Harden My Hart

by Clare Connelly

  As I watch, he lifts the Scotch, bringing it to his lips and hovering it there. I swallow in time with him, so I can almost taste the alcohol, then start to move again, weaving through the last few people until I’m beside him.

  ‘Hey.’ My heart kerthunks against my chest. He shifts, turning on the bar stool so his legs form a frame around me and I can see his face properly. There’s a definite bruise on his cheek. I look at it for a moment, then concentrate on his eyes.

  He stares at me for a beat, almost like he’s forgotten who I am, or what I’m doing here. Like he’s surprised to see me. That makes no sense. I lift a hand to his shoulder. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, good-quality cotton. I run my fingers over it a little, feeling his warmth beneath it, feeling him.

  ‘Hey. You came.’

  My smile turns quizzical. ‘Didn’t we agree I would?’

  His hand’s on my hip, lifting my shirt a little so his fingertips connect with the bare flesh at my side. ‘Yeah. I just thought—’ He shakes his head. ‘Want a drink?’

  Do I? Not really. But there’s something about the idea of sitting in a bar with Holden that persuades me. We’ve only been together in private until now. There’s a novelty to sitting here with him, so I nod. ‘Sure.’ I scan the range of liquor bottles against the bar wall. ‘Just a soda.’

  He lifts one brow and I can’t tell if his look is amused, mocking, disapproving, or a combination of all three, but he lifts his hand and a bar guy practically sprints over. ‘Yes, Mr Hart?’

  ‘A soda.’

  He turns back to me so I’m left to smile at the bar guy and offer a word of thanks.

  ‘Have a seat.’ He gestures behind me, to a stool. I pull it nearer, planting my bottom onto it. Holden shifts his seat even closer, so his legs still surround me, his whole body like a frame of warmth and wants.

  ‘What happened?’

  He quirks a brow, silent.

  ‘Your face. It’s changed colour.’

  He shifts his hand, his long fingers running over his cheekbone, his lips a gash, a frown chiselled deep on his face.

  ‘Holden?’

  ‘Nothing. A stupid fight.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He reaches for his Scotch, putting the glass between us and closing his eyes as he throws it back. He holds the empty glass, looking at it a moment.

  ‘I think it does.’ I lift a hand, curling it over his cheek, my thumb gentle on his flesh. ‘Whoever it was punched you.’

  He lifts his gaze to my face; something in his eyes sends a chill along my spine. ‘It was a fight. I punched him, he punched me. End of story.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I take his empty glass and put it on the bar, then rest my hand on his. ‘I’ve seen the security you have around you. So this wasn’t just some random guy on the street, right? It’s someone you know?’

  A muscle throbs at the base of his jaw and his eyes are the stormiest shade of grey I’ve ever seen. ‘I said it doesn’t matter.’

  A fresh Scotch is placed in front of him without Holden needing to ask. I look at it, frown, wondering how often that’s happened tonight. He doesn’t seem drunk, but he’s a big guy; presumably he can handle his liquor.

  He had alcohol on his breath when he came to my place this afternoon. Has he been drinking non-stop since then?

  ‘I think it does.’

  There’s wariness in his expression, like he’s a trapped animal and I’m his pursuer, and I don’t want him to look at me like that. Even worse, I don’t want him to push me away, and I have a strange feeling that if I go too hard at him, ask too many questions, he’ll get up and leave. He’s leaving anyway, a little voice reminds me—unnecessarily. There are only four nights until he’s due to fly out of Sydney, and the idea no longer fills me with a sense of relief, like this will come to an end. It fills me with panic.

  I try not to show that in my voice. ‘We don’t have to talk about it.’

  He reaches for the Scotch as though he knew it would be there, as though he needs it, and I feel a great welling of sadness.

  Inexplicable and absolute.

  I’ve seen compulsive drinking before. I know how to recognise it, and now I recognise it absolutely in Holden. Pain lashes me. Pain at the memories of my father, pain at the idea of Holden—dynamic, intelligent, compelling Holden—being held captive to alcohol.

