Читать книгу Irresistible Greeks Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 45

DAISY leaned against the door, tears blurring her eyes. She dashed them away with a shaking hand. Of course he thought she was mad. The way he’d looked at her, patent disbelief in his eyes.

He was offering her marriage, wasn’t he? Hadn’t that been her heart’s desire five years ago?

Yes, then. Not now.

Because this was exactly the sort of “marriage” he would have been offering Caroline. A wedding, a legal, convenient version of friends with benefits. Now as she stood with her back to the front door, still hearing Alex’s footfalls moving quickly away, Daisy wiped a hand over her face, touched the tears, wanted to deny them. Knew she couldn’t.

They were as real as the truth she’d just told Alex: marriages of convenience didn’t work. Not for her. She and Cal had done their best. But friendship and responsibility only went so far.

They were only a part of the deep abiding fullness of heart, soul, mind and body that real love was.

She knew it wasn’t easy. She knew, just as Alex knew, that real love hurt.

She didn’t care. If she could have the love, she could endure the pain. She’d been raised in the real love of her parents’ marriage. She remembered their joys and their sorrows. She remembered all too well her mother’s pain at her father’s death.

But she remembered, too, the sight of her mother smiling through her tears as she’d said, “I don’t regret it for an instant. Loving Jack was worth all of this.”

This was sometimes heartache, sometimes pain, sometimes joy, sometimes the simple act of heart-deep sharing.

Daisy wanted that.

She had the pain part down pat, she thought, tears streaming down her face.

But she knew she’d done the right thing—even if Alex had been right, that she’d been protecting herself. If marrying Cal had been a mistake, marrying Alex would be a disaster—because she could not stop loving him, and he didn’t know what real love was.

He couldn’t draw a straight line.

He broke the lead in all his mechanical pencils. He snapped the nib off his best drawing pen. His hands shook so badly as he sat at his desk and tried to find the calm he always felt designing, that he crumpled up page after page of the paper in his sketchbook.

Finally Alex threw the whole damn thing out and went to stand and stare out the window, dragging in deep breaths. But for once even the sight of the spectacular Manhattan skyline didn’t soothe his furious soul.

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window, then lifted a hand and rubbed it against his stubbled cheek.

The physical sting of Daisy’s palm was long gone. But the emotional sting was imprinted on his soul. So were the words she’d flung at him: It’s all about you. You don’t love Charlie. You don’t love anyone. You don’t want to.

His throat tightened. His eyes blurred. He sucked in another breath and shook his head, wanting to deny it.

But he couldn’t. Not entirely. At least a part of what she said was true: He hadn’t wanted to.

For years—ever since Vass’s death and his parents’ divorce—Alex had done his best to make sure that anything as messy and painful as love would not be a part of his world. He’d deliberately built himself a life without it. He had his business, his design projects, his friends, and recently he’d figured that he could do marriage as long as it was on his terms, where his wife didn’t want anything deeper or more demanding than he did.

He’d wanted a world he could control.

Which was why he had turned his back on Daisy five years ago.

She had threatened his control. She had bowled him over that weekend, had loved and given and enchanted in equal measures. He’d never met anyone so unguarded, so genuine, so warm and real.

Letting Daisy into his life would have been opening himself up to a tidal wave of emotions he couldn’t control, a future he couldn’t predict, the possibility for pain he didn’t ever want to experience again.

God knew what would happened if he let down his guard.

So he hadn’t. He’d turned away from her warmth, rejected her love, shut her out of his life. And having done so, he’d thought he was safe.

He was wrong.

But she was wrong, too.

Daisy had thought he couldn’t love, and Alex had believed he wouldn’t.

But God help him, he did. He loved Charlie. He’d only had to see the boy, watch the joy of life in his eyes, listen to him, hold his hand, touch his hair—and he loved. But more than that, before he recognized that he loved Charlie, he knew he loved her.

Daisy.

In spite of himself and his determined intentions, the day Daisy had come into his life, she had created a tiny rent in his armor. She had pierced his defenses, had touched his heart and planted a seed deep in his soul. For two days she had given him a glimpse of what life could be like if he had dared to let it grow.

He hadn’t. He’d turned his back. But while he thought he’d walked away heart-whole, it wasn’t true.

The minute he’d seen her again this autumn, everything he had felt when he’d been with her the first time—the need, the emotion, the connection—the sense that the world was a brighter, warmer, fuller, more welcoming place—had broken through.

He hadn’t given in, of course. Though he had felt the attraction all over again, he’d still tried to do it his way—to control it. To control her.

