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Her stomach hollowed at the sight of him. The way it always did—every time she saw him. She quelled it immediately. No point in that. None at all. What did it matter that Xavier Lauran stood there, turning her knees to jelly? What did it matter that he’d once held her in his arms, kissed her, embraced her, made love to her so breathtakingly that the universe had burned for her? Of course it didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered for weeks now—not since that morning when he’d explained just why it was that he’d had an affair with her. Deliberately, calculatedly, cold-bloodedly. To separate her from the brother he’d assumed she was trying to ensnare into marriage.
So why, if it hadn’t mattered for weeks now, did it feel as if a knife were being plunged into her side? Slowly, and with exquisite intent to hurt her.
She knew the answer. Because until this moment she’d been using her hatred for him for another purpose.
Anaesthetic.
Crude, but effective. Effective enough to make her capable of functioning. To get through the weeks, the days, the endless hours. Make her capable of enduring seeing Xavier again here, like this, at her sister’s wedding.
But she’d had to let go of the hatred. She couldn’t blame him for what he had done. End of story. End of hatred.
But if the hatred went, what would be left?
The knife in her side reached deeper. Closer to its target.
Her heart.
Terrifying realisation swept through her. Without her hatred for Xavier Lauran only one thing was left. And it damned her, damned her utterly.
She would have to go. As soon as possible. Tomorrow. Tonight she had to stay for the party that Armand’s parents were giving for the bridal couple—she could not leave before then. But tomorrow she would leave immediately.
And until then she would just have to get through. Endure.
She lifted her chin. Xavier was looking at her, but there was nothing in his face. Nothing in his eyes. That was good.
‘So,’ she said, ‘that’s that. It was all just a screw-up.
That’s all.’
Something shifted in his eyes.
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes.’
He walked towards her. There was something very controlled in the way he was walking. She took a step back, but she was already against the stone balustrade.
‘You call everything that happened between us a screw-up?’ There was nothing in his voice beyond measured enquiry.
‘Xavier, I’ve just said I can’t blame you for what you did. You wanted to protect your brother and that seemed the best way to do it. That’s all there is to it.’
‘You think that, do you?’ The same measured tones. They made her angry suddenly.
‘You said yourself that’s how it was. You said yourself that was the truth of it. You spelt it out with crystal clarity that morning. Just because you didn’t know I wasn’t who you thought I was, it doesn’t stop it being the truth of why you had an affair with me. To free your brother from me and for no other reason.’
The knife slid in deeper as she made herself say it. It was the truth—brutal and cruel. But it didn’t stop it being true. However much it hurt.
There was something in the back of his eyes, but she didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to meet his eyes. She wanted to get away. But the stone balustrade was preventing her. Her hands pressed back against the stonework as if she could push it away.
He was standing in front of her. Far, far too close. Her breath was tightening in her lungs.
‘And what about this truth?’ he said. His voice changed. Husked. Her palms pressed down onto the stone as if she would collapse without it.
His hands reached for her, cupping her face.
‘What about this truth?’ he asked again.
What had been at the back of his eyes was at the fore now. She could see it, and it made her tremble. It was liquid gold, and it was pouring from him and melting through her.