  It’s a sadness that almost makes me lose my metaphorical footing. I stare at him, realisation spreading through me, and I’m the one who wants to run away. I want to get up and turn my back on him, because what I absolutely refuse to do is let someone into my life who’s battling the same demons that killed my father. I’ve been so careful on this front, so suspicious of alcohol, so studious to avoid parties and events where alcohol is the main theme. And somehow I let Holden into my life—my soul?—without noticing that he’s almost always drinking. He’s so overwhelming, that’s all. He drowned all my senses from that very first meeting so I couldn’t think clearly. He’s like a frequency jammer. And now? I’m seeing clearly and doing nothing.

  Panic makes it hard to breathe.

  ‘It was Jagger.’

  It takes me a second to connect the random threads of information. ‘Jagger? Your brother? He hit you?’

  He lifts a hand to his cheek. ‘Not very well. Fatherhood’s made him soft.’ His smile lacks humour.

  ‘Why did he hit you?’

  ‘We argued.’

  I move closer to him, needing contact. ‘What about?’ I lift my own fingers to his cheek, tracing the bruise, wincing at the colour there.

  He catches my hand, his eyes clashing with mine. ‘Life. My choices. His choices.’

  It’s a suitably vague response. I ignore it. ‘You’ve done something he doesn’t agree with?’

  His lips shift into a grimace. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘What...’

  ‘Just leave it, Cora. It’s a family thing.’

  My heart stings. A family thing. The words shouldn’t have such an impact but they do. I feel as though he’s pushed a line between us, reminding me of my place in his life.

  As if to underscore that, a second later he leans closer, his lips crushing to mine. ‘Come upstairs with me.’

  I want to tell him to go to hell, I want to demand he stays right where he is and tells me everything I want to know, but in the midst of that I want to kiss him and hold him, to be held by him and kissed by him, to feel the passion that’s capable of sweeping any pain from my mind and heart.

  He takes my hand, pulling me to standing, and for a second he simply stares at me as though he’s unable to stop. He stares at my eyes and my heart quickens, my insides melt, and then he’s pulling me behind him, his hand holding mine, his step long so I have to walk quickly to keep up.

  Security guards stand at a roped-off section. They unclip one of the thick burgundy ropes as we approach. We walk through as another guard presses a button for the elevator. The doors open after only a minute and we move inside. As soon as the doors are shut Holden’s kissing me, one hand lifting to curve around my throat, his thumb brushing the base of my jaw as though he can’t help himself, his tongue probing my mouth, his big, strong body pushing me against the wall, pinning me there so I can’t move, can barely breathe, and definitely can’t think straight.

  His kiss is everything I need—reassurance, promise, hope, everything. I surrender to it even as my brain is screaming at me that he’s too big, too much, that I’ve become too consumed by him. I kiss him back though, trying to lift up against the wall of the elevator, trying to get him closer to me. His head presses to mine, his kiss intense, and then he swears, cocking his head towards the control panel to see how many floors there are to go. Not many and the elevator moves quickly but his urgency sears me. As soon as the doors ping open he’s lifting me, carrying
me and kissing me through the penthouse. We barely make it to the bedroom. His hands push at my clothes, ripping my shirt as he fumbles it from my body. He utters a guttural oath as he strips himself naked with the same imperative, barely pausing to sheathe himself before lifting me, wrapping my legs around his back and driving into me, making me cry out with pleasure and surprise, with blatant need.

  He steps sideways, pushing my back to a wall so I’m supported by it and him, and then he thrusts into me, desperate, hungry, insatiable, mine.

  Mine.

  The word echoes through me with every shift of his hard cock. Pleasure radiates inside my blood. I’m not conscious of anything except the beauty of this feeling. I run my hands through his hair, kissing him, all of me all of his. His hands roam my body, his hands rough on my breasts, his touch perfect.

  He swears, moves his mouth to the side of my throat and buries his lips there, kissing me then nipping his teeth over my flesh, and I groan, pleasure threatening to consume me. My orgasm is so close I can feel every inch of it. I dig my nails into his shoulders and hold on and then I’m screaming his name at the top of my voice, completely overpowered by the way he makes me feel.

