A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

by Angela Bissell

  He shook his head. ‘There isn’t anything you need to say. But, if you’re prepared to listen, there are some things I’d like to say to you.’

  Emily nodded; she didn’t trust herself to speak. Her mouth was too dry, her throat too tight all of a sudden.

  ‘I’m sorry, Emily. I know those words are inadequate,’ he said, his voice thick, a little uneven. ‘But I want you to know that I am sorry. For everything. You deserved better than me for a father.’

  His gaze held hers and she felt as if it was the first time her father had ever looked at her.

  Really looked at her.

  The ache in her throat intensified. She had deserved better.

  Silence cloaked them for a long moment.

  Finally, her voice barely above a whisper, she said, ‘Why? Why was it so hard to love me?’

  A wretched look crossed his face. ‘I wanted to. More than you’ll ever know. And I thought maybe I could...after those first few years had passed. But then you started to look so much like her.’ His gaze moved slowly over her face, her hair. His look of anguish deepened. ‘I couldn’t let myself do it. I couldn’t risk that kind of pain all over again. If anything had ever happened to you...it would have been like losing Kathryn a second time.’

  Her lungs locked again. ‘You loved her?’

  ‘More than anything else in this world.’ His voice was raw. ‘Losing her was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.’

  Emily stared at him. The revelation tore through every belief she’d had about her father. ‘I... I had no idea.’

  A deep frown etched his brow. ‘That I loved your mother?’

  ‘How could I have known? You always refused to talk about her.’

  ‘Because it was too painful.’

  She rubbed her forehead. ‘But...all the women...’

  His face reddened. ‘When your mother was alive, I was faithful to her, Emily. She was my soul mate. She was irreplaceable... So, after she was gone, I didn’t try. I just...’

  He let the sentence hang, and Emily thought she understood. He’d resigned himself to casual, meaningless flings because he didn’t believe he could love again—or was too afraid to try.

  She sucked in a deep breath. Then asked the question she was most afraid to ask. ‘Did you blame me for her death?’

  Maxwell’s chin dropped, agony and shame driving his gaze away from his daughter’s. ‘Yes.’

  The stark admission felt like an all-over body blow, as if someone had dropped her straight into the path of a speeding truck. A part of her understood the psychology of it. Grief could make people irrational. Warp their view of things. Still, it hurt. ‘Do you still feel that way?’

  His gaze jerked up. ‘My God...no. Emily...’ He shook his head. ‘The fact you look so much like her is still...difficult. But no. It wasn’t your fault.’

  Her eyes stung, and she blinked back the tears. ‘You made me feel unlovable.’

  His expression was bleak. ‘I don’t know how to make that up to you. But I’d like a chance to try.’

  ‘Will you tell me about her?’

  ‘If that’s what you’d like.’

  Emily thought she’d like that very much.

  She took a long sip of water, soothing the burn in her throat. Then she put the glass down and gave him a shaky smile. ‘You’re going to be a grandfather.’

  Maxwell swallowed. ‘So I understand. Congratulations, Emily.’ He reached across the table and covered her hand briefly with his.

  Emily’s heart contracted.

  The gesture was a long way from a hug.

  But it was a start.

  * * *

  When Emily left the restaurant over an hour later, the black sedan and driver that Ramon had insisted she have at her disposal waited on the other side of the street for her.

  The driver emerged and opened her door and she sank gratefully into the soft leather.

  ‘Home, Ms Royce?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back against the seat. Her father’s unexpected attempt to connect had left her feeling quietly optimistic, but it also heightened the sense that her life was changing at a more dramatic pace than she could handle.

  She looked at her watch and sighed. It was barely eight o’clock and she already craved the comfort of her bed.

  A comfort she’d soon relinquish, she reminded herself with another flare of unease.

  Tomorrow at ten a.m. she would meet with an interior designer at the house in Chelsea to discuss colour schemes and furnishings. Within the month, she and Ramon would be living in their new home and her beloved Wimbledon flat would be rented out to strangers.

