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“Because you’re Michael’s son!” Regardless of her wobbly legs, she got up and moved to the windows. When she turned, he was studying the designs in the notepad with his steepled fingers pressed to his chin as if in prayer. But Deacon wasn’t the type to pray. He was a man of action. A man who created his own destiny. A man who took care of his own revenge.
“So what’s your plan, Deacon?” she asked. “Why are you contesting the will when French Kiss is yours? Or do you want it all? The mansion? The cars? The entire lifestyle? All so you can then have revenge on a father who never acknowledged you?” She hated the tears that sprang to her eyes, but couldn’t seem to stop them. “And did you just want to make me look like a fool because it pissed you off that I had Michael’s love and his money?”
In one fluid movement he got up from the chair and slammed his fist on the desk. “You’re damned right I’m pissed off! But not because of Michael’s love or his money. I’m pissed off my mother’s dead and he didn’t once try to save her. Not fuckin’ once! And I’m pissed that he couldn’t even reply to his own son.” He jerked up the letter and ripped it in two with one twist. “But what pisses me off the most is that you still think he’s some kind of a god. He wasn’t a god, Olivia. He was a selfish bastard who didn’t love anything but power and money.”
He moved closer and held up the sketchpad. “Do you realize what these are?” She did realize, which was why she’d brought them along. But she didn’t say a word as he continued. “They’re my mother’s dreams.” He waved a hand around the office. “This is my mother’s dream. None of it was Michael’s. Not one damned bit of it.” He threw the sketchpad across the room, and it hit the wall and pages scattered all over the floor. She cringed as Deacon laughed.
“I often wondered how a redneck from Louisiana could come up with an idea for a lingerie company. And now I know. He couldn’t, so he had to steal them from a sweet little seamstress who fell in love with a lingerie shop in Paris and with his baby brother.”
With her last question answered, like a sleepwalker, Olivia moved over to the designs and started to collect them. Lifting first one and then another, she carefully placed them in a neat stack as if they were made of the most fragile glass. As each design went back in the book, everything became crystal-clear. Almost too clear. Michael’s hatred for his brother and his brother’s sons. His refusal to talk about the past. His almost rabid desire to see French Kiss succeed. It had nothing to do with his love of the company. It had to do with revenge on Deacon’s mom.
Emotions welled up, and tears dripped from her eyes, landing on the drawing of the French Kiss logo and smudging the purple pencil etchings like raindrops on sidewalk chalk.
“Don’t cry, Livy,” Deacon said as he pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He hugged her close. But she was too numb to feel his arms or the heat of his body. “I’m not contesting the will, Olivia,” he spoke against the top of her head. “Francesca Devereux is the one contesting it—she claims she had Michael’s son. But I think she just wants to keep Michael’s assets tied up so that her company can buy French Kiss.”
Olivia recognized the name, but couldn’t bring herself to care. It was just one more piece of bad news heaped on the pile that had formed around her. She felt weighted down. As if she were drowning under yards upon yards of brocade and there was no way out.
After a moment Deacon pulled back to study her with his intense eyes. “I know you’re scared, Olivia,” he said. “But you don’t need to worry. I’m not going to let French Kiss fail. I’m going to fight for the company. And I’m going to make it bigger and better than Michael ever could—for you and my mother.” He smiled and traced a tear track with his finger. “Marry me, Livy.”
His words snapped her out of her trance, and she felt as she had when she’d fallen out of the pirogue and into the bayou. A wave of emotion closed around her, and she couldn’t find her way to the surface.
Her inability to talk made him smile even wider. “I know it’s crazy. Especially since we’ve only really known each other for a couple of weeks—and when for most of that time, you didn’t like me. But I love you, Olivia Harrington.”
It was ironic. Olivia had spent her entire life looking for a man’s love. Her father’s. Michael’s. And here Deacon was offering it to her. It was too bad that, like her father’s and Michael’s, it wasn’t real.
“I can never marry you, Deacon,” she said in barely a whisper.
His smile faded. “What do you mean? I thought…in Paris…”
It was hard to speak when looking into his eyes, so she turned away and walked back to the windows. “It wouldn’t work,” she said. “Not when Nash is right. You are using me. Using me to get back at Michael.” She paused. “And maybe I was using you too. Maybe I was using you to keep French Kiss.” She turned and glanced around the opulent office. “But now I realize that I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.”
Deacon looked confused for a second before he walked over and took her hands. “You’re upset, Olivia,” he said. “The jet lag and going through Michael’s things were too much for you. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“No. For once in my life, I know exactly what I’m saying. I don’t want this.” She waved her hand to encompass the room. “I’ve never wanted this. This was Michael’s dream, and I wanted it because I thought it would make him love me. But now I realize that you can’t make people love you. They either do or they don’t.” She looked at him and lied. “And I don’t love you, Deacon.”
The hurt in his eyes looked real. But she was learning that sometimes what you thought was reality turned out to be only a dream. The truth of that came when the look of hurt faded to be replaced with nothing.
Nothing at all.
After a moment he laughed. It was a harsh sound that echoed off the high ceiling and tightened the knot in Olivia’s stomach.
“I guess what they say about Paris is true. It does make you look at life through rose-colored glasses.”
