Swept Away by the Tycoon(16)

“I’m sorry your trip’s been delayed,” she stated, fingering the piping.

“Not as sorry as I am.” Gratitude washed over her. As he had in the car, he was letting her change the topic.

Mirroring her actions, Ian grabbed a pillow, too. The Hendriks clearly didn’t believe in skimping when it came to bed decorations. “Logically, I know one day’s delay won’t make a difference.”

“But you can’t help but feel time is ticking away while you’re stuck here.”

“Exactly.”

He looked surprised. If only he knew. Chloe understood exactly what he meant. Eventually there came a tipping point, when the bitterness became too much to overcome and all the apologies in the world wouldn’t make a difference. For a man like Ian, so used to being in control, the idea that such a time might be near would be terrifying. “Your son’s still young, though,” she assured him. “Plus, didn’t you say the two of you have already connected?”

“Yeah...” The sentence was incomplete and she knew he was thinking about Matt’s unreturned call.

“Hey,” she said, leaning across the bed to get Ian’s attention. “It’ll be all right. The two of you are already talking. Plus, don’t discount the fact you were there for him financially all these years. That matters, too. You could have ignored him or forgot he ever existed.”

Too late she realized what she’d said. Stupidly using forgot instead of pretend. Naturally Ian picked up on the slip. “Is that what happened to you?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean?”

Chloe ran an index finger across one of the circles decorating the bed’s quilt, wishing she might find an answer hidden in the calico. How did a person explain that their father didn’t want them without sounding pitiful?

The bed sagged, and a moment later she felt Ian’s breath on her forehead. He’d joined her in stretching out across the bed until they lay head to head in the middle. His index finger brushed across her wrist. “Chloe?”

Looking up, she saw his eyes only inches from hers. Up close, the blue wasn’t nearly as pale. Tiny pearl-gray lines sprayed from the center, giving the color depth and dimension. He waited for her answer with such sincere interest, she had to look away before her own eyes teared up.

“I told you my father wasn’t around much,” she began. “What I didn’t tell you is that sometimes we’d go years without a word. Soon as we convinced ourselves he was really gone for good, he’d show up again. Somehow, some way he’d convince my mother to take him back, and for a couple of days, maybe a week, they’d be all hot and heavy. Until he took off again.”

“Must have been hard for you, not knowing if he was staying or going.”

“I guess. Mostly I tried to keep out of the way.”

She went back to tracing the comforter, the pattern easier to deal with than the sympathy in Ian’s eyes. Might as well tell him the rest of the sad story. “Last time I saw him was on my sixteenth birthday. My mom must have finally had her fill, because she met him on the front walkway and sent him packing. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Oh, Curlilocks...”

Ian’s thumb brushed across her cheekbone. If she’d been crying, he would have been wiping away a tear. Fortunately, she’d stopped crying over her father a long time ago. Still, she closed her eyes, indulging in the warmth the gesture brought to her insides. “You know what I remember most about the visit? Not that my mother kicked him out, but the fact he didn’t bring a present. I don’t think he remembered it was my birthday. Anyway, that’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

That she wasn’t worth the effort. “That my mother had terrible taste in men.” Chloe meant for the comment to sound flip, but like so much of her conversation today, the tone missed the mark.

Ian’s palm continued cradling her cheek, the warmth of his touch drawing her in. “Your father was an idiot,” he whispered.

Oh Lord, if only he knew how badly she wanted to believe those words. To hear him whisper them... The sentiment went straight to her heart. All the pent-up longing, the wishes she so carefully kept locked away behind a breezy facade, threatened to break free.

It was too much. Too comforting. Abruptly, she sat up and brushed at her eyes. To her surprise, they were damp. “What matters is you’re not forgetting your son. When he finds out you’ve been attending—”

“You don’t need to pretend....”

“Pretend?” She pushed the curls from her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You don’t have to put on this act as if what happened with your father is no big deal, when we both know it is.”

Busted. She hated how he seemed to see a deeper part of her. Even so, she wasn’t about to admit the truth, not when she was so practiced at denying. “What makes you think I’m pretending? My father’s been gone for over a decade. Plenty of time for me to process his behavior and the fallout.” And if she hadn’t...? Who wanted to listen to someone whine about the father who didn’t love her. There were plenty of people with more pressing problems. People like Ian, whose amends were the reason she was on this trip.

Outside the wind howled, reminding them they weren’t going anywhere that night. Scooting to her feet, she went to the window, only to stare at her own reflection. “Wonder what kind of damage we’ll see when we wake up,” she mused.

“Hopefully minor. Although I have to say the ice looked pretty thick when I was outside earlier. Going to be a real mess now that the temperatures are dropping again.”

“Well, at least my gown is safe.”

“Which is what’s important.” She watched his reflection as he propped himself on one elbow again. “Maybe you should wear it to dinner tonight. Show up the other guests.”

“What a great idea, and if I’m really lucky I can spill gravy down the front of me. I think I’ll stick with what I’m wearing.”

“I guess that means the flannel shirt’s out, too.” She could see his grin in the glass. He looked so relaxed and at home, sprawled across the bed. As if they should be sharing the space together.

But they weren’t. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“I think I’m going to freshen up before we eat,” she said, turning around. “Do you want me to knock on your door when I’m ready to go downstairs?”

He sat up, and for a minute she swore he seemed disappointed at being asked to leave. A trick of the low light. The shadows caused everything to look off. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then. Hopefully you’ll change your mind about the dress...”

“Nice try.”

“I’ll see you in about ten minutes. And Chloe?” He paused in the doorway. “My father stuck around. Isn’t always a good thing.”

It was just a glimpse, a sliver to let her know she wasn’t the only person whose past had left them scarred. It might have been the best present she ever received.

As soon as the door closed behind him, the room grew cold from his absence. Chloe stole one more look at the rumpled spot on the bed where Ian had lain, before turning back to the glass. Minimal damage, Ian had wished for. He’d been talking about the storm. Why did Chloe have the feeling she should be more worried about the damage being caused inside?





CHAPTER SEVEN

WHY THE HELL did he share that last bit about his father? On the list of topics never to be discussed, the old man owned numbers one through infinity. Yet the comment had slipped right out, easy as pie. My dad stuck around. Isn’t always a good thing.

God, but it was way too easy talking to Chloe. Listening to her kick herself about her own loser father compounded the problem. It certainly said a lot about the man’s quality—or rather his lack of quality—when Ian looked admirable in comparison. Chloe had appeared so lost while telling her story. He’d wanted to wrap her up in his arms right then and there, protect her from all the lousy men in the world. Seeing how he was one of those lousy men, however, he’d held back.

And shared the tidbit about his father instead, giving verbal comfort instead of the embrace he preferred. From the spark in her eyes, his offering was appreciated.

She was waiting in the hallway when he stepped out of his room. Winter coats did nothing for women, that’s all he had to say. Day after day, he watched her march to the counter, her long form masked by winter bulk, and the whole time she hid a body made for handling. Thank heaven spring was right around the corner.

“Decided against the dress, did you?” he teased, drinking in her length. Not that he minded the jeans and turtleneck, but he would have enjoyed seeing her wrapped in silk.

“Sorry, you’re stuck with me as is.”

“As is isn’t so bad, either.” She rewarded his compliment with a very attractive blush. Better looking than the silk, he decided.

“You shaved.”

“Yeah, I decided to look civilized for dinner.” Another uncharacteristic move. He preferred uncivilized as often as possible, but for some reason, when he’d stepped out of the shower and saw the shaving gel and razor by the sink tonight, he got the urge to clean up.