  Ramon wanted her to sell it.

  Emily had refused, then enquired pointedly if he planned to sell his penthouse in Manhattan.

  The stand-off had only sharpened the tension between them these last few days.

  After thanking and dismissing her driver, she dragged her feet up the stairs and opened the door to her flat, relieved to be home, but also aware of a flutter of trepidation.

  Ramon had been deeply unhappy about her meeting with her father and his mood before they’d left for work this morning had been dark and intractable.

  Much like his mood every day since their return from Spain, she thought gloomily.

  She flipped on a light and put her bag and keys on the hall table before walking through to the lounge. Darkness blanketed the room and suddenly she remembered Ramon had said he was entertaining a business associate at Citrine this evening. Her mind moving to thoughts of hot chocolate and bed, she turned on a lamp—and felt her heart lunge into her throat.

  ‘My God! Ramon!’ She clapped her hand over her breast, staring at him as he turned from the window. ‘You scared me half to death. Why are you standing in the dark?’

  He moved into the lamplight and Emily saw from his face that his mood had not improved from this morning. He still wore his work attire, although his tie and suit jacket had been discarded, and his shirt collar loosened. ‘How was dinner with your father?’

  His tone was clipped and Emily stifled a sigh. She was exhausted, her emotions drained; she couldn’t talk about her conversation with her father, not right this minute, standing here in the middle of the lounge. ‘Interesting,’ she said, turning towards the kitchen. ‘I’m making hot chocolate. Would you like some?’

  ‘I had an interesting meeting, too.’

  Reluctantly, she stopped.

  ‘I ran into Carter,’ he said.

  She frowned. ‘Carter...?’

  ‘Ray.’ His voice carried an edge of impatience, as though he thought she were being deliberately obtuse. ‘Your lawyer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He offered his congratulations on our engagement and the baby.’

  ‘That’s...nice,’ she said, the skin at her nape beginning to prickle.

  ‘Asked if we knew yet if it’s a boy or a girl.’

  The prickling spread into her throat, then her chest, making it difficult to breathe. ‘Ramon...’

  ‘Said if we’re expecting a boy,’ he barrelled on, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘you should notify him so he can prepare to activate your inheritance as soon as the child is born.’

  Her breath stopped altogether. Oh, God.

  He stepped forward, his jaw clenching. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. Dangerous. ‘What did he mean, Emily?’

  She forced herself to breathe. Told herself it wasn’t a big deal. Not to her. Surely it wouldn’t be to Ramon?

  ‘There was a...a clause in my grandfather’s will. A ridiculous clause,’ she added. ‘It bequeathed a sum of money to me if certain...stipulations were met.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of stipulations?’

  She swallowed, embarrassed. ‘If I marry and produce a male heir by the age of thirty.’

  She heard his sharp inhale.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘S...sorry?’

 
‘How much money, Emily?’ he snapped, and she jumped, unaccustomed to him raising his voice.

  ‘Two million pounds,’ she croaked.

  ‘Dios.’ For a second, incredulity wiped the anger from his face. ‘And if you don’t?’

  ‘I forfeit the inheritance. The money goes to charity.’ She shifted her feet under his hardening stare. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it sooner, but it’s not important to me, Ramon. It was my grandfather’s eccentric attempt to ensure his legacy eventually passes to a male heir. I couldn’t care less about that money.’

  The hard gleam in his eyes remained. ‘Does your father know about the clause?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he want tonight?’ The cynical twist of his lips made his implication shockingly clear.

  She took a step back from him, her insides wrenching. ‘No.’ The word burst from her, almost a shout. She gave her head a vigorous shake. ‘You’re wrong.’

  He grasped her wrist, halting her retreat. ‘Don’t be naive, Emily,’ he said tersely.

  ‘I’m not being naive. You’re being twisted and cynical. And unfair!’ She tried to pull free but he held fast. ‘You have no idea what happened between my father and me tonight.’

