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A blanche of “Oh shit” passed across her mother’s face before it smoothed over into a patronizing shoulder pat.
“Your security system, of course. We can’t have you downtown in that apartment all alone and not keep an eye on you.”
The uncertainty that had been troubling her about Jethro was consumed by the bubbling rage she felt toward her mother. She lived in a building with a twenty-four hour doorman and excellent security. Her parents never would have allowed her to move in there if they’d thought it was unsafe.
“You mean you’ve been spying on me?”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “You’re always so dramatic, dear. Not spying. Just making sure you’re safe. And in, frankly, a much less obtrusive way than your beau. Does he tell you what to do outside the bedroom as well? Don’t get me wrong, I understand a little slap and tickle can be very entertaining, but—”
Her mother gave her the most pitying and disgusted look she’d ever seen.
“You’ve always been soft. I’ve tried to teach you better but I don’t think it’s ever really stuck. And it makes me feel a bit ill that this gardener might be taking advantage of that. By making you equate sex and attention with love. Which? Love?”
Deirdre tilted her head and tsked. Not in the way that Jethro did—the way that made excitement coil in her belly—but in the way that made her flush with shame. Her mother thought she was stupid, gullible, so easily swayed by a man—and pitied her for it.
Had Jethro swayed her? He’d taken charge, certainly, and she thought she liked that, but now she was starting to question herself.
She had thought she loved Jethro. Thought he loved her too. Even if it had only been a few days, she’d never felt anything so right in her life. And the idea that she was the only one who felt this way while Jethro… What, wanted something from her? Made her feel sick.
It didn’t seem like it could be real, but also this was her mother, her parent, and it was hard to entirely convince herself that the woman who had given birth to her could be so conniving and spiteful—toward her, anyway. She knew Deirdre could be a real witch otherwise.
“I have to go,” she muttered, and stumbled her way out of the caterers’ kitchen.
