Feeling his guts twisting over dull blades, he came down to sit beside her. “You previously said you considered my word worth having. If you really think so, you have it. A caveat, though. You’ll probably end up wishing you hadn’t asked for the whole truth. It will horrify you.”
“After what I’ve been through in my life, nothing ever would again.” Her gaze wavered. “Can I have a drink first?”
Her unfamiliar faltering intensified his distress. He’d never seen her...defenseless before. Besides the shame that choked him for being what made her feel this way, a piercingly poignant feeling, akin to the tenderness only Rose had previously provoked, swamped him. For the first time he wasn’t looking at Isabella as the woman who made him incoherent with desire, a woman he wanted to possess, in every meaning of the word, but a woman he wanted to...protect. Even from himself.
Especially from himself.
Stunned by the new perception, he headed to the bar and mixed her one of the cocktails she liked.
For a year after he’d left her, whenever he’d made himself a drink, he’d made her one, too, as if waiting for her to materialize and take it.
The day he’d thrown Burton in the deepest dungeon on the planet, he’d looked at the cocktail glass he’d prepared with such care and faced the stark truth that she never would. And he’d smashed it against the wall. Then he’d furiously and irrevocably terminated every method of communication she hadn’t used. He’d been convinced she’d forgotten him. And he’d hated her then, with a viciousness he hadn’t even felt for Burton. Because he hadn’t been able to forget her.
And all that time she’d been running, pregnant with his child, giving birth to him, facing endless difficulties and dangers he could only guess at.
He didn’t have to guess anymore. She’d finally tell him.
He poured himself a shot of whiskey, breaking his rule of not exceeding two drinks per day. He had a feeling he’d need as much numbness as he could get for the coming revelations.
It seemed she felt the same way as she gulped down the cocktail as soon as he handed it to her. Even with little alcohol, for a nondrinker like her, having it in one go would affect her as much as half a bottle of hard liquor would affect him.
As soon as he sat, struggling not to drag her onto his lap, she said, “To explain how I became Burton’s wife, I have to start my story years earlier.”
His every muscle bunching in dreadful anticipation, he tossed back his drink.
“You probably know my early history—that I was born in Colombia to a doctor father and a nurse mother and was the oldest of five siblings. My trail stops when I was thirteen, when my family was forced out of our home along with tens of thousands of others.
“Though we ended up living in one of the shantytowns around Bogota, my parents gave me medical training, while I home-schooled my siblings. Everybody sought our medical services, especially guerillas who always needed us to patch up their injured. Then one day, when I was nineteen, we went to tend to the son of our region’s most influential drug lord, and Burton, who was there concluding a deal, saw me. He later told me I hit him here—” she thumped her fist over her heart “—like nothing ever had.”
His own heart gave a clap of thunder he was surprised she didn’t hear.
He wasn’t ready to listen to this. Not just yet.
Rising, he strode to the bar to grab a tray of booze this time. He had a feeling he needed to get plastered. He only hoped he could achieve that.
He poured them both drinks. She took hers, sipped it, grimaced when she realized it was a stiff one, but took another swallow before she went on.
“He came to our domicile later to ‘negotiate’ with my parents for me. My father refused the ‘bargain’ point-blank and was so enraged he shoved Burton. Next moment, he was dead.”
Richard stared at her, everything screeching to a halt inside him. Burton. He’d killed her father. Too.
She adjusted his deduction. “Burton’s bodyguard shot him for daring to shove his master. Before I could process what had happened, Burton put a bullet through the killer’s head then turned to me, apologizing profusely. My mother was frantically trying to revive my father, while I faced the monster who’d come to buy me.
“The sick infatuation in his eyes told me resistance would come at an even bigger price to the rest of my family. Though my soul wretched at being at this monster’s mercy, I’d already dealt with the worst life had to offer and knew I could do anything to survive, and to ensure the survival of my family. And if I manipulated his infatuation, someone of his power could be used to save my family, and many, many others.