  ‘Then tell me.’ He tugged her close and cupped his other hand under her jaw, forcing her gaze up to his. ‘Convince me he hasn’t crawled out of the woodwork after two months hoping to benefit from your potential windfall.’

  ‘That accusation is disgusting.’ Her voice trembled with outrage. His scepticism cast an icy pall over her optimism. Worse, it filled her head with horrible, stomach-shredding doubts. ‘My father has been in a rehab clinic for the last two months, if you must know. He’s getting himself together. And yes—’ she stared at him defiantly ‘—he wants to reconcile.’

  He gave a low, grating laugh. ‘Like I said, querida. Naive.’

  His mocking tone drove a dagger of hurt into her thundering heart.

  Ramon never spoke to her like this.

  Not the Ramon she knew.

  Not the Ramon she loved.

  But he’d not been the same man since Spain, had he? The awful incident with his friend’s brother had affected him on some deep level, somewhere far beyond the limit of her reach.

  ‘I don’t think this...this mood of yours is about my father at all,’ she challenged. ‘I think it’s about you.’

  As though she were suddenly radioactive, he released her and stepped back. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘It means you don’t believe you’re worthy of forgiveness, so you don’t think anyone else is either.’

  A savage frown furrowed his brow. ‘Forgiveness must be earned, Emily.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been doing, Ramon? Earning forgiveness these last twelve years?’ His expression darkened but she forged on. ‘Is that why you gave up your architectural career to join the family business? Why you set your sights on The Royce? Is it all about earning brownie points so your family forgives you?’

  ‘Emily.’ His voice was a low growl.

  She ignored the warning. ‘Do you know what the crazy thing is? You have amazing parents who love you, but you’re so busy keeping them at arm’s length you haven’t noticed they forgave you a long time ago.’

  ‘Enough!’ He slashed his hand through the air. ‘This is about your father. And I forbid you to see him.’

  Disbelieving laughter tore from her throat. ‘You can’t stop me seeing my father, Ramon.’ Before he said anything else that further shredded her heart, she spun on her heel and stormed into the kitchen.

  Ten seconds later, she heard the front door slam. The sound echoed through the empty flat and through her chest like the final, crippling thrust of his knife into her heart.

  * * *

  Ramon found a pub in the local village, wedged himself into a dimly lit corner and nursed a glass of single malt until his temper had cooled.

  Dios. Why was she so stubborn? So blind? So willing to give her father yet another chance?

  Maxwell was a gambler. Was it not obvious to her that he was playing an angle? Playing her?

  Protectiveness surged, fierce and overwhelming. He believed her about the money not mattering to her. If it had, she would have wanted to know their child’s sex as soon as possible, yet she had told the specialist she’d prefer to wait until the birth.

  But not to question the timing of Maxwell’s desire to reconcile was insanity.

  Perhaps they should find out the baby’s gender. It would put the matter to rest. If it was a girl, and Maxwell’s enthusiasm for connecting with his daughter suddenly waned, it would dispel any illusions.

  And break Emily’s heart at the same time.

  He pushed his empty glass away and rose, regret scything through him.

  He’d seen the look on her face when he had questioned Maxwell’s motives. He knew the sour mood he hadn’t shaken off since their disastrous weekend in Barcelona had lent his tongue a harsh, uncharacteristic edge. He’d hurt her. Which went against the grain of everything he was trying to achieve.

  And then she’d lashed back.

  I think it’s about you.

  His feet pounded the pavement, frustration congealing in his gut as he stalked the streets back to the flat. She’d seen him with his family for all of thirty-six hours and thought she understood him.

  She understood nothing.

  Nothing.

  When he arrived, she was waiting up, sitting in the window seat she favoured for quiet reflection. Her glorious golden hair flowed loose and a pair of flannel pyjamas swamped her delectable curves. He suspected the attire was a deliberate attempt to discourage him from intimacy. It didn’t work. He wanted to bundle her into his arms. Carry her to bed and make passionate love to her until the hurt and anger on her face dissolved into something else.

