Kitabı oku: «One Reckless Decision», sayfa 8

“Why did you stop walking in the station?” he asked without knowing he meant to speak. “You were nearly run down where you stood.”

She let out a rueful laugh. “I have no money,” she said. She met his gaze as if she expected him to comment, but he only lifted a brow in response.

“And what now?” she asked softly, that defiant tilt to her chin, though her hair was still dark and wet against her face, making her seem pale and small. “Am I your prisoner?”

There was a part of him that wanted to rage at her still. But he had not forgotten, even in his fury, even now, how she had somehow touched him once again, gotten under his skin. He, who had believed himself inviolate in that way. How he had yearned for her all of these years, though he had made up any number of lies to excuse it. How he had waited for her to wake this morning, loath to disturb her. He suspected that a great deal of his anger stemmed from that knowledge, that even as she defied him and lied to him, insulted him and dared him to do his worst, he admired her for it. It had taken him hours, and perhaps the sight of her dogged determination to get away from him in order to keep her secrets no matter what the cost to herself, to understand that truth, however uncomfortable it made him.

What kind of man are you?

And could he truly blame her for what she’d done, whatever she’d done? asked a ruthless inner voice. Given what she knew of him back then—a liar, a wastrel—why would she want to share a child with him? It was as his uncle had told him. He had not been a man. He had had nothing to offer any child.

“I need to know what happened,” he said quietly. He did not look at her, watching instead the blurred Parisian buildings and monuments as they sped past.

“So the answer is yes. I am your prisoner.” She let out a breath. “For how long?”

He could have said, for as long as he liked. He could have reminded her that he was a king, that he could have absolute power over her if he wished it. Instead, he turned to her and met her troubled gaze.

“Until you tell me what I want to know,” he said.

“Forever, then,” she said, her voice hollow. “You plan to hold me against my will forever.”

“When have you been held against your will?” he asked, though his voice held no heat. “I do not recall your demands to leave last night. And I did not prevent you from leaving this morning.”

“With no money,” she said bitterly. “Where was I supposed to go?”

“If you are without funds, Jessa,” he replied evenly, “you need only ask.”

“I have my own money, thank you,” she said at once, sharply.

“Then why didn’t you use it?” he asked. She sighed and dropped her gaze to her hands. Again, silence stretched between them, seeming to implicate them both.

“Isn’t this where you threaten me some more?” she asked softly, her attention directed at her lap. Yet somehow her voice seemed to tug at him. To shame him. “That you’ll tear apart my whole life, make it a living hell?”

What kind of man are you?

Tariq expelled a long breath and rubbed at his temples with his fingers. When he spoke, he hardly recognized his own voice.

“You must understand that when I say I am the last of my bloodline, I am not only talking about lines of succession and historical footnotes that will be recorded when I am gone,” he said, not knowing what he meant to say. Not recognizing the gruffness in his own voice. “I was orphaned when I was still a child, Jessa. I was not yet three. I don’t know if the little I remember of my parents is real or if I have internalized photographs and stories told to me by others.”

“Tariq.” She said his name on a sigh, almost as if she hurt for him.

“My uncle’s family was the only family I ever knew,” he said, with an urgency he didn’t entirely understand. She bit her lower lip and worried it between her teeth. “I thought I was the only one left. Until today.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she whispered, her voice thick.

“Do I have a child?” he asked her, appalled at the uncertainty he could hear in his own voice. He didn’t know what he would do if she threw it back at him as he knew she could. “Is my family more than simply me?”

Her eyes squeezed shut, and she made a sound that was much like a sob, though she covered her mouth with her hand. For a long moment they sat in silence, the only sound the watery swish of traffic outside the car, and her ragged breathing. He thought she would not answer. He felt a new bleakness settle upon him. Would he never know what had happened? Would he be condemned to wonder? Was it no more than he deserved for the way he had behaved in his former life, the way he had treated her, the way he had treated himself and his family, his many squandered gifts?

But she turned her head to look at him, her cinnamon eyes bright with a pain he didn’t fully understand.

