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He was as cold and inhospitable as the snow and ice clinging to the trees outside, his emotions as frozen as the moat.
And Emma had no idea what she was supposed to do now. What to say. So in the end she just said the obvious thing. ‘You have a daughter.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘And she looks exactly like you.’ And the moment she said it, she knew that the obvious thing had been the wrong thing.
The silence stretched for so long she was about to mumble an apology when he finally spoke.
‘I had a daughter.’ This time his tone wasn’t harsh or angry. In fact it was oddly flat, as if all the emotion had drained out of him. ‘She died, four years ago tonight, and it was my fault. She died because of me.’
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE’D found the photograph. The photograph he couldn’t bear to look at.
Lucas stood by the window of the tower with his back to the room. His chest ached. He felt raw, as if his flesh had been ripped from his bones, every last layer of protection stripped from him.
He had no idea how to ease the pain.
He was a man who prided himself on his control and yet right now it was nowhere within his grasp. His hand curled into a fist and he pressed it against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to pull together the torn edges of his self-control.
From the dressing room he could hear a soft rustle as she dressed. He guessed she’d managed to find clothes but she was taking her time and it was all too easy to understand why. The expression on her face stayed with him, the impact of his raw confession a million times more shocking than the moment she’d seen him naked.
And in a way she had.
She’d seen a part of him he’d never shown to anyone else. A part of him he guarded fiercely. He had no issues with her having seen him without his clothes on. He had plenty with the fact she’d seen that photograph.
And he was willing to bet she was as appalled as he was.
It was ironic, he thought, that it had taken this to finally give him what he’d been hoping for. Solitude. Because he had no doubt that now she’d leave him alone. Given the choice of waiting out the weather in the warm bedroom downstairs or with him in his own private version of hell, he had no doubt which option she’d pick.
He was so sure that would be her choice that it was a shock to hear her soft tread on the wooden floor.
‘So is this what you do every year?’ Her soft voice brushed over his nerve endings. ‘Shut yourself away and drink? Does that help you get through the night?’
Because he wanted her to leave, he didn’t turn. ‘Nothing helps.’
‘No. I can imagine that it wouldn’t.’ He felt her sympathy and her compassion and rejected both because he knew he deserved neither.
‘I appreciate your dedication in bringing the file here tonight, but your job is done, Emma.’ He knew he sounded brutal but he didn’t even care. ‘Your responsibility doesn’t extend to any other part of my life. The bedroom downstairs is warm and comfortable. I’ve left a tray of food there. Eat and then get some rest.’
‘What about you? What will you do?’
What he always did. Put one foot in front of the other and keep on living even though others didn’t. ‘I’ll be fine. Eat the food while it’s hot.’
There was a brief pause. ‘Instead of getting through it on your own, you could try another way.’
He didn’t hear her move but suddenly her hand was on his shoulder. He stiffened his muscles against that gentle touch, surprised that she couldn’t sense the violence in him. Or maybe she did and chose to ignore it. He knew she was no coward. If she were, she would have driven off the first time instead of coming back to check on him. ‘You need to leave, Emma. Now.’
‘If it’s about finding ways to get through a hideous, horrible night then there has to be a better way than drinking. Or at least a way that won’t have you waking up feeling even worse in the morning.’
‘What better way?’ He turned, slowly, the effort of fighting suddenly too much. His eyes found hers. She was wearing one of his white shirts and it fell to mid-thigh exposing a long, tempting length of leg. Part of him was clearly still functioning normally because he found himself wondering how he could possibly have missed the fact that Emma had fabulous legs and then realised that her office dress was always businesslike, never provocative. Intentional, perhaps, if this was what she was hiding under grey wool.
The inappropriateness of his thoughts almost made him laugh.
Was this really the only feeling of which he was capable? Surely it should be gratitude, or some other equally bland and harmless emotion. What he was feeling definitely wasn’t harmless. It was raw, dangerous and powerful and it threatened to burn up anything or anyone standing in his path.
