AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Olivia felt cold, and even the warmth of Deacon’s arms couldn’t dispel the iciness that seemed to be hardening around her heart. She had come to French Kiss to talk with Deacon. To give him a chance to deny that he had written the letter. To deny that he was Michael’s son. But deep down she knew that there would be no denial, and Grayson’s words only confirmed this.
Nash thinks that you’re using Olivia to get back at Michael.
There was only one reason he’d want to get back at Michael, and that reason made everything that had happened between them nothing but a lie. All the deep kisses. All the passionate lovemaking. All the sweet talk about her being his woman. All of it had been nothing but lies. Nothing but a way to get back at Michael for not acknowledging Deacon as his son.
But even knowing this, her body still wanted to melt into his embrace. To feel his hands on her waist. To hear his heart beat against her ear. And it took everything she had to ignore the confusion in his eyes and keep her voice steady.
“So you’re Michael’s son.”
It wasn’t a question. Just a tired statement filled with all the pain she felt.
His eyes flickered with surprise, and then he did what he did best—he took charge. Without a word to Grayson, he led her from the room and guided her to the elevator with his hand on the small of her back. She wanted to slap it away. To yell at him not to touch her. To never touch her again. But the elevator was crowded so she just stood there like a zombie while he greeted the people around them. They greeted him back, completely oblivious to the fact that they were only pawns in the game Deacon played.
Just like Olivia. Except now she knew.
When they got to his office, Kelly and Jason were talking at the desk. For once Kelly wore a conservative suit with the trademark purple high heels. Although her headband was Hello Kitty. She was giggling at something Jason had said, but when she saw them, she quickly got to her feet and brushed at her skirt.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Beaumont…Ms. Harrington. I put your messages on your desk, Mr. Beaumont. And I’ll get you some coffee—”
“No thank you, Kelly,” Deacon said. “Just hold all calls, please.”
She must’ve read their solemn expressions, because her smile dropped. “Yes, sir.” She exchanged looks with Jason as they walked into Michael’s office.
Once inside, Deacon removed his hand from her back and closed the door. The paintings of Paris were back up on the walls, and everywhere she looked she was reminded of the time they’d spent together. She realized he had taken her to the exact spot in every single painting. The Eiffel Tower. The Seine. The small café.
And the quaint shop that had started it all.
An uneasy feeling crept up her spine as she tried to place all the pieces into a coherent picture. But what she’d thought was the truth was starting to get muddled. Even the images of her in this room as a child weren’t the same. At one time she’d pictured herself doing her homework or drawing in her design book at Michael’s desk. But now she realized that he had never allowed her to sit at the desk with him. She had sat on the couch while he worked. And the morning-coffee-and-pastry image turned into her taking hurried notes as he rattled off orders.
Suddenly her legs felt like they were made of the sheerest of nylons. She slumped down in a chair and tried to remember how to breathe.
“Are you okay?” Deacon stood over her. He wore another gray suit—this one as tailored as the one he’d worn for the photo shoot. She looked away and stared out the windows.
“Answer Grayson’s question, Deacon,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “Are you just using me to get back at your father?”
Her mind knew the truth already, but her heart still held out hope for a quick denial. Instead she got silence, followed by a question. “How did you find out?”
With shaky hands she unzipped her purse and pulled out the letters and sketchpad. “I found these when I went to the house to pack up Michael’s things.”
Deacon took them cautiously, almost as if he was afraid to touch them. He glanced at the letter on top—and, hoping that she was somehow mistaken, that it was some kind of prank, she couldn’t help asking, “Did you send that to Michael?”
He nodded slowly. “Since he never replied, I thought he hadn’t received it.”
The acknowledgment had Olivia’s breath seeping out of her as if she were a punctured tire, and it took a moment for her to reel it back in. “And the other one, did your mother write that one?”
It took him a while to look at the other one. He seemed to be preoccupied with the first. She watched myriad emotions cross his face before it settled into the stern scowl he had worn when she’d first met him. At the time she had thought his anger was directed at her. Now she realized that it was directed at Michael. She was just the scapegoat.
He moved around the desk and sat down in the chair. She now understood why he looked so comfortable in Michael’s office. Like father, like son. She watched as he opened the letter and read through it. Usually his face was hard to read. This time it was easy. Pain. Hurt. Betrayal. Anger. They all played across his features, and when he lifted his gaze, they shimmered in the bluish-purple depths of his eyes. Eyes that matched the French Kiss emblem on the plaque behind the desk. Suddenly, Olivia realized that purple wasn’t just a random color that Michael had chosen. The color had reminded him of Althea’s eyes…and his son’s.
“Why, Deacon?” Olivia said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because until this moment, I didn’t know for sure.” All emotion seemed to drain from his face. “And what difference does it make? Michael didn’t want a son. And I sure as hell didn’t want him as a father.”
“Then why are you contesting the will?”
“Me?” He stared at her in shock. “You think that I’m the one contesting the will? Why would I do that?”
