by Noelle Adams
“Do you want me to pull off until it stops raining?” he murmured. “I don’t think it’s supposed to last long.”
She shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
“Are you sure?” He felt stiff and uncomfortable, infected by her obvious fear.
“I don’t like to let it defeat me.”
If it got any worse, he was going to pull off anyway. It was one thing to be brave. It was another to suffer for no good reason.
He couldn’t stand it, even if she could.
The light rain finally slackened. When he clicked off his wipers, Marietta released a shuddering sigh.
He glanced over at her, relieved she’d relaxed. “Has it always bothered you this much?”
She frowned and gave a half-shrug.
“Has it?”
“I usually don’t ride in a car when it’s going to rain.”
“Do you think avoiding the whole thing is the best way to—”
“It’s not really your business, is it?”
He tightened his lips at her clipped interruption.
After a taut silence, she said in softer tone, “I’m sorry for being testy. I’m just sensitive about it.”
“Understandably so.”
She peered at him suspiciously, as if she couldn’t believe his amenability. “In general, I’m quite well adjusted, you know.”
He smiled at the return of her characteristic lilting tone. “I never would have thought otherwise.”
“Seriously. It’s just riding in the rain that bothers me. And…”
“And what?” He wondered if her reaction that morning could somehow be connected to the effects of her trauma. That might explain why she’d suddenly been terrified for no apparent reason.
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Do you know how to drive?”
“No.” Her chin jutted, as if she were defying him to cast aspersions. “I ride my bike everywhere in Aix. I’ve never needed to drive.”
“You don’t want to learn just to learn?”
“No.”
Another silence stretched between them for several minutes.
“I used to want to do everything. When I was in my chair, I mean.”
His breath caught at the unexpected confession, and he shaped his words carefully. He wanted to hear more and worried she’d close up if he said the wrong thing. “And now?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I get scared.”
“Did you get scared this morning?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned to look at her. She nodded wordlessly.
“Of me?” He clenched the steering wheel too hard and forced himself to loosen his grip.
“No! I’m sorry you thought that. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.” She exhaled deeply. “I’m sorry about the whole thing. It wasn’t you. It was me. I just…got scared.”
“What scares you?”
“I don’t know. That’s what’s so frustrating. I’m just…just stuck. Look at how long it took me to have sex for the first time, and even then I almost panicked.”
Her tone was lighter—no doubt to cut the intense mood—so he responded in kind. “I don’t think there’s a set schedule for deflowerment that you were obliged to follow.”
She burst into surprised laughter. Then couldn’t seem to stop.
The tightness in Harrison’s chest unclenched as he listened to the warm, uninhibited sound.
He felt a hand on his arm, and when he looked over, she was smiling, hesitant but still somehow glowing. At him.
…
They meandered along the cliffs, and Marietta appeared to enjoy it. She told him about her favorite hikes in the hills of Provence, going on about how she loved to climb Mont Sainte-Victoire, the mountain near Aix. For the last year, her favorite spot to think was east of the old chapel on the mountain, where she could see the sprawling vista of sunlit hills, lush vineyards, and lavender fields.
“You can smell the fragrance of Provence from the mountain,” she said.
Harrison listened to her description and asked a few questions, pleased she sounded more like herself. The accident and lingering effects of her trauma distracted him, however.
Marietta must have had the same thought at the back of her mind because, on their return walk, she asked, “Were you close to Michael?”
A long moment passed before he answered. “Not really. He was two years younger than me—the same age as Andrew—but he and Benjamin lived in the States. I only saw him a couple of times a year until that summer he interned for my uncle.”
“You lived in the States, too, didn’t you? When you were a kid?”
“Yes. I didn’t move here until my parents died. I was twelve then. But we lived on the other side of the country from Michael and Benjamin. It was a long way to visit.”
Marietta took a ragged breath and stared down at the pebble beach and rhythmic waves below the cliff. “My sister thought he was cute.”
Harrison closed his eyes, hating that horrible day.
“Were you working with your uncle then, too?”
“I was twenty and still at university, so I wasn’t with him full time. But I always worked in his office in the summers.” He sensed her eyes on him but didn’t meet her gaze. “I was working for him that day. You know, my uncle had asked me to pick you all up from your flight. Michael’s driving the rental car was my idea. I didn’t want to drag myself to the airport.”
He heard her quick intake of air. Then felt her hand on his chest. He looked down, surprised to see her gray eyes wide and anxious. “Harry—Harrison, you don’t think it was your fault, do you?”
She sounded as horrified as Andrew had.
“Of course not.” He felt like an idiot and vowed to keep random comments like that to himself in the future.
She gripped his shirt and regarded him. “Harrison?”
“I don’t think that, Etta.”
“Good. Because taking responsibility for that is just…”
“Just what?” he asked with arched eyebrows.
“Just stupid.”
Her tone was mild, but he tensed and pulled away from her anyway. They weren’t far from the car now, and it was getting late.
“I didn’t mean it as an insult.” She jogged to keep up with him.