He couldn’t.

She wouldn’t let him.

He knew what she wanted. Demanded. A real future, a no-holds-barred willingness to love and, admitting that love, to face the possibility of pain, of loss of control, of helplessness—all the things he’d said no to.

He didn’t know if he could do it now.

But he loved. He had no choice. It was simply there—in him. For better or worse. But he knew he couldn’t face the future until he was able to face the past.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Alex turned away from the window, from the cool remote perfection of the distant skyline, to the emotional minefield that he carried inside him. He padded into his bedroom.

The room was spare, unadorned. It held a wide bed, a tall oak chest of drawers, a closet. Nothing more. He went to the chest of drawers, then crouched down and pulled open the bottom drawer.

It was empty except for one thing—a single sturdy, flat, dark green cardboard box, perhaps a foot-square, two inches deep.

For a long minute, he just looked at it. Didn’t immediately reach for it. Didn’t really want to touch it even yet.

He hadn’t touched it except when he’d moved it, since he’d left for university at the age of eighteen. He hadn’t opened it since he’d put the lid on it when his parents separated, when they sold the house, when his mother moved to Athens and his father to Corfu.

“Don’t look back,” his father had said as he’d sold off everything and buried himself in his scholarly books.

But Alex had put the things that mattered in that box, the things he couldn’t let go of, even if he couldn’t bring himself to look at them.

He’d carried the box with him ever since. He’d taken it to university in London, to his first job in Brussels, to the dozen or so places he’d lived in his adult life. He had brought it with him here.

Wherever he was, he always put it carefully in its own drawer where he wouldn’t accidentally stumble across it when he was looking for something else. He didn’t want to be blind-sided when he wasn’t prepared.

Someday, he always promised himself, he would open it. When the time was right he would once again let himself remember. But as time had passed, he’d learned to cope, he’d shut off the past, had refused to give it the power to hurt him. It was easier to forget. The time had never been right.

Until now.

Now he hurt anyway. Now Daisy’s words had cut right through his protective shield, had looked inside him and found him wanting.

His hands shook as he drew the box out of the drawer and carried it over to sit on the bed with it. He was surprised how light it was. In his imagination it was the heaviest thing he owned.

He ran his fingers over the top, then carefully eased the lid off and set it aside. There were only a handful of things within—and just as he had feared, the sight of them brought a thousand memories flooding back.

There was the postcard of the Matterhorn that Vass had sent him when he was six and Vass was nine. Vass had been with their father in Switzerland. “It’s s’cool,” he had written. “You and me will climb it someday.”

They hadn’t, of course. But when Vass came home, they’d begun climbing the cliffs by their island home with eager purpose. Just as they’d earnestly practiced tying ship’s knots in the two feet of line that lay in the box, as well.

“Learn to tie the knots and I’ll teach you to sail,” their father had said.

Now Alex drew the piece of line out of the box and his fingers moved automatically to make a Spanish bowline, a clove hitch, a figure eight while in his mind’s eye he saw the summer days they’d spent on the water, the three of them. He remembered the heat and the sun and the wind—and the stories and the laughter that came with them.

He picked a small reddish-brown pottery shard out next, rubbing his thumb over its worn contours and remembering Vass finding it and saying he was going to grow up and be an archaeologist like Indiana Jones. And there were two very well-used Star Wars figures—Luke and Han, of course—they’d played with for years. There was a painstaking drawing of the Battlestar Galactica that Vass had drawn while he was in the hospital, and a far more precise elegant one that Alex had drawn at the same time because, after all, he was the one who was going to be the architect, not Vass.

And then there was a single silver Porsche Matchbox car.

Alex had faced all the other bits of memorabilia with a tight jaw, a strained smile, blinking eyes.

But the silver Porsche felt like a dagger to his heart.

They had fought over the silver Porsche, he and Vass. It had been his brother’s, but Vass had been indifferent until Alex wanted it. And they had fought—actually came to blows—and Vass had punched him in the stomach and he had given Vass a bloody nose.

He stared at the small car now, picked it up and ran his hands over the lines of its frame. Then he closed his fingers around it until he felt the cold metal bite into his hand. He wanted to feel it. Needed the pain.

It hadn’t been Vass’s first bloody nose. He’d had several that summer. But this one they hadn’t been able to stop. Not until they’d taken him to the doctor. And then there had been murmurs of concern. His mother’s worry. His father’s pacing. More doctor visits. A flight to Athens to see a specialist. A hospital. Tests.

