photo-op to me.”
Pain flickered in her eyes, and yet she lifted her chin like a queen. “You have no right to pass judgment on me, Dylan. Not you, of all people. You and Lance were hardly the devoted cousins your grandfather wanted everyone to think you were.”
“How could we be?” Sebastian St Croix had done his best to raise Dylan and Lance as brothers, but they’d been as different as fire and ice. Lance had thrived in the posh world of the Portland elite, old money and timeless hypocrisy.
Dylan had felt like he’d been sent to prison.
“The only thing we had in common was something two men should never share.” And now Lance was dead, leaving Dylan to pick up the pieces, like his cousin had done for him so long ago.
“I’m not doing this,” Bethany said, reaching for the door.
But he didn’t release the locks, wasn’t ready to let her go. “I’m just calling a spade a spade, sweetheart.”
She turned back toward him. “But that doesn’t change anything, does it? Lance is still dead. And no matter what went down between the two of you, the two of us for that matter, he didn’t deserve to die.”
She’d yet to say she loved him. He wondered if she realized that. Worse, he wondered why he cared.
“No,” he agreed, “he didn’t.” But too well, Dylan knew people didn’t always get what they deserved. Or wanted.
Once, a long time ago, Dylan’s grandmother had given him a bag of marbles. He’d loved playing with the small, colorful glass balls, had spent hours organizing and sorting them. Then Prince Lance had come over, yanked the bag from Dylan’s hands, and dumped them on the sloping driveway. The marbles had scattered everywhere, and no matter how quickly Dylan tried to scoop them up, they just kept rolling away from him. With sickening clarity, he remembered the sound of Lance’s laughter.
But when his grandfather had caught them fighting, it had been Dylan who got the belt.
Now he studied Bethany through the blue glow of the dashboard lights, the shadows playing against the soft lines of her face. Silky hair cascaded down her shoulders, looking more sable than brown. She’d brushed it, he noted, and wondered if Lance had ever done the task for her. Like he had.
A long time ago.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“Home,” she started, but he saw the second awareness dawned. Her home was a crime scene. “Maybe a hotel.”
“The media will be crawling all over you there,” he said. “You’ll be safer at my house.”
Her eyes flared. “Your house?”
He didn’t stop to think. “It’s isolated, secure. No one would find you there.”
And he really was out of his mind.
She just stared at him. And when she spoke, her voice was soft but cutting, classic Bethany. “That was me on the patio this evening. That was me you practically accused of killing your cousin. It’s too late to pretend you’re on my side.”
No matter where he stepped, they always landed in the same place. “I’m not the one pretending, Bethany.”
She didn’t defend herself as he wanted, didn’t take the bait. She just frowned. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I don’t have the energy for your games right now. Please. Let me go.”
“My God,” he said in a deceptively quiet voice, the one that masked all those sharp edges slicing him up inside. “You’re really just going to sit there and act like that night on the mountain didn’t happen?” He’d told himself he wasn’t going to bring it up, but the fact she was pretending it never happened pushed him over the edge. It happened. She’d come alive in his arms, twisted and turned, begged. “We didn’t even use birth control, for crissakes. I could have gotten you pregnant. Would you have even told me?”
The car was dark, but he saw the color fade from her face, saw her wince.
“I can’t have children,” she said. “You know that.”
The pain in her voice almost made him turn back. Almost. “Are you sure about
Pain flickered in her eyes, and yet she lifted her chin like a queen. “You have no right to pass judgment on me, Dylan. Not you, of all people. You and Lance were hardly the devoted cousins your grandfather wanted everyone to think you were.”
“How could we be?” Sebastian St Croix had done his best to raise Dylan and Lance as brothers, but they’d been as different as fire and ice. Lance had thrived in the posh world of the Portland elite, old money and timeless hypocrisy.
Dylan had felt like he’d been sent to prison.
“The only thing we had in common was something two men should never share.” And now Lance was dead, leaving Dylan to pick up the pieces, like his cousin had done for him so long ago.
“I’m not doing this,” Bethany said, reaching for the door.
But he didn’t release the locks, wasn’t ready to let her go. “I’m just calling a spade a spade, sweetheart.”
She turned back toward him. “But that doesn’t change anything, does it? Lance is still dead. And no matter what went down between the two of you, the two of us for that matter, he didn’t deserve to die.”
She’d yet to say she loved him. He wondered if she realized that. Worse, he wondered why he cared.
“No,” he agreed, “he didn’t.” But too well, Dylan knew people didn’t always get what they deserved. Or wanted.
Once, a long time ago, Dylan’s grandmother had given him a bag of marbles. He’d loved playing with the small, colorful glass balls, had spent hours organizing and sorting them. Then Prince Lance had come over, yanked the bag from Dylan’s hands, and dumped them on the sloping driveway. The marbles had scattered everywhere, and no matter how quickly Dylan tried to scoop them up, they just kept rolling away from him. With sickening clarity, he remembered the sound of Lance’s laughter.
But when his grandfather had caught them fighting, it had been Dylan who got the belt.
Now he studied Bethany through the blue glow of the dashboard lights, the shadows playing against the soft lines of her face. Silky hair cascaded down her shoulders, looking more sable than brown. She’d brushed it, he noted, and wondered if Lance had ever done the task for her. Like he had.
A long time ago.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“Home,” she started, but he saw the second awareness dawned. Her home was a crime scene. “Maybe a hotel.”
“The media will be crawling all over you there,” he said. “You’ll be safer at my house.”
Her eyes flared. “Your house?”
He didn’t stop to think. “It’s isolated, secure. No one would find you there.”
And he really was out of his mind.
She just stared at him. And when she spoke, her voice was soft but cutting, classic Bethany. “That was me on the patio this evening. That was me you practically accused of killing your cousin. It’s too late to pretend you’re on my side.”
No matter where he stepped, they always landed in the same place. “I’m not the one pretending, Bethany.”
She didn’t defend herself as he wanted, didn’t take the bait. She just frowned. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I don’t have the energy for your games right now. Please. Let me go.”
“My God,” he said in a deceptively quiet voice, the one that masked all those sharp edges slicing him up inside. “You’re really just going to sit there and act like that night on the mountain didn’t happen?” He’d told himself he wasn’t going to bring it up, but the fact she was pretending it never happened pushed him over the edge. It happened. She’d come alive in his arms, twisted and turned, begged. “We didn’t even use birth control, for crissakes. I could have gotten you pregnant. Would you have even told me?”
The car was dark, but he saw the color fade from her face, saw her wince.
“I can’t have children,” she said. “You know that.”
The pain in her voice almost made him turn back. Almost. “Are you sure about
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