“I don’t know that I can make you feel any better about this,” she said, her voice thick and rough. “But I will tell you what I know.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

JESSA didn’t know why she had said anything, why his obvious pain had moved her so much that she broke her silence so suddenly. She hadn’t meant to say a word. And then she’d heard the raw agony in his voice and something inside had snapped. Or loosened. She had thought she might cry. Instead, she had spoken words she’d never meant to speak aloud and certainly not to him.

But the truth was, he hadn’t meant to leave her, had he? His uncle had died—his whole family had died. What was he supposed to have done? It had occurred to her, somewhere out in all the cold and wet of the Paris streets, that somewhere along the line it had become important for her to keep blaming him for leaving her because it kept the attention away from what had happened after he left. From the decisions she had made that he had had no part in. Was that what she had been hiding from?

Tariq said nothing. He only looked at her for a long moment, his gaze fathomless, and then nodded once. Definitively. She expected him to demand she tell him everything she could at once, but instead he remained silent for the rest of their short journey to his grand house. Once there, he ushered her back to the suite of rooms on the top floor that she had run from earlier. Was it to be her prison? Jessa felt too raw, too exposed, to give that question the thought she knew she should.

No sign of their long, passionate night remained in the exquisite room. The great bed was returned to its ivory-and-gold splendor, and warm lights glowed from sconces in the wall, setting off the fine moldings and Impressionist art that graced the walls. Jessa stood in the center of the room, deliberately not looking at the bed, deliberately not remembering, and swallowed. Hard.

“You will wish to clean up, I think,” Tariq said, an odd politeness in his tone as if they did not know each other. And yet, he anticipated her needs. He gestured toward the spacious dressing room that was adjacent to the palatial bathroom. “I have taken the liberty of having clothes laid out for you that will, I hope, fit.”

Jessa looked down at the sodden mess of the clothes she wore, and swallowed again, not sure she could speak. She didn’t know how to process his thoughtfulness. Perhaps he was simply tired of looking at her in such a bedraggled state. She was tired of it herself—her shoes so soaked that she could hear her toes squelch into them each time she moved. The room, for all it was large and elegant beyond imagining, seemed too close, too hushed around them. She was afraid to meet his gaze. Afraid she had opened herself up too far, and he would see too much.

Afraid that once she bared herself to him again, he would break her heart as surely and as completely as he had done before.

“There are matters that require my attention,” he said after a long moment, still in that stiff way. As if he was as nervous as she was. “I cannot put them off.”

“I understand,” she managed to say, frowning fiercely at her wet, cold shoes.

“I will return as soon as I can.” He sighed slightly and she risked looking at him. “You will wait here?”

Not run away, he meant. Not continue to keep her secrets. Stay and tell him what she’d said she would.

Share with him what should never have been a secret, what should have been theirs. Together.

“I will.” It was like a vow.

They stared at each other for a long, fraught moment. Jessa could feel her pulse beat in her ears, her throat.

He nodded to her, so stiff and formal it was like a bow, and strode from the room.

It was already evening when a diffident maid in a pressed black uniform led Jessa through the maze of the house to find Tariq. He waited for her in a cozy, richly appointed room that featured a crackling fire in a stone fireplace, walls of books and deep leather couches. Tariq stood with his back to the door, his stance wide and his hands clasped behind him, staring out the French doors at the wet blue dusk beyond.

Jessa stood in the doorway for a moment, filled with a confusing mix of panic, uncertainty and something else she did not wish to examine—something that felt like a hollow space in her chest as she looked at him, his face remote in profile, his strong back stiff, as if he expected nothing from her but further pain. She shook the thought away, suddenly deeply afraid in a way she had not been before—a way that had nothing to do with Jeremy and everything to do with her traitorous, susceptible heart. She smoothed her palms along the fine wool of the trousers she wore, pretending she was concerned about wrinkles when she knew, deep down, that was not true. And that it was far too late to worry.

