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His first instinct was stop her, take the knife out of her hand before she hurt herself, but she’d been at this a while and whatever was going on with her probably needed to play out.
She dropped that canvas and shoved the easel over. She was breathing heavily. She wore an old navy work singlet of his, long enough to be a short dress, covered in paint and plastered to her body with sweat. She cast about for something new to ruin and he stepped up behind her.
“Cinta, stop.”
She swung around, shifting the blade from hand to hand; her eyes were huge, her hair a wreck. “Get out.”
“Enough. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Get. Out.”
He held both hands high, no threat to her. “What’s going on?”
She screamed at him, using words he’d never heard come out of her mouth before, and turned to attack the painting on the other easel; the old self-portrait of her running from her fears. He grabbed her, arms coming around down over the top of hers, pinning them to her sides before she could get to it. She bucked and kicked his shins with her heels, knocked her head on his chin and he bit his tongue.
He tightened his grip on her. “Settle down.” She tried to elbow him, she tried to break his grip and then she dropped the knife and burst into tears.
He held her till the storm of sobs slowed, murmuring shush sounds in her ear, till she sagged in his arms, then he picked her up and carried her back to the lounge room, held her on his lap, rocking her, stroking her back till she breathed normally.
She wanted to kiss him then, her hands wound around his neck, but she’d shocked him with the ferocity of her rage; it was ticking inside him, a fear bomb. Whatever had broken her like this might break him too. He needed answers first.
He lifted his head away, pulled her hands off, held them in his. “You need to tell me what’s going on. Right now.” Her expression was torn like a part of her had been ripped away. “Cinta.”
She closed her eyes. “The Wentworth board forced Malcolm out.” Her voice was flat, as if she’d worn out all its highs and lows. “Tom is the new CEO
.”
The swearing came out of him now. He squeezed her hand but it was unresponsive.
“He announced sweeping reforms to the bank’s policies and procedures so no customer will be put at financial risk because of the banks products or actions.”
“Your reforms.”
She nodded, tears in her eyes again, but the fury not far under the surface of her sun-loved skin.
“I was too busy trying to find myself to pay attention. I ignored Henry’s calls. I cut Tom off. While I was painting pretty pictures they were remaking the bank from my vision.”
She pushed away from him and stood. “I took my eye off the main game.” She threw her arms out. “Now all I have is artistic intentions and sex on tap. This is not the life I worked for.”
He watched her for a beat, two. Fucking selfish princess. She had no idea how privileged she was to have talent and money enough to support it and if he was just sex on tap to her, the fucking faucet was off.
He went to the bedroom and swapped his suit pants for jeans, took his dress shirt off and rummaged for t-shirt.
She came into the bedroom; he could hear her unsteady breathing, but he didn’t want to look at her. If he looked at her...he couldn’t think. He had to get out.
“Mace, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
Her voice wavered, but then she wasn’t getting what she wanted. “Yeah you fucking did. You always say what you mean.”
“No, no. I was angry. I lashed out at you. I didn’t mean—”
“Doesn’t matter.” What mattered was getting out of here.
“Yes, it does. I’m sorry. I heard it on the radio news, it was a shock, they didn’t have the...it doesn’t matter. Mace, look at me please.”
Against every instinct, he did. She’d collected herself now. No tears. Didn’t take her long to figure she might have to fend for herself a little more if he wasn’t around. Didn’t take her long to switch from lover to boss. She was trying to manage him. She’d fucked her chance. He took his duffel from the bottom of the wardrobe.
“What are you doing? Oh God, don’t.”