A diagnosis. Leukemia.

Because of a bloody nose. A bloody nose that was Alex’s fault.

It wasn’t, of course. He knew that now. But at the time, he was not yet nine years old. He hadn’t known—and no one had bothered to reassure him. They’d all been far too worried about Vass. He had been worried, too.

But he’d swallowed his worry and his guilt because there hadn’t been time for it, there hadn’t been room for it. His parents hadn’t even seen it.

When Vass had come home from the hospital the first time, Alex had been scared to go into his room, afraid he might do more damage.

But Vass had said scornfully, “You can’t give somebody leukemia. You’re not that powerful, brat.” Then he’d grinned, Vass’s old wonderful “I can do anything” grin, and Alex had had his brother back.

Then he’d believed Vass would recover. Then he’d hoped for the best. Two and a half years later, there was no best.

The last time he’d been in Vass’s hospital room, Vass had said, “Keep the Porsche. It’s yours.”

“I don’t want it,” Alex had protested, tears streaming down his face.

Now slowly, painfully, he unbent his fingers, and stared at the little car. He rubbed his fingers over it, remembering Vass doing the same thing. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw Vass’s frail body and thin pale face, and he let the pain wash over him.

But other memories came, too. Along with the pain, he remembered the good times, the joy, the sharing and laughter. And he knew you couldn’t have one without the other.

For years he’d put the Porsche and the memories in a box and tucked them away, unable to face them.

You don’t love anyone. You don’t want to. Daisy’s words echoed in his mind. He heard them again, along with her parting shot: You ‘re offering far, far less.

Alex knew what he had to do.

He just hoped to God he could do it.

“‘S Christmas!” Charlie jiggled Daisy’s shoulder, waking her, peering wide-eyed into her sleep-gritted ones. “An’ Santa came!”

The pure joy of youth and belief beamed at her. She rolled over and shoved herself to a sitting position, then reached out to pull him into a fierce hug. “Of course he did. Were you worried?”

Charlie gave her a quick, hard, fierce hug in return, then wriggled out of her grasp, his head shaking to and fro. “Nah. I knew he’d come.” He held out a hand to her and Daisy let him pull her to her feet.

“I did, too,” she confided, snagging her bathrobe as he dragged her toward the living room, toward the Christmas tree which was already lit with small bright multicolored lights, because obviously Charlie had been there first, poking around.

But he hadn’t opened any gifts. He had waited for her. Now he looked at her expectantly.

And deliberately, mustering all the joy she could manage, Daisy put her game face on. “Let me put the coffee on. Then we’ll see what Santa brought.”

There was no time to brood on Christmas morning. There were gifts to unwrap and ooh-and-aah over. Santa made a just-turned-five-year-old boy very happy. There was a set of Legos and some action figures, three new books, a soccer ball, and a floor mat with the outline of streets and buildings—a city to drive his cars around in. Daisy’s mother had sent him a build-it-yourself racetrack for his little cars and a stash of art supplies for rainy days.

Charlie was thrilled. He wanted to play with all of it now. Daisy wanted to let him. But Cal was coming to get Charlie at noon. His parents were already here from Cooperstown and were looking forward to spending the day with Cal and their grandson. All of Cal’s siblings and their families were coming, too.

“They’d be happy to see you, too,” Cal had assured Daisy last week when they’d discussed plans. “You don’t have to be alone.”

But Daisy had shaken her head. “I’ll be all right. I’ve booked a photo shoot.” She had done it deliberately, agreeing to a plea from one of her old college classmates that she do a four-generation family shoot on Christmas afternoon.

“They’re all only here for the day,” Josie had apologized when she’d asked. “I know it’s probably impossible being Christmas and all … but just in case …”

“Sounds great,” Daisy had said firmly. It would keep her from sitting at home alone and miserable. “It’ll be fun.” She’d pasted a bright determined smile on her face. “If it’s nice and there’s snow on the ground, we can shoot it in the park.”

It was nice. There was even, amazingly enough, a few inches of new snow on the ground. And more was drifting down by the time Cal appeared at the door.

He was smiling and looked happier than she could remember. She knew he’d met someone. It was early days yet, he’d told her last week. But there was a light in his eyes she hadn’t ever seen before.

He took one look at her pale face and the dark circles under her own eyes and said, “You look awful.”

Daisy laughed wryly. “Thank you very much.”

But Cal frowned. “I shouldn’t be taking him away from you today. Come with us.”

