Over the next year her mother’s words had chipped away at Darcy’s confidence, but what kept her from breaking was the belief that what she and Lucien had shared had meant as much to him as it had to her.
She was stronger now, because she’d learned to depend on herself, so the reality that her mother had been right all those years ago wasn’t going to break her, but it did hurt like hell.
She pushed open the door to her mom’s apartment and was immediately greeted by the smell of alcohol and rotting food. She moved through the littered living room to the kitchen where take-out boxes spilled off the counters and onto the floor near the trash can.
Her mom was forty-seven, but looked seventy. Her drinking was going to kill her. The doctors had already said this, but the woman couldn’t stop. Darcy had tried—instead of sending her cash, she started having groceries delivered, but she couldn’t take the phone calls, her mom raging one minute and crying the next. In the end Darcy decided if her mom wasn’t interested in saving herself, then why the hell should she bother?
“Is that you, Darcy? It’s about fucking time. Get in here. I can’t find the remote.”
Darcy stepped into the bedroom and gagged as the smell worsened. Her mother was sprawled out on the bed wearing only her bra and panties. Dirty clothes covered every surface and mixed in with them were the empty bottles of vodka. A naked man lay passed out on the bed next to her, just one of the many nameless, faceless men she picked up.
“You do have legs,” Darcy said, and her mom sliced her with a look. The very same look she received as a child just before her mom hit her. Even now, as a grown woman, that look brought fear.
“Careful, little girl. I’m still your mama. Now change the channel and get me something to drink.”
Darcy turned for the kitchen; disgust filled her that she could so easily turn back into that terrified little girl simply by crossing over that threshold. She hated herself for coming back here every month instead of just cutting the cord and being free. But what kept her coming was that, thirteen years ago, her mother had come for her. Yes, it had taken her longer than it should have, but in the end she had brought her home and, for better or worse, she was her mom.
Lucien didn’t know how long he stood staring at the empty doorway. Darcy MacBride. Talk about a fucking kick in the gut. He had recognized the name immediately when the headhunter mentioned her, but he didn’t believe it could possibly be the same person. And if it were, why was she resurfacing now after all these years? His curiosity about that answer was the major reason he’d agreed to the interview. But if he was being completely truthful, he had hoped it was her. He’d wanted to see her again. And even with the anger he always felt when he thought of her, he couldn’t deny that he had soaked up the sight of her.
His Darcy had always been beautiful, and she was exquisite as a grown woman. There had been a time when he couldn’t keep his fingers from her hair, those onyx strands feeling like silk between his fingers. And her eyes, as blue as a sapphire, formed the windows to her soul.
He had loved her with the intensity of first love, but he’d believed that love was strong enough to last forever. He had never felt as close to another person as he did the night Darcy had given him her virginity. She was so innocent and sweet, so eager to love him, so eager to be loved by him. He would have given it all to her, but then she ripped him into shreds and left him broken and alone.
He knew he hurt her by pretending he didn’t know her. He had done it intentionally, trying to make her feel his pain. Unfortunately, he didn’t derive any pleasure from seeing pain cloud her beautiful eyes.
Why the hell would she come here? Did she think he had forgotten having his heart ripped out by the only girl he would ever love? Her rejection sent his life in a direction he had never expected.
He moved to the cabinet in the corner of his office and poured himself a Scotch as he remembered.