“Yes. Why?” Eyes narrowed, she stalked closer, a panther spotting weak prey. “Why did you talk about me? And while you’re at it, tell me why you came back to New York. Why did you call me about that building? Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? Why didn’t you go away and stay away? Do you have any idea how seeing you like this makes me feel?”
Seeing you like this. Wow. While he’d expected the attack, her method, accusing him of trying to stir some kind of pity out of her because he was in a chair, rankled.
“Then don’t look at me. Or pretend I’m someone you never knew before I brought you that property. Forget we have any kind of history. You’re very good at forgetting about people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
At her demand, reason returned. What the hell was he doing? He was supposed to be talking her down, not pushing her closer to the edge.
“Nothing,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair to calm his temper. “Go change. I can’t imagine you’re comfortable in that starchy linen suit combo. Try to find something soft and loose in that massive walk-in closet of yours. Meanwhile, I’ll make coffee, and maybe then, you’ll be up for a few bites of chocolate. The next few days are gonna suck. Take your kindnesses where you can for now. Time enough for fighting when we’ve gotten through all this.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she grumbled, but the bite had already disappeared from her tone.
He clutched his chest in mock outrage. “Me? Never.”
A glimmer of a smile eased her features, defusing the tension in the room. “Ass.”
“Where you’re concerned,” he replied, his timbre soft but solid as steel, “always.”
She cocked her head, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. Who knew? Maybe she was.
He studied her back, noted the way she pulled at her fingers, spotted the moisture glistening in her eyes. Vulnerability peeked through her rough-and-tumble veneer, and he sighed. “When I’m sure you’ll be all right here on your own, I’ll leave. Whether that takes five minutes or five days. No ulterior motives. I’m a shoulder you can cry on or lean on. Don’t question it; just accept the offer for what it is. Okay?”
“Okay,” she murmured. “Thanks.”
After picking up her shoes, she wandered into the back of the apartment toward the bedroom. Once she was out of sight, he glanced up at the ceiling. He wondered if Bertie had received his halo yet. Dealing with Cam over the last thirty years, he’d earned it. Who would take care of her now? Not that she was some helpless waif—far from it. But he knew her challenges as well as he knew his own. Who would remind her how beautiful, how accomplished, how spectacular she was, when self-doubt crippled her?
Despite the passage of time, he still knew every inch of this apartment. Rolling around her kitchen evoked memories of nights spent cooking pasta and drinking wine, mornings with omelets and orange juice, of birthday celebrations, holidays, and quiet rainy afternoons filled with laughter and passion. Where had they gone so wrong?
By the time she returned, he had the coffeepot set up, mugs on the counter, and the bistro table cleared of everything but the single piece of cake and two forks.
“Thanks.” Her tone was still stifled to whisper soft, as if too much emotion might escape should she loosen the release valve. “You were right. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.” She gestured to the old, heather gray Vanguard t-shirt and black cotton shorts she’d donned.
He nodded. Maybe they could keep everything civil now. For both their sakes. “Coffee will be up in a few minutes. Take a seat.”
While he grabbed two mugs from the stand on the counter, she returned to the bistro table. “Thanks, Jordan. I’m sorry I’ve been so—”
The elevator dinged, and she whirled in surprise. The doors slid open, and Jordan’s hopes for a peaceful evening took a swan dive into a cement floor. Into the eye of the storm strode her mother, reanimating the anxiety in the air into frenzy.
Cam shot to her feet, all trace of calm withered from her posture and expression. The face-off resembled a television sitcom. Six-foot-tall Cameron, barefoot and in her t-shirt and shorts, resembled some ancient Amazon compared to her rail-thin, diminutive mother in a navy suit and leather pumps, a sapphire and diamond necklace with a matching cuff bracelet glinting off the overhead lights.
“How’d you get in here, Mother?”
“Don’t blame Scott downstairs. He said he had to announce me, but once I told him about Bertie dying, he understood you needed me right now and agreed to send me right up.”
“You told Scott? Why? The foundation planned to release a statement to the press tomorrow morning. Now, I guarantee you the press not only knows, but they’re going to be camped out in the lobby within the next fifteen minutes.”
Her mother waved her left hand, and the setting sun caught the wedding set on her third finger, nearly blinding Jordan with its brilliance. Good Lord, it was a wonder she didn’t set the drapes on fire.
“I can well imagine the press release you’re planning. All about Saint Albert Wallace and his holy hands and how no one can ever take his place.” She sniffed her disdain, a sound he remembered all too well.
“God, you’re petty! You just can’t stand to let Bertie have the dignified end he deserved, can you? Somehow, you have to make yourself the star of this tragedy, all because he didn’t adore you enough when you were married. What’d you tell Scott anyway? How devastated you are? Did you describe in great detail the pain Bertie’s death causes you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She wagged a finger toward Cam’s nose, and Cam took a step back to avoid any potential contact. “If you didn’t have rules in
