Читать книгу Hot Picks: Secrets And Lies: His Mistress with Two Secrets (The Sauveterre Siblings) / More than a Convenient Marriage? / A Debt Paid in Passion - Dani Collins, Dani Collins - Страница 18

CINNIA DIDN’T HAVE much to pack. Her sisters had been through her wardrobe like locusts once she had grown too big to wear most of it. Trella had been incredibly generous, bringing her maternity clothes and refusing to let her pay. Cinnia had given things back as she grew out of them.

She and Trella had been meeting in secret every other week and without her, Cinnia would have fallen apart by now.

Burying herself in work had also helped her cope. She’d busied herself with bringing on her partner who was taking over the payments on her start-up loan. Then there’d been all the arrangements to set up an office here at the house. For hours, sometimes days at a time, she could forget she was sitting on a ticking time bomb.

But she had always known that Henri would have to be told.

And that he would insist on her coming back for safety reasons. She didn’t blame him for that, she didn’t, especially after he had pulled back the curtain on how he really felt about the press.

She was still shaken by the bitterness he had revealed. And defeated. Her firm intentions to make her own way had buckled not from his show of temper, but from his helpless anguish. She couldn’t, absolutely couldn’t, make things harder for him. Not in good conscience.

But her life would change irrevocably now. It would have anyway, she supposed. Twins did that to a woman. But things with Henri would be profoundly different this time. She would no longer be his equal.

Not that she’d been his equal in the past, but she had been able to pretend they were traveling in parallel lanes, living their own lives and intersecting when it suited them for the same reason: sex.

Even before she had turned up pregnant, however, she had known she was following more than pacing. She was becoming more emotionally invested than he was, wrapping her life around his. She had hid it from herself as much as him, but the pregnancy had forced her to confront it. She’d had to ask herself, and him, how deeply he was involved.

“Do you love me?” she had asked him that morning in January, making sure to wait until they’d returned to London so she had an escape strategy that didn’t involve getting herself to the ferry.

In typical Henri fashion, he had dodged the question with a faintly bored “If you’re looking for a proposal—”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to marry me,” she had interrupted sharply, hiding that his attitude stung like a scald. “I asked if you loved me.”

“And the reason you’re asking is because you want to change things between us.” He hadn’t even looked up from whatever he was reading on his tablet, like this was a tiresome conversation. “I told you I’d never marry you.”

She had sat there with her sip of orange juice eating a hole in her stomach.

Her pregnancy had already been weighing on her conscience for two weeks, earning her a few queries from him about why she was so withdrawn and distracted. He’d even set a hand on her forehead at one point, looking concerned when he asked if she was coming down sick again.

She had been heartsick, aware that he would not be happy about the pregnancy, while deep in her soul, she was so happy. There was no man whose baby she would want more.

But not like this. Not so he would feel manipulated and forced into marrying her. Not when she might be a little in love while he clearly didn’t have any deep feelings on his side.

So, yes, she had set him up to disappoint her. Maybe if she had said “I love you” first, he might have found some tender words of his own. Perhaps they could have progressed amicably toward an arrangement from there.

She hadn’t. She had locked her own heart down tight, preparing herself for rejection and yes, even engineering it so she could walk away wounded yet righteous.

“I’ve always wanted children,” she had reminded him, nearly trembling she was holding herself so tightly together as she gave the greatest shake of dice in her life. “You said when I was ready to start a family, you would let me go. Are you going to keep your word?”

“Of course.”

Two words. Bam, bam.

Why couldn’t he have at least said he was fond of her in that moment? Why hadn’t he said he would miss her? Or acted in some small way like he didn’t want her to go? He had spent all the time they’d been together making her think he felt something, even if it was just affection. He was terribly protective of her and often expressed admiration at how hard she worked and what she accomplished. Maybe he didn’t laugh outright at all her jokes, sometimes he even gave her a look that scolded her for crossing a line, but he invariably smirked. He appreciated her snark, whether it was witty or facetious.

Why else would she feel so much for him if he didn’t at least appear to care for her, too? She wasn’t a self-destructive idiot.