  He holds me as I explode, his body my comfort. He stands where he is, his breathing ragged, as though he’s trying to keep a grip on his own feelings, his own desire rampant and almost impossible to control, and then he carries me to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, positioning me on his lap. His head is the same height as my breasts; he leans forward, drawing a nipple between his teeth as he begins to move again, each thrust of his hips driving him deep inside me, his cock so perfect for me that I wonder how I ever doubted he’d fit. It’s as though we’re designed for this, him and me.

  I tilt my head back, arching my breasts forward, so while his mouth tortures one nipple his hand plays with the other. A thousand butterflies explode through me. I grind my hips down, wanting so much more of this, knowing I’ll never grow tired of how he makes me feel, knowing I need this and him, and that life without Holden in it will leave me, in an irredeemable way, empty.

  The thought is unwelcome. I ignore it. Tomorrow will come and another tomorrow beyond that, and eventually a day will come that is devoid of Holden, and any prospect of seeing Holden. But it’s not today. It’s not tomorrow. There’s still time, and I intend to utilise it—and him—for as long as I can.

  He cries my name out against my breasts. I roll my hips and he swears, and the power I hold thrills through me.

  His weakness for me is abundantly clear. I revel in that knowledge, and I revel in this—him—us, even as fear is like a drumbeat pursuing me mercilessly.

  I catch his face with my hands, lifting it, and as I feel his control being obliterated I kiss him, my mouth dominating his for a change, my kiss driving us inexorably to a mutual release. He groans my name into my mouth now, breathing the word deep inside of me, and I swallow it, holding it there, not realising that the combination of two syllables are beating a tireless march towards my heart.

  * * *

  It’s dark outside. We lie together in silence for so long I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. I stare at the ceiling and I contemplate getting up, grabbing my things and going home.

  Escaping.

  Hours after meeting him in the bar, I am spent, and I’m exhausted and now, with passion satiated, I’m scared.

  Yes. I’m scared.

  Because I’ve found myself in exactly the kind of position I wanted to avoid. I don’t have a good track record with relationships. In fact, I’ve come to accept that I have terrible taste in men. That’s why this—with Holden—was going to be so perfect! Because it was casual and easy—sex so unbelievably hot it didn’t leave room for anything so banal as feelings and emotions.

  This isn’t the time for me to be getting involved with anyone. For once in my life I’m going to do what I need to make my dreams come true, and a broken heart isn’t part of that.

  But, despite that, I feel.

  I feel deep in my soul, my bones, my heart.

  I shift a little, just so I can see him better. His eyes are open, staring at the same ceiling I was just studying, his face as serious as mine. My heart plummets.

  This isn’t easy or uncomplicated, not for either of us.

  I push up onto one elbow, a frown on my face. ‘I didn’t know your brother was in Sydney.’

  He turns to face me, his eyes swirling with feelings I don’t understand. ‘They both are, at the moment.’

  ‘Living here?’

  ‘Jagger lives here.’ I lift my fingers to his bruise; his eyes close.

  ‘Not the other one?’

  ‘Theo,’ he supplies. ‘No. He splits his time between New York and Paris.’

  I nod. ‘That sounds glamorous.’

  He doesn’t answer. For a while, there’s only the sound of our breathing, and then the rustle of fabric as I shift a bit, lying down beside him, my head on his chest. His heart thumps with mesmerising timing. ‘I’m sorry you and Jagger fought.’

  ‘We’ve been fighting for a long time. Today it just got physical.’

  ‘You don’t have a good relationship?’

  Fingers that were running the length of my spine stop, perfectly still, between my shoulder blades for a moment before resuming their trajectory. ‘No.’

  ‘What about with your other brother?’

  ‘Theo,’ he supplies once more.

  ‘Right. Are you close to him?’ I lift my chin onto his chest, propping up so I can see into his eyes.

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Can’t you just accept that we’re not?’

  I frown. ‘No.’

  His laugh is a dull sound. ‘You’d make a great spy.’

  ‘I’m not spying. I’m trying to get to know you.’

