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His criminal record would be clean, and the DA would not press charges based on insufficient evidence.
As part of the deal, Andrew had requested another year before serving, merely to organize his businesses and his life. More than that, he just wanted to make sure Whitney would do well by herself.
He’d arranged everything so that she would. Checking accounts, chauffeurs, his family was to treat her like more than his wife. Like she was Andrew’s very life.
“She's my soul, if she's all right then so am I,” he’d told his father. “But whatever happens, she's not to know where I am.”
No. She’d been too young, too hurt back then.
But the girl he’d left behind was gone, and he’d come back to a fully grown woman. Stubborn as hell. Passionate. Feisty. Holy God, he was still reeling from the way she’d responded to his touch. To him.
He wondered what he could say to her now, to restore her trust in him once more. He’d promised he’d always protect her, always love her, and he hadn’t broken his promise.
But what he’d had to do to keep it had broken her heart.
He ached for her to look at him the way she used to, like he’d been the man to save her from pain, instead of the one who’d inflicted it on her. He ached for her touch, her smiles, to make her happy again. He could feel a rift between them, he could feel her jamming a knife in there and spreading it open even as he made love to her; he’d felt her pain. Her anger.
Goddammit, no.
He wouldn’t let this tear them apart.
Her pride was wounded because he wouldn’t explain, couldn’t explain, and he understood that. He needed a better excuse, but he just didn’t know how to keep lying to her anymore.
When considering his options, he’d thought it was best she imagine he’d been working and, perhaps, been stupidly neglectful, rather than having her know he’d been locked up in little more than a cage, sweating for human contact and hungering for her. She’d blame herself. Fuck. It was he who’d gone through hell for both of them—he wouldn’t allow her to go through it, as well.
But would this Whitney be content with whatever version he could come up with?
Frowning at the thought, he tucked her deeper into his arms and buried his face in her fragrant hair.
She stirred in his arms, her face peaceful in sleep. He stared into her face. A part of him doubted himself, his eyes, the feeling of her in his arms. But she was no dream, God, she wasn’t a dream. And he drank up the sight of her like a thirsting desert survivor.
“You’ve grown so beautiful, Whitney,” he said in a barely audible rasp. “You’ve filled out and feel so good and womanly in my arms . . .”
He stroked her cheeks, adoring the bones of her face, the feel of her skin. “I love you, you know that, right?” He kissed her lips, knowing he’d do anything, anything, to hear her say I love you back.
He laced their hands together and looked at her tattoos, just to remind himself that he still owned her, remind himself she was still his . . .
And he told himself that he hadn’t lost her while trying to save them both.
Chapter Three
Hands on her ankles, pulling her down . . .
“No!” Whitney screamed, but a hand that smelled of cigarettes grabbed her and cut off her air, her breathing.
“You’re a dirty little girl, if you don’t stay still you’ll never go out of this house again, do you hear me? Do you want me to punish you?”
She went utterly still, thinking, Please don’t hit me . . .
But he still hit her.
A fist smacked across her temple and pain exploded in her head, leaving her dazed and frightened, whimpering softly, helplessly, as he pulled down her panties, then pushed up her nightgown, and took her in her own bed, in her own home, while Whitney stared up at the ceiling, thinking of the dark-haired young man she’d seen at Chloe Lexington’s home . . . and how he’d smiled at her . . . and how that smile had made her feel . . .
She woke up crying, alone in bed, and for an instant, she felt as lonely and miserable as she’d been every night that man had come to her bed.
She curled into a ball, but the scent of roses suffused her nostrils, and the confusion cut off her sobs. A lone red rose lay on one of the pillows, and Whitney’s memory of last night came crashing down on her.
Andrew.