Adamantly Daisy shook her head. “I’m meeting Josie’s family at their place at one to do some indoor shots, then we’re going to shoot at the Bow Bridge in the park if it’s still snowing.”

“Come after you finish.”

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “Go on. Have a good time.” She gave Charlie a hug and a kiss. “Behave.”

“I always behave,” he said stoutly. “I’m bringin’ my new guys to show Grandpa.”

“He’ll like that.” Daisy gave him one more squeeze, then stood up. Her smile was strained. Of course Charlie didn’t notice. She hoped Cal didn’t, either. “See you tomorrow,” she said with all the cheer she could manage. Then she shut the door behind them, leaned back against it, and pressed her hands to her eyes.

It was letting Charlie go, she told herself. This was, after all, the first Christmas that she hadn’t had him with her all the time. Always before, after their divorce, Cal had come here and they’d celebrated together. But they both knew that couldn’t last. He had a life now—and she had to get one.

Now she scrubbed at her eyes and took a deep, hopefully steadying breath, then she went upstairs to get ready to go, picking out the lenses and filters she wanted to take, determined to keep her mind busy so she wouldn’t think about where Charlie was and what he was doing and …

… about Alex.

She had to stop thinking about Alex.

It had been two weeks since they’d had their confrontation. Two weeks since she’d spurned his offer of marriage before he could even make it, since she’d told him exactly what she thought of it—and of him—and had shoved him out of the door and out of her life.

He hadn’t been back.

Was she surprised? Of course not. It was for the best, really, and she knew it.

What surprised her was how much she cared.

She didn’t want to care! She didn’t want to miss him, didn’t want to remember him sitting on the floor playing with Charlie, didn’t want to think about him telling their son a story, didn’t want to close her eyes and be plagued by images of him with Charlie in his arms or on his shoulders, the two of them grinning at each other.

She didn’t want to remember how proud she’d felt the night he’d got the award for his hospital design, how intently she’d listened when he’d told her about his inspiration for it, how much she heard and understood what he didn’t ever say.

She didn’t want to think about him—and she couldn’t seem to stop.

Now she finished packing her gear bag, slipped on her puffy, bright blue down jacket and headed toward the park.

It was Christmas. A time of hope. A time to put the past behind her and move on. She squared her shoulders, and picked up her bag. Maybe after she’d finished Josie’s family’s photo shoot, she would go ice skating, meet the man of her dreams, fall in love.

Fairy tales. Would she never learn?

Daisy sighed and headed for Josie’s place.

Four generations of the Costello family were ready and waiting. Josie swept Daisy into their Fifth Avenue sixth floor apartment overlooking the park, equal measures eager and apologetic. They were so glad to have her take photos of their family holiday, they were so sorry they were taking her away from her own family today of all days.

“It’s all right,” Daisy assured them. “I’m glad to do it.”

It was every bit the distraction she had hoped. The seven children—cousins who didn’t see each other often—along with their parents, grandparents and two great-grandparents, were a noisy energetic mob. And Daisy, intrigued by the possibilities, threw herself into the work.

She did a series of family groups, then gathered them around the table, shot Josie’s grandfather slicing the turkey, her grandmother helping the youngest grandson fill his plate. She caught two cousins playing chess in front of the fire, three little girl cousins playing dress-up with the small trunk of fancy clothes one had got for Christmas.

It was the perfect family Christmas, the kind she’d seen in movies and on TV. The kind she’d always wanted for herself. And especially for Charlie.

She shot their preening and their giggling. She shot four generations of Costello men watching football on television, simultaneously cheering or groaning. She had all the children make a human pyramid that mimicked the Christmas tree.

Then, as soon as she shot that, she said, “Let’s go to the park,” before things got rowdy, which the human pyramid showed signs of becoming.

The snow was still falling, picture-perfect, when they got to the Bow Bridge. She posed them there and did a couple of formal shots for posterity while passersby, walking off their Christmas dinners, stopped and watched then, smiling, moved on.

Daisy didn’t pay them any mind. She glanced their way, then turned back to shoot a series of photos of great-grandpa and grandpa and two little grandsons building a snowman. The girls were making snow angels, their colorful scarves flung out against the snow as they moved their arms and legs. They danced and played and she captured it all—the grace, the laughter—mothers and daughters, grandmothers, great-grandmother and granddaughters. The boys were wrestling in the snow now, pelting each other with snowballs, laughing madly.

Family.

How she envied them their family. She tried to shove the thought away even as it tightened her throat, made her swallow hard. She blinked hard and stopped shooting for a moment, needing to turn away.