Was she?

Did he really feel nothing? From the moment he had walked in here, he hadn’t betrayed one iota of pleasure in seeing her again. Just anger and resentment.

You want to change things, he had accused her that day.

She hadn’t, she really hadn’t. Things had changed all by themselves. Cells had split.

Then she and Henri had.

Her eyes welled as she recognized that nothing had changed between then and now. Absence hadn’t made his heart grow fonder. He still felt nothing.

Despair accosted her afresh.

Don’t be stupid, she told herself as the pressure built behind her eyes and in her throat. She only cried late in the night, when she lay awake in the dark, missing him, curled around their babies, freezing to death because his side of the bed was empty.

During the day, she was pragmatic and confident.

Which had been easy when she’d been convinced she would hold her position and stay right here in this room.

How would she protect her heart if she was living with him again, seeing him every day?

The pressure behind her eyes built as she contemplated how hard this was going to be. Her breaths were already coming in shaky jags of panic.

She told herself to quit being so silly, but her hand pulled a tissue from the box, then kept grabbing a string of them as she felt her world crumbling around her. The agony of not having his love rose, too much for one or two measly tissues. It was a freight train bearing down on her, filling her throat with a wail of agony that she held her breath against releasing.

She didn’t want to love him. It was too big, too hard. It hurt too much.

She buried her face in the cloud of tissues, but this swell of emotion wouldn’t be stemmed. Her whole body became wracked by anguish. She had tried to keep everything together and was falling apart. Everything was splitting and rending. She gasped for a breath and it was a ragged sob.

“Cinnia.”

His voice, so gentle, so tender, was the last straw. How did he do that? How did he sound like he cared when he didn’t?

Her heart broke open and she started to buckle forward, knees giving way under a keening moan.

Strong arms caught her, gathering her, muscles flexing as he picked her up, breath rushing out with the effort. She gave his shoulder a knock with her closed fist, hating him for being virile and powerful when she was fat and weak and falling apart.

He laid her on the bed, coming down alongside her, gathering her into his chest and pressing his lips against her brow, murmuring in French.

She tried to stop crying and listen and wound up wailing, “I don’t understand you!” She didn’t mean because he was speaking French, but because he was being so nice.

“I’m telling you not to be afraid, chérie. I shouldn’t have scared you, saying those things about being a target. You’re safe. I promise I will keep you and the babies safe.”

He had it all wrong, but she was so shaken to be held by him, so relieved, she surrendered to emotion and let the pain of these weeks without him release.

He continued to stroke her hair and murmur reassurances. She knew he had probably done this with Trella. Henri had spent fifteen years trying to help his sister recover from something that never should have happened. It was no wonder he drew such a thick line around himself and his family, holding everyone else at a distance.

But even though he begrudged Cinnia for daring to get pregnant, here he was, making promises, letting her burrow into his warmth. It was sweet and right and she cried all the harder.

Bastard. How dare he keep this good, generous heart of his out of her reach?

“Shh. Calm yourself, chérie.”

“I don’t think I can do this,” she said, feeling pitiful as she admitted it.

He misunderstood her again. “It’s not all on you, Cinnia. You can trust me.” He rubbed her back and smoothed his lips against her brow. “I’m here now.”

“But you don’t want to be.” That was the crux of the matter.

He held his mouth against her forehead for a long moment, then sighed a warm breath against her hairline.

“You’re fair to berate me for that.”

She waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Despair rose afresh and she started to roll away.

He tightened his arms, keeping her against his warmth.

“It was painful enough that the kidnapping happened,” he said in a low voice that sounded like it barely scraped through a dry throat. “It was frightening enough to live with the knowledge that we’re not impervious. But then I became the one responsible for standing watch. Of course I will always look after my mother and sisters, but I never wanted to take on a wife and child. A child, Cinnia. If you knew what my parents looked like when Trella was missing.”

She swallowed, shocked out of her desolation. He never talked about the kidnapping.

