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“I want to see you again.”
She frowned. “What?”
“In America. I don’t want this to end just because we go back there.”
Her eyes dropped to the table between them and the delicate pulse point at the base of her neck went into overdrive. He fought an urge to reach out and press his fingers to it, to touch her and feel the gentle trembling of her heartbeat.
“We agreed,” she said, slightly haltingly.
“I know that, but that was then.”
“Four days ago?” she prompted. “What’s changed in four days?”
“Nothing. And everything. I thought I’d be ready to let you go, but now I know I’m not. I want you in my life.”
Her eyes jerked to his and there was anguish deep inside of them. Anguish and fear. She took a sip of her champagne, and he noticed the way her fingertips trembled slightly. “But—,” her frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”
There was caution in her tone. Could he blame her? He didn’t know what he was offering; how could she?
“Nor do I.” Frustration crept into his voice. He tried to suppress it. “Let me put it another way. Do you really want to fly back to the States and never see me again?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
HER EYES SPARKED WITH HIS, and she felt the tension building inside of her, like a knot, pulling at her as it was with him. Their pasts, their meeting, their future—a fork in the road that could lead them to many different futures. He lifted a hand and stroked her cheek, but she jerked away from him, shaking her head a little.
“It’s not—I’m not going to lie and say it’s not complicated,” she admitted after a beat. “But that’s all the more reason to end this.”
Sensible. Rational. Right? Probably. But her words were anathema to him. “Why?” He pushed. “Does that really make sense to you?”
Her throat shifted as she swallowed. “None of this makes sense to me,” she said, darkly. “You’re someone I’m supposed to hate, someone I hated long before I even met you. Every minute of this has been a betrayal of my ideals, my beliefs, my loyalty to Jack…”
“Your grandfather has nothing to do with this.”
“He’s the reason we met.”
“We met because of a house, not a person.”
“A house that means the world to me,” she said, slashing her hand through the air. “You couldn’t possibly understand?—,”
“Couldn’t I?”
“You have all this,” she gestured wildly, to the walls of the marquee, but they both knew she meant the grounds beyond, the villa, his palatial home, his life, with so many anchor points he could never blow away. “I have nothing, except that one little house near the beach, and the walls that offered me shelter and protection when I was a terrified, abandoned kid.” Tears sparkled on her lashes and his gut twisted for a whole other reason now. He was torn between the deals he’d made, the profits he’d foreshadowed, the commitments he’d pledged to developers, estate agents. He couldn’t simply walk away from the deal because of Maddie. Could he?
“I understand that nothing’s permanent,” she continued, sipping her champagne again, fingers still trembling. “I understand that better than a lot of people,” she muttered. “But I thought…I just thought I’d always have that home to go back to.”
“Go back to? You’ve never left it, Maddie,” he said, trying to be gentle, but frustration was lapping at him—all the more so because she wasn’t simply falling in with his plans and admitting that she too wanted this to keep going.
“Are you seriously judging me for that?”
“I’m not,” he promised. “But I’m saying what I’ve thought all along—that selling the house could be a new beginning for you.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And for Jack. I know that, and I accept it. But I can’t forgive you,” she said, honestly, biting into her lower lip, her brow furrowed. “I can’t forgive you for your part in it.”
He hadn’t expected that. It hit him like a lead weight, right in the chest. Stars filled his eyes. “It’s just business.”
“Not to me,” she whispered. “To me, it’s personal.”
“Then what the hell have we been doing?” He demanded, one hand on his hip, his fingers pressing into his flesh with weight.