  I ignore the futility of that, my heart hurting a little inside of me.

  ‘Unless it’s some kind of state secret,’ I prompt when he doesn’t speak. Still, he doesn’t answer. ‘They’re your brothers,’ I say gently. ‘I don’t know what happened between you but I do know that you’re lucky to have them. You have family and presumably they love you—why not try to fix whatever’s going on between you?’

  ‘That’s idealistic.’

  ‘And idealism is bad?’

  ‘It’s misplaced in this situation.’ He shifts a little, gently, so I move off his chest as he sits on the edge of the bed, his back to me.

  ‘I’m sorry if my idealism offends you.’

  He stiffens. ‘It’s not you.’ I’m silent, waiting for him to continue. ‘It’s the whole situation. It’s hopeless.’

  ‘Why?’ I try to imagine what could have happened to split three brothers asunder. I have no familiarity with family dynamics. I run through the possibilities, discounting most of them immediately. I don’t have enough information but, even if I did, nothing would have prepared me for his next statement.

  ‘They’re not my real brothers.’ I wait for those words to spread through me, wondering if they’ll make any kind of sense. ‘I found out a while ago that Jagger and Theo are brothers; I’m not. I’m not really a Hart, Cora. That’s what we fought about today. That’s what we fight about every day.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. I want to pull the words back as soon as I’ve said them. It’s like the removing of a dam wall—once done, it’s impossible to put it back in place. I’ve said something to Cora I had no intention of saying and yet the words burst from me without my consent, certainly without my forethought.

  And now she knows.

  She knows what only a handful of people in the world do. Fewer than ten. Jagger, Grace, Theo, Asha, Ryan—dead—my mother—dead—the PI I hired, Barrett, our lawyer and family friend, me... My dad? My real dad? I have no idea if he knows I exist. Did he choose not
to know me? Not to love me?

  Ice fills my veins.

  ‘What?’

  I don’t look at her. I can’t. But I feel her eyes boring into my back, determined and sharp. I can see them without even looking at her.

  ‘Holden?’ A rustle of the sheets. She moves, her hand on my shoulder, her body close. She’s warm; I’m not. ‘What do you mean?’

  I swallow convulsively, stare straight ahead at the twinkling lights of Sydney. ‘I was raised a Hart, but I’m not.’

  ‘I don’t understand...’

  Of course she doesn’t.

  ‘Ryan Hart took me in as a kid. He raised me as his son. Told everyone I was, so I thought—everyone thought I was. I broke up his marriage to Jagger’s mom because I was living proof of his many, many infidelities.’ I clamp my mouth shut, disgust filling me. ‘I have no idea why he did that, Cora. I mean, I’m not his kid. He didn’t have to do that. None of it makes any sense.’

  She’s frowning. It emanates from her to me, her thoughts spinning loudly. ‘How do you know he’s not your dad?’

  ‘After Ryan died, a friend of ours, who happens to be a lawyer for the firm we use, approached me. He had some paperwork from years ago—they’d been buried in a heap of other stuff; Barrett only found them by chance, going through Dad’s old files. He didn’t know about this or he would have told me—we’ve always been close.’

  She’s quiet for a moment and then, gently, ‘What were the documents?’

  ‘Legal adoption papers.’

  ‘So your dad—Ryan—adopted you?’

  ‘He tried to. My biological dad would have had to give up his custodial rights, and he didn’t. I don’t know if he couldn’t, if he was dead or lost, I don’t even know if they were able to contact him, but it never happened.’ My expression tightens. ‘Which proves only that Ryan knew all along—I’m not his son. He knowingly lied to me.’

  She comes to sit beside me, her hand on my thigh. ‘To protect you.’

  ‘You don’t know Ryan.’ I dismiss the very idea. ‘He was a self-serving bastard. There’s no way he raised me out of the goodness of his heart. Which leaves me to wonder why. Did he know who my father was? Did he hate him? Was raising me some kind of revenge? Was it to punish him? To punish my mother? I’ll never know, Cora. In fact, the only thing I know for certain is that I don’t belong.’