Mistress By Blackmail(41)

“Are you?” She cocked her head, the harsh light of the waiting room throwing blue-black highlights on the strands of her hair. “You’re used to your girlfriends crying all over you?”

More like having tantrums when he told them they were through. Which he ignored. “No, my mother.”

Her immediate reaction told him he’d revealed too much. The elfin creature before him sparked to attention, her gaze aflame with interest, her lithe body glowing with energy. “Tell me more.”

He cursed inside himself at his slip. “No.”

A frown of concentration crossed her delicate brow. “I’ll tell you something, if you tell me something.”

“This is not a time for games.”

“I’m not playing a game,” she said with breathless importance. “I’m serious.”

His phone buzzed. With relief, he reached into his pocket.

A tiny, pickpocketing hand beat him to it. “No, you don’t.”

“This is becoming a habit of yours I do not appreciate,” he snarled at her as he saw his mobile disappear into her jeans pocket.

“Tough.” Her blue gaze pierced him. “I’ll go first since you seem uncomfortable with sharing.”

“I don’t share.”

“Thus, the feeling of uncomfortable.” She gave him a moue of pity.

He glared at her, willing her to let this—whatever this was—go.

“I hate my father.” Her words fell like rocks before him.

The stony words tore into his memory. His own father stepped from the past, right into his present. He had purposefully put all thoughts of his papa behind him long ago. It was the past. Nothing could bring him back.

But now, in this moment, his father was back, if only in painful, bittersweet memory. His big, booming laugh. The happiness he exuded when he was with his friends, sitting at the corner café, enjoying the warm Italian sun. The joy on his papa’s face when, as a boy, he’d come home from school and leapt into his welcoming hug. “Marc,” his father would croon. “Marc.”

The old ache of loss echoed through him. Only his papa had ever called him Marc.

“Say something,” she whispered.

“I loved my father.” The words ripped out of him before he could stuff them down.

Her small hand caressed his cheek. “Tell me about him.”

“He was a good man.” He stood, needing space. Pacing to the doorway, he leaned on the frame, staring blankly at the long, bustling hospital hallway. Loud voices echoed through the corridor, yet it seemed to him as if a cocoon of stillness surrounded them. Isolating them.

“He’s dead?”

“Si.” He made himself turn to confront her.

“I’m sorry.” Her expression filled with sympathy.

Rolling back on his heels, he closed his eyes.

Sympathy. Something he’d never seen on a woman’s face before. He was used to, expected to see, calculation, greed, expectations. Over the years, he’d found a certain amount of relief in knowing he could easily satisfy any womanly desires by doling out the required funds to make her happy. It released him from any messy emotional demands.

Once, long ago, a woman had observed him with sympathy. Or that’s what he’d thought. But he’d soon understood it had been pity. Juliana’s deep-brown gaze had welled with fake tears as he’d poured forth his love and begged.

The pity in her gaze had destroyed him and enraged him.

Had driven him for years.

Marc took a long breath in and opened his eyes to stare at another woman’s expression. The emotion he saw was completely different. Soft, comforting and accepting. The awareness of the difference struck him deep inside, disconcerting him and making him restless. “No need to feel sorry. It happened a long time ago.”

“It still hurts though.” She stood, walked to his side and wrapped her arms around him before he could move away. “I can tell.”

This had to stop. He wasn’t going to go down this road any longer. He laid his hand on the back of her head and pressed her face against his chest. He didn’t want to look into her eyes again. It might make him babble more inane memories. “Enough of this.”

She snuffled. “Don’t you want to know why I hate my father?”

Safe territory. It didn’t matter that he’d never before allowed a lover to confess any great secrets. He hadn’t cared about their secrets, only their bodies. Yet he’d much rather have Darcy rattling on about her past than digging into his. Even more astonishing, he actually wanted to know why she hated. The sprite didn’t seem the type to hate.

“Tell me.”

“He left me.” She sighed, a tight burst of air. “After Mum died.”