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‘I don’t think so.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Her voice rang with discontent. ‘All the gory details??
?
‘The pertinent ones at least.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t want to tell me?’
A flicker of a frown. He wanted to smudge his finger over her lips, but didn’t. ‘Is it relevant?’
‘It’s...of interest.’
She turned back to the view, her eyes following the sound of the bird in the distance. For a long time, she was quiet, and it was easy for Sariq to believe she had no intention of speaking. But then, finally, after a long exhalation, as if gearing herself up to discuss the matter: ‘We met shortly after my mother died. I inherited. Not a lot—our house and her small investment portfolio. Enough for me not to have to worry about money for a while. It was her dearest wish that I pursue my musical career and I promised her—’ Daisy paused, her voice becoming gravelled, her throat moving beneath his gaze as she swallowed fiercely so he felt a surprising urge to comfort her. ‘I promised her I would. It was one of the last things I said to her.’
She was going to cry. He held himself rigid, adhering to his promise, but, oh, how that cost him when his arms were heavy with a need to drag her against him, to offer her physical comfort to her emotional wounds.
‘After my father left, I stopped playing. I couldn’t bear to any more. It was something we shared.’ Her smile lacked warmth; it was a grimace of pain masquerading as something else, something brave when he could feel her pain. ‘But then Mom got sick—’ she frowned ‘—and it was one of the only things I could do to get through to her, to help her, so I played and I played and when she was well, she’d beg me never to give up. She’d beg me to play so everyone heard.’
Every answer spawned a new question. What had happened to her mother? Where had her father gone? They’d been so open and honest in New York, it had been easy to ask her whatever he wished, and he’d been confident she would answer. But there were barriers between them now, necessary and impenetrable, so he didn’t ask. He stayed on topic even when a part of him wanted to digress.
‘And your husband?’
‘Max loved my playing too.’ Her words were scrubbed raw. ‘And I loved to play for him.’
Something moved in Sariq, and he wasn’t naïve enough to pretend he didn’t know what it was. Jealousy. He had listened to Daisy play and wished, on some level, that she were playing just for him.
‘Max had a lot of big dreams. But they were... I helped him as much as I could. I trusted him implicitly. He was my husband, why wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t have married him if I hadn’t.’ Her eyes lifted to his and the strength of the ghosts there almost knocked the breath from his lungs.
‘And?’ His word held a command, there was that imperative he was used to employing, but it was born now not of regal title so much as a desperate hunger to comprehend. Something terrible had happened between them, he could feel it, and it was vital that he understand it.
‘He lied to me.’ The words were filled with bitterness. ‘He didn’t love me, he loved my inheritance and the implicit trust I had in him. Trust that led me to add him as a signatory to my accounts, that meant I never questioned his transactions. It wasn’t until I began to prepare for the Juilliard that I realised he’d taken everything. Everything.’
Sariq was completely silent but inside, her explanation was exploding like the shattering of fine glass.
‘Not only had he cleared my accounts, he’d taken out a mortgage on Mom’s home, which I had owned clear of debt. I had to sell it, but that debt is still there, so I’m chipping away at it as best I can but...’
‘It’s onerous,’ he supplied, after a moment, sympathy expressing itself in his tone.
‘You could say that.’ A bitter laugh. Then, her hand lifted to her throat, where a delicate line of diamonds ran across the detailing at the neckline of her nightgown. ‘I suppose that’s not one of my problems now.’
‘Of course not.’ Relief spread through him, because this was something real and palpable he could do, to relieve at least one of her worries. ‘Have Zahrah provide Malik with the details and he shall clear this debt.’
‘Have my people call your people?’ she murmured, shifting to face him, so their bodies were only two or three inches apart.
‘Something like that.’
Her features compressed with exasperation, and then her eyes lifted over his shoulder, so he wanted to reach out and drag her face to his, to look into her soul through their green depths. ‘I thought I loved him, but, over the years, I’ve given it a lot of thought and, honestly, I think I was just so grateful.’ The words were laced with self-directed anger.
‘Why grateful?’
‘When my dad left, it was easy to believe it had been my fault, that I was in some way unlovable. Then Mom died and I was all alone, and it was terrifying and empty and quiet. When Max appeared, he seemed to worship me. He was so full of praise and flattery and couldn’t bear to be away from me.’ She shook her head. ‘It cooled once we were married. Now I see why: he got what he needed from me, but I was so grateful still, and I kept telling myself everything would be okay when my instincts were warning me all along.’
‘Were you able to recoup any of the money?’
‘He lost it.’ She gripped the railing with one hand; the other remained at her side, as if weighted there by the burdensome diamond wedding ring he’d placed on her finger. ‘Or hid it so well I didn’t have the means to find it.’