“I was in agony. My mother… It was inhuman what they did to her by taking her daughter. And what they did to Trella? I have never wanted to bring the potential for more suffering into my life by having children. That sounds cowardly, I know, but I couldn’t volunteer for it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, wilting in helplessness, voice nothing but a rasp as she realized he would never forgive her.

“Non,” he insisted. “You are not sorry. Neither am I. I’m not.” He cupped her face, tilting it up so she could see he was sincere. “I am concerned. I will worry about our children for the rest of my life. But I’m not sorry to be their father.”

She could hardly see him through her swollen eyes as they filled with tears of tentative hope.

He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Our children are not something either of us will regret.” He tucked his chin to send his gaze down to her belly and very carefully set his hand on the firm, round bump. “These babies are wanted. By both of their parents. Oui?”

Being held by him had already warmed her through, but that touch, the reverence in his gentle, splayed hand, sent joyous light through her, so sharp and sweet she had to close her eyes to withstand it. She ducked her head against his collarbone, feeling all the sharp edges of her broken heart shifting, trying to find a way to fit back together.

“Yes.” Her lips trembled as she felt his hand move, lightly exploring. It was pure magic.

“How are there two in there, Cinnia? That’s unbelievable.”

As if they knew it was him and wanted to say hello, a tiny rolling sensation went through her abdomen. She choked on a little laugh.

“Did you feel that? Maybe it’s not strong enough—”

“Shh.” He seemed to hold his breath as they both held very still.

Pressure nudged where his hot hand rested. He let out a breath of wonder.

“Is that really them?” he whispered.

“You don’t have to whisper. They’re not sleeping.” She tilted her face to look at him again, unable to hold back her smile. He was too devoted to his siblings to withhold his love from his children. She’d always known that, deep down, but she was still relieved to see him react with the beginning of parental love. She was overjoyed. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“It is nothing like I imagined it could be.” He shifted so her head was pillowed on his shoulder.

She relaxed, comforted by his seeming desire to get to know his babies through the wall of her belly. But she had to ask—with more than a little trepidation. “You really don’t hate me for this? I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.”

A pause, then his voice was very grave, rumbling beneath her ear. “I know. And I could never hate you.”

Not “I love you.” Not even “I care.” Just “I don’t hate you.”

Fresh despondency closed her eyes, but she had to wonder if he was withholding his heart because he was afraid of being too attached. What if something happened? As he said, he had every reason to believe bad things could happen if he wasn’t vigilant.

Oddly, she found herself thinking of his young self, fifteen and worrying about his missing sister. Her arm went across his chest and she tucked her face into his neck, hugging him tight. Saying nothing, but offering belated comfort.

“Are you changing your mind, chérie?” he asked, snuggling her closer with hands that cruised in a familiar way. “Would you like to make love?”

She suspected if this silly belly wasn’t in the way, she would feel he was aroused. She was growing warm and boneless, feeling him against her like this.

“No,” she lied, shifting so her head was on the pillow, putting space between them. “No, I—” She sighed, confronted by how difficult it would be, living with him again, resisting not just him, but herself. “No.” Just no.

She wondered how long she’d be able to keep saying that.

They didn’t make it to Paris until late the next day.

Cinnia was subdued, making Henri think of those days leading up to their breakup. He’d churned through those moments of pale silence a few times since, always concluding she had been deciding whether she wanted to leave him.

He saw it differently now. She had known she was pregnant. Along with that weighty knowledge, her body had already been under a lot of demands. The Cinnia he thought of as quite tough and impervious had fallen apart in his arms last night, then crashed for almost three hours.

Her mother had cautioned him to let her sleep, implying Cinnia didn’t always take as much care of herself as she should in her condition, which didn’t surprise him. She was as driven by ambition as he was. But her tears and exhaustion had thrust an unpleasant sensation upon him. Humbleness.

She had been carrying more than his children. Guilt. Fear that he would hate her. He had been honest when he’d told her he could never hate her, but he couldn’t give her the love she sought, either.

To counter some of that disappointment for her, he had stood in the doorway of her sister’s bedroom, cutting a deal with Dorry.