Tariq had been as good as his word. When Jessa emerged from her second hot shower of the day, she had found an entire wardrobe laid out for her in the dressing room, complete with more grooming products than she had at her own home in York. All of it, from the clothes to the hair bands and perfumes, had been specifically chosen with her tastes in mind. It was as if Tariq knew her better than she knew herself, a line of thought she preferred not to examine more closely. Not knowing what the night held, and not wanting to send the wrong message or make herself more vulnerable than she felt already, Jessa had dressed for this conversation in tailored chocolate wool trousers and a simple white silk blouse. Over that, she’d wrapped a sky-blue cashmere concoction that was softer than anything she had ever touched before. Now she tightened the wrap around her middle, as if it alone could hold her together. She’d even smoothed her heavy mass of hair back into a high ponytail, hoping it might broadcast a certain calm strength her curls would not.

“I trust everything fits well,” Tariq said in a low voice, still staring out through the French doors. Jessa started slightly, not realizing he’d known she was there.

“Perfectly,” she said, and then coughed to clear the thickness from her throat.

He turned then, and Jessa was lost suddenly in the bleakness she saw on his face. It made his harsh features seem even more unapproachable and distant. She wanted to go to him, to soothe it away somehow, and then wondered who she’d confused him for, who she thought she was facing. This was still Tariq bin Khaled Al-Nur. He was more dangerous to her now, she thought, than he had ever been before. She would be wise to remember that. Oh, it was not as if she had anything to fear from him—it was her own heart she feared. Perhaps it had always been her own surrender she feared more than anything else.

“Tell me,” Tariq said, and she did not mistake his meaning.

She took a deep breath. Stalling for time, she crossed the room and perched on the edge of the buttery-soft leather sofa, but did not allow herself to relax back into it. She could not look at him, so she looked instead into the fire, into the relative safety of the dancing, shimmering flames.

There would be no going back from this conversation. She was honest with herself about that, at least.

“It was a boy,” she said, her head spinning, because she could not believe she was telling him this after so long. A sense of unreality gripped her as if she was dreaming all of it—the luxurious clothes, the fire, the impossibly forbidding man who stood close and yet worlds away. “I called him Jeremy.”

She could feel Tariq’s eyes on her then, though she dared not look at him to see what expression he wore as he digested this news. That he was, biologically, a father. Swallowing carefully, she put her hands into her lap, stared fixedly into the fire and continued.

“I found out I was pregnant when I went to the doctor’s that day.” She sighed, summoning up those dark days in her memory. “You had been so careful never to mention the future, never to hint—” But she couldn’t blame him, not entirely. “I didn’t know if it meant I would lose you, or if you would be happy. I didn’t know if I was happy!” She shook her head and frowned at the flames dancing before her, heedless of the emotional turmoil just outside the stone fireplace. “That was where I went. I stopped at a friend’s flat in Brighton. I…tried to work out what to do.”

“Those days you went missing,” Tariq said in a quiet voice. Jessa couldn’t look at him. “You hadn’t left, then, after all.”

“It’s so ironic that you thought so,” Jessa said with a hollow laugh. “As that was my biggest fear at first—that you would leave. Once you knew.” She laughed again in the same flat way. “Only when I returned to London, you had already gone. And when I saw who you really were and what you had to do, I knew that you were never coming back.”

Jessa took a deep breath, feeling it saw into her lungs. It would get no easier if she put it off, she thought. It might never get easier at all. She blew the breath out and forced herself to continue.

“I was such a mess,” she said. “I was sacked in short order, of course. I tried to get another job in the city, not realizing that I’d been effectively blackballed. My sister wanted me to move back home to York, but that seemed such an admission of failure. I…I so wanted everything to simply go on as if nothing had ever happened. As if you had never happened.”

She heard a faint sound like an exhalation or a muttered curse, but she couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear to see what he thought of her. She was too afraid she would never tell the story if she didn’t tell him now. From the corner of her eye, she saw him move and begin to prowl around the room as if he could not bear to stand still.

“But I was pregnant, and…” How to tell him what that had felt like? The terror mixed in equal part with fierce, incomparable joy? Her hand crept over her abdomen as if she could remember by touch. As if the memory of Jeremy still kicked there, so insistent and demanding.

