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He made a rough disgusted sound. “Let’s be honest. You’re not sorry you kept Joseph from me. You’re sorry I found you. Only you’re too much a coward to admit it.”
Jillian’s face burned with shame, because Vittorio was right. She was a coward. A pathetic coward. But if it meant she could protect Joe, and remain with Joe, then she’d do whatever she had to. “Maybe,” she admitted softly.
“Why did you do it, Jill? Why keep my son from me? You had to know I’d be good to him. You had to know I’d love him. I always treated you well. You trusted me, too, and when you slept, you always slept close to me, pressed to my side.”
She hated how her eyes suddenly felt gritty and dry. She hated that she could still remember how she’d felt with him, too. Loved. Safe. So very secure. “That was before,” she answered faintly.
“Before?” he repeated, as if amused. Faint creases appeared at the corner of his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Before what?”
He was still smiling but she realized she’d misread him. He wasn’t amused. He was far from amused.
Jillian held her breath, the air bottled in her lungs, aware that she was walking on thin ice and she had no idea how to extract herself.
But Vittorio wasn’t waiting for the ice to crack. He was going to shatter it himself. The corner of his mouth lifted. “Before you invented a world where I played the villain?”
She stared across the room at him. “I invented nothing. I dreamed up nothing. It’s all there, Vittorio. It’s all there on the internet.”
“It’s not true.”
“There are dozens of stories and articles, Vitt.”
“And you believe everything you read on the internet?”
“Not always.”
“But you believed this…whatever it was you read about me?”
“Why would people lie?”
He studied her with his dark, fathomless eyes, the sensual curve of his mouth making her feel hurt and longing and desire and pain.
She’d loved his mouth, loved the shape of that mouth and everything it made her feel—physically, emotionally. He’d always made her feel so much and until she’d discovered the truth about him, it’d been so good. She’d felt so good. After so many years she’d felt whole. And then the truth emerged and she shattered all over again.
“Why indeed?” he mocked.
She waited for him to say something else. Waited for him to explain or defend or help her make sense of this life of his. He didn’t.
She balled her hands into fists. “So now’s your chance. Tell me. Tell me the truth. Are you…?”
“Am I what?”
“You know.”
His head tipped to the side. “Do you realize you’re in danger of sounding obsessive?”
His mockery infuriated her. “This is serious,” she snapped.
“You’ve watched too many Hollywood movies.”
“I know what I know.”
“And just what do you know, Jill? You seem to be an expert on masquerades and games and charades.”
She shivered at his tone. What if he knew more than she thought he did? What if he knew what she hadn’t wanted him to know?
