His voice hoarse, Jaime took a break to sip some champagne. I followed suit, eager to hear more. I’d already learned so much about him. His father’s portrait of him as a baby that hung in his office flashed into my head. His good looks must have stemmed from his beautiful mother and his creative talent from his artistic father, who I suspected was physically attractive as well.
“Why didn’t your father fight for custody of you? Even joint-custody?” I asked.
Jaime took another sip of the champagne and set the glass back onto the tray table next to the tub. Pain filled his eyes. His fans of thick lashes lowered. “He didn’t have a chance. He was stone broke and stoned out.”
I’d seen Jaime cocky-confident and I’d seen him angry-mad. But sad was something new. I ran my fingers through his silky, damp hair and met his forlorn eyes. I could feel them reach out to me. He inhaled a deep breath.
“Three months after my mother married Victor, my father took his life. He shot himself.”
With a gasp, I clapped a hand to my mouth. The explosive sound of a gunshot filled my head. Reliving my own gunshot, I shuddered.
Jaime tenderly cupped my face between his hands. “Are you okay?”
Returning to the moment, I nodded. I now understood what made Jaime Zander who he was. Why he needed money, power, and control. He was afraid of falling into a dark abyss in the footsteps of his poor, struggling father. By controlling women and shunning commitment, he could avoid being hurt the way his father had been by his mother. I also understood why he hated Victor Holden. Victor had destroyed his parents’ marriage and brought his father to the ultimate jumping off point of despair.
“Were you close to your father?” I asked softly, suspecting the answer.
“Very. Even with his downfalls. He was loving. Creative. Fun. He taught me to open my eyes and see the world. To use my imagination. I was a lot like him.”
The look on Jaime’s face grew melancholic. In his mind, he was traveling back in time. Reliving nostalgic memories with his beloved father.
A pang of sadness shot through me. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine how difficult it was for a beautiful, confused thirteen-year-old boy to lose his father, the person he loved the most in the world. Kevin, in a way, had gone through that tragic journey with his homophobic father; a different kind of loss, but nonetheless the loss of a cherished parent.
I gently rubbed my hand along the side of his face, relishing the soft layer of unshaven stubble. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
Jaime quirked a ghost of a smile. “My father’s always been my inspiration. A day doesn’t go by without thinking about him. I still miss him.”
I now saw Jaime differently. Behind the confident, cocky façade was a sensitive, wounded soul. With my own narcissistic, negligent mother and broken childhood, there was a new, profound connection between us. I circled his face lightly with my fingertips. Though I already knew the answer, I asked, “Do you blame Victor for destroying your father?”
Jaime stiffened. His eyes blazed with fury. “I blame him for destroying my father and my mother.” He paused. “And for almost destroying me.”
My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“He abused me.”
The web of fine scars along his back flickered in my head. He was being opened, so I dared to ask him, “Did Victor physically hurt you?”
Jaime’s blue eyes narrowed and his lips clenched. He sucked in a sharp breath. “The bastard beat me. He liked using his riding crop.”
“Oh my God,” I cried out. My loathing for Victor spiked and consumed me. A mixture of rage and sorrow coursed through my blood. I had the burning urge to run my lips over every one of Jaime’s scars. I’d read once that scars tell you the hurt is over. That you’ve healed. That was pure bullshit. They always reminded of you the past and the pain. My own above my heart never stopped.
Jaime continued. “Victor hated me. I was just something in the way. And I was not his blood…unlike Vivien who he adored.”
Vivien. The sound of her name made me cringe. “How old was Vivien when you moved to Victor’s house?” I asked.
“Twelve going on twenty.”
I did the math in my head. That meant she was older than the twenty-nine years she claimed she to be; in fact, we were probably the same age. The lying bitch!
“How did you and Vivien get along?”
“Vivien was a manipulative, spoiled brat who had a crush on me. I was a vulnerable, insecure, fucked up kid. One night when she was fifteen, she raided her father’s liquor cabinet, and we both got drunk.”
I knew what was coming next and braced myself.