Once Touched, Never Forgotten - By Natasha Tate Page 0,44
in an even tone, while deep, deep within the small boy he’d kept hidden from the world howled out his agreement.
“Of course you did,” she rushed to assure him. “How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
Her grip upon his arm tightened. “And your family sent you to boarding school? Alone?”
“Oh, there were plenty of Whitfield cousins there,” he said tightly, remembering anew the myriad tortures the more acceptable Whitfields had chosen to inflict upon him. “They went out of their way to make me feel … welcome.”
“What did they do to you?” she whispered.
He smiled, concealing the pain and resentment and buried hurt he refused to feel anymore. “Besides hate me and accuse me of stealing what they felt belonged to them? Nothing worth mentioning.”
“Nothing worth mentioning?” she gasped in outrage. “You were eleven!”
“True. But age doesn’t really matter when money’s involved, does it?” he asked as he disengaged his arm from her fingers.
“Money?” Her brow pleated with confusion and she stepped toward him, reaching for his withdrawn wrist. “Are you talking about the Whitfield Grand?”
For the first time ever, he avoided her touch. The note of concern in her voice was stinging the raw wounds of his past. “Of course. I own half the family hotel and they think I shouldn’t own any of it at all.”
“But why wouldn’t you be entitled to your share? You’re a Whitfield just as much as your cousins!”
“You’d certainly think so, wouldn’t you?” he said.
When she looked at him as if she wanted to pry deeper, to delve beneath the layers of hatred and revenge he’d carried for twenty-five years, he pushed his door open and stepped into his master suite, leaving her to follow if she dared.
Mustering her courage, Colette stepped in after him, suddenly feeling like an interloper in the navy and brown space that held not a hint of feminine softness. Though he’d answered every one of her questions, she couldn’t shake the impression that he was hiding something from her. It felt as if, despite his claims, he didn’t want her peering beneath his surface to the hidden hurts he kept locked away from the world. Hurts she knew they had to discuss if they were ever to move forward as parents for Emma.
“Is that why they didn’t let you see your mother’s family anymore? Because they were worried about the influence they might have over you?”
His eyes flashed, a lightning strike of vulnerability that vanished as quickly as it appeared. “The O’Fallons didn’t want anything to do with the Whitfields after my mother died.” His jaw flexed. “Especially me.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense.” She shook her head, her heart pinching at the image of Stephen abandoned and alone. “You were all they had left of your mother and I’m sure they loved you. There had to have been some sort of misunderstanding. Have you tried contacting any of them?”
“No. And I won’t.” He turned his back on her and stalked farther into the room.
Her breath caught in her lungs, fear and pity and an urge to soothe him warring within her chest. No wonder he was so driven to create a family for Emma. He didn’t want his daughter to feel alone the way he had.
A fresh wave of guilt over the time with Emma she’d stolen from him brought a lump to her throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Emma before.” He went utterly still.
“It was wrong of me to keep her from you the way I did.”
Slowly, he turned to face her, his gaze delving into hers. “Why the change of opinion?”
She swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d want her. I was wrong.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t a father want his own child?”
Opening a window to her past that she’d always kept sealed shut terrified her, but she could no longer rationalize keeping her past buried. Stephen deserved to know why she’d kept Emma from him. She couldn’t expect him to trust her if she wasn’t willing to trust him in turn. So she hauled in a deep breath and confessed the truth that had shaped her entire life.
“My father didn’t want me,” she said. Before she could see pity on his face, she rushed to finish. “And, because of that, I believed you’d react the same way he did. I was wrong and I’m sorry.” Having divulged the reason for her reticence, she turned on her heel and strode back the way she’d come.
He stopped her withdrawal with a firm hand upon her elbow. Slowly, inexorably, he