Several people who had been watching, smiled at her and scuffed their feet and moved away. She got a grip, started to turn back, then caught a glimpse of someone else out of the corner of her eye.

Her gaze stopped, jerked back, dismissed it. She turned to shoot the snowball-throwing boys again. But her heart was beating faster as she edged around to get a different angle, to look west without turning her head.

He was still there, standing in the shadows beneath the trees.

Lean, tall. Dark wind-blown hair. Wearing jeans and a hunter-green down jacket.

“Lookit me!” one of the Costello boys shouted. He had scrambled up into the crook of a tree and peered down at her.

Daisy turned, focused, shot. Then she swivelled again, taking more shots of the snowball fight, but not even looking at what she was shooting.

She was trying to squint past the camera, to get a better look. He was too far away to be sure. But the last time she’d seen Alex he’d worn a jacket like that.

Surely it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was her stupid fairy-tale-obsessed mind playing tricks on her.

She turned and aimed her shots at the snowman builders now. Grandpa had the littlest boy on his shoulders to loop a scarf around the snowman’s neck. Daisy shot it all. That was what she was here for.

When she turned around again, she expected the man to be gone. He was leaning against the tree, hands in his pockets, staring steadily at her.

Daisy raised her camera and pointed it. She zoomed in, and caught her breath.

Slowly Alex nodded at her.

But he didn’t move, didn’t come closer. Just leaned against the tree, as if he was waiting for a bus or something!

“Are your fingers freezing? Daisy? Daisy?”

She turned, realizing that Josie had been talking to her. “N-no. I’m fine. I—Fine.” She glanced back.

He was still there.

“I think we’ll call it quits if you’ve got enough,” Josie said. “The little ones and great-grandma are getting cold. I am, too,” she admitted, blowing on her hands. “But it’s been such fun. Will you come with us? We’re going to make cocoa for the kids and hot toddies for the grown-ups.”

The panicky desperate part of Daisy wanted to jump at the invitation. Whatever Alex was doing there, he was there on purpose. He had something to say. And Daisy was sure she didn’t want to hear it.

But if she didn’t hear it now, he’d find another time. And at least she wouldn’t have to worry about Charlie overhearing.

“Thanks,” she said to Josie. “But I’ll just go on home. I loved doing it, though. I’ll have the proofs for you by the end of the week.”

“Fantastic.” Josie gave her a hug. “You were brilliant. And we had a blast. We’ll remember it always.”

Daisy smiled wanly. She had a feeling she would, too.

With cheery goodbyes and fierce hugs from several small children and a couple of great-grandparents, Daisy began to pack up her gear while the Costellos headed back across the park.

She focused securing the lenses in her camera bag. She didn’t look around, ignored the sound of footsteps through the snow. But her heart was going like a jackhammer in her chest. She straightened just as a shadow fell across her.

“Daisy.” His voice was soft and gruff, surprisingly hesitant.

Steeling herself, she turned. The sight that met her eyes was a surprise, too. This wasn’t the smooth confident man she expected to see. This Alex’s jaw was stubbled with at least a day’s worth of beard. This Alex’s eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. As she stared, his jaw bunched and tightened. He ran the tip of his tongue between his lips, then pressed them together again.

“Alex.” She nodded carefully, determinedly giving nothing away, particularly encouragement. The last thing she needed was to fight this battle again.

For a long moment he didn’t speak, either, and Daisy wondered if she ought to just step around him, head home. Maybe he’d just been walking in the park, had happened on her by accident. God knew perverse things like that could happen.

“You were right,” he said abruptly. “What you said.”

Daisy blinked. What she’d said? What had she said? Uncertainly she shook her head.

“That I didn’t want to love. That I pushed people away.” He answered the question before she even had to ask. He said the words quickly, as if he needed to get past them. Then he said again more slowly, “I didn’t want to. Then.” Pale green eyes met hers.

Then? Which meant … what? Daisy felt herself tense, but didn’t move. She searched his gaze, tried to hear the words he never said.

Then he took a breath and said them. “I loved my brother,” he said, the words coming out on a harsh breath. “And I thought I killed him.”

“What?” She stared at him, aghast.

He shook his head. “We had a fight … over a car. A toy. I was eight,” he said harshly. “And I gave him a bloody nose. He bled and bled. They said he had leukemia. I thought …” He shook his head, anguished. “I wasn’t even nine,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

“Oh, Alex.” She just looked at him. She’d known about his brother. She hadn’t known this.

