But he didn’t move to stop her.
Christine’s hands were at his neck again. Gentle. Skilled. She did more than loosen the knot this time. She slid the black silk free of his collar.
“Italian. Why did it have to be Italian?” There was a hint of soft, inviting humor in her voice. She ran her hands slowly over the silk. “Now I know why you’re always smoothing your ties. They’re so soft.”
He knew she wouldn’t leave him alone, not until she’d seen. She was curious and she had guts. Her playing with his tie was only a reprieve. She was like a horse whisperer, soothing with words, before moving in to uncover the real damage.
“How about unbuttoning a button?” That smile. That sparkle. Ten days ago he’d known neither. “Just one. You look uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable? He was dying. He wanted her to touch him. Badly. And yet, the last woman to see his neck had left him. Slade swallowed and shook his head. Or he tried to. In reality, his head barely moved.
Her hands reached for him once more.
Slade didn’t think he could hold still, remain sitting, let this woman see. His breath came in labored chunks now. The breeze coming through the window behind him sent goose bumps down his spine.
He imagined in one quick burst what the next few seconds would be like. She’d free the top button of his shirt, maybe two. She’d see. She’d recognize. And she’d recoil. Because she’d realize he wasn’t as put together and in control as he appeared. She’d see his cool exterior of success was a lie.
He couldn’t produce enough saliva to swallow this time.
Her fingers worked at the first button. Worked at the second. Worked at the third.
She was killing him.
Only after the third button was free did she spread the Egyptian cotton apart. Only then did she gasp and draw away.
But not for long. “Oh, Slade.” She leaned in closer, using her finger to trace the tight scar that wound halfway around his neck.
* * *
CHRISTINE KNEW SLADE’S mother had died at home of cancer. She knew his father had hung himself. No one said anything about Slade’s scar.
Was it from an attempted murder by his father? A mugging from when he lived in New York? Or had Slade attempted suicide?
Little footsteps hammered down the stairs, almost as loud as the hammering in her heart.
Slade’s green eyes revealed remorse, regret, guilt.
Someone cleared their throat.
Christine assembled a disjointed smile and focused on the twins.
Grace in a floor-length blue flowered dress. “I like flowers.”
Faith in jeans and a black tank top, leather cuffs on her wrists. “I don’t.”
Christine needed to say something to Faith, to Grace, to Slade. She needed to be light and supportive and charming. But it was Slade who needed her most. She wanted to draw him close and hug him, hug him tight. So tight that he’d realize it was okay. Whatever had happened. Because clearly, by the anguish in those eyes, he thought she’d run away in disgust.