The Billionaire's Christmas Baby(40)

“Hannah.” His voice came out harsher than he intended, but he needed answers. He didn’t want a cup of coffee and he didn’t want to beat around the bush. “Care to tell me what that battle-axe was talking about back there?”

“What do you mean?” she asked stiffly, her shoulders squared, her back ramrod straight. A part of him wanted to cross the distance between them and knead the tension out of her slender shoulders, to whisper and coax whatever she hid out of her. But he knew she wouldn’t respond to that. He knew that she would see it as being weak.

“Don’t play games with me, Hannah.”

“I don’t play games,” she said, whipping around to face him.

He nodded, softening his features, his tone, hating that he had to ask something that was already killing him to think about let alone speak about. “Hannah, she said you were beaten and almost raped.” He watched as every single speck of color drained from her face. “What happened?” He caught a faint quiver in her chin when he spoke.

“That’s what this is about…what you’re angry about?” she asked, her voice shaky, her eyes wide and so heartbreakingly vulnerable that he just wanted to walk over and hold her. Hannah never let her vulnerability show, which meant…he clenched his stomach, not able to breathe at the thought…it confirmed what he already suspected…her reaction to things…the night he’d touched her arm…her withdrawal from him sexually.

“Jackson?”

He focused in on her pale face and nodded. “What did you think?”

“About your sister.” She took a deep breath, her eyes filled with pain. “It’s my fault that she killed herself. I missed the signs—”

“God, you can’t blame yourself. Of course I don’t blame you for that. How could anyone?” He walked across the room, unable to stop himself from offering her comfort. “Hannah,” he said roughly, gathering her against him. “I could never blame you.” His arms tightened around her. He felt all the tension leave her body, and she wrapped her arms around him. He wanted to reassure her, comfort her. How could she blame herself for Louise’s death? How could she hold more guilt than he? He had failed his sister. Not Hannah. He kissed the top of her head, the soft hair at her temples, his hands moving to stroke that tender spot on her neck. He wanted to shut out the rest of the world and stay in this Victorian cottage.

“If anyone is to blame it’s me. I’m the one who turned my back on her.” He had never admitted that out loud. He had spent most of his adult life feeling angry at Louise, but deep down he knew he’d given up on her. He could have tried one more time. He felt Hannah take a steadying breath against him and slowly step out of his arms. Just like that, like a flurry of clouds suddenly taking away the sun, Hannah put distance between them.

She looked up at him and he wanted to know what she saw, uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t given a damn in a long time what someone thought of him. Once he’d become wealthy and successful he’d thought that was all he needed. He had made it and nothing could touch him. But now, standing here in this tiny kitchen, with her beautiful face and glorious eyes staring up at him, he questioned all of it. Everything he had achieved, he wondered if it was enough.

“We all do what we have to do to survive. You gave her so much. No one can blame you for finally taking care of yourself.” How did she do it? How could she see through him like that?

She turned to get the coffee.

“Hannah?”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, stepping around him to pull out a carton of milk from the fridge, as though nothing had happened, as though they were merely casual acquaintances about to share a cup of coffee.

“You never answered my question.” He caught the tremor in her hand as she poured the coffee. She was a master at avoidance.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, peering into her fridge.

He shut the fridge and she frowned up at him.

“You’re not going to let this go are you?”

He shook his head.

“It’s really not as dramatic as she made it sound,” Hannah said, and he knew she was trying to act casual as she walked passed him to sit at the round table. He followed her, picking up his mug of coffee, sitting across from her at the table.

“So then it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to talk about it,” Jackson said, watching her eyes flash with annoyance. He took a sip of his coffee, his fingers gripping the handle tightly, waiting for her to speak. He was half expecting her to tell him she wasn’t going to talk about it.