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Ally’s heart shrank in her chest.
Dominic gulped down the last of the beer. And dumped the empty bottle in the trash. He looked exhausted. As exhausted as she felt. She noticed the scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the scar she’d wondered about often as a child.
He liked to dangle the carrot, then apply the stick.
His statement stirred the memories again, of all the altercations she’d witnessed between father and son that summer. The bullying, the insults, the constant, endless attempts by Pierre to let his son know he was a bastard, that he wasn’t enough.
As a child she’d been in awe of Pierre, the way her mother had. Because he’d always been so charming to her, she’d never been able to figure out why he was so mean to Dominic. But now she could see, Pierre had treated her like a pet that summer, not a daughter. And a tool, his praise for her just one more stick to beat Dominic with, to let him know that even his mistress’s child had a greater place in Pierre’s affections than his illegitimate son.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘For bringing it up, for making you relive that summer and those events.’
His eyes met hers, the confusion in them as compelling as the wariness. Dominic, she thought, was not a man comfortable with displays of emotion, or affection—no wonder this evening had exhausted him.
But even so she refused to hold back. Reaching across the breakfast bar, she placed her palm on his cheek, trying to soothe the bone-deep exhaustion she could see in his eyes.
‘And I’m sorry for thinking, even for a moment, you were to blame for the horrid way my mother and I were treated at the end of that summer, when it was always, always him.’
* * *
Dominic tensed, and jerked his head back, away from the soft stroke of her fingers.
The compassion and understanding in her eyes horrified him almost as much as the desire to lean into the caress. To take whatever solace she offered.
She dropped her hand, and tensed, as if his rejection were a physical blow.
But he didn’t deserve her sympathy, or her apology. She didn’t know the full extent of what had happened that night—that his father wasn’t the only one to blame.
But he had absolutely no intention of telling her.
It was ancient history now. And it had no bearing on who they were now. And on their marriage.
One thing was clear, though: despite everything that had happened to Alison, and however much she might think she was as cynical and pragmatic about this relationship as he was because of those struggles—she wasn’t. Some of that hopeful, generous, open-hearted child still remained. Or she would never have believed his explanation about that night so easily, been so ready to absolve him. And she certainly would not have refused to take the one million pounds he’d offered her.
Walking round the breakfast bar, he cupped her chin, pulled her head up. ‘I don’t want to talk about the past again. It is dead and has been for a long time.’
It was a brutal thing to say, especially when he saw the humiliating colour fire into her cheeks. But he had to be cruel to be kind now, or she would invest too much of herself in this relationship.
‘You must take the money,’ he sa
id again. ‘For this arrangement to work.’
She tugged her chin out of his hand, looked down at her clasped hands, the knuckles white with strain.
He waited for her to accept the inevitable. She had to know he was giving her an ultimatum.
When she lifted her head all he could see in her eyes was an aching sadness—and even though he didn’t feel particularly triumphant, he thought he had won.
But then she shook her head and to his astonishment she said, ‘I can’t, Dominic. I just can’t. If that means we have to part, then I’ll understand.’
He was so shocked, the riot of emotions flowing through him so strong and so new—panic, fear, regret, but most of all loss—he had no idea how to process them, let alone how to combat them.
‘Non,’ he said. Placing his hands on her cheeks, he drew her face towards his. Before he could think better of the impulse, he covered her mouth with his. He wasn’t going to lose her; he couldn’t.
She opened for him and he plunged his tongue into the recesses of her mouth. Taking, demanding, possessing her—refusing to accept her stubbornness, her intransigence.
The deal. The deal required she stay. That was the reason he felt so desperate. The reason the yearning was so intense. It had to be.
Her instant and unequivocal surrender was like a drug. Sex would fix this problem.