“He said I didn’t. But he just kept getting sicker. And … then he died.” Now she could hear him dragging the words out. “My parents were shell-shocked. Destroyed. They couldn’t help each other. They couldn’t even look at me.”

“It wasn’t your fault!”

“I know that now. But we don’t talk much in my family, not about …” He swallowed, then looked past her over her shoulder, staring into the distance, his eyes bright with unshed tears. Whatever he was seeing, Daisy was sure it wasn’t in Central Park.

He brought his gaze back to hers, his eyes filled with pain. “When I was ten years old I thought I’d killed my brother and ended our family.” His throat worked. “I loved all of them.”

And she had told him he didn’t love anyone.

“I’m sorry.” Her words came out as brokenly as his. She wanted to reach out, to touch his sleeve, to put her arms around him. She had no right. “I’m so sorry.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. He took a breath and then another. “I put it away, shut it out of my mind, didn’t deal with it. I never talked to anyone about it—except you. Five years ago.”

Her eyes widened. “You never—?”

“No. I shut it all out.” There it was, the sharp hard edge. She could hear it. It was the way he always shut people out.

He bent his head. “But I couldn’t shut you out.” His voice was ragged. A faint smile touched his beautiful mouth.

“You certainly did,” Daisy reminded him. She remembered his words all too well.

Alex had the grace to grimace. “I tried,” he allowed. “Because you got under my skin. Made me feel things that scared the hell out of me.”

“What?” Daisy blinked, confused.

“I was … falling in love with you—even back then, that first night.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and rubbed it against the back of his neck. “I was falling in love with you,” he repeated, wonderingly, as if he was amazed he could admit it not only to her but to himself. “And it scared me to death. When you started talking about it like it was a good thing—loving—all I could think was, ‘I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll destroy her, too.’” His tone was harsh, anguished. And when she looked close she could see his eyes glistening. He blinked rapidly, then gave a quick shake of his head. “So I did.” He swallowed. “Hell of a lot safer that way.”

Daisy digested that. Drew in a breath, then another, and cocked her head, then asked him gently, “Was it?”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “It was until I ran into you again back in September. Then, short answer—no. You’re under my skin. I can’t get rid of you. Wherever I go, wherever I am, there you are.” He made it sound awful, but Daisy suddenly couldn’t stop smiling.

Despairing, Alex shook his head. “I couldn’t get you out of my mind, though God knows, I tried. I told myself I needed a woman who didn’t make me feel all the things you made me feel. But you must have noticed, I couldn’t stay away.”

“Every time I thought I’d seen the last of you, you came back,” Daisy realized. “It made me nervous.”

“Because of Charlie?”

“Partly. But really, I suppose, because I’d … never quite got over you.” She didn’t want to admit it, but if they were being honest, she owed him that. The heat of his gaze was warming her, making her tingle all the way to her toes. At the same time she was still trying to get a grip on the notion that five years ago he’d been falling in love with her, too.

“I wanted you as soon as I saw you again,” he told her.

“On your terms.”

“Hell, yes. Safer that way. And Caroline was safe. I never felt for her the tiniest bit of what I feel for you. I never wanted her. Never missed her. I knew I could live without her. I can’t live without you.”

“Alex.” She touched his cheek with her palm and he turned his face to press his lips into it, his kiss making her shiver.

“I couldn’t ask her to marry me,” he admitted. “I was going to, but I never could.”

“You must have realized she needed someone else.”

He reached up a hand to press her palm against his cheek. He looked down into her eyes, his full of an emotion she’d never dared hope to see there. “Yeah, maybe that was it.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “No, damn it. I was still in love with you.”

Daisy stared at him in astonishment.

“And then I discovered Charlie.”

“And you wanted Charlie.”

“Yes. I love Charlie,” Alex said with an intensity that made her believe it. “Not just because he reminds me of Vass, though God knows he does. I love him because he’s yours. And mine. Because he’s bright and inquisitive and fun and just knowing he’s alive gives me joy.” He shook his head slowly. “And I would give my life for him—and for you. I will go to the ends of the earth for you. I will slay dragons for you. I will get hurt for you. I swear it, Daisy.” There was wonder in his voice.

Daisy opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t know what to say. Her eyes brimmed. So did her heart. Dear God, she’d loved this man for years, but never more than she loved him now, now that he had discovered the love he was capable of, the love he was willing to dare to share.

He reached out and touched her cheek, stroking away a tear she didn’t even know was there. Then he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, let her feel the pounding of his heart, the warmth of his love, the shelter of his embrace.

