With that, Griffin turned his back on her and walked away. For the first time in ages, he took a deep, cleansing breath, his shoulders and heart much lighter now that he’d shaken off the demons that had tormented him for far too many years.
Now only losing Priscilla haunted him. His battered heart ached for his wife. Griff had no one to blame but himself. Long, lonely years dragged ahead of him.
***
“I think you’re onto something, sir,” Edward said, meeting Griff at the entrance to King’s.
“How so? You coming up?” Griffin asked.
“Waiting on Miss Charlie. Mr. Alex sent me to pick her up.”
Griffin followed him a few steps away from the store entrance. Edward pulled a paper from the inside of his jacket. “My contact in the department did some research. Mind you, it’s just preliminary. The records are paper only, before computers came in. There was no evidence against your father. Speculation mostly, by the grieving widow. There’s newspaper articles, condemning your father. I don’t have all the facts, but, I’m sure she paid them, slanted things her way. I’ll dig deeper.”
Griffin let it all sink in, and then held up his hand, halting Edward. “I thank you for your help, but I think I’m going to leave the past just where it belongs from now on: in the past.”
The driver looked at him closely, and then a slow smile spread across his face. “’Cause it could only hurt the ones you love more, right?”
He patted Edward on the shoulder. “Smart man, my friend, smart man.”
“I hear you. You ever need anything at all, you come see me, all right?”
“Thanks, Edward.” Griff shook his hand. “Oh, I think it’s best if you burn that paper, too.”
“Got it,” the man agreed.
A few minutes later, Griffin entered the salon; the bell tinkled. The whisper-quiet glass doors closed behind him. He spotted her immediately. Priscilla and a makeup artist helped a customer with a selection. Looking up in the mirror, she stilled when she saw him in the reflection. She said something to both ladies, and then walked to him.
Memories of their first meeting when she walked toward him in the salon took hold. They melded with this moment of her in a white silk blouse, skinny black leather pants, and high glittery pink heels. His middle clenched. She was even sexier now than that night, if that could be possible.
Her cat-like green eyes held mystery. “Griffin,” she whispered, halting in front of him.
“Priscilla,” he said softly.
“Are you here for another date?”
His heart tugged. “No. I’m sure you’d turn me down.”
Her frown made him want to reach out and smooth her brow. He didn’t have the right any longer.
“I thought you should be the first to know, I’m leaving King’s.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “But, you’re so good at running the store…”
“I think it’s time I move on.” He didn’t want to, but it was the least he could do. “This is your store. Not mine. I don’t know how many times I can avoid you without losing my mind.”
Reaching out, she touched his chest. Heat branded him there. She pulled back, clutching her hand; she must have felt the same fire.
He hesitated. “By the way, Tabby had her kittens. Three of them. I named them T1, T2, and T3. I know how you like to name things…” He trailed off. “I sent you a picture on your phone, then I blocked your number.” He stared at her, long and hard, his heart breaking into little, splinter-like shards of glass. “Goodbye, Pixie.”
“McGruff?”
***
He’d walked out of her life.
Priscilla’s mind filled with flashes of him: big, powerful, sexy. She could barely breathe; she ached all over, her heart the worst.
That first night when she’d gone to his house, he’d barked questions at her about her safety. He’d only wanted to protect her. From him and his revenge, she realized, the truth finally sinking in. I can’t be trusted, he’d said. He’d done everything in his power to keep her at arm’s length.
Then his concern overshadowed his gruffness. The next morning when she’d seen his wound, something tugged inside her. His scar showed, where none of hers had. His vulnerability touched a chord in her and, over time, made her understand the jagged reminder of that combat mission was only the tip of the buried pain inside him from his turbulent childhood. He trusted her enough to let her into his private hell.
The little things he did for her—the ride on the Harley, in his Vette, the yellow smiley mug, the pink chair, inviting Dolly over to his sanctuary to bake Priscilla’s favorite cake, assuring her she had the heart of a King, taking over her blog and confessing his sins and his love for her—shook her to the core now. Most of all, he’d put aside his fears of opening his home to strangers, so she could have the chance to paint a palette, share it with the world, and fulfill her dream.