No Longer Forbidden? (19 page)

He couldn’t examine it, because this was the foggy morning at boarding school all over again. After this, after Rowan had looked right into him, she’d see what everyone but he saw—the lack. The flaw that had made him a child to be turned from without looking back. He swallowed.

“A second chance for me,” he admitted, cringing at how pathetic that sounded. “At having a family.”

She looked as bloodless as he felt.

He shook his head in slow negation, all sensation falling away as a rushing sound invaded his ears. “I was fooling myself.”

“That’s not true, Nic—” Rowan started forward but he froze, lifting hands to ward her off, unwilling to have her touch him when he felt so skinless.

The way Nic threw up a wall of resistance, looking utterly rigid, like a block of stone, stopped Rowan in her tracks. She flashed back to the way he’d clamped down on his wistful sadness when talking of his siblings that morning and her heart tipped out of balance on a hard
oh
. How had she ever thought Nic was detached? He was the opposite.
His emotions were so scythe-like he couldn’t bear to experience them.

“It doesn’t matter,” he asserted.

The backs of her eyes began to sting. She hated herself then for working her body into sterility. For provoking him into unprotected sex and letting him think briefly that she could give him what he needed. She
never
could.

A terrifying bleakness filled her. If he had loved her they might have found a workaround on making a family together, but there was absolutely no hope for a future with him now.

Rowan ducked her head and brushed a strand of hair back from her face, revealing a porcelain cheek locked in a paroxysm of disorientation and panic.

What must she be thinking? Nic wondered. That she was relieved not to be saddled with an emotional derelict? That she’d had a lucky break? That what he’d revealed made her so uncomfortable she wanted him out of her space?

“I know I’m not like other people,” he said, trying to gloss over his confiding something so personal and implausible. “I observe life. I don’t participate in it. Yes, I would try to make the best of things, but my best isn’t good enough. Any child I created would only suffer and turn out like me. Emotionally sterile.”

“No, Nic. That’s not true …”

He rejected her outreached hand with an averting of his head. Her shoulders were sinking in defeat and he wanted to pull her softness into him, beg her to fix the broken spaces in him, but he knew enough about relationships to know that was not what you asked of another person. You didn’t burden them with fulfilling you. Either you came into the relationship whole and able to offer something to build on, or you did the right thing and walked away, leaving them intact.

“I should get back to work,” he said.

When Rowan didn’t say anything he glanced at her.

She was staring with wide eyes, her lips pale in a kind of shock. Finally she offered up a barely perceptible, “Me, too.”

He made himself leave, but felt her gaze follow him all the way down the hall.

“You’re saying Legal is holding you up?” Nic paraphrased a week later, barely listening to the litany of excuses being offered to him.

“Yes, that’s exa—”

“Learn to say more with less, Graeme. That’s how this corporation has grown to where it is. Have Sebastyen call me.” He ended the call, telling himself to quit acting like every self-important bastard in need of anger management classes he’d ever worked with. He was going on a week without sleep, his appetite shot despite Rowan leaving him hearty stews and tender souvlaki and chocolate brownies that melted on his fingers. He wanted an end to this unbearable tension, but the clock ticking down on his time with her frayed his temper a little more each day.

His laptop burbled with an incoming call. Sebastyen got to the heart of the matter immediately. “We’re dragging our feet on several initiatives, waiting on the signing of the petition and the reading of the will. Did you receive the revised documents? Any word on when you’ll see forward movement on that?”

Nic glanced at the date on his screen’s calendar. He’d been putting off talking to Rowan, knowing it would upset her, but time was running out on that too. He ended the call with Sebastyen and went looking for her.

She was in the breakfast room, where abundant windows around the bottom of the south-eastern turret caught
the morning sun and French doors led onto the front courtyard. Bins from the island’s thrift store were stacked next to sealed boxes adorned with international courier labels.

“Rowan?”

