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Gideon, bless him, immediately put his drink on the nearest table and said, “Poor Isa. Let’s get you home, then.” He slid his arm around her waist to lend extra support and—after making his excuses—steered her toward the door.
“You don’t have to come with me,” she told him a little frantically. “It’s just a headache. I can get myself home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I brought you, I’ll escort you home. Besides—” he shot her a goofy grin “—that place was getting damn stuffy, damn fast. In fact, we could say you’re rescuing me instead of the other way around.”
“I think we both know that’s not true,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “But I appreciate the sentiment...and the ride home.”
As soon as her lips left Gideon’s cheek, she knew the kiss had been the wrong thing to do. She couldn’t see Marc, but she could feel the crackling fury of his disapproval all the way across the room. With her back turned. And her attention determinedly fixed somewhere else.
She stiffened her shoulders and tried not to let his reaction bother her. After all, it wasn’t as though she was using Gideon to try to make him jealous—it wasn’t as though it had even occurred to her that he would be jealous. But now that she could feel him seething from across the room, she couldn’t help but wonder what this whole thing looked like to Marc. One minute, she was letting him violate her on the balcony and the next minute she was snuggling up to Gideon.
Not that it mattered what Marc thought, she promised herself as she allowed Gideon to propel her toward the exit with a proprietary hand on her lower back. She’d told Marc that what had happened on that balcony wouldn’t happen again, and she’d meant it. She’d let him destroy her once. No way would it happen again. It didn’t matter if she was still attracted to him, didn’t matter if there was unfinished business between them. She was no longer the love-struck girl she’d been six years ago, willing to risk anything and everything for a chance to be with him.
No, life had taught her a lot of hard lessons in the intervening years and she’d ended up building an entirely new life for herself. One she was proud of. One that meant something to her. One that Marc would be only too happy to ruin as completely as he’d ruined her old one.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not when her job—and her reputation—were all she had.
Five
The ride home with Gideon was easy. But then, everything was easy with him. There was no smolder. No dark past that tainted every interaction, no love or hate to color the way they looked at each other. The way they were with each other. No, she and Gideon had a comfortable friendship, one built on shared interests, lively conversations and similar senses of humor.
And never had she been more grateful for that than she was right now, as he pulled up in front of the small house she’d bought for herself when she’d moved here four years ago.
Gideon walked her to the door, but he didn’t linger. Didn’t expect an invite inside or even a good-night kiss. Instead, he hugged her and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. Then, with a murmured, “Feel better,” he was gone. And she was alone.
Thank God.
Ignoring the way memories of Marc simmered right under the surface, she changed out of her dinner clothes into yoga pants and a black tank top. Then she poured herself one more glass of wine and settled on the couch to watch television and try to forget her disaster of a day.
Except she’d barely streamed the opening credits to her current favorite TV show before there was a knock on her door. Figuring Gideon had come back because she’d left something in his car, she opened the front door with a grin. “What did I forget this time? If you want to come in, we can share a bottle of—”
Her voice cut off as it registered just who was standing on her front porch—and he definitely wasn’t Gideon.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “And how did you even find out where I live?”
“I followed you.”
“You followed—Jesus. Stalk much?” She started to close the door in his face.
His hand flashed out, holding the door before she could get it more than halfway closed. “I’ve spent the last six years looking for you.”
For a second, she was sure she had heard him wrong. After all, the last thing Marc had said to her was that if he ever saw her again, he’d make sure she and her father both ended up in prison.
But the look on his face—a little guilty, all annoyed—told her she had heard correctly. And that he hadn’t meant to blurt out the truth like that. But now that he had, she wanted to know—“Why? Why would you do that?”
“It was a shitty thing to do.”
“I believe we’ve already covered how you feel about what I did—”
“No. I mean what I did. Tossing you out on the street like that, having security escort you from the building with nothing... I regretted it almost as soon as it happened. I went outside the building, tried to find you. Went to your apartment, but you never went back there. I was worried that something had happened to you because of me.”
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say, the last thing she’d ever expected to hear from Marc Durand. For long seconds she could do nothing but stare at him as she tried to absorb the words. She didn’t want them to matter, didn’t want anything to get in the way of her ability to tell him to go to hell once and for all. After all, the words—and the sentiment behind them—were six years too late.
And still she felt something melt inside her. For six long years she’d carried a twisted mess of betrayal and pain, regret and rage. Every bit of it had his name on it and no matter how many times she’d tried to let it go, no matter how many times she’d tried to move on, it had been there, choking her. But now, somehow, with just a few words, Marc had loosened its stranglehold on her. She could take what felt like her first deep breath in forever.
“I’m sorry,” he continued, and it sounded like he was swallowing razor blades. Not that she was surprised. In her experience, men like Marc didn’t apologize often.
And now that he had...she had a choice. She could tell him to go to hell and slam the door in his face or she could accept his apology. Since she’d always understood why he’d done what he had—her father had stolen from him, and in begging Marc to spare him, she had chosen her father over Marc—there really was only one choice she could make.
