“Why, Layla? Can’t you give me that much? Is it your job? Do you have responsibilities to get back to?”
I wince, not wanting to lie to him. “It’s a lot of things I can’t explain.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He sits forward, returning to his elbows-on-knees position, his attention bearing down on me. “I already know you’re spying on the Costas. What else do you need to hide?”
If the question is a provocation to get me to look at him, it works. I meet his gaze, my pulse hammering in my throat, my heart squeezing with each rampant beat.
I want him to know me. Truly know me. But the knowledge wouldn’t work in my favor.
“Talk to me,” he demands. “You don’t get to share your body then simply walk away.”
If I don’t simply walk away, you wind up dead.
I don’t tell him that, though. I don’t give him the truth that would stop this inquisition in its tracks.
Instead, I resign myself to giving him a different glimpse into my life. A slightly less confronting admission to get him to back off. “I have a daughter.”
For a second, I don’t think the news bothers him.
His confidence and sophistication remain in place. Then, gradually, as if being siphoned by the smallest filter, his forthright stare turns weak. Those dark eyes lose their intensity. His lips part.
The change is incremental. Entirely punishing in its lethargy. But it’s there, the disappointment blinking back at me under midnight lashes.
“See? This is why I didn’t want to say anything. This—” I indicate the disturbance and turmoil now surrounding us with a wave of my hand, “—is exactly why I wanted to remain anonymous.”
And to think the existence of Stella is merely the tip of my complicated iceberg. He has no idea who he’s trying to get involved with.
“I guess it’s best if we part ways now.” I push to my feet. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I’ll see myself out.”
“No, you won’t.” He follows suit, bridging the distance around the coffee table in three determined steps to grab my robe-covered wrist. “You can’t blame me for being caught off guard. I didn’t expect you to be a mother. Not when there are no scars on your body. No stretch marks. Not even the barest hint of imperfection to indicate you carried and mothered a child. But that’s all this is, Layla. Shock.” He leans his face into mine, demanding I meet his pleading gaze. “Having a kid isn’t a deal breaker for me.”
Christ.
Who is this man? And what is he doing with my previously cemented conceptions of the opposite sex?
“Well, it is for me.” I square my shoulders, steeling myself against his charm. “Nothing is more important to me than my daughter. Nothing ever will be.” I twist my arm from his grip. “I still think it’s best if I leave.”
I hate the hesitance in my voice. I want him to stop me and I need him not to in the same breath. Before I can fall victim to my own weakness, I trek to the hall and into the bathroom to reclaim my clothes, wishing things didn’t have to be this way.
My shoulder doesn’t ache nearly as much when I pull on my stained blouse and jeans. It’s my chest that takes the brunt of my pain.
The emotional toll of this romantic rendezvous gets to me, sinking deeper and deeper until I raise my gaze and find him standing in the bathroom doorway.
“Is she—” His question falls short, his brows pinched as he drags a rough hand over his mouth. “Is one of those assholes her father? Is that why you’ve got eyes on Remy and Salvatore? Did they turn you away once they found out?”
“No.” I glare, despising the thought of those men fathering any child, let alone mine. “My husband is Stella’s father. She’s almost eleven.”
Matthew’s features relax.
That’s what he was worried about?
That’s what caused the change in his demeanor?
I guess I can’t blame him for thinking my enemy was my baby daddy when I’ve played along with his scorned lover assumption.
“My daughter has nothing to do with me being in Denver.” I ignore the regret that accompanies the lie. I can’t allow her to become more involved in this. “But she’s one of the reasons we can’t go beyond today. I’m a mother who lives on the opposite side of the country to you.”
“Portland isn’t more than a plane flight.”
Panic descends in a blinding rush, stealing the breath from my lungs before I can rein it in. I stare at him, aghast, partially livid, entirely caught off guard. “I never told you where I was from.”
I should’ve held my cards closer to my chest. Should’ve played along, pretending I hadn’t noticed the insight I never gave. But out of all the time we’ve spent together, right here, right now is the only instance where I hadn’t expected him to surprise me with deception.
Everything he’s done for me today lulled me into lowering my guard.
“I overheard the tail end of your conversation with the bank.” He raises his hands, offering surrender. “I was checking on you, and when I heard private information being shared I didn’t hang around.”
I want to believe him. The added squeeze of discomfort in my chest makes it obvious this isn’t just personal, it’s emotional. I’ve already been swept off my feet.
“What else did you hear?”
“Nothing.” His hands fall to his sides. “You still have your anonymity for now.”
I hold his gaze, trying to see any hidden deceit.
All that blinks back at me is sincerity. A cloying, agonizing seriousness that makes me want to blurt everything to him—my secrets, my failures. I need him to know the ins and outs of my life so he can find me lacking, because having him stare at me with adoration is a gift I don’t deserve.
He moves forward, approaching with slow caution.
“Don’t.” I backtrack, needing more time to catalogue the seriousness of his newfound knowledge. “Give me space.”
His jaw hitches as if I’ve struck him. “Why? Am I the enemy now?”
No, he’s the exact opposite. He’s the blessing I’m not entitled to. The warmth and happiness I haven’t earned. At least, not yet.
“Why, Layla? Tell me.”
I shake my head, attempting to fight how he’s already come to mean something to me even though we remain strangers.
“Tell me.” He continues up to me, his palms gently gliding over my biceps. “If you want me gone, I’m gone. I’m only staying in town for you.” He leans his hips against mine, suffusing me with warmth. “Tell me what you want from me.”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, backtracking farther, only endeavoring to drag him along with me.
“Then tell me what you don’t want.” He follows until I’m caged against the vanity.
“I don’t want to do something I’ll regret.” I’ve already endured too much of that. I can’t take any more.
“Like getting caught up with me?”
I close my eyes. Even behind clamped lids I see him. His intent. His hunger. “Like missing an opportunity to be with someone like you,” I admit.
His grip tightens on my arms. “Then don’t.” He leans closer, the brush of his breath skating over my lips. “We’ll find a way to make this work.”