She jerked, and the look she cast him was startled and wary. They were only speaking when they had to, and every conversation was stiff and awkward. They stared at each other, face-to-face for the first time in days.

Nic wanted to rub at the numb ache that coated his scalp and clung like a mask across his cheeks. His facial muscles felt locked in a scowl. He’d been trying to put her back at a distance, but all he could think was that he’d let her inside him and now there was no way to get her out.

He’d been devastated by her infertility. She wanted a family and something in him desperately wished he could give her one, even though he’d heard her qualifications loud and clear.
The right man. Not now
. His entire being was hollow with the knowledge that even she knew he would ultimately disappoint her.

He took in the growing fretfulness in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he lied, with a pinch on his conscience. “I just need to talk to you about the papers I asked you to sign.”

Her back went up immediately. Her knuckles on the pen she clutched glowed like pearls. “I said I’d do it tomorrow. I will.”

“That’s not it. Legal had to make a change.” He took a breath. “After I explained that your parents were still married.”

Her brow pleated, but her confused expression quickly gave way to dawning comprehension.

Rowan distantly absorbed what had never occurred to her. The relationship between her parents had been so minimized
the last thing she would have called her father was Cassandra’s next of kin.
She
was her mother’s closest relative. But that wasn’t actually true and of course Nic was way ahead of her on that.

“Don’t—please don’t go to my father with those papers.” Waiting to sign the papers tomorrow was her one excuse to stay here with him. For him to yank that away would cause a huge fissure to open in her.

“I was only going to offer to do it if you prefer not to,” he assured her gently. “But he does have to be the one who signs.”

Her heart gave a hard beat. Of course he did. She should have seen that ages ago. But her mind hadn’t been on anything but tomorrow—and not for the reason it should be. She was leaving and her heart was breaking. She shook herself back to reality.

“You caught me off guard. Of course I’ll take them to him. I should have realized.”

He shrugged off her stilted promise with stiff negligence. They couldn’t seem to overcome the intimate revelations of a few days ago. It had drawn a line beneath their relationship, leaving it summed up as unworkable. He wanted children. She couldn’t give him any. He thought he was incapable of love. She couldn’t prove him wrong when he couldn’t love
her
.

Did
she love him? Yes. Her girlish crush had deepened and matured into something abiding and strong. But so what? She had thought an affair could bring them closer, that she would touch him, draw him out, but she had turned into yet another person who had raised his expectations and then dashed them. He’d never trust in her love.

“While I have your attention …” she began, and then had to clear her throat.

Her abdomen tightened with foreboding. She told herself
to quit being so nervous. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been mentally preparing herself for this. She had been working nonstop on arrangements, determined to finish by Nic’s deadline as a matter of pride. She had talked to Frankie, booked travel, and even begun packing her things. She still found herself beginning to shake.

Get a grip, Ro. You knew the end was coming
.

Which was the part that was making her fall apart. Dispensing of things was sad, but they were just things. Even the house was something she was gradually letting go of as she accepted that the people she loved would no longer be there to welcome her into it. There was one thing she couldn’t face letting go of, though: Nic.

She tucked a strand from her ponytail behind her ear. Her hand was shaking and she saw his gaze fix on it. She folded her arms.

“I’m almost finished, so I should tell you where everything stands. These boxes are going to a theater manager in London who wants to set up a dedicated display in his lobby. A courier is coming tomorrow.” Rowan jerked a look to the ceiling. “Mum’s gowns are being auctioned. I gave the auction house your PA’s details. They’ll set up a convenient time to send a team to inventory and pack those properly.”

“You’re not keeping any?”

She understood his surprise. He knew as well as she did that designers had lined up to custom-make haute couture for Cassandra O’Brien. They were gorgeous one-of-a-kinds—but they were Cassandra’s style, not Rowan’s.

“Where would I wear them?” she dismissed. “No, they’re works of art, so I’ll let them benefit an artist by using the money to set up a trust for my father.” She glanced warily at him, bracing against his judgment, hurrying
to clarify. “So I won’t have to resort to tasteless appearance fees or anything like that again.”