“My preference is to make Spain our base,” he had said. “My mother will be there, but she will be Abuela. We’ll need an au pair. Since you were already planning to nanny for Cinnia, I’d like you to come with us, at least for the short term.”

“Really?” Dorry’s quizzical eyebrow had gone up behind the round rims of her glasses. “Wouldn’t you rather, like, have someone professional? Who knows karate?”

“The babies will have their own bodyguards, absolument, but the guards’ duties will be protection, not feeding and changing. And Cinnia may be homesick without family nearby. It would be nice to have you there.” Cinnia often talked about her mother and sisters in a tone of exasperation, but she loved them to pieces. “We both trust you, and you and I get along well.”

“Also, his brother won’t try to hook up with you,” Cinnia had called sleepily through the cracked door of the darkened room behind him.

Henri had shaken his head, secretly delighted to hear her rallying, but sometimes her remarks were in such poor taste.

Dorry hadn’t flinched or laughed. She’d given him her sister’s exact deadpan look and said, “Forget it then.”

“I take it back,” he’d told the girl. “Two sharp Whitley tongues under one roof is too many.”

He hadn’t meant it. They’d all convened in the dining room for a late dinner, Dorry contemplating a year in Spain. He had also negotiated with her mother to bring in staff to serve as security and run the family mansion as a B and B if she wanted to continue letting rooms, but he promised to find her a flat near them in Spain so she could come and go as it suited her, and see her grandchildren.

Those were the simple details. There were a million more complex ones still to work through, but he found himself unable to catch at any of them as they entered his penthouse, tired from a long day.

They had slept last night in the London flat, arriving very late and using separate rooms, then visited her doctor first thing this morning, ensuring she was safe to travel and transferring her file to a specialist here in Paris—whom they’d briefly met on arrival in the city.

He liked the London flat fine. He and Cinnia had made it a sort of base in the past and had been comfortable there, but family came and went from that residence.

This penthouse was his. With six bedrooms, his family each had a room here, but only stayed occasionally. His mother and sisters typically put themselves up in the secure flat atop the girls’ design house, Maison des Jumeaux, while his brother made do with hotels—so he could have a guest if he desired.

Henri preferred these spacious rooms with their modern decor and plethora of conveniences. It was his retreat, a space he had purchased for himself for the private terrace overlooking the Eiffel Tower and the Seine.

Cinnia let out a sigh as they entered, exactly expressing how he felt.

She had always been a pleasant companion, providing a side commentary that made cocktail parties or gala dinners that much easier to endure, but always as relieved as he was to close the door on the world.

She took off her coat and hung it herself like she’d arrived into her own home.

He watched with a twist in his gut, realizing how much he’d taken her place in his life for granted. He’d been impatient when she had sounded like she wasn’t satisfied with their arrangement. He had been. Eminently. You didn’t mess with perfection.

He’d been furious with her that morning. He’d not only resisted allowing her to stir things in a different direction, but he’d also let her go to prove to himself he would quickly get past any disappointment at her departure.

He hadn’t. Her absence had been eating a hole in him, not least of which because he had no interest in other women. It was the longest stretch in his life he’d been abstinent since discovering what the opposite sex had to offer.

She had her back to him, not even looking pregnant from this angle. She was his ever-alluring Cinnia with her wavy blond hair falling down her narrow back and her lovely round bottom creating an exquisitely feminine hourglass below her wide shoulders. Her supple backside flexed as she kicked off her shoes into the closet.

He wanted her. Craved her. Had for months.

Hell. When had he not hungered for her? From the first moment he’d seen her, he’d been captivated.

Now, finally alone with her, the talons of lust were taking a firm hold in him—destructive lust, since the press already knew something was up, forcing a lot of trying detours today. He needed to keep his head, his mind, focused.

He ought to keep his distance, but he moved to stand beside her and toed off his own shoes.

He could smell that familiar, elusive scent of hers. Subtle. She never wore anything overpowering. He always had to get in close to catch the faint hints of rain and roses in her hair, lavender and geranium on her skin.

