Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
His jaw tightens ever so slightly, the barest sign of tension. “I think I’ve made it clear that I’m not exactly close with my family, and I want things to stay that way.” The words are so formal in his accent that they almost sound rehearsed. “But if what I want to say to you ever got back to them, they wouldn’t let me be. It took a good five years for them to accept that I wasn’t coming back home. They’re content with their spare now, and they leave me to live my own life in America. I don’t want that to change if I cause a scandal.”
“Their spare?” I ask, still not understanding. “What do you mean?”
His face remains a careful, stony blank, like a beautiful sculpture of male stoicism.
“My father is the Earl of Ripley. I am the firstborn son. But I rejected my birthright when I left England to study at Johns Hopkins. They’ve learned to make do with my little brother, James, as the new heir.”
I place my hand over his closed fist, trying to get him to open up to me again. My heart tugs toward his as though we’re tethered by an invisible cord.
“My family isn’t royalty, but I understand the desire to avoid scandal,” I assure him. “I don’t want to draw my parents’ attention, either.”
“Nobility, not royalty,” he corrects me in a bland, rote tone. “The British media aren’t all that discerning when it comes to celebrity, though. If there’s juicy gossip, they’ll splash it all over the tabloids.”
I want to earnestly promise him again that he can trust me, but I get the sense that my words won’t reach him at the moment. He’s protecting himself; he’s possibly even in survival mode. That’s why he’s shut down right now.
I’m not good with emotions. I recall his vulnerable confession.
He needs action, not words. I’ll prove to him that he can trust me.
I’m burning to learn more about him now that he’s shared a little more insight into his fraught relationship with his family. I’d been right to think that his estrangement mirrored my own.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask.
“You’ll want to read it carefully,” he admonishes. “There are some steep penalties involved if you break the terms of the NDA.”
I hold out my hand, expectant. “I’m not worried about any consequences because I won’t betray your trust. I need a pen, please.”
His eyes remain shuttered, but his mouth softens as some of his tension eases. There’s still something too formal about his bearing, and I realize that his stiff posture isn’t so different from my own.
He picks up a pen from the side table and places it in my uninjured hand.
I don’t bother to peruse the NDA further before signing at the bottom. I meant what I said: the consequences don’t matter. I will never betray Dane.
I close the folder with a decisive snap and place it on the coffee table.
“There,” I declare, capturing his eyes with mine again. “Now you can tell me anything.”
He huffs out a breath and considers me for another long moment, as though he’s choosing his next words carefully.
“I treated you gently because I thought you were scared of men,” he says. “The way you reacted when I kissed you on our dates indicated that you wanted me, but your fear got in the way. I only ever want you to feel safe with me, Abigail.”
I thread my fingers through his, and after a tight moment, he parts them to allow me to hold his hand.
“I do,” I promise. “I haven’t let myself lean on anyone in a long time. I was scared to let go and trust in your support, but I know now that you won’t let me fall. I can be vulnerable with you.”
A shadow flits at his jaw. “You’re scared of more than that.” It’s a rough statement of fact. “You don’t have to tell me what happened until you’re ready, but I know someone hurt you. That will never happen again. I’ve got you now.”
I lean into him, finding strength in the undeniable connection we share. This intimacy is almost painfully intense, and a thrill races through me. He could crush me with a word, but I’m held safely in his strong hands.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” I breathe, lacing my fingers more tightly through his.
His eyes rake over my face, reading every nuance of my expression.
“But you want me to.”
My stomach drops to the floor.
He can’t know. I can’t let him see that fucked-up part of me. He’ll be disgusted, and he’ll walk away from me forever this time.
I remember the way my lust surged when he stood over me after I faked my orgasm. I’d been afraid that he’d read my moment of dark desire in response to his dangerous aura, the power of his fury. That beautiful, terrible scowl directed at me had made me wet.