at hand.
Across from her, Christian sat in stone cold silence—a million miles away. Brazil, to be exact. She looked up and caught her own reflection in an antique mirror on the wall of her formal dining room. And she didn't like what she saw. Avoidance. Totally not like her. Only a damned ostrich would stick its head in the sand this deep.
Meet it head on, woman! Face it. . . deal with it.
She shifted focus to the remnants of their dinner, congealed on her mother's best china. She had hoped for a quiet dinner at her bungalow in the 'burbs, a chance to reason with him. Instead, neither of them had eaten much. Her pasta Alfredo sat cold on the plate, with salads nearly untouched. Ivory candlesticks had melted down, their flicker casting shadows on his handsome face.
Christian had been overly polite, awkward around her. She thought she'd seen the last of that behavior . . . so long ago. Now it returned with gusto. Something lay in ambush within his brain. She saw it coming—like a train wreck.
"You've been quiet. And you haven't said much about the visit you had with Fiona today. Want to talk about it?"
He shook his head, staring into his wineglass, rolling the crystal stem between his fingers. Candlelight speared through swirling chardonnay, its golden haze dancing over lace. "I don't know how you can love somebody so much . . . and hurt them like that."
"Being a member of law enforcement, I can't condone what she did . . . but Fiona acted out of love."
"I'm not talking about what she did to hurt me. I'm the bastard who dished it out today." Darkness shrouded his face. He avoided her eyes. "I used her . . . to get what I wanted."
"To help your father, Christian. There's a big difference."
Struggling for words, he looked at her, his jaw torqued in anger. "It doesn't feel so different, Raven."
"Look. This is not a good situation. None of it. Will you let me inside long enough to help? Can we talk about this?"
She pleaded her case, laying it all out as plain as the red stain on lace.
His gaze drifted to her, a somber, unreadable change. The stillness of the room wedged between them. Only the soft ticking from a wall clock tempered the silence. Time slipping away. Too much time. She knew by his reticence she had lost him.
"Nothing to talk about. I gotta go. Thanks for dinner." He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and tossed it on the table by his plate. When he stood and started to help her clear off the table, she stopped him.
"Please don't. Leave 'em. I want to talk."
Christian hesitated only for a moment, set his plate down and said, "Sorry. I can't stay. I've got a lot to ... think about." He headed for her front door, looking eager to be free of her accusing stare.
"Oh, no. I'd say the thinking has been done. You've made up your mind, haven't you?"
Voice raised, she kept pace with him, maneuvering through her small living room. By his actions, he had drawn a line in the sand. A line he didn't want her to cross.
You should know better, Christian!
Framed portraits of her family witnessed their argument. Her father posed in police uniform, the photo taken a month before he was killed in the line of duty. The face of a mother she never knew, smiling. They had been the foundation of her life, but Christian . . . She hoped he'd be her future.
You're my family now, Delacorte . . . like it or not.
In her experience, life never played fair. After her family had been taken from her by tragedy, she developed a pretty tough hide over the years. Yet with Christian, she'd let her guard down, not wanting any barriers to stand between them. Hell, love made you downright defenseless. And he was the one man who could hurt her . . . deeply. But in her heart, she trusted him not to.
"You're shutting me out. Why?" she demanded. "If you're so hell-bent on doing this, then I'm going with you."
Her words stopped him dead in his tracks, something logic and common sense couldn't do. Christian turned to face her.
"Yeah?
Across from her, Christian sat in stone cold silence—a million miles away. Brazil, to be exact. She looked up and caught her own reflection in an antique mirror on the wall of her formal dining room. And she didn't like what she saw. Avoidance. Totally not like her. Only a damned ostrich would stick its head in the sand this deep.
Meet it head on, woman! Face it. . . deal with it.
She shifted focus to the remnants of their dinner, congealed on her mother's best china. She had hoped for a quiet dinner at her bungalow in the 'burbs, a chance to reason with him. Instead, neither of them had eaten much. Her pasta Alfredo sat cold on the plate, with salads nearly untouched. Ivory candlesticks had melted down, their flicker casting shadows on his handsome face.
Christian had been overly polite, awkward around her. She thought she'd seen the last of that behavior . . . so long ago. Now it returned with gusto. Something lay in ambush within his brain. She saw it coming—like a train wreck.
"You've been quiet. And you haven't said much about the visit you had with Fiona today. Want to talk about it?"
He shook his head, staring into his wineglass, rolling the crystal stem between his fingers. Candlelight speared through swirling chardonnay, its golden haze dancing over lace. "I don't know how you can love somebody so much . . . and hurt them like that."
"Being a member of law enforcement, I can't condone what she did . . . but Fiona acted out of love."
"I'm not talking about what she did to hurt me. I'm the bastard who dished it out today." Darkness shrouded his face. He avoided her eyes. "I used her . . . to get what I wanted."
"To help your father, Christian. There's a big difference."
Struggling for words, he looked at her, his jaw torqued in anger. "It doesn't feel so different, Raven."
"Look. This is not a good situation. None of it. Will you let me inside long enough to help? Can we talk about this?"
She pleaded her case, laying it all out as plain as the red stain on lace.
His gaze drifted to her, a somber, unreadable change. The stillness of the room wedged between them. Only the soft ticking from a wall clock tempered the silence. Time slipping away. Too much time. She knew by his reticence she had lost him.
"Nothing to talk about. I gotta go. Thanks for dinner." He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and tossed it on the table by his plate. When he stood and started to help her clear off the table, she stopped him.
"Please don't. Leave 'em. I want to talk."
Christian hesitated only for a moment, set his plate down and said, "Sorry. I can't stay. I've got a lot to ... think about." He headed for her front door, looking eager to be free of her accusing stare.
"Oh, no. I'd say the thinking has been done. You've made up your mind, haven't you?"
Voice raised, she kept pace with him, maneuvering through her small living room. By his actions, he had drawn a line in the sand. A line he didn't want her to cross.
You should know better, Christian!
Framed portraits of her family witnessed their argument. Her father posed in police uniform, the photo taken a month before he was killed in the line of duty. The face of a mother she never knew, smiling. They had been the foundation of her life, but Christian . . . She hoped he'd be her future.
You're my family now, Delacorte . . . like it or not.
In her experience, life never played fair. After her family had been taken from her by tragedy, she developed a pretty tough hide over the years. Yet with Christian, she'd let her guard down, not wanting any barriers to stand between them. Hell, love made you downright defenseless. And he was the one man who could hurt her . . . deeply. But in her heart, she trusted him not to.
"You're shutting me out. Why?" she demanded. "If you're so hell-bent on doing this, then I'm going with you."
Her words stopped him dead in his tracks, something logic and common sense couldn't do. Christian turned to face her.
"Yeah?
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