Grayson was silent as he sucked at his lip, not looking at me. I stared ahead, feeling awkward, and after a few moments, I felt his eyes on the side of my face. “Are you still close to Rosa Maria?”
“No,” I said sadly. “My father dismissed her years ago. It was awkward and painful since he’d been having a relationship with her and essentially traded her in for a newer, younger model to serve as both his new housekeeper and new bed partner. Rosa Maria didn’t respond to any of my attempts to reach out to her after that.” I waved my hand, trying to wave away the subject and the associated hurt that always came from discussing it.
“She blamed you?” Grayson asked, a strange edge to his voice.
“Kimberly says she doesn’t, but it’s too painful to have any contact that reminds her of what my father did to her. She loved him, I believe. While he…well, he saw her as nothing more than a convenient way to keep his house clean and his bed warm.”
“I see,” he said, his voice tight. I glanced at him, feeling as if, somehow, he really did see—even more than I was sharing with him.
I gave my head a small shake. “So, what were you and Kimberly talking about before I came downstairs yesterday morning?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t had the chance to ask Kimberly before we’d been interrupted by his confrontation with Charlotte over the herbs.
He smiled, breaking the somber mood that had existed as I’d discussed the subject of Rosa Maria and my father. The afternoon sun slanted through the window and hit Grayson’s face, bringing out the deep, rich brown of his eyes and highlighting the ruggedness of his still-unshaven jaw. I looked away, pressing my fingernails into the fleshy part of my hands. Ignore the bright scales, I repeated in my mind. “We were talking about you,” he answered, and when I swung my eyes back to his, his smile widened. “She was telling me some interesting stories about the trouble she’s had to pull you out of over the years.”
I snorted and then sighed dramatically. “That Kimberly is a nice enough girl, but she exaggerates. It’s one of her very worst flaws.”
Grayson’s chuckle was deep and warm. “I don’t know. I’m inclined to think she doesn’t,” he said, still smiling. “She says you get these ideas in your head…”
“Just fun,” I defended. “Not trouble.”
“With you, it seems to be a very fine line.”
I gave him an irritated look, but it dissolved when I saw that his expression was full of charm and what looked like genuine affection.
“I’ve made a concerted effort to curtail the follow-through of my ‘ideas’ since I’ve been living with you,” I insisted.
“Dear God,” he groaned. “I shudder to imagine what happens when you don’t hold back.”
I started to laugh, but then a sign telling us we were headed toward San Francisco—toward my father—whizzed by and my stomach cramped. I sighed, frowning. “Just ask my father,” I said, secretly hoping he wouldn’t. “He’ll tell you what a burden you’ve taken on when you meet him. I have no doubt.” I turned my head to stare out at the scenery going by.
“Hey,” Grayson said, and I felt his warm hand grasp mine on the seat next to me. I glanced down at our joined hands and then met his eyes. Our gazes held for a beat, then two, before he looked back to the road again. “This is going to be fine, all right?”
I nodded but feared he was wrong. I could very well be walking into a situation where I would be completely humiliated in front of Grayson. No, this wasn’t going to be all right. This was going to be decidedly un-all right. And yet, there was really no turning back now.
* * *
The soft yellow and vibrant orange of approaching twilight bathed the Italian Renaissance hilltop mansion in dreamy light. Nestled in the ritzy Pacific Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, it was among the most expensive pieces of real estate in the city, probably in the country. The Dallaire estate. Home sweet home. I cringed inwardly. There had been very little sweet attached to this place for me.
In fact, this house and its memories only served to make me crushingly aware that most of my life I’d lived in the shadow of my father’s self-serving expectations, when all I’d ever longed for was to be loved for who I was.
I glanced at Grayson’s enigmatic expression as we got out of his truck and parked on the street in front of the massive structure. He turned in a full circle at the top of the sprawling outdoor staircase, admiring the undeniably stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, Angel Island, and all the way to the Marin Headlands. Distantly, I could hear someone hitting tennis balls in the outdoor court behind the house.
Grayson remained silent as I rang the doorbell. I refused to let myself into this house as if I belonged here. A few seconds later, I heard the click of shoes on the marble tile within and the door swung open to reveal a young woman whom I had never met in a maid’s uniform. I smiled. “Hello, I’m Kira Dallaire. I believe my father is expecting me.” I had texted him on the drive, but he’d never responded, so I had no idea if he was actually expecting me or not.
The pretty young woman smiled and swung the door open, and we stepped inside. “I will go get him,” she said in a heavy Spanish accent. “Would you like to wait in the—”
“We’ll wait here.” I didn’t intend on staying long. I already want to leave.
The woman nodded and turned away.
“Just give me a moment to talk to my father,” I said to Grayson. “And then I’ll introduce you.” His eyes ran over my face and then he lifted his chin in silent agreement.
Several minutes of standing in the lavish, marble foyer later, I heard footsteps approaching once again—only this time from above—and looked up to see my father’s tall figure appear at the top of the stairs. I glanced at Grayson who was leaning casually against a marble pillar a short distance from me.
“Kira,” my father said, descending quickly, his eyes trained on mine, his lips thinned in that same disapproving expression I was extremely familiar with. “I’m glad you’ve finally seen fit to come home.” He sounded anything but glad. He didn’t even glance at Grayson.
“Come into my study so we can talk,” he said, turning abruptly and heading in that direction.
“This is fine right here,” I said loudly, stopping him in his tracks. I had no intention of following my father into his study, where he would sit behind his desk like a judge handing down his sentence.
My father turned slowly, his jaw ticking in warning as he walked back to where I stood. That’s when he looked at Grayson. “And who are you?” he asked.
I stepped forward. Here we go. “This, Daddy, is my husband, Grayson Hawthorn.”
For the span of three heartbeats, my father didn’t utter a sound. A deep red color moved up his neck as he stepped forward. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am serious. We were married several weeks ago. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you, but I know how full your social calendar always is.”
The blow took me unaware, the sharp slap echoing loudly through the open foyer. I gasped, hot pain spreading across my jaw and up to my eye socket. I raised my head in time to see his hand moving toward my face again and braced for the second slap, but it never came. I jerked my eyes open to see Grayson holding my father’s wrist, the look on his face filled with murderous dragon rage. “What the fuck?” he gritted. He must have moved at the speed of lightning to make it from where he was standing to where he was now preventing my father from hitting me again. I let out a ragged breath.