She leaned against him, letting herself sink into him, loving his strength, his steadiness. She rested her head in the crook between his shoulder and his chin.

“I would have been here sooner,” Alex went on. He spoke softly, his lips against her hair. “But I didn’t think you probably wanted to talk to me again after what you said the last time.”

Daisy raised her eyes to look up at him, feeling guilty. “I didn’t know—”

But Alex shook his head. “No, you were right. It was my problem. You gave me a reason to confront it, to deal with it. And I needed to before I could come back. So I did. I had to go to Paris for work anyway. It was a commitment. I spent ten days there. Then I went to see my parents.”

Daisy took a quick look into his eyes.

He bent his head, held her closer. “We’ve … barely talked in years. It was, I suppose, easier for all of us that way. Not to be reminded.”

Daisy slid her arms around his back, holding him close, feeling the tension in him.

He cleared his throat, scuffed his boot in the snow, then pulled back a little so he could look down into her eyes. “They’re both in Greece these days. Not together. My mother’s divorced a third time. My dad is still buried in his books. But I … talked to both of them. About Vass. About … what happened, about what I thought. They were shocked. They had no idea.” His eyes were brimming again. He shook his head. “I’m glad I went. And I … expect I’ll see them again.” He hesitated. “I told them about you … and Charlie. They’d like to meet you both someday … if you’re agreeable.”

“Of course,” Daisy said faintly, her heart spilling over with love for him, thrilled that he’d taken the step to reconnect with his parents, delighted that they might all now find a beginning to their healing.

Alex pressed a kiss into her hair. “Thank you.”

Then he drew back and dug into the pocket of his jacket. “Will you give this to Charlie?” He took out a small silver Matchbox car and handed it to her. “I have real Christmas presents for him, but he’s got them already. I left them with Cal.”

“Cal?” She stared at him in wonder. “You’ve never even met Cal.”

“I have now. I went to your place from the airport. You weren’t there. I didn’t know where you were. I thought you might be with him.”

“How do you know where he lives?”

“I told you once before—” Alex’s mouth quirked “—the internet is a wonderful thing.”

Apparently it was. “But I wasn’t there.”

“No,” Alex said. “But he knew where you were.”

“And he told you?” That didn’t sound like Cal. He was generally very protective.

“After he’d threatened me within an inch of my life. Said I’d be sorry if I hurt you. And I believed him. I liked him. And … I don’t ever want to hurt you, Daze.” His voice was rough and warm and intense.

And he wasn’t hurting her, he was killing her, Daisy thought desperately. She looked down at the tiny car in her hand. Without having to be told, she knew what it was.

“The car you fought over,” she said.

He nodded. “It was Vass’s. He gave it to me before … before he died.” Alex choked on the words. “I’ve carried it with me ever since.”

“Your hair shirt?” Daisy asked gently.

“I didn’t think so then, but yes, it was. I lived with the guilt a long time. I might have lived with it forever—without you.”

“Oh, Alex.” She nestled close again.

“Charlie should have it. He doesn’t need to know its past. Only that it’s for him—a gift from the uncle he’ll never know. Vass—” Alex swallowed “—would have loved him.”

Daisy blinked furiously, her fingers tightening around the tiny car. “Yes.” She tucked it into the pocket of her jacket. “Oh, yes.”

“I have something for you, too.” He fished in his other pocket and pulled out a small box, the sort that jewelry came in. A ring box?

Daisy’s heart hammered furiously. More manipulation? Or were they past that?

Alex held it out to her. “This is for you. I saw it at a little shop in Paris and I thought of you. Of us. It’s the way I’d like us to be.” He looked into her eyes and pressed it into her palm, then closed her fingers over it. Snowflakes dusted his dark lashes, settled on his midnight hair. He smiled gently. “I love you, Daisy. I hope someday you believe it.”

Then he drew away from her, turned and set off through the snow.

Numbly, Daisy stared after him. What?

He was just going to leave her here? He was going to tell her he loved her, give her his heart, then walk away?

No insistence? No demand? No renewed proposal?

She looked down at the tiny box in her hand, then fumbled to open it. Inside was a silver necklace—real silver, unlike the Porsche—of two interlocking, entwined open hearts.

I thought of you, he’d said. Of us.

Two open hearts entwined.

Daisy bit down on her lip. Her fingers trembled. She clutched the box with the necklace in one hand and her camera bag in the other and broke into a run. “Alex! Alex, wait!”

