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She waited miserably for him to continue. “I failed my son. I was so consumed with money and power, with every victory, that I couldn’t spare a little time to do this little thing for my boy. I could have called a recess, gone for him, and been back at the office in twenty minutes. Even better, I could have adjourned for the day, and spent the evening having dinner with my son, playing a game or taking a walk. But no.” His face curdled with bitter self-disgust. “I failed him, and he died.”
She wrapped her arms around him, wishing there was something she could do to help take away that unimaginable anguish. He leaned into her as if her body brought him comfort.
“Fabienne, she blamed me, of course. I blamed me. The grief tore us to pieces—not just us, but our marriage. She left me within months, saying she couldn’t stand the sight of me. Couldn’t share my bed, or allow me to touch her, even in passing….”
“That’s grief talking,” she reminded him. “If she loved you before, it means she found you worthy.” Like I do, she thought.
His sigh was a rasp. “I understood. I didn’t fight the divorce, because I couldn’t stand the sight of myself, either. She left town, and has barely spoken another word to me. I sold everything, all of my business interests, and then lost myself for a year. I did nothing but wander around the forest with the dogs and cry myself to sleep.”
She touched his face lightly and brushed his hair away from his forehead. If there was something she could say, she would have said it.
“I spent a lot of time at my father’s old house on the far side of the lake. I inherited it, and we… our family… used to go there for weekends. My father and grandfather’s tools were still there. I spent another year building things I didn’t need, until people started taking notice. When my workshop was full of furniture, I gave them away. I didn’t care. Then old friends wanted to buy them. One day a young man turned up, asking for a job. I felt sorry for him and took on a commission so he could have work.” Corbin shrugged. “That’s it, I suppose. That’s what got me here.”
Without even thinking about it, she cradled him against her chest. She wanted to say, “I’m sorry,” but it felt so foolish. What good would that do?
She remembered him in the car this afternoon, with his reddened eyes and somber demeanor. She knew she’d played a part in triggering that response. “Corbin, what I said today was hideous—”
“No—”
“It was vicious, hurtful, and mean,” she insisted. “Please forgive me.”
When he lifted his head, his expression was tender, his eyes only for her. “You are never vicious, Princess. Never mean.” He kissed her, lightly at first but then with increasing intensity. “You are smart and sweet and beautiful. Every day I see you, my heart is glad….”
The kiss became deeper, and his strong arms around her pulled her so close that she knew she would never be able to escape without him releasing her—except that she didn’t want to. She wanted him like crazy, feeling a hunger she hadn’t known in years. It was as if there was a hollow ache inside her, and her soul was telling her that he was the only person who could fill it. His hands on her body were curious and questing, almost worshipful.
They broke the last in a long series of kisses to look at each other. Really look at each other. In his eyes there was a question; in hers, an answer.
“Just don’t hurt me, Corbin,” she begged.
“Jamais.”
To her confusion he was got up, leaving the room with long, purposeful strides. She stared after him in utter shock and bewilderment. The front door opened and closed.
He was leaving? What had she done? What had she said? Her eyes stung, and she brought her shaking hands up to cover the embarrassed flush on her cheeks.
But there was no muted hum of an engine starting up, just a crunch of boots out in the garden, a single set of footsteps moving anti-clockwise around the house, thump-thump-thump like a cop on the beat.
Then there was the door again, and this time, the sound of it closing was followed by the turning of a key in the lock. When he reappeared in the doorway there was a look of victory on his face. “No paparazzi,” he announced. “No Minions. The alarm is engaged. You and I, we are truly alone.”
She then understood that his quest had been to protect her from prying eyes and salacious conversation. My hero, she thought, in so many little ways.
The couch dipped as he regained his position beside her, reached for her.
“At last,” was her whispered response.
