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“Ander?” sheasked softly, stroking her hand up to cup his face. “Are you all right?”

For a moment,he seemed to lean into her palm. Then he jerked his head away. He still hadn’tmet her eyes. “I’m fine.”

Lori’s growingconcern intensified until a lump formed in her throat. Ander was on the vergeof breaking, and she had no idea what she could do to help. A wave of aching tendernessoverwhelmed her. She wished she could cradle him. Hold him in her arms.

“I don’t thinkyou are.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Ander, what can I do? What doyou need?”

“I’m fine.” Shenoticed his hands had started to shake. But then he clenched them into fists athis sides.

“You’re not,”she choked, “You’re not! Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. Do you wantto be alone? Do you want me to hang out with you for a while? We can go to thehotel. Or somewhere else. Anything, Ander. Just tell me what you want.”

Her hoarse,impassioned entreaties must have finally gotten through to him. At last, helooked up at her slowly, as if his eyes were too heavy to lift. A muscleflickered in his temple and his lips were dead white. “I want ...” He clearedhis throat, but his words were still thick and reluctant. “Stay with metonight.”

***

They went up to Ander’s loftapartment.

Lori had neverexpected him to take her home with him. Obviously, his apartment was hisprivate sanctum with boundaries clients were never allowed to cross.

But he wantedher company tonight. Without speaking, he just unlocked the street-front doorand ascended the stairs to his loft. So Lori went with him.

His apartmentwasn’t anything like she imagined. It wasn’t sleek and cool, with minimalistcontemporary furnishings, abstract modern art, and hard edges. The loft waswide-open and well-lit, with high ceilings, huge windows, exposed ductwork, andaged wood floors. He’d furnished it with fine old pieces that looked to beantique. But they weren’t delicate, curlicued and ornate. The lines of thetables, chairs, and chests were strong and solid, with stark silhouettes andhistory embedded in every detail. He had Asian rugs on the floor, oil paintingson the walls, and books piled everywhere.

Lori loved itimmediately. She realized the place looked more like Ander—the real Ander andnot the slick image he maintained—than her original expectations.

She was tooupset and worried about him to indulge her natural curiosity and peer intoevery corner. She stood in the middle of the floor and waited as he pulled abottle of Merlot from his full wine rack, opened it, and poured out twoglasses.

He carried thewine over the low sofa and he gestured for her to sit down. Then he set theglasses and bottle on the coffee table and went over to turn on some classicalmusic.

They both satand sipped their wine in silence. Lori had no idea what to say, no idea whatto do. She wanted so much to help and comfort Ander, but she felt powerless,incapable, so young.

He sat andbrooded, finishing two glasses of wine and starting on the third before heshifted his eyes to rest on her face.

Lori swallowed.“Is there anything I can do?” she asked, a little threadily.

He shook hishead slightly and just stared. “I’m sorry you had to see that. With my father.”

The lump thathad been lodged in her throat since down on the sidewalk threatened to strangleher at the sight of his pained acquiescence, at his bone-deep belief that hewasn't worth caring about. “I don’t care about me,” she said, leaning towardhim in her urgency. Her face twisted as she tried to control her emotions. “Ander,areyouall right? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Then hesoftened the curt word and shuttered expression with a hoarse, “Thank you.”

“Okay.”

She had no ideawhat to do. She wanted to pull him into her arms, comfort him with her body, butshe feared he would jerk away from her touch. His defenses were high, and shewas just his client. Nothing in their relationship gave her the privilege ofconsoling him in that way.

So she just satin silence and let the rich wine slide down her throat, the piano concerto waftover them.

After severallong minutes, Ander bit out, “I hate him.” He was staring at the floor now,obviously seeing his father’s face.

“I know. Youhave every reason to. I hate him too.” Lori only knew Peter Milton by reputation.It didn’t matter. She hated the man more than she could remember hating anyone.“For you.”

This caused Anderto flick his eyes back over to her. Their gazes held for far too long—his wasanguished, absolutely heart-breaking. Then he whispered, “I can never seem tohate him enough.”

A little soblodged in Lori’s throat as she processed the implications of his words. Hecouldn’t hate his father completely. Despite everything. Part of him stillwanted his father's love.

With astrangled sound, Lori put down her wine and scooted over toward him on thecouch. She couldn’t hold back anymore. She wrapped her arms around him. Heldhim. Wished her touch had the power to heal.

Ander made amuffled grunt—like he'd unintentionally let something go—and then adjusted onthe sofa to pull Lori into his lap, holding her as tightly as she was him.

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