you’re in the room. I know that sounds sappy and stupid, but that’s how I feel. And it seems like you would’ve noticed that in the last seven months. Or maybe when I gave you that heart painting yesterday and called it Joie. Maybe I should’ve called it Love instead. Maybe that would’ve broken through your thick skull. But you’re too busy trying to make sure that I’m not your mother and trying to make sure that you’re not your father to see what’s right in front of you. I’m here. I love you.”
With that, he abruptly looks away. Roughly wipes each eye with the heel of his hand.
“You want my money. Your father needs my money,” he says stubbornly. “Don’t pretend he doesn’t.”
“I’m not pretending anything! What money have you given me? I’ve done all this on my own,” I say, flapping a hand toward the party and all of my paintings. “You offered to help, but I did it myself. And now I get accused of wanting you for your money?”
“Your father—”
“Don’t mix me up with my father. He’s having hard times. He’s a gold digger. I don’t deny it. I admit it. But he’s a grown man. He can take care of himself. Hell, I’ve told him that he should marry rich, since money’s such an issue. And I told you that you didn’t have to make that deal with him if you didn’t want to. But you decided—”
“I did it for you!” he roars, all that emotion surging through his aloof façade like a tsunami riding a tornado. It’s a wonder I don’t tumble over backward with the force of it. “You think I needed his fucking paintings? I don’t even collect Baroque pieces! I did it for you!”
“Why did you do it?”
“Because I want you and your family to have what you need!”
“Why?”
“Because I’d do anything for you! Don’t you get it? Haven’t you been paying attention?”
This man is going to rip my heart out.
“Because you love me.” I hurry forward to put my hands on either side of his hard, beloved face. He’s boiling hot and rigid as one of my father’s marble busts, all his emotions bubbling over into his reddened cheeks. He tries to back up and twist away, but I follow him. Cup his downturned face again. Hang on when he stiffens even further. “That’s all you ever have to do, Damon. Love me. That’s all I want. And that’s between you and me. Not you, me and my father. Or you, me and your money. It will never have anything to do with money. No matter what lies you tell yourself.”
He hesitates, bowing his head and reaching up to hold one of my wrists.
Just the opening I need.
“Okay?” I run my thumbs over his cheekbones. Slowly bring him down, so my mouth can reach him. I give him a lingering kiss that sparks a fire as he clings to me. I kiss him again, harder. I rejoice when he takes over with a masculine growl of intent, possessing my mouth with an all-consuming urgency that will leave my lips swollen later. But I break free before I wind up flat on my back over on the sofa, opening my legs to receive him. Not because that’s not what I want. But because I’m desperate to make sure he believes me. And I won’t even worry about that fact that he’s just heard all about my love for him but hasn’t used the L-word himself. That’s a struggle for another day. For now? I need to make sure he’s around another day. I stare up at him, unwilling to break eye contact. I may well lose him if I do. “Okay? You have to believe me. You know I love you, Damon.”
He stares back, emotions scrolling through his expression. All the emotions. Banked joy. Poorly controlled fear. Hope. Despair. Confusion. I see it all. I feel it all. I know he wants to believe me. And I know, suddenly and sickeningly, that he’ll never allow himself to believe me. Just like I know that this battle was lost before I ever laid eyes on him that night at Bemelmans.
Suddenly it’s over. He pulls my hands down and steps back, breaking the physical contact between us with the finality of a door slamming in my face. Leaving me standing there on what should be the greatest night of my life, reeling.
I watch, disbelieving, as his expression reverts to utter blankness dotted with