His light teasing didn’t produce the effect he’d sought—the lightening of the shadows that had crowded into her gaze.
“But it’s difficult to discover the one person you believed loved you unconditionally didn’t trust you.”
The tone—quiet, almost tranquil—didn’t match the words. So one of them was a deception. From personal experience, he’d bet on the tone.
And against his better judgment but to his dick’s delight, when he reached out, grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipped her head back, he had confirmation.
Her eyes. Those magnificent, beautiful eyes couldn’t lie. If windows were eyes to the soul, Reagan’s were fucking floor-to-ceiling bay windows thrown wide open to the world.
A man could lose himself in them. Step inside and never leave.
With a barely concealed snarl directed at himself, he dropped his arm and just managed not to step back. In retreat. Because that’s what it would be. Flight from the need to fall into the pool of those eyes.
He’d had that sensation of drowning before. And he’d willingly dived in. And now the person who was supposed to be there to always keep him afloat lay in the ground at both of their feet.
Fuck it. He took that step back.
“Why do you think she didn’t trust you?” he asked, focusing on Reagan and not the fear that scratched at his breastbone.
She released a short, brittle huff. “Think? I know.”
Shifting, she gave him her profile, but he caught the slight firming of her lips, the drag of her fingertips across the left side of her collarbone. He narrowed his eyes on the small movement. She’d done that the night of the party. Was it a subconscious tell on her part? He catalogued the detail to take out and analyze later.
“Well, tell me why she didn’t trust you, then,” he pushed. Gently, but it was still a push. Something inside him—something ephemeral but insatiable—hungered to know more about this woman who had grown up right under his nose but remained this familiar, sexy-as-hell stranger.
“Did you know that I’m a millionaire?” she asked, dodging his question—no, his demand.
Ezekiel nodded. “I’m not surprised. Your father is a very successful—”
“No.” She waved a hand, cutting him off. “Not through my father. In my own right, I’m a millionaire. When my grandmother died, she left each of her three grandchildren enough money to never have to worry about being taken care of. But that’s the thing. She did worry. About me anyway.” No breeze kicked up over the quiet cemetery, yet she crossed her arms, clutching her elbows. “She added a stipulation to her will. I can only receive my inheritance when I turn thirty—or marry. And not just any man. A suitable man.”
Her lips twisted on suitable, and he resisted the urge to smooth his thumb over the curve, needing to eradicate the bitterness encapsulated in it. That emotion didn’t belong on her—didn’t sit right with him.
“The condition doesn’t mean she didn’t trust you. Maybe she just wanted to make sure you were fully mature before taking on the responsibility and burden that comes with money.”
Not that he believed that bullshit. Age didn’t matter as much as experience. Hell, there were days he looked in the mirror and expected to glimpse a bent, wizened old man instead of his thirty-year-old self.
“I could accept that if I weren’t the only grandchild hit with that proviso. Doug and Christina might both be married, but neither of them had that particular restriction on their inheritance. Just me.”
“Why?” he demanded.
Confusion and anger sparked inside him. He was familiar with Reagan’s older brother and younger sister, and both were normal, nice people. Maybe a little too nice and, well, boring. But Reagan? She was the perfect image of a Royal socialite—composed, well-mannered and well-spoken, serving on several committees, free of the taint of scandal, reputation beyond reproach. So what the hell?
She didn’t immediately reply but stared at him for several long moments. “Most people would’ve asked what I did to earn that censure.”
“I’m not most people, Ray,” he growled.
“No, you’re not,” she murmured, scanning his face, and then, she shook her head. “The why doesn’t really matter, does it? What does matter is that at twenty-six, I’m in this holding pattern. Where I can see everyone else enjoying the lives they’ve carved out for themselves—and I can’t move. Either I chain myself to a man I barely know and don’t love to access my inheritance. Or I stay here, static for another four years while my own dreams, my own needs and wants wither and die on the vine.”
Once more, she’d adopted that placid tone, but this time, Ezekiel caught the bright slashes of hurt, the red tinge of anger underneath it.
“I’m more than just the daughter of Douglas Sinclair. I’m more than just the member of this and that charity committee. Not that I’m denigrating their work. It’s just... I want to...be free,” she whispered, and he sensed that she hadn’t meant for that to slip. For him to hear it.
What did she mean by free? Not for the first time, he sensed Reagan’s easygoing, friendly mask hid deeper waters. Secrets. He didn’t trust secrets. They had a way of turning around and biting a person in the ass. Or knocking a person on it.
“Surely your father can find a way around the will. Especially if it seems to penalize you but not your brother or sister,” he argued, his mind already contemplating obtaining a copy of the document and submitting it to Wingate Enterprises’s legal department to determine what, if anything, could be done. Some loophole.
“My father doesn’t want to find a way around it,” she admitted softly, but the confession damn near rocked him back on his heels. “My grandmother did add a codicil. She left it up to my father’s discretion to enforce the stipulation. He could release the money to me now or respect her wishes. He’s decided he’d rather see me married and settled. Taken care of, are his words. As if I’m a child to be passed from one guardian to another like luggage. Or a very fragile package.” She chuckled, and the heaviness of it, the sadness of it, was a fist pressed against Ezekiel’s chest. “That’s not far off, actually.”
Understanding dawned, and with it came the longing to grab Douglas Sinclair by his throat.
“So that’s what the introductions to man after man were about?” he asked.
“The night of James Harris’s party?” She nodded. “Yes. And the not-so-subtle invites to our home for dinner. In the last week, there have been three. I feel like a prized car on an auction block. God, it’s humiliating.” For the first time, fire flashed under that calm, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to applaud the emotion or draw her into his arms to bank it. He did neither, retaining that careful distance away from her. “I just want to yell screw it all and walk away completely. No money, no husband I don’t want. But...”