from the brass plaque on the elaborate frame strangled in his throat. One year… not even one full year after they’d met. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to do the math, and the psychologists had assured his parents he had a particularly brilliant mind when it came to numbers.
Voice pitched an octave higher, Randi sounded as if she were choking. “Yes, well, the powder room is this way.” Randi tugged all the harder on his arm, practically leaning away from him. Had he moved, she would have fallen on her face.
Too bad he was stronger. But neither could he have moved if he’d tried. Rooted to the floor, he stared at the photo of the smiling infant, arms wide as if reaching for him. God, except for the dress and pink bow in her hair, she looked exactly like…Drew. And only four months younger. Either Birdie had been born premature, or…
Still resisting Randi’s efforts to drag him away, he tried to clear the lump from his throat. “Nice name you chose for her.” Ice ran through his veins, stinging and burning at the same time as his stomach tightened, churning the coffee in his gut. Good God.
“I didn’t name her,” Randi growled, yet he could hear a hint of panic underneath. As well she should be panicked. This news she never should have kept to herself. She tugged harder on his arm, her nails digging in. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have cooking to do. If you need directions, now’s your chance.”
A sudden inrush of oxygen filled his head like helium. “Fine. Loo. Where?”
“This way.”
Unable to see clearly, he grabbed her hand, following where she led. The jolt of heat that zapped up his arm jump-started his stuttering heart.
When they reached the bathroom off the foyer, Randi tried to disengage and step back. Oh no, she wasn’t getting away so easily. Heart hardened, shock fizzled out, and anger began to burn. He crowded her inside and shut the door. The click of the lock he set sounded loud in the small room.
“Court,” she turned on him with a furious whisper, “what are you doing?” Her eyes widened at the expression on his face; her blustering wilted a bit.
“We need to talk, and this is about as private as we’re likely to get, unless you want to take me to your bedroom?” The lifted brow silenced her. “No? I didn’t think so. Too bad.”
Not in a charitable frame of mind and wanting the answers she owed him, he backed her against a small section of wall between a pedestal sink and a chest next to the toilet. He kept going until one knee slipped between her legs, their chests pressed together, and his arms braced against the wall on either side of her head.
“Court,” she whispered again. “Get off me.” Small fists pushed against his chest, but he hardly felt them.
Only one thought occupied his head. Nothing else mattered right then, and he’d have the answer or stir up the scene she obviously didn’t want.
“She’s mine, isn’t she?” In his fury, he wanted to wrap a hand around Jean’s throat. Not normally inclined to violence or manhandling women, he wondered in that instant if he could resort to such measures to get the answer. Plenty of his competitors had left the negotiating table wondering the same.
“She isn’t.” Randi’s fist punctuated her lie, but he hardly felt it, his mind too busy keeping his hands back from choking the truth out of her.
But this was Jean no matter what name she used these days. Sweet, loving Jean. Lying Jean. Instead of choking her, he pressed her against the wall, fitting his body to hers as if they’d never been parted, leaving not one whisper of space between them.
“Then why is she named after me?” Swirling emotions churned faster inside him. Anger at not being told. Anguish for missing a lifetime of a daughter he should have been given the chance to cherish. Fury at Beatrice for holding him by the bollocks for sixteen wasted years, when he could have been with Jean and his daughter. Rage barely kept in check,
Voice pitched an octave higher, Randi sounded as if she were choking. “Yes, well, the powder room is this way.” Randi tugged all the harder on his arm, practically leaning away from him. Had he moved, she would have fallen on her face.
Too bad he was stronger. But neither could he have moved if he’d tried. Rooted to the floor, he stared at the photo of the smiling infant, arms wide as if reaching for him. God, except for the dress and pink bow in her hair, she looked exactly like…Drew. And only four months younger. Either Birdie had been born premature, or…
Still resisting Randi’s efforts to drag him away, he tried to clear the lump from his throat. “Nice name you chose for her.” Ice ran through his veins, stinging and burning at the same time as his stomach tightened, churning the coffee in his gut. Good God.
“I didn’t name her,” Randi growled, yet he could hear a hint of panic underneath. As well she should be panicked. This news she never should have kept to herself. She tugged harder on his arm, her nails digging in. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have cooking to do. If you need directions, now’s your chance.”
A sudden inrush of oxygen filled his head like helium. “Fine. Loo. Where?”
“This way.”
Unable to see clearly, he grabbed her hand, following where she led. The jolt of heat that zapped up his arm jump-started his stuttering heart.
When they reached the bathroom off the foyer, Randi tried to disengage and step back. Oh no, she wasn’t getting away so easily. Heart hardened, shock fizzled out, and anger began to burn. He crowded her inside and shut the door. The click of the lock he set sounded loud in the small room.
“Court,” she turned on him with a furious whisper, “what are you doing?” Her eyes widened at the expression on his face; her blustering wilted a bit.
“We need to talk, and this is about as private as we’re likely to get, unless you want to take me to your bedroom?” The lifted brow silenced her. “No? I didn’t think so. Too bad.”
Not in a charitable frame of mind and wanting the answers she owed him, he backed her against a small section of wall between a pedestal sink and a chest next to the toilet. He kept going until one knee slipped between her legs, their chests pressed together, and his arms braced against the wall on either side of her head.
“Court,” she whispered again. “Get off me.” Small fists pushed against his chest, but he hardly felt them.
Only one thought occupied his head. Nothing else mattered right then, and he’d have the answer or stir up the scene she obviously didn’t want.
“She’s mine, isn’t she?” In his fury, he wanted to wrap a hand around Jean’s throat. Not normally inclined to violence or manhandling women, he wondered in that instant if he could resort to such measures to get the answer. Plenty of his competitors had left the negotiating table wondering the same.
“She isn’t.” Randi’s fist punctuated her lie, but he hardly felt it, his mind too busy keeping his hands back from choking the truth out of her.
But this was Jean no matter what name she used these days. Sweet, loving Jean. Lying Jean. Instead of choking her, he pressed her against the wall, fitting his body to hers as if they’d never been parted, leaving not one whisper of space between them.
“Then why is she named after me?” Swirling emotions churned faster inside him. Anger at not being told. Anguish for missing a lifetime of a daughter he should have been given the chance to cherish. Fury at Beatrice for holding him by the bollocks for sixteen wasted years, when he could have been with Jean and his daughter. Rage barely kept in check,
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