If she had hoped for an approval rating she was disappointed. He scowled, seeming both thunderstruck and filled with incomprehension.

“You’re not keeping
any
of it?”

It
being the collection of her mother’s possessions, she assumed.

“Well, a few things, of course.” She shrugged, pretending it didn’t bother her how judicious—ruthless, even—she’d had to be. The boxes for the thrift store were filled with
chotchkies
that had no value but had been in her life as long as she could remember. She would have kept them for her own home if she had had one. “I kept some snapshots and Mum’s hand mirror. The dish she put her jewelry in at night. Things like that.”

“What about her jewelry?” He leapt on the word. “Auction?”

Rowan pressed her lips together. “I wanted to ask you about that.”

“I’m not going to contest ownership, if that’s what you’re worried about. Olief would have given those things to Cassandra without any expectation of getting them back. If you want to auction them to give yourself a nest egg, do.”

“I don’t.” She tried to suppress the testiness that edged into her. “I’m not interested in profiting from gifts that marked important occasions in their life. Besides, we won’t know if they’re mine or my father’s until the will is read. I just wanted to ask you to take responsibility. I don’t have a safety deposit box or anywhere else secure.”

His stare grew inscrutable.

Rowan was hugely sensitive to the air of intensity gathering around Nic like dark clouds—especially because she didn’t know how to interpret it.

“I’ve sorted Olief’s things as well,” she prattled on. “Just recommendations, of course. He has some gorgeous tuxedos that would fit you with a minimum of tailoring.” She couldn’t help stealing a swift tallying inventory of his potent physique, turned out professionally for telecommuting in a striped button shirt and tie. “I’d love to include the vintage one with those things going to London if you’re okay with that?”

“Rowan, I told you to
take
what you wanted, not …” His jaw worked as he scanned the neatly stacked bins and boxes. “I expected you to identify and keep what amounts to Cassandra’s estate—not disperse everything to charity and …” He shot his hand into his pocket where it clenched into a fist.

“I
can’t
take much. Where would I store it?”

“But you could sell things for a down payment on a flat and tuition for a degree. Why would you keep yourself as broke as you were when you walked into this house? Are you thinking about your future at
all
? What do you intend to live on?”

She frowned, not liking how defensive he made her feel for a choice she’d already made. It was a risk, yes, but one that actually gave her a sense of excitement.

“Frankie has—”

“Do
not
let Frankie exploit you,” Nic said, cutting her off. “I’ve cleared your debts with him so don’t let him bully you. And don’t worry about owing me. Forget that. Forget the credit cards from before. I was being a bastard because I was angry. That’s in the past. We know each other better now.”

“Do we?” He still thought her capable of selling off possessions for rent the way her mother would have. But she was taking a real job—one that was temporary, but paid a weekly wage and would get her on her feet. She was trying
to act like an adult while an unrelentingly immature part of her clung to a rose-hued dream that her efforts at showing maturity would raise her in his estimation, that somehow he’d begin seeing her with new eyes. Eyes that warmed with affection.

“I know your love for Olief was genuine, Rowan. I believe he was looking out for you in every way he could because he felt as protective as any father.” Nic rubbed the back of his neck. Suffering angled across his face as he added, “I think you helped him become capable of experiencing and showing those sorts of feelings because you draw things out of people in a way I never could. I wouldn’t even know how to try.”

Tenderness filled her.
You do
, she wanted to insist, because he provoked intense feelings of many kinds in her. But her throat was filled with the breath she was holding. Was he saying that she’d taught him to experience deeper feelings than he’d ever expected? She searched his troubled brow.

He tensed his mouth, broodingly. “I’m convinced Olief would have made provision for you and your mother. If he didn’t he should have, and I’ll honor that. What you had before—accommodation, living expenses—I’ll go back to covering them.”