“I didn’t take it as one.” His tone was cool, though. He felt awkward, and he didn’t like the feeling.
“I just meant that it couldn’t possibly be your fault.”
“I know what you meant. As I just said, I wasn’t insulted.”
He could feel her peering up at him as they walked, so he schooled his expression to reveal nothing.
“Oh. Okay. So you suddenly had to go to the bathroom really bad?”
When he cut his gaze back, he saw a hint of wry amusement on her face. She was visibly tired and upset, and it wasn’t her wittiest sally, but she was trying.
He almost—almost—smiled back.
“We should get going,” was all he said.
She grabbed his arm, and he pulled away as gently as he could. She made a frustrated noise. “Is this how it goes? You get to dig into all of my issues as if you’re entitled, but you clam up if we cross even one toe over into your issues?”
He tightened his lips. “What issues are you referring to?”
“I don’t know. But something made you react like this.”
“Can we just let it alone, please?” he asked with a thick sigh.
“Okay.”
He didn’t trust her easy acquiescence. She looked at him innocently, however, and he relaxed as they returned to the car in silence.
They’d gotten in and shut the doors when she said, “I’ve been thinking about it. And here’s what I think your issue is.”
He couldn’t stifle a groan.
That glint of humor flickered in her eyes again. “If you need to find a bathroom that badly, we can probably stop somewhere on the way back.”
He ignored her attempt to break the tens
ion. “Oh no. I’m waiting to hear about my issue.”
“You hold yourself to impossible standards.”
He frowned as he pulled the car out of its parking spot. “And how do you imagine that playing out?”
“You talked about your uncle’s standards this morning and how you’ve always been able to meet them. But Andrew hasn’t come anywhere close to your uncle’s standards, and he hasn’t been sent packing. I think it’s your standards that are really the problem. You think you have to do everything, fix everything, take responsibility for everything.”
“And you’ve come to this profound conclusion from one idle snippet of discussion?” His tone was so dry it was almost brittle.
“No. From everything I’ve seen you do. You’re not as deep and complex as you think, you know.”
He didn’t respond. He was breathing heavily. Too heavily. There was no reason to let her affect him this way.
She had no business prying into his soul.
“But I don’t think it’s because you’re a perfectionist. I think it’s your way of keeping the world from falling apart again.”
Her insight so surprised him that he pressed the brake too suddenly. The car lurched. After a minute, he asked in a clipped tone, “And when, in this little fantasy you’ve concocted, was my world supposed to have fallen apart the first time?”
She slumped against the seat. “It must have felt that way when your parents died.”
It had. He’d been helpless, terrified. With nothing but a journal for consolation.
And then the world had fallen apart again after Michael’s accident.
It wasn’t something he could talk about—with Marietta or anyone else.
“So you try to keep it from happening by meeting your impossible standards. You try to fix it. And it just makes it worse that you’re a Damon.” She spoke slowly, as if she processed the ideas as she went. “Because…”
“Because what?” Instinctively, he knew she’d stopped because she had something negative to say about his family.
She swallowed and looked away from him.
“Because what?” he bit out.
She met his eyes and pursed her lips. “Because there’s so much that needs to be fixed.”
Chapter Eight
The brunette from the bookstore was at the dinner party wearing another pair of ridiculously high heels.
Predictably, the woman attached herself to Harrison. Every time Marietta looked over, she was pawing him or patting his cheek or laughing enticingly at a joke he’d made.
It was enough to make Marietta ill.
She was wearing her gorgeous new outfit, with her grandmother’s pearls and her strappy black heels. She’d swept her hair up into a French twist and applied dark red lipstick. Marietta couldn’t remember a time she’d looked better, except maybe at the nightclub in Monte Carlo.
Not that anyone seemed to notice.
Harrison hadn’t spoken to her since the party began.
He knew she was here. He’d looked in her direction as she’d entered the room, observing her in his cool, watchful way. He’d nodded but hadn’t come over to greet her the way Andrew and his uncle had. Now he appeared to have forgotten her existence.
Which was fine. How could he remember anything with that brunette draped over him like a stole?
Marietta turned away, telling herself not to be petty or foolish. Obviously her feelings for Harrison made it difficult, but she shouldn’t act like a child just because he hadn’t paid her any attention.
He was probably still bristling about yesterday. He’d been angry about what she’d said about his family, and they hadn’t spoken on the ride home.
His family might have lived the last two decades buried in tragedy, dysfunctional relationships, corporate machinations, and public attention, but he clearly resented her saying anything about them needing to be fixed.
She shouldn’t have said anything, even though she thought her deductions were true. For some reason, she’d felt close to him—close enough to share things she rarely shared with anyone. She’d wanted him to do the same, but she should have known better.
They weren’t friends. They weren’t close.
He was a Damon, and he’d never be anything else.
But surely it wouldn’t kill him to say hi.
She wandered over to gaze out one of the windows at the beautifully lit gardens and fountain when a light finger grazed the back of her neck. Harrison.
