He nodded, and we drove off.
“Where are we going?” she asked, as my hand stroked her thigh.
“It’s a surprise.” I grinned.
30
* * *
PENELOPE
WHEN WE PARKED AT a terrace house overlooking the park, I wondered if we were visiting someone.
I waited for Patrick to open my door. He liked doing that. Even if it felt strange stepping out with a tall, burly fellow holding a door open in broad daylight, it always attracted attention.
Blake touched my skirt. “Is this new?”
“Uh-huh. I picked it up at Oxfam.”
His brows knitted. “Why are you shopping there? Why don’t you take the credit card I offered?”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s nice. And you look, as always, unique and beautiful. But I can afford to buy you new clothes. Whatever you desire.”
“But new things aren’t always as unique as old things.”
“That’s the beauty of designer clothes—they’re one-offs.” He brushed my cheek, and his eyes impaled me.
My heart skipped a beat at the thought of making love just like we had the night before. Divinely heavy after shaking through multiple orgasms, I’d fallen into a deep sleep and hadn’t even noticed Blake sneaking off.
I hated us sleeping apart. And knowing that he planned to visit a therapist filled me with hope. I only wished he’d open up to me.
I followed him through the filigree iron gate, and we came to a red door with a brass knocker.
Blake opened the door.
“Oh, you live here, too?” I asked.
Making room for me to pass, he remained quiet.
We walked down the hallway and entered a large sunny room with a bay window that overlooked the park. There was a sofa, a coffee table, and Tiffany lamps positioned on empty bookshelves. The mid-tone-blue walls with their white ornamented cornices were bare.
Blake crooked his finger for me to follow. We stepped into a kitchen overlooking a garden brimming with flowers and herbs.
I couldn’t imagine why he’d brought me there.
Blake led me by the hand to a room surrounded by windows looking out at the garden.
“How lovely,” I said.
“It’s yours.”
I frowned. “Huh? What do you mean?”
“The house is yours. I bought it for you,” he declared, looking pleased.
“You can’t be serious?”
He pointed. “This would make a great studio. There’s even a sink for washing your paints. The light …”
“I can’t take this,” I interrupted, gulping back disbelief, even though I had quickly grown in love with the place. How could I not? It was stunning. The garden. The park views. A studio to die for. “This must have cost you over a million pounds.”
“I made that in a couple of days, Penelope.” He cocked his beautiful head.
My jaw dropped at that admission. “I’d love to live here. I really would.”
He took me into his arms, and I melted into his strong frame. “Then there’s no problem.”
“Maybe I could pay you rent.” I thought about the cash in my account.
I wondered if I could move my mother to this house. But the thought of that sat uncomfortably in my gut. Renting her a flat somewhere close would be the best option so that I could look out for her.
“No rent. It’s yours. Please.” His chin touched his neck as he peered into my eyes. The sun hit his eyes, making them spellbindingly turquoise.
“Come upstairs.”
I followed him up to the second floor and found a large bedroom with a little balcony that overlooked the park. It was so perfect that a tear splashed onto my cheek.
Blake smiled tenderly and held me. “You deserve it. Think of the great art you’ll create. And I know where you live.”
I pulled away. “What?”
“I know you live at that rundown estate.”
“You’ve had me followed?”
“Not as such. Your friend Lilly’s being stalked by a man who has some pretty nasty connections. She’s being watched, and you’ve been spotted there. A little digging revealed that’s where you live with your mother.”
“A little digging? You know about my mother?” I sank down onto the bed and buried my head in my hands. Although it heartened me to learn that Lilly was being protected, I felt violated.
“A guy’s been spotted going in and out. He looks shady.”
“That’s Frank.” I let out a sigh. The knots started to unwind. Too raw to fight it, I surrendered.
Blake sat on the bed, holding my hand. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. My family life wasn’t pretty.”
I turned sharply to face him. “Tell me. It will make me feel better.”
“It’s a long shitty story. I’m not ready for that.” His eyes wore a hint of fragility.
“You live such a privileged life. How the hell could I admit to coming from that slum?” I looked down at my feet.
“Don’t judge a billionaire by his cover. Behind many a success story, there’s a junkyard of seedy transactions and hidden scandals.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Not as such.” He opened his hands. “I meant that most people are ashamed of something. And the richer the person is, unless they’ve been under a rock, the more likely that they have a parent who’s addicted to drugs and alcohol, has affairs, or conducts shady deals.” He cast me an earnest half grin. “I would never judge you based on your family. I don’t subscribe to that form of snobbery.” He fixed his gaze on me. “I’m with you because of you, Penelope.”
I took a deep breath. “My mom’s a junkie. She’s been shooting up heroin all my life.” I couldn’t look at him. His pity would have killed me.
Painful silence created distance between us. He lifted my face to meet his. It wasn’t sympathy in his eyes but something more profound— recognition and understanding, as though he’d been there himself.
“That’s not your fault. You don’t have to wear the shame of your mother’s habit.”
A lump had settled in my throat. I couldn’t talk.
“Will you accept my offer of rehab for your mother? Or I should ask, would she accept it?”
I shook my head in disbelief. “We’ve been seeing each other barely a month, and you buy me a house. And now you’re offering to pay for my mom’s rehab. Blake…”
His lips drew a tight line. “This is small change.” He pointed to the walls. “As is paying for your mother’s rehab.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I crumbled with emotion. Tears streamed down my face.
By radiating a calm, nonjudgmental manner, Blake managed to soothe me.
“You’ll have to tell me about your life growing up, Blake. It seems hardly fair that you know all about mine.”
“I don’t know about your father.”
“Nor do I.” My dryness reflected my lack of emotion on that subject.
He studied me. A line deepened between his dark eyebrows. “I take it you don’t know who your father was?”