“You must have been quite upset,” Tariq said quietly. Too quietly. Jessa stared down at her lap, threading her hands together.

“At you, perhaps. Or the situation,” she said softly. “But not at the baby. I realized quickly that I wanted the baby, no matter what.” She sucked in a breath. “And so I had him. He was perfect.”

Her emotions were too close to the surface. Too raw, still. Or perhaps it was because she was finally sharing the story with Tariq, who should have been there five years ago. She had almost felt as if he was there in the delivery room. She had sobbed as much for the man who was not her partner and was not with her as she had for the pain she was in as each contraction twisted and ripped through her. Now she pressed her lips together to keep herself from sobbing anew, and breathed through her nose until she was sure she wouldn’t cry. This was about the facts. She could give him the facts.

“I had a hard labor,” she said. “There were…some complications. I was depressed, scared.” She had had postpartum depression on top of her physical ailments, of course, but it had not seemed, at the time, like something she could ever come out of whole. She snuck a look at him then. He had found his way to the couch opposite, but he did not look at her as he sat there, sprawled out before the fire. He aimed his deep frown toward the dark red Persian carpet at his feet.

Jessa wondered what he was thinking. Did this seem unreal to him? Impossible? That they could be sitting in a Parisian room, so many miles and years away from the heartache that they had caused together? It boggled the mind. It made her feel dizzy.

“I had no job, and no idea where I might go to get one,” Jessa continued, ignoring the thickness in her voice, the twist in her belly. “I had this perfect baby boy, the son of a king, and I couldn’t give him the life that he needed. That he deserved.” Her voice cracked, and she sighed, then cleared her throat. “I thought at first that it was just hormonal—just first-time mother fears, but as time went on, the feeling grew stronger.”

“Why?” Tariq’s voice was barely a whisper, and still so full of anguish. “What was missing in the life you gave him?”

Me, Jessa thought. You. But she said neither.

“I was…not myself,” she said instead. “I cried all the time. I was so lost.” It had been more than she could handle. The baby’s constant demands. The lack of sleep. The lack of help, even though her sister had tried. Had she not been so terribly, terribly depressed—near suicidal, perhaps…But she had been. There was no point in wishing. “And how could I be a good parent? The single decision I’d made that led to my being a parent in the first place had been…” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze flew to his.

“To get pregnant accidentally,” he finished for her, so matter-of-factly, so coldly. “With my child.”

“Yes.” Something shimmered between them, a kind of bond, though it was fragile and painful. Jessa forged on, determined to get the rest out at last. “And I had had all this time to read about you in the news, to watch you on the television, to really and truly see that nothing you had ever told me was true. That I’d made up our relationship in my head. That I was a silly girl with foolish dreams, not fit to be someone’s parent.”

He raked his hands through his hair, his expression unreadable. But he did not look away.

“Meanwhile,” she continued, her voice barely a thread of sound, “there were people with intact families already. People who had done everything right, made all the right choices, and just couldn’t have a baby. Why should Jeremy suffer just because his mother was a mess? How was that fair to him?”

“You gave him up for adoption,” Tariq said, sounding almost dazed. “You gave him away to strangers?”

“He deserved to have everything,” Jessa said fiercely, hating the emphasis he put on strangers—and not wanting to correct him. “Love, two adoring parents, a family. A real chance at a good life! Not…a devastated single mother who could barely take care of herself, much less him.”

Tariq did not speak, though Jessa could hear his ragged breathing and see the turmoil in his expression.

“I wanted him to be happy more than I wanted him to be happy with me,” she whispered.

“I thought…” Tariq stopped and rubbed his hands over his face. “I believed it was customary in an adoption to seek the permission of both parents.”

Jessa bit her lower lip and braced herself. “Jeremy has only one birth parent listed on his birth certificate,” she said quietly. “Me.”