She shivered when the finger moved down her spine.
With a gasp, she jerked her head to look back at the finger-grazer.
Not Harrison. She’d recognized the difference in the touch before she’d verified the eyes sparkling at her were green.
“Your neck was so deliciously exposed,” Andrew drawled. “How could I resist?”
She quirked her lips at him, hiding her disappointment. “You didn’t abandon your poor date, did you?” She searched for the gorgeous redhead he’d brought to the party.
“Of course not. She had to find the powder room.” He tsked. “Too much to drink.”
Marietta chuckled.
Her laughter faded when she caught the brunette whispering something into Harrison’s ear.
Following her gaze, Andrew said blithely, “Did you meet Marie? Beautiful, isn’t she? We’ve always assumed she and old Harrison would get together eventually.”
“Oh.”
“The families have been friends for ages.”
“Of course.” Marietta kept her face neutral, conscious of Andrew’s discreet scrutiny.
“I hope you’re feeling better,” he said, idly running a finger down her bare arm.
“Feeling better?”
“After the other day, I mean. I’m still sorry about the ride.”
“Oh. I’m just fine, thanks. I was a little sore, but nothing major.”
The green eyes scanned her face with concern. “I hope the massages helped.”
Marietta sucked in a sharp breath. “The massages?”
“Yes. The masseur came, didn’t he? Yesterday and the day before?”
“Yes, of course.” She swallowed hard and struggled to keep her expression calm. “It was…it was nice of you to think of that.”
“No problem.” Andrew gave her a broad grin. “I thought it might help.”
Marietta glanced away, a sharp pain in her throat. She’d thought Harrison had been the one to summon the masseur for her. She’d thought it such a sweet and considerate gesture. It had meant a lot that he’d thought of her and had wanted to do something else to help.
But it had been Andrew. Not Harrison.
“Oops,” Andrew said, his eyes focused on the doorway. “My date has returned. And it looks like she found another drink.”
He left her with a friendly farewell, and Marietta wandered away, sipping her drink. She’d been relieved that champagne was the drink of choice at the party. There were also mixed drinks and some good red wine, but no beer.
Feeling ridiculously deflated, she went out through a pair of French doors and stood on the balcony. The sun was setting, and the air was crisp. The breeze felt cool on her flushed face.
After a moment she became conscious of a presence behind her. This time she knew exactly who it was. She didn’t turn around. “How old is the fountain?”
“It’s from the eighteenth century,” Harrison said, coming over to stand beside her at the ornate rail. “But it was crumbling when my uncle bought the estate. He had to completely restore it.”
“It must have cost a fortune.”
“Yes. But he loves this old place. And he has plenty of money.”
Marietta gazed at him for the first time this evening. He was breathtaking in his elegant black tux, and the characteristic tension in his body seemed to have eased.
She glanced in through the French doors, speculating how he’d rid himself of his brunette encumbrance.
“I sent her home to get some new shoes,” he said, reading her min
d. “I was tired of her always falling on top of me.” His brown eyes glinted whimsically.
Marietta choked on a laugh. “Very rude of you to remind me of my petty remark. She really is very pretty.”
“Yes. She is.”
“Andrew said that you two—”
“Andrew says a lot of things. You’d do well not to listen very closely.” His expression hardened, and Marietta wondered why he was annoyed with his brother.
“But he’s been very nice to me.”
Harrison frowned. “I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”
“Bothering me?”
“Every time I see him, he seems to have his hands all over you.”
Marietta felt a little thrill at his bristling tone. So that was why he was irritated with Andrew.
“Please let me know if he becomes a nuisance. A guest in our home should not have to suffer being mauled.”
Despite her growing hopefulness, Marietta couldn’t help but arch her eyebrows at the colossal hypocrisy of this statement.
Harrison cleared his throat and glanced away. “Yes, well, I apologized for that.”
“I know,” she said with a smile. “And you’ve been very kind to me, considering.”
“Considering?” He tensed almost imperceptibly.
Marietta was rattled. Did he still think she was a heartless liar? “Considering that you think I’m a…”
“A lying schemer and gold-digging extortionist?”
Her eyes shot to his face, only to see that whimsical expression again. They stared at each other until Marietta got nervous and broke the gaze. She turned around, leaning against the balcony rail and studying the mingling crowd inside.
Maybe he wasn’t still angry about yesterday. Maybe he’d changed his mind about her.
Harrison turned too, and rested beside her on the rail. They didn’t speak, just relaxed in a companionable silence that reminded Marietta of how nice socializing with him could be. Natural. Like home.
She wasn’t sure why she’d panicked in his arms yesterday.
Then his fingers brushed her nape, much like Andrew had touched her earlier. Only nothing like Andrew. Harrison’s soft caress left her tingling, and her breathing quickened.
He didn’t look at her but continued to rub his fingers along her bare skin—from her hairline to the lace of her camisole. Her body responded to his touch with a shudder deep in her core, and her cheeks flushed.
