Page 89 of Tame Me

‘I know you met up with another woman that night.’ I hurry to tell him I know the truth. ‘It’s your prerogative, I guess, it’s not like we were—’

‘You—’

‘Allowed my own prejudice to cloud my thinking,’ I interrupt him because I need to get all this said before I chicken out. ‘I made assumptions and I was wrong to and I’m sorry. And the thing is—if I’m really honest with myself it’s not because I was being judgemental of your lifestyle. But rather I was jealous.’

His jaw drops. ‘Of this other woman?’

‘No.’ I swallow. ‘Of you.’

He looks mystified. ‘For...’

‘Having fun?’ I shrug and finish weakly. It’s so stupid and I’ve made bad decisions because of it.

I assumed he wouldn’t be interested in being a father. None of the cheats my mother dated ever were. My own cheat of a father sure wasn’t. I tarnished Dain with their brush.

He stares at me for a moment. I can’t read his reaction as he rubs his mouth with his fingers.

‘Show me the photo,’ he suddenly orders.

‘I can’t. I don’t have it.’

‘There’s Wi-Fi on the plane, search for it again and show me.’ He’s very businesslike.

Yep, instant regrets on being so honest. But I do as he asks.

‘There are almost no photos of me online,’ he says conversationally as I fumble with my phone. ‘I have a team who keep it that way. That’s partly why it was all but impossible for you to get in touch with me directly.’

Because he’s a control freak who hates being in the press. Yep, I’ve got that. And I don’t blame him now I know a little more about his parents putting him on the front page in their personal fight.

But it’s the Internet and some things never die on the Internet. I find the picture and turn it so he can see. It was in a gossip-column piece from a small Queenstown paper that I followed on my social media. It popped up in my feed the morning after that momentous night. The photo showed him with a famous New Zealand model and I was appalled.

‘I’m not identified in the caption,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘That must be why my minions didn’t pick it up.’

‘But it’syou.’ I brace as he studies the photo. He doesn’t deny it.

‘Is she your girlfriend?’ I ask.

The corners of his mouth twitch. ‘What makes you think we’retogether?’

Well, duh, you only need to look at the way the model is looking athimto know they’re intimate. But Dain’s eyebrows are raised questioningly and I can’t tell him it’s all in her eyes.

‘We’re not even holding hands,’ he points out calmly. ‘Not kissing. Not touching at all.’

I swallow. ‘Because you’re private.’

That he isn’t named in that caption actually speaks to the power of his discretion. Maybe the photographer didn’t recognise him and was interested in the model.

He regards me steadily. ‘Okay, I’ll give you that.’

So he was with her. My innards shrivel.

‘But you didn’t notice my hair apparently grew about three inches in less than a couple hours?’ He watches me.

‘What?’ I stare at him then back at the photo.

‘My hair was shorter when I was with you,’ he says. ‘Don’t you remember tugging on it? Because I remember you tugging on it.’

A flame of heat rivers through me. With trembling fingers I study that photo again.

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