“Fuss, yes.” I get a little lost in his indigo gaze and the lick of warmth between my legs that look creates. I clear my throat. “Because I have this motto in life—”
“You have a motto? What a coincidence. I have one, too. It’s a family motto.” Pulling me under his arm. “Does yours have a heraldic shield?”
“If you stop interrupting, I might tell you.”
Alexander turns to face me, throwing back his head as he laughs.
“I’m sorry,” he says, assuming the appearance seriousness. “Please tell me about your motto, Holland.” His hands are warm against my hips, and as he begins to rub his thumbs over my hip bones, I go all melty and liquid between. Not that he can tell. Not the way I sniff, glance away, and then give a little shrug. Whatevs.
“It’s called . . . I just want to see what I can get away with. That’s it. That’s my motto.” His hands tighten as he slides me a sly glance. “And do you know what I’ve always wanted to get away with?” He shakes his head slowly like he thinks he knows exactly what I want to get away with. Or what he’d like me to. I tip up on my toes and bring my lips to his ear. “Falling in love with a man who owns a crown.”
His hands slide lower, cupping my butt and pulling me against him.
“You know,” his low tone rumbles, “I think you might be in luck.”
“No, Alexander.” I press a kiss to the little v against his collarbone. “I think I might be in love.”
“Oh, Holland.” His hands band at my back in a hug that’s nothing short of fortifying.
“I’ve been trying very hard not to fall in love with you, telling myself I wasn’t, that I couldn’t—”
“This is just perfect,” says a woman’s voice from somewhere behind his broad shoulders. Alexander’s hug turns to a hold, that kind that squeezes the air from my lungs.
“What is it?” I look up, realising his complexion is now the colour of milk, and the expression he’d been wearing, that sly amusement and joy, has gone. “Alexander?” I repeat. He doesn’t move when I slide my head around him. A caramel blonde stands on the stone steps. She looks at home there. Tall and attractive, she looks expensive from the roots of her shiny hair to the pointed tips of her even shinier designer high heels. She also looks familiar.
“Sandy,” she purrs, “haven’t you a better greeting for your long-lost wife?”
48
Holly
“Aren’t we going to the family apartments?” the woman asks as Alexander marches her into the nearest room, almost throwing her into it.
No, not the woman. His wife. His long-lost wife.
I think I must be in shock. Or maybe I’ve hit my head, and this is all some kind of nightmare. One minute, I’m professing my love for him, and the next, he’s . . . married. As in, no longer available.
“You’re not family,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”
“I like what you’ve done with the place up there, by the way.”
“Start talking,” Alexander growls, glancing back at me as he prepares to close the door. He hasn’t looked at me once since he’d turned the colour of soured milk and stumbled away from me. Shock, I guess. But he’s looking at me now. Glaring. Because he expected me to follow them into the room.
“Did you know?” I ask, not moving from the spot he’d left me. Two steps and he’s back in front of me. And I don’t need his answer, not after taking a good look at his expression.
“Do you think I would be on the brink of proposing to you—that I.” He grabs my elbow. “If she was going to come back from the dead, of course it would be right at this moment.” This he almost mutters to himself before his grip tightens and his attention turns outward again. “You want to know how I know I love you? Because love is the absolute opposite to hate. And that’s what I feel for that woman in there.”
“But she’s your wife.” Now, I almost add. Still?
“No, she is not.” A shudder vibrates down his arm, transferring to mine. Anger. Frustration. Panic, maybe? But then he seems to gather himself before me. Straightening, he takes back command. “Holland, please. Just don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave.”
I nod my head in agreement, unable to find the words. I wasn’t about to go running for the hills, probably because my leaden feet wouldn’t carry me there.
Clasping my hand, he kisses me again, lips closed, his mouth hard and unforgiving as though he’d punish me for my words. “Call Isla,” he whispers quickly as he pulls away again. “Tell her not to bring the boys back here. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.” His phrasing brings a strange kind of relief. What we’re dealing with.
“Is she dangerous?” I ask haltingly.
“Leonie is . . .” He shakes, like he still doesn’t believe she’s here. “Ruthless.”
Back out in the hall, I almost bump into Griffin immediately. Him and his dark and swollen eye. A bruise to match the one I’d noticed on Alexander’s lower back this morning. The one making him wince. At least that makes sense.
“What—” His gaze flicks to the door behind me. “Fuck!” His hand to his mouth, he looks like he’s seen a ghost. And I guess he has.
“Oh, good,” drawls the feminine cut-glass accent from the other room. “The whole gang is here now. Just like old times.”
The whole gang? As in, the three of them? Is this the cause of the animosity between Alexander and Griffin? And the bruises? No, at least, not these ones.
“Hey.” Back to the matter in hand, I whisper into the phone as the call connects. “It’s Holly.”
“Hello, Holly,” Archie chirps.
“Hey, Arch, could you put your mom on.”
“You’re on speakerphone. Mummy’s driving,” he explains happily.
“Oh.” Damn.
“I called shotgun, and Hugh is in a huff.”
“Am not,” mutters his brother, his tone quieter.
“Isla, Alexander has asked me to ask you not to come home. Not right now, at least. Not until he calls.”
“Why?” There’s surprise in her tone. Suspicion? A hint of amusement. “I’m quite sure the place is big enough to—”
“Could you pull over?” I say hurriedly. “I need to speak to you.”
“Hang on.”
The boys murmur questions, and Isla shushes them. Meanwhile, I begin to bite the skin around my thumb, my ears straining to hear what’s going on in the other room. I do what I can do and lower my hand. This is an old habit I’m not about to pick up again.
“Okay.” The car door slams shut, the change in the background noise immediate. Cars. The whistle of the wind. The no-nonsense clip to Isla’s tone.
What do I say to her? How can I explain?
The bitch is back? But maybe she isn’t a bitch. No, she’s definitely a bitch, and not just for coming back from the dead with bad timing. Maybe it could’ve been worse—I shake my head. What’s done is done. There’s no use pretending things are otherwise. But how do you break that to someone without them seeing it with their own eyes? Will Isla have the same response as Alexander? Disbelief. Anger. Abhorrence. There was no relief there. Not even a little.