* * *
FIONA RESTED HER HEADagainst Morgan’s chest, still stunned by his midnight visit. She’d tried so hard to stay away from him during the last week, but it had been hard when he was all she thought about, all she wanted. Her feelings for him absolutely terrified her, but she could no longer deny them.
But admitting that she cared for him didn’t change a thing. She was still so far beneath him, and there was still Brookhaven and her work as Prometheus to consider. All he did was distract her, but he was a welcome distraction indeed.
“When you’re here, you remind me that I’m a woman, that I have thoughts and feelings other than this place and the children,” she whispered.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” he murmured, gently rubbing his hand up and down her back. “You have to take some time for yourself every once in a while.”
She shivered, feeling so incredibly tempted. “I can’t.”
“What would it hurt to spend an hour with me now, talking and relaxing with a glass of brandy?” he asked, sounding like Satan must have in the Garden of Eden.
She laughed and gestured toward the clock on the mantel. “It’s nearly one o’clock.”
“And you would have stayed up another hour working on the books, wouldn’t you?” he asked, knowing her so well. He pulled back and then took her hand, leading her over to the sofa. “Why don’t you sit here for a moment? I’ll get us something to drink.”
With a sigh, she capitulated. He was right. She’d stayed up much later than this in the past. Was it so wrong to take an hour for herself? To get to know this incredible man a little better?
As she sank into the sofa, she had a feeling that her life would never be the same again.
A few moments later, he sat down beside her, pressing a glass of brandy in her hand. She took a bracing sip, wincing a bit as the warmth burned its way down her throat. She rarely drank, having seen at a young age how a dependence on alcohol could destroy lives. Would her father have done the awful things he had if he hadn’t been poisoned by his demons? But tonight, it felt wonderful, almost instantly calming her nerves and infusing her with a feeling of warmth.
“You’re really a fantastic artist,” she finally said, wanting to move the conversation away from their strong attraction to each other and onto a safer topic.
“Thank you,” he said softly, angling his body a bit so he could meet her gaze. He took a sip of his drink and then set it aside on the small table beside the sofa. “It’s my true passion.”
“How did you learn how to do it?” she asked, then felt incredibly stupid. She knew nothing of how the upper crust lived. They probably all had art lessons as part of their education.
“It’s just always been something I was good at,” he said, not batting an eye over her silly question. “Some of my first memories are of sketching my dog with a piece of charcoal. My father... he encouraged me, but after he died... My stepfather mocked me cruelly, said it wasn’t a manly pursuit, destroyed all my work.”
The pain of his quiet admission hurt her as well. “Oh, Morgan,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. What an absolutely dreadful thing to do to a child.”
He shrugged, trying to play it off. “I didn’t paint for years after that. I felt embarrassed, ashamed. But right before Anne died, I started again. Obsessively.” He stared past her, his eyes far away. “I began to paint my childhood nightmares, and I believe it helped me exorcise some of those demons. A bit of the wildness inside of me dissipated.”
She covered his hand with hers, squeezing gently. She wanted to ask him what had happened in his childhood that he needed so desperately to recover from but didn’t want to push him to reveal more than he was ready to. “I’m glad you started again.”
“I am as well.” He shook his head, as though banishing the bad memories, and met her gaze again. “The work I’ve been doing here is like nothing I’ve ever done before. It’s fulfilling me in a way I can’t explain.”
“I’m so glad.” She released his hand and took another drink of her brandy. “I’m not artistic at all,” she admitted. “I’ve always had a head for numbers, though.”
“It seems to me that you are passionate about that,” he said, his eyes suddenly twinkling. “Adrian calls you his little bean counter, doesn’t he?”
Heat filled her cheeks and she nodded. “He does. And I suppose you’re right. When I can balance a ledger, make this month’s budget, save a few pounds... Well, that’s a beautiful thing to me.”
“We all see beauty in different ways.” He stretched his arm along the back of the sofa until his fingers lightly brushed her shoulder. “There is no right or wrong when it comes to beauty or passion.”
She sighed and leaned a bit more into his touch. “I suppose you’re right. I know Adrian appreciates the work I do here, and it always meant a lot to me that he supported me and never tried to change me. Even before I knew who he truly was, he supported me as Prometheus. We were such good friends... I’ve missed that. I miss him.”
“He still cares about the place more than you could imagine,” Morgan reassured her. “But Vanessa and the children have changed him. He’s truly happy now, for the first time I can remember.”
“And I’m happy for him.” She closed her eyes briefly, thinking about Adrian and Vanessa and the love they’d found together. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just been lonely here without him, so I’ve been very grateful that you’ve stepped in and filled some of that void.”
The moment she said it, the words felt wrong. It made her sound ungrateful, and it also made it seem as though she thought of Morgan as just a substitute for his brother, something that must be annoying for a twin, the notion that one was interchangeable with the other.
But he didn’t seem offended. Instead, he just smiled. “The weeks that I’ve spent here have been some of the best of my life. The best in recent memory, at least. I’m not doing this just because I want to make a difference in these children’s lives, although I do. I’m doing it because I like spending time here with my children. They enjoy it, too. Since Anne died, we’ve just been going through the motions. I feel like we’re finally starting to live again. To be a family...” He trailed off, looking embarrassed. “I haven’t been the best father. I know that.”
“You’re doing fine,” she hastened to reassure him, putting her hand over his and squeezing. “No one who hasn’t been through what you’ve been through has any right to judge. And I’ve seen the way you are with them. How much you love them.”
