Mistress By Blackmail(57)

A long silence fell between them. He chastised himself. What the hell was he doing introducing long-dead issues into this conversation? It served no purpose and he had enough to deal with without revisiting old wounds.

“Marcus.” His mother’s voice was tentative.

“Is there anything else?” He had no time for this. “I’m busy.”

His mother ignored his ploy. “Your father was a good man.”

“But not good enough was he?” The old hurt pushed his words out, cold and hard.

“We’ve never talked about this. Maybe it is time.”

“No.” He wanted no more of this conversation. It layered on top of his confusing emotions about Darcy, making it impossible to handle. He struggled to shut down the feelings.

“I needed more than he could give,” she explained, yet her tone held a hint of whining, a hint of the pity card she’d used so well for so long.

“More money.” He hadn’t bought into her excuses since the moment she’d left him and his papa. At a young age, he’d learned not to believe anything she claimed.

The whine escalated. “More everything. You have to understand I needed to be happy.”

At the expense of his father’s heart. At the expense of her first son’s trust.

The image of his father as he lay dying pierced his memory. The resignation in his deadening eyes. Eyes that had died the moment his wife had walked out on him. It had taken three years for the cancer to finally get him, but in reality, his papa had been already dead. Memories tore through his emotions like a dozen nails trying to drive through a wall. What his momma had started Juliana had finished. No amount of pixie dust or fairy magic could lift him out of his safe and secure emotional coffin.

“Momma.” He focused on the data on the screen. “This conversation is over.”

The deadly tone he used had its effect. It silenced her.

He clicked off the phone.

He leaned back in his leather chair and closed his eyes. This is how he needed to be until Darcy Moran was out of his life. Until his brother was safely married to the Casartelli woman. Until the electronics deal was signed and sealed.

This blessed lack of feeling. This blank slate. A silent heart.

He would keep himself away from her temptation until he left for Italy. Surely he could control himself for six lousy days. He’d work—there was always work to keep his attention. He’d stay far from her bed. And all of her, her draw, her appeal, her trap, would be behind him.

He focused on the frozen, dead wasteland inside.

Felt the ice form over his heart.

Over his soul.





Chapter 12





He was finally home.

Darcy stared at the bubbling stew, surprised at the word that had popped into her head.

Home.

Something she hadn’t had—well, really ever. A word she’d held deep inside, hiding the hopes and dreams attached to the simple string of vowels and consonants. Sometimes even from herself. But always yearning for the safety, the comfort, the acceptance.

Home. With Marc.

The front door thudded closed and his footsteps crossed the hall into the living room.

Pushing her thoughts aside, she grabbed a dishcloth, wiped her hands and peeked at the clock on the stove. Nearly eight p.m. The man was a maniac, working from dusk to dawn. She had her hands full if she was going to accomplish her goal of teaching the guy how to really live.

There was silence from the living room. Was he wondering where she was?

“I’m in the kitchen,” she piped up, her voice purposefully cheerful and light.

He appeared suddenly at the entryway, a glass of liquor in his hands. Immediately, she knew there were issues beyond his work habits. How quickly she’d learned how to read this man’s body language. Her reading told her the lover of last night had disappeared into distant memory.

The realization shook her.

She’d expected something else. She’d thought maybe he’d come to her straightaway. Kiss her. Touch her. Or maybe he’d throw her over his shoulder and take her right to bed. All day, nerves and hope had mixed inside her. One moment she’d been giddy at the thought of seeing him again. The next moment she’d wonder how they’d make love the next time and if she could improve her skills rapidly enough to satisfy him.

The guy standing before her now, though, had never entered her imagination or speculation. She hadn’t expected her lover to disappear completely and be supplanted with this.

His shoulders were tense; his mouth had a sullen tinge to it. Grim lines of strain had replaced any hint of dimples. His gaze was wary.

“Has something happened?”

“No.” He sipped his liquor, slouched on the doorframe. “Everything is fine.”