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“How do you know it wasn’t me?”
“I know because I know you.”
“You knew me three days ago. That didn’t seem to matter.”
“Three days ago, I was a blind, bullheaded ass who was too busy trying to hide his wounds to think things through.”
“What things?”
“Everything. The idea that you would steal from Bijoux is ridiculous. And if you did, I’d like to think you’d have better taste than to take a few mundane diamonds that don’t matter much to anyone.”
“Seriously?” she demanded, feeling as if she’d fallen down some kind of rabbit hole. For the first time, anger cut through the grief. “That’s why you’re here? Because the thief’s taste wasn’t good enough, therefore it couldn’t be me who did it?”
“No,” he said, grabbing her elbows in his big hands and pulling her close. She wanted to shrug him off, wanted to back away, but her body yearned for his touch, his warmth. “I’m here because I made a mistake. Because I know you wouldn’t steal from me, wouldn’t hurt me that way. And because I want—need—to tell you how sorry I am for hurting you the way I did. Three days ago and six years ago.
“I’ve been an ass, more concerned with protecting myself than with protecting you, and that’s inexcusable.”
“It’s not your job to protect me—”
“That’s bullshit. I love you, Isa. I love you more than I can ever tell you, more than you’ll ever believe considering my actions. And it is absolutely my job to protect you and take care of you and make you understand just how precious you are. And I’ve totally screwed all that up.”
He shook his head, looking so disgusted with himself that she nearly cried at the injustice of it. “I did terrible things—”
“No, you didn’t. You were young, and torn between two men you loved—neither of whom deserved you. I’m sorry, Isa. I’m so sorry.”
He pulled her even closer then and rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t deserve you. Don’t deserve your forgiveness and I sure as hell don’t deserve your love. But I want it, Isa. I want it so bad.”
His words turned her brain to mush, and her heart into a ray of light. She threw her arms around him, pulled him close even as harsh sobs ripped through her.
“Don’t cry, baby,” he said, holding her tightly. “Please don’t cry. I’ll make it up to you if you let me. I’ll—”
She kissed him then, with all the pent-up passion and love and fear and forgiveness she had inside herself. She kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.
And he kissed her back.
Minutes, hours—days—passed before they finally came up for air. His hands on her cheeks, her arms around his neck. Their gazes locked together. “I’m sorry,” Marc said again. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I.”
“You don’t have anything—”
“I do,” she told him, pressing kisses along his strong and stubbled jawline. “You aren’t the only one who made mistakes. I messed up six years ago, badly, and I don’t blame you for thinking I messed up again.”
“You didn’t, though. I know that even if we never find the thief—”
“Oh, we’ll find him,” she declared adamantly. “No way is some jerk getting away with stealing from the man I love.”
Marc laughed even as he hugged h
er closer. “You sound so fierce.”
“I feel fierce,” she said, tugging him down the hall toward her bedroom.
“Do you?” He crooked that brow that always made her crazy.
“I do. And as soon as it’s morning, we’re going back to Bijoux and we’re going to start figuring who did this to you. To us. Together.”
“Together.” He bent, pressed his own kisses against her lips, her cheek, her forehead, her eyes. “I like the sound of that.”
