He stays silent.
I turn sideways in my seat, "You do, don’t you? You own the building."
He stays focused on the road.
"What did you offer Amelie this time?"
"Nothing. She refused to help me. I…" he flicks a quick glance, "I used my resources."
"It was too much to hope you’d simply let me leave and get on with my life?"
"What about the life you carry inside of you?"
I pale. "You…you guessed?"
"Weston told me," his features harden.
I stare straight ahead. "You couldn’t crack my riddle that day. Imagine that? You, who are able to solve almost any puzzle. You couldn’t guess the answer."
"Even I have my shortcomings, it seems," he retorts.
"Or maybe you didn’t want to find out what I meant?" I tip up my chin, "Admit it, you don’t want this child."
48
Saint
"I want to take care of you, Victoria." I keep my gaze focused on the road. "Since the first time I saw you, it’s all I’ve wanted to do. I can’t share you with anyone else."
"Not even our child?"
"I didn’t say that." I tighten my jaw.
"What are you saying then?"
Her voice sounds tired, defeated. I glance sideways to find her hunched back into her seat. Dark circles surround her eyes. There are hollows below her cheekbones. Her beautiful hair is disheveled. She looks fragile, exhausted by everything she’s faced. I tighten my fingers on the steering wheel. I had failed in my duties as her husband. I had promised to protect her, shield her from the world. I had let my fears, the bad things I’d imagined could happen, get in the way.
Oh, a part of me had guessed what she was trying to say that day.
My subconscious had clocked the way she had placed her palm on her belly, how she’d glanced at me with hope and trepidation. How she’d straightened her shoulders, ready to take on anyone, even me—the man who was hers. I slam my hand against the steering wheel.
She stiffens.
"Sorry," I mutter under my breath. Fuck, for someone who always knows what he wants, I sure am unable to interpret the signals that my brain is trying to send me. "Come back with me, Gigi. Give me a chance to show you how it could be between us."
"You mean, hurt me again? Trample all over my feelings and refuse to acknowledge what’s between us?"
"I love you. I’ve told you that already. Hell, I married you."
"And served me divorce papers."
"I thought that’s what you wanted."
Her lips turn down. She glances away.
Anger laces my blood. Frustration twists my guts. "Let’s talk about this later, shall we?"
She nods.
That worries me more. Gigi’s always been a fighter, feisty to the core, challenging me at every turn. Fuck, that’s what had attracted me to her—that core of unshakeable steel inviting me to push her, control her, try to manipulate her to get a response from her. Perhaps the entire ordeal had finally caught up with her. That fucker, Antonio, had accomplished what I hadn’t been able to do during the course of our time together. No way, am I letting him get away with this latest attempt at trying to kidnap her. If he thinks simply getting some woman to record a video asking me to keep away was going to cut it, then he is wrong, so wrong.
I pull up at the curb of Claridge's. Jumping out of the car, I walk around to open the door. She steps out. I grab her hand, entangle our fingers, and lead her up the sidewalk.
A gust of wind blows, knocking over the sign the homeless man holds. It falls right in my path. I pause, glance down.
"How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears."
I swear aloud; she stiffens.
"What’s wrong?" she asks.
"Nothing…" I step over the hardboard sign, head for the door of the hotel.
"Thanks for dinner," Homeless guy calls out.
I pause, half turn, to find he's packing up his shit. He places his hat on his head, then rises to his feet.
"You ain't as much of a tosser as you seem," he chuckles.
I blink, watch as he plonks the sign over his shoulder, then marches up the road.
"Is that fucking odd or what?" I pivot, stalk toward the hotel.
"Why did he thank you for dinner?" she queries.
"He probably eats every night at the hotel," I mutter.
"He does?"
I nod, "All of the leftovers of the day are donated every night, in a makeshift soup kitchen we set up in the back."
Her forehead furrows, "You do that?"
"It’s economical." Heat suffuses my face, "Don’t go making me out to be empathetic or some such shit, because I’m not."
"Of course, not." Her lips curve slightly.
The wind blows again and she shivers. I pull her close, steer her up the steps and through the open door. Bypassing the main elevators in the lobby, I head for the one at the far end of the floor. The doors open almost immediately, and I step inside with her.
I frown, "Did you see his face? The guy who took you?"
She shakes her head, "I only heard him a couple of times through the closed door of my room."
She curls her finger into my shirt and I cuddle her even closer. "You’re safe with me, Gigi."
"So you keep saying," she sniffs.
"I mean it."
She peers up at me, "I know."
"I won’t let Antonio or anyone else get to you."
"Antonio won’t hurt—"
"That’s all I am going to say on the topic," I growl.
She purses her lips. For a second, I am sure she’s going to counter me, then she draws in a breath and nods. "Truce?"
"For now."
"Jesus," she huffs, "can’t you ever let me have the last word?"
"Never," I allow my lips to curl.
She frowns. The doors open, I step onto the penthouse floor, then guide her to my hotel suite. Once inside, I pull her with me, through the living room, into the bedroom, then the ensuite.
"What are you doing?"
I don’t answer. If I do, no doubt, my words will hurt her further. I reach the
