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Her hand balled into a fist, struck ineffectually at his shoulder. "Damn you, Damen Lockewood. Can't you ever be outdone?"
His smile vanished. "I just was," he confessed raggedly. "Not just outdone, but brought to my knees."
Anastasia leaned back, watching him solemnly as she shook her head. "That's not what I meant."
"I know. But it's true nonetheless."
"For me, as well." She swallowed. "How long were you going to play your little game of cat and mouse with me?"
Again, his lips twitched. "I could ask you the same question. How long did you want me to think you were Breanna?"
An impish grin. "Until I told you otherwise."
Damen chuckled. "Honest to a fault." His thumbs caressed her cheeks. "Let's get this straight here and now. I'm never going to confuse you and Breanna. So you might as well give it up. Although I am curious as to why you're carrying out this little masquerade. I suspect it has more to do with your uncle than with your desire to outwit me."
Anastasia sighed. "You're right. Uncle George has all but forbidden me to see you. He's planning on announcing your betrothal to Breanna in a matter of weeks. And he's warned me not to do anything to jeopardize that announcement, or Breanna's future."
Glints of anger flared in Damen's eyes. "This delusion of his is going too far."
"I agree. But the situation is more complicated than that." Anastasia disengaged herself from Damen's arms, stooping to pick up her gloves. She tugged them on, then tucked her stray tendrils of hair back in the smooth knot atop her head. "We'd best keep walking," she advised, indicating the path. "I don't want to have to lie to Uncle George about where you and I went for our stroll. As you yourself pointed out, I'm not a terribly convincing liar."
"True." Damen caught her arm, tucked it through his. "But let's take advantage of the fact that you're supposed to be Breanna. After all, nothing would please George more than if he peered out the window and saw his daughter and I walking arm in arm."
"Nothing except if he saw his daughter and you walking arm and arm down the aisle as man and wife," Anastasia amended dryly.
Damen's lips thinned into a grim line. "Tell me what happened," he commanded as they resumed their walk. "What took place after you returned from the bank yesterday?"
Omitting nothing, Anastasia relayed the details of her conversation with her uncle, and those of the lecture Breanna had endured from him earlier. Having done that, she told Damen her theories on the reasons for her uncle's extreme behavior.
"I understand your concern," Damen said thoughtfully when she'd finished. "And I agree that George must be deeper in debt than we know. But how will this pretense of yours make things better? Sooner or later, he'll have to be told there's no future for Breanna and me."
"We'll deal with that if it becomes necessary."
"If?" Damen stopped, caught her shoulders in his hands. "It's already necessary," he stated flatly, his gaze boring into hers. "As I told you, what's happening between you and me is not going to go away. It's only going to grow stronger, more consuming. So if you're waiting for it to end…"
"I'm not," Anastasia interrupted. She pressed her lips together, trying to decide how much to say. "Damen, I'm afraid he'll hurt her."
His eyes narrowed. "Does he strike her?"
"Sometimes. I don't know how hard or how often. But I suspect it's a lot more frequent and more severe than Breanna will admit—even to me. She's very close-mouthed about that part of her life. But she did say her father has been unusually short-tempered these days, even for him. He's been tense, brooding, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. When I came home yesterday, she had a bruise on her chin—a bruise bad enough to need a half hour of powdering in order to conceal, especially given she was supposed to be me. And that was only as a result of his wanting to stress a point. What would he do if she failed to give him the prize he wants—you?"
Damen's breath expelled in a hiss. "And how do we protect her from that?"
"By continuing this charade. By my pretending to be Breanna whenever you visit—unless that visit pertains to our partnership. Then, I'll be me."
"Until when?"
"Until I figure out just how heavily in debt Uncle George is, and how violent he'd become if he were crossed. And until I think of a way to protect Breanna from that violence. Damen, I'm all Breanna has, at least until she meets the right man. I can't turn my back on her."
"I wouldn't expect you to." Damen guided her into the clearing, then toward the glistening stream across the way. "That's one of the traits you and Breanna do have in common," he remarked. "You're both soft-hearted." He paused as they reached the stream, tipped up her chin. "Although you're the true romantic. I didn't miss your pointed 'until she meets the right man.'" A smile. "Forward-thinking or not, you believe in the age-old sentiment of one man for one woman."
"So do you," Anastasia reminded him. "I distinctly recall your assuring me that Breanna would flourish once she met the right man."
"So I did." A corner of Damen's mouth lifted. "I never thought of myself as a romantic. But damned if I'm not finding out that I am one."
"Romantic about love, but pragmatic about business."
A reminiscent light dawned in Anastasia's eyes. "That's the way my father was. Practical in his work, emotional about Mama and me." She sighed. "If I'm a romantic, it's not a surprise, nor an accident. My parents were deeply in love. I grew up seeing that, knowing that love was a rare, priceless treasure—one to be fervently sought and captured as a prerequisite to marriage. Breanna never had the chance to learn that firsthand. Her mother died when she was born."