Tariq simply looked at her, a deep anger that verged on a grief she recognized evident in the dark depths of his troubled gaze. Jessa raised her shoulders and then let them drop. Why should she feel guilty now? And yet she did. Because neither of them had had all the choices they should have had. Neither one of them was blameless.

“I saw no reason to claim a relationship to a king for a baby when I could not claim one myself,” she said.

Tariq’s gaze seemed to burn, but Jessa did not look away.

“I can almost understand why you did not inform me that you were pregnant,” he said after a long, tense moment. “Or I can try to understand this. But to give the child away? To give him to someone else without even allowing me to know that he existed in the first—”

“I tried to find you,” she cut in, her voice thick with emotion. “I went to the firm and begged them to contact you. I had no way to locate you!”

“No way to locate me?” He shook his head. Temper cracked like lightning in his eyes, his voice. “I am not exactly in hiding!”

“You have no idea, do you?” she asked, closing her eyes briefly. “I cannot even imagine how many young, single women must throw themselves at you. How many must tell tales to members of your staff, or your government officials, in a desperate bid for your attention. Why should I be treated any differently?” She shifted in her seat, wanting nothing more than to get up and run, end this uncomfortable conversation. Hadn’t she been running from it for ages? “It’s not possible to simply look you up in the phone book and give you a ring, Tariq. You must know that.”

His expression told her that he didn’t wish to know it. He swallowed, and she didn’t know how to feel about the fact he was clearly as uncomfortable as she was. As emotional.

“I went to the firm,” she said again, remembering that day some months after Jeremy had been born, when she’d been desperate and on the brink of making her decision but wanted to reach Tariq first, if she could. “They laughed at me.”

It had been worse than the day they’d sacked her. The speculation in their eyes, the disdain—they had looked at her like she was dirt. Like she was worse than dirt.

“They laughed at you?” As if he didn’t understand.

“Of course.” She found the courage to meet his eyes. “To them I was nothing more than the slutty intern, still gold digging. One of them offered to take me out to dinner—wink wink.”

“Wink—?” Tariq began, frowning, and then comprehension dawned and his expression turned glacial.

“Yes,” Jessa confirmed. “He was happy to see if he could sample the goods. After all, I’d been good enough for a king, for a while. But he certainly wasn’t going to help me contact you.”

“Who?” Tariq asked, his voice like thunder. “Who was the man?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it? I doubt very much he was the only one who thought that way.” Jessa shook her head and looked back into the fire, sinking further into the embrace of the cashmere over her shoulders. “I realized that I would have to make the decision on my own. That there was absolutely no way I could talk to you about it. We might as well have never met.”

“So you did it.” There was no question in his voice. Only that scratchiness and a heavy kind of resignation.

“When he was four months old,” Jessa said, surprised to feel herself get choked up. “I kissed him goodbye and I gave him what he could never have if I kept him.” She closed her eyes against the pain that never really left her, no matter what she did or what she told herself. “And now he has everything any child could hope for. Two parents who dote on him, who treat him like a miracle—not a mistake. Not something unplanned that had to be dealt with.” She could feel the wetness on her cheeks but made no move to wipe it away.

“You don’t regret this decision?” His voice seemed to come from far away. Jessa turned to look at him, her heart so raw she thought it might burst from within.

“I regret it every day!” she whispered at him fiercely. Unequivocally. “I miss him every moment!”

Tariq sat forward, his eyes intent on hers. “Then I do not see why we cannot—”

“He is happy!” she interrupted him, emotion making her forceful. But he had to hear her. “He is happy, Tariq. Content. I know that I did the right thing for him, and that’s the only thing that matters. Not what I feel. And not what you feel, either, no matter if you are a king or not. He is a happy, healthy little boy with two parents who are not us.” Her voice trembled then, and the tears spilled over and trailed across her cheeks. “Who will never be us.”

She buried her face in her hands, not entirely sure why she was crying like this—as desperately as if it had just happened, as if she had just accepted that it was real. It had to do with telling Tariq the truth finally. Or most of the truth, in any case—all the most important parts of the truth. It was as if some part of her she’d scarcely known existed had held on to the fantasy that as long as he did not know, it could not have happened. It could not be true. And now she had lost even that lie to tell herself.

