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“I killed Johnathan Steel.”
Chapter Nineteen
They Deserve It, Don’t They?
She had been doing that thing she did again. Swimming in the pool, pretending she wasn’t crying. But the redness of her eyes betrayed her, and she had brought out a bottle of the good champagne, even though it was only 11am.
Rafe leaned against the patio door, watching her slice through the water. His father constantly harped about her weight but she moved as sleekly as a dolphin in the water. Maybe that was what had made her cry, he thought grimly. If it wasn’t about her appearance, there was always something else to criticize. But he hadn’t heard them fighting. And they’d been so nauseating at the breakfast table that Rafe had gotten up to leave in disgust.Dirty old man. Marry someone your own age.
She didn’t notice him for a while, and when she did, she stopped swimming, turning to discreetly wipe the water from her eyes before shielding them with her hand.
“What do you need, Raffi?”
“I saw someone in the backyard.” He took a few cautious steps closer. “Dad wants to know when you’re making lunch.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
“Is it still going to be jerk chicken banh mi?” he asked hopefully.
“Probably not.” She swung out of the pool instead of going up the steps, a gloomy pall hanging over her movements. Rafe stepped back to avoid being splashed. In her films, she looked so sharp and perfect. She was softer in person. Real. Flawed. But he liked that because he liked her.
Donni knotted her tangled hair up into a very messy bun and tied a sarong around her waist.
“I guess I’d better see to your father,” she said, a little dully.
She poured herself a glass of the champagne first, popping the cork. He stiffened as she poured, staring at her white bikini top. Her nipples were stiff and clearly visible where the damp material was plastered to her skin. He’d seen her topless in movies but this was different; this was real flesh and blood, smelling of lavender and chlorine, sitting mere inches away.
“You’re lucky you’re still young,” she sighed. “You haven’t made any mistakes yet.”
“Can I have some champagne?” His voice was hoarse.
She glanced at him for a long moment before pushing the bottle at him. “No,” she said deliberately, glancing pointedly away. “So you better not have it in your hand when I turn around.”
That tore a reluctant smile from him. He took a long sip from her glass before setting it down, turning it so he could drink from where the faint impression of her lips was marked on the rim. “Why were you crying? You only swim when you cry.”
“Why were you watching?” she retorted, pushing her half-empty glass away. “You’re always watching me, giraffe. I love you, but sometimes you really creep me out.”
“You love me?”
She paused, tugging nervously at the string of her top. “You’re like my own son,” she said, which was odd, because she had no children of her own. As if she knew how strange her words were, she turned and looked away, bringing her knees to her chest. “Of course I do.”
He moved to sit next to her. “He doesn’t appreciate you.”
Donni laughed—but it was the kind of laughter that could turn into crying. “It’s not just that. I could deal with it if it was just that.” Her bare shoulders slumped and he felt the brush of her arm against his. “I’ve made a big mistake and I don’t know how to fix it.”
“What’s the mistake?”
“Someone from my past. Someone who can hurt me again.”
Again?“Hurt them first,” he said. “That’s what I’d do. I’d make them bleed.”
Donni stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. She was close enough that her breath stung his lips. She made a nervous little hum before grabbing the bottle and sliding away.
“I’ll see if Marco wants a glass, since it’s open. That ought to appease him.” But she paused, one hand on the sliding glass door. “You can’t just hurt people to get what you want.”
“No,” Rafe said slowly. “But if they hurt you first, they deserve it—don’t they?”
The words—they deserve it—echoed in his mind as he looked at Donni’s miserable face. She looked exactly as she had nearly ten years ago, wracked by guilt and fear. Not exactly the face of a murderer, but if all those true crime documentaries were to be believed, they never were.