  His desire only deepened his frustration. Intensified the sense he was waging a losing battle within himself. Every part of him felt at odds. His emotions. His instincts. His desires.

  He wanted to protect her. From her father. From the world. From anything and anyone who dared to threaten the wellbeing of her and their child. But he also wanted to distance himself from her. Protect her from himself. From his inherent ability to hurt the people he loved.

  And Ramon had come to suspect that what he felt for this woman was raw, terrifying, unadulterated love.

  ‘I can’t marry you, Ramon.’

  He blinked, her statement skating over his thoughts, taking a moment to register. ‘What?’

  She uncurled from the cushions, stood and faced him. ‘You told me I wouldn’t have to do this alone.’

  He shook his head, confused. ‘You don’t. I’m here, Emily.’

  ‘Are you?’ She stared at him, her eyes gigantic pools of anguished grey in her pale face. ‘Because these last few days, it’s felt as if you’ve been somewhere else. As if you’ve erected a wall I can’t see over, or through.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ His denial was abrupt. Hoarse.

  ‘It is,’ she disputed. ‘And this business with my father—with the inheritance—it’s all just a smokescreen for the deeper issue.’

  Exasperation had him throwing up his hands. ‘Not this again.’

  ‘Yes, Ramon. This again. You have to forgive yourself and move on.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I learned something about my father tonight. He’s been running for a long time. Choosing the lifestyle he has because he’s afraid to love and lose again, the way he lost my mother. I think you’re running too, Ramon.’

  Her comparison with him to Maxwell cut to the bone. His nostrils flared. ‘I’m here, Emily,’ he repeated. ‘I haven’t run since the day you told me you were pregnant.’

  ‘Not physically.’ She stepped forward, pressing her hand against the centre of his chest. ‘But in here...you’re afraid. Afraid to get too close to people in case you hurt them.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ he gritted out.

 
; The look of utter sadness crossing her face sliced a sharp, unbearable pain through his chest. She dropped her hand. ‘I’m in love with you, Ramon,’ she said, and the words robbed his lungs of breath. ‘You’re the father of my baby and you’re a good man. I want to marry you, share a home, raise our child together. But I can’t be with you if you’re going to be emotionally distant, the way you are with your family. I—we—’ she placed her hand over the gentle swell of her belly ‘—deserve better.’

  She twisted the diamond and sapphire engagement ring off her left hand.

  ‘Emily...’

  ‘I’ve put your things in the spare room. You can stay tonight—or not. Up to you. But I want you to leave tomorrow. Take some time and decide if you’re ready to stop running. Until then—’ she put the ring on the coffee table ‘—I think you should hold onto this.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SO FAR EMILY had waited five days, and they’d been the longest, most misery-filled days of her life.

  She missed Ramon. Every hour. Every minute. Every second of every day.

  The weekend had been the worst. The home she usually adored had felt cold and soulless, and even an afternoon of baking had failed to stir any joy.

  And now, back in the office, seated at her desk and staring listlessly at her screen, work wasn’t proving the distraction she’d hoped for either.

  Her stomach churned with doubt and fear.

  She’d taken an enormous risk by confessing her love to her baby’s father then sending him away.

  Had she made a terrible mistake?

  She hadn’t wanted him to stay away. She’d wanted him to go and take a long, hard look inside himself and then come back to her.

  And tell her he loved her.

  Because she wouldn’t settle for less. For too many years she had pined for love. She couldn’t waste the rest of her life pining for his. He’d always have a place in their child’s life—she’d never deny her child its father—but she could not marry a man who didn’t love her.

  Emily’s phone pinged. Shutting off her thoughts, she delved into her bag and pulled out her phone.

  And froze.

  Her heart climbed into her throat.

  Ramon.