Jessa did not know how long she wept, but she knew when he came to sit beside her, his much heavier body next to hers on the leather making her sag toward him. He did not whisper false words of encouragement. He did not rant or rave or rail against her. He did not plot ways to change this harsh reality, or ask questions she could not answer.

He merely put his arm around her, guided her head to his shoulder and let her cry.

It was late when Tariq got off the phone with his attorneys, having confirmed what he’d suspected but still didn’t quite want to accept: British adoptions were relatively rare, and well-nigh irreversible. When the child came of age, he could seek out his parents through a national register if he chose, but not before. And British courts were notoriously unsympathetic to anyone who tried to reverse the adoption process—claiming they acted in the best interests of the child and sought to cause as little disruption as possible.

He left his office and made his way back to the small library where he’d left Jessa when she’d finally succumbed to the stress and emotion of the day and had drifted off to sleep. He found her curled up on the leather sofa, her hands beneath her cheek, looking more like a child than a woman who could have borne one. Much less borne his.

Some part of him still wanted to unleash the temper that rolled and burned inside of him on her, to hurt her because he hurt, but he found he could not. He looked at her and felt only a deep sadness and a growing possessiveness that he wasn’t sure he understood. He knew he wanted to blame her because it would be convenient, nothing more.

The truth was that he blamed himself. He was everything his uncle had accused him of being, and while he had known that enough so that he’d altered his life to honor his uncle’s passing, he had not understood the true scope of it until now.

He might have spent years haunted by her, but he had not wanted to deal with the young woman who had made his dissipated heart ask questions he hadn’t wanted to answer, and so he had excised her when he left England just as he had excised everything that reminded him of his old life. He had transformed himself into the man his uncle wanted him to be, and he’d done it brutally. What would it have cost him to seek her out after the accident, even for something as little as a phone call? What kind of man left a young, obviously infatuated girl in the lurch like that? Had he allowed himself to think about it for even a moment, he would have known that she’d have been devastated first by his disappearance, and then by the shocking truth about who he was. How could he now turn around and blame her for making what she’d thought were the best decisions she could under those circumstances?

After all, she had not known how deeply she had touched him then, and how she had continued to prey on his thoughts for all of those years. Only he had known it, and he had barely allowed the truth of his feelings for her to register. He had buried them with his uncle, buried them with all the remnants of his former life, buried them all and told himself that he preferred his life that way. That Jessa herself was tainted by her association with his former, profligate self, and thus could never be considered a possible consort or queen for the King of Nur. The kind of woman who would fall in love with Tariq the black sheep was by definition unfit for the king. And if he woke in the night and heard her voice, or felt phantom fingers trail along his skin, no one had ever needed to know that but him.

And yet he had still gone to find her, breaking all of his own rules, telling himself any number of lies—anything to be near her once again. Had he known even then that one night could never be enough? Had that been why he had fought against it for so long?

He stooped to shift her from the couch into his arms, lifting her high against his chest and carrying her with him through the house, aware that something in him whispered that she belonged there, that she fit there perfectly. She nestled against him, her body easy with him in sleep in a way she would never be were she awake. He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for the freely given love of the young girl he’d so callously thrown away. She felt good so close against him. She felt like his.

In his rooms, he deposited her gently on the bed, removing her shoes and pulling the coverlet over her. For a moment he gazed down at her, watching her breathe, and let the strange tenderness he felt wash through him. He did not try to judge it, or deny it. He thought of what it must have been like for her, to be so alone, abandoned and forced into so difficult a position. They were not that different, the two of them, he thought. Each of them thrust, alone, into positions they had never meant to occupy.

Without letting himself think it through, he climbed into the bed behind her, pulling her close, so her back was flush against his chest, her bottom nestled between his thighs. He inhaled deeply, letting her distinct scents wash over him, soothing him, letting him imagine that they could both heal. Jasmine in her hair, and something sweet and warm beneath that he knew was simply Jessa. Vanilla and heat.