody pencil skirts you wear around the office.” I laughed and he smiled. “You made me stop wanting it, Faith, and instead made me crave it.”
“So this is not just sex?” I hedged.
“There’s sex,” Harry said and pressed his hard length between my legs. “There’ll be lots and lots of sex. But…” He kissed the back of my hand. My breath stuttered. Harry Sinclair acting like a real-life Prince Charming was going to be the death of me. “No. That’s not all I want.”
I felt reborn. I felt like a firework on the Fourth of July exploding into a million colors in a dark sky. “Stay with me tonight, Faith. Let’s eat the pasta, watch crap TV, and go back to bed. Stay with me. Please.”
