Playing the Billionaire's Game - Pippa Roscoe Page 0,61

Maria.’

‘Yes.’

‘Very beautiful women in your family,’ Theo observed.

Seb turned on him, and Theo raised his hands in surrender.

‘Hey, I’m a happily married man, don’t look at me like that,’ he said, turning back to the painting. ‘So. Was it worth it?’

‘Dios mio, you too?’ Sebastian demanded.

‘Okay, this time I really don’t know why you’re looking at me like that,’ Theo replied, the first sign of frustration written clearly across his features.

Sebastian passed a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the days of self-disgust that had gathered around him. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Best you get started then.’

The sun had set by the time Sebastian had told Theo all that had happened. Theo, in a strange turn of domesticity, had gathered a half decent meal together and the empty plates and coffee cups attested to the mostly successful sobering effect of the evening.

‘Well, do you? Trust her?’ Theo asked.

‘It’s not that simple,’ Sebastian dismissed.

‘That’s a no then.’

‘No, I do. It’s just...’ Sebastian trailed off, trying to find the right words. ‘I’ve had only myself to rely on for so damn long.’ Theo dramatically cleared his throat, and Sebastian tipped his drink towards him in consideration. ‘For the most part, it’s only been me. Because the trust I had in my father? That was the unknowing, unthinking, unconscious trust of a child to its parent. It was just there and when he broke that? I think he broke something in me.’ Sebastian clamped his jaw against the wave of emotion that swept over him in that moment, the confession, torn from the depths of his past, almost as much of a surprise to himself as it was to Theo. ‘The thought of being that dependent on someone again, I’m man enough to admit that it’s terrifying. I’m not sure that I am capable of it.’

‘Well, I guess you have to weigh it up. The suffering you are feeling now for what you might feel if it doesn’t work out.’

‘I’m not...’ He was about to say suffering when an inner voice whispered in his ear.

Passion is a suffering that you take on yourself for what you want.

Only, rather than willingly taking it on, Sebastian had been pushing it away. Rejecting it, denying it. Denying what he truly wanted. Which wasn’t the painting, which wasn’t revenge. It was Sia. Only her. And if he had a hope in hell of getting what he truly wanted then he was going to have to put himself on the line.

He dropped his face into his hands, pulling at his hair in frustration. Oh, he’d been a bloody fool. The animalistic sound that emerged from his mouth was full of self-loathing and recrimination.

‘There it is,’ Theo said, half satisfied and more than a little patronising. ‘Let it out.’

‘Why do you get to be so smug?’ Sebastian groused.

‘I’ve been there.’ He shrugged. ‘You have a plan?’

‘I think so,’ Sebastian replied, staring into the flames twisting and turning in the fireplace before raising his gaze to the painting that had started it all.

Sia stared at the glowing red figures of her alarm clock and turned on her back, glaring up at the ceiling. The one-bedroom apartment had felt tiny and very, very dark since she’d returned from Siena. The minute hand ticked over and drew her closer to the interview with Bonnaire’s scheduled for just a few hours’ time.

She tried to call up some kind of emotion about it, but since she’d agreed to the meeting all she’d felt was numb. Which was distinctly better than the near constant ache that had sunk into her bones the moment she’d left Sebastian’s estate. A dull agony had swirled in her stomach for the few days since then, ensuring that she couldn’t manage to eat more than a few mouthfuls at a time.

She missed him. Terribly. Every time she closed her eyes she could see his smile. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way it felt to have his gaze, his hands, his lips on her skin. The memory of it caused an aching arousal that led only to sadness and she had cried so much that her eyes felt constantly swollen and puffy, her heart just tired of hurting.

She had given herself two days. Two days to allow herself just to feel it. In that forty-eight hours she had asked herself time and time again why she hadn’t just admitted to him that she loved him. Because, she reminded herself, unlike her mother,