He stopped, turned. Looked at her, half stricken, half hoping. She recognized that look now. She skidded to a halt bare inches in front of him, blinking furiously into the sun, into the dawning hope in those beautiful pale green eyes. “Ask me.”

He frowned. “Ask what?”

“You know what!”

He raised a brow. A corner of his mouth quivered, almost smiled.

“Ask,” Daisy demanded.

Then he took a breath. “Will you let me love you?” he asked. “Forever?”

“Yes.” She threw her arms around him.

“Will you love me?” he asked as she kissed him. His voice was suspiciously hoarse.

“Yes!” She breathed the word against his lips.

“Will you marry me, Daze?” He barely got the words out because now he was kissing her back.

“Yes, Alex. Oh, yes, yes. Yes.”

Daisy didn’t miss Charlie that night as much as she’d thought she would. She took Alex home and didn’t even open the other Christmas present he’d brought her from Paris.

She put on her necklace—or, rather, he put it on for her. Then she took him upstairs to her bedroom. There, slowly, he took off her sweater, her jeans, her shirt, her socks. Then he lowered her to the bed, and, smiling, began to take off everything else she wore.

Everything but the necklace. Daisy wouldn’t let him take off that. But the rest—oh, yes. She shivered with pleasure at the way his fingers traced the lines and curves of her body, the way his lips followed and his tongue, as well.

When he unfastened her bra and slipped it off her shoulders, then bent his head to kiss her breasts, she lifted her hands and threaded them in the silky softness of his hair.

Alex kissed his way across her breasts, laved her nipples, made her tremble with longing. Then, smiling at her reaction, he dropped kisses down the line between her breasts, on down to her navel and beyond. And Daisy quivered with need for him.

“Alex!” She squirmed when he peeled her panties down, tossed them aside, then ran his fingers back up her calves, then her thighs, then touched her—there. “Wait. My turn. You’re overdressed.”

He lifted his head and smiled. “Am I?”

“Oh, yes.” And then Daisy set about unwrapping the Christmas present she wanted more than anything—him.

“I love you,” she whispered as she tugged his sweater over his head. “I’ve never forgotten doing this.” She tossed his sweater on the bedside chair, then quickly disposed of the buttons of his shirt.

“You’re faster at that than I remember.” Alex kept his hands at his sides as he watched her, but there was a flame of desire in his eyes.

“Practice,” Daisy said, beginning to work on the zip of his jeans.

“Practice?” Alex frowned.

“Charlie couldn’t always dress himself.”

He grinned, then sucked in a quick breath when she made quick work of the zipper and her fingers found him. He swallowed hard, then shrugged off his jeans and came to her on the bed, settled next to her, stroked his hands over her with an almost hesitant wonder.

And Daisy felt the same. “I love you,” she whispered, glorying in being able to say it, to acknowledge it, and to know that he wanted to hear the words.

“I know. But not as much as I love you,” he said, a tremor in his voice and another in the hands that stroked her sensitive skin.

“I’ll show you,” she insisted, and rolled onto her back, drawing him on top of her, wrapping herself around him.

“And I’ll show you,” Alex countered, teasing, tasting, touching. He was so exquisitely gentle, yet possessively so. His fingers found her, knew her, parted her. And then he slid in. “Daze!” His body tensed, froze. And then—at last—he began to move.

“Alex!” Her nails dug into his buttocks. Her head thrashed on the pillow. Her body tightened around him. He made her shiver, he made her quiver, he made her shatter. And he shattered right along with her, his face contorting, his body going rigid, then collapsing to bury his face against her neck.

She stroked his sweat-slick back, then turned her head and kissed his ear and along the whisker-roughened line of his jaw.

When at last he lifted his head it was to look down into her eyes with wonder. “Why did it take me so long to realize?” he murmured, sounding awestruck.

Daisy shook her head. She didn’t need to ask why anymore. She had the answer she needed. “I’m just glad you did.”

He rolled onto his back then and pulled her on top so that she rested her head on his chest and felt the gallop of his heart beneath her cheek. Softly, rhythmically, Alex stroked her hair.

Daisy didn’t know how long they lay like that. She might have slept a little. She thought he did. But when they roused and began to touch, to love again, he raised his head from the pillow and peered down his nose at her. “Is this the sort of match you try to make?” he asked, giving her his heart with his eyes.

Daisy returned his gift full measure. But then she shook her head no.

“It’s better,” she told him, rising up to meet his lips, to love him, to share the wonder once more.

*****