Her profile was stark, shadows playing deep into the contours of her face, making her look pale and shell-shocked. She stared into the closet like she was searching for a passageway to another world.

“What’s wrong?” His arm went out in a reflexive need to catch and hold. He hooked it across the top of her chest, pivoting to draw her back into him.

“Nothing.” His action turned her and she lifted her gaze to where they were reflected in the mirror by the door. Her hands came up to hold on to his forearm, but she didn’t press him to remove his touch.

He looked at their reflection.

Her brow pleated with accusation before hurt clouded into her sky blue eyes. She lowered her lashes to hide it, but her mouth remained pouted with disappointment.

In him.

He tightened his arm on her.

“I didn’t think I had to ask why you wanted to leave, chérie. You told me why. You’re not allowed to hate me for letting you go when you said it’s what you wanted. I’m not a barbarian. I wasn’t going to keep you against your will.”

Laughter burst out of her. “Really? Where am I now? With how much choice?”

He folded his other arm across her, splaying a hand over the babies he would protect with his life. “You could have been honest. You decided to make this hard by not telling me.”

Her lips trembled and she tightened her mouth to steady them. “Two years is a long time to be a courtesan, Henri. I wanted to know I meant more to you than sex for hire.”

“You do.”

“Do I?” Her gaze flashed back to his in the mirror, filled with dejection as she nudged her bottom into his groin. Where he was hard. “That’s all you ever gave me. That and jewelry, and now a pair of babies. Never you.”

“This is me,” he said through gritted teeth, barely containing himself as a rush of excitement went through him at the press of her soft cheek. He chucked his chin at his reflection. “This man who is obsessed enough to risk bringing you into my home, where you can see the inner workings of my life. Do you honestly think our affair was something I took on lightly? No, damn you, it wasn’t. It’s a weakness. A dangerous indulgence. But I wanted you. I want you all the time. Do you really expect me to apologize for giving in to that? When you want me every bit as much?”

She tried to glare him down in the mirror, challenging his claim, but he dismissed her bravado with a scoffing breath of a laugh.

“You’re nipples are hard, chérie. Think I haven’t noticed?” He slid his hand to cup her breast, full enough now to make him splay his fingers to contain the abundant flesh.

She gasped and hunched away from his touch, bumping into him to escape the pressure.

He released her with a jolt of shock. “I hurt you?”

“They’re really tender.” Her eyes were shiny with tears.

He turned her to face him and asked, “Can you make love?” The doctor had said it was safe, but if it would be painful for her—

She threw back her head and he braced for another rejection.

But as he held her gaze, unable to disguise how ferociously he ached to make love with her, the glow of outrage dimmed in her eyes.

His pulse hammered in his throat, in his chest, in his groin. He might have tightened his hands on her arms, unconsciously urging her to match his need. He couldn’t be the only one affected this deeply. It was too much to bear.

Her blue irises began to swim with longing and her weight pressed into his hold. Her shoulders dropped in capitulation.

He swore, control snapping. He cupped her face and kissed her. He tried to be gentle, tried to hang on to a semblance of control, but damn it, it had been so long. He opened his mouth wider to take full possession of hers, finally tasting her again and feasting on what he’d been missing. He curled his fist into the silken tresses that had grazed every inch of his naked skin at one time or another, wrapped his other arm around her so his hand braced between her flexing shoulder blades, and he kissed her without restraint. He took.

Raided.

Owned.

And she gave.

She slid her fingers into his hair and pressed him to kiss her harder, opened her mouth beneath his and met his tongue with hers. She scraped her teeth against his lips and clung across his shoulders with a slender arm and let her knee crook up to his thigh.

She moaned in the way that begged him to take her to bed and find fulfillment with her. Within her.

His skin stung, feeling too tight for the heat of desire exploding in him. It was a monster that wanted to consume both of them. He scraped his teeth down her throat to where her neck joined her shoulder. That fantastic, exciting place that always made her gasp and shiver and soften her knees so she wilted in his embrace.