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Disbelieving laughter tore from her throat. ‘You can’t stop me seeing my father, Ramon.’ Before he said anything else that further shredded her heart, she spun on her heel and stormed into the kitchen.
Ten seconds later, she heard the front door slam. The sound echoed through the empty flat and through her chest like the final, crippling thrust of his knife into her heart.
* * *
Ramon found a pub in the local village, wedged himself into a dimly lit corner and nursed a glass of single malt until his temper had cooled.
Dios. Why was she so stubborn? So blind? So willing to give her father yet another chance?
Maxwell was a gambler. Was it not obvious to her that he was playing an angle? Playing her?
Protectiveness surged, fierce and overwhelming. He believed her about the money not mattering to her. If it had, she would have wanted to know their child’s sex as soon as possible, yet she had told the specialist she’d prefer to wait until the birth.
But not to question the timing of Maxwell’s desire to reconcile was insanity.
Perhaps they should find out the baby’s gender. It would put the matter to rest. If it was a girl, and Maxwell’s enthusiasm for connecting with his daughter suddenly waned, it would dispel any illusions.
And break Emily’s heart at the same time.
He pushed his empty glass away and rose, regret scything through him.
He’d seen the look on her face when he had questioned Maxwell’s motives. He knew the sour mood he hadn’t shaken off since their disastrous weekend in Barcelona had lent his tongue a harsh, uncharacteristic edge. He’d hurt her. Which went against the grain of everything he was trying to achieve.
And then she’d lashed back.
I think it’s about you.
His feet pounded the pavement, frustration congealing in his gut as he stalked the streets back to the flat. She’d seen him with his family for all of thirty-six hours and thought she understood him.
She understood nothing.
Nothing.
When he arrived, she was waiting up, sitting in the window seat she favoured for quiet reflection. Her glorious golden hair flowed loose and a pair of flannel pyjamas swamped her delectable curves. He suspected the attire was a deliberate attempt to discourage him from intimacy. It didn’t work. He wanted to bundle her into his arms. Carry her to bed and make passionate love to her until the hurt and anger on her face dissolved into something else.
His desire only deepened his frustration. Intensified the sense he was waging a losing battle within himself. Every part of him felt at odds. His emotions. His instincts. His desires.
He wanted to protect her. From her father. From the world. From anything and anyone who dared to threaten the wellbeing of her and their child. But he also wanted to distance himself from her. Protect her from himself. From his inherent ability to hurt the people he loved.
And Ramon had come to suspect that what he felt for this woman was raw, terrifying, unadulterated love.
‘I can’t marry you, Ramon.’
He blinked, her statement skating over his thoughts, taking a moment to register. ‘What?’
She uncurled from the cushions, stood and faced him. ‘You told me I wouldn’t have to do this alone.’
He shook his head, confused. ‘You don’t. I’m here, Emily.’
‘Are you?’ She stared at him, her eyes gigantic pools of anguished grey in her pale face. ‘Because these last few days, it’s felt as if you’ve been somewhere else. As if you’ve erected a wall I can’t see over, or through.’
‘That’s not true.’ His denial was abrupt. Hoarse.
‘It is,’ she disputed. ‘And this business with my father—with the inheritance—it’s all just a smokescreen for the deeper issue.’
Exasperation had him throwing up his hands. ‘Not this again.’
‘Yes, Ramon. This again. You have to forgive yourself and move on.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I learned something about my father tonight. He’s been running for a long time. Choosing the lifestyle he has because he’s afraid to love and lose again, the way he lost my mother. I think you’re running too, Ramon.’
