Page 88 of Once Kissed

“Contessa. I know you’re in there.”

I mutter a few curses as I stomp toward the door and wrench it open. “What took you?” he demands. “I haven’t all day.”

My jaw tightens. “I was working—”

“Is that what you call entertaining men I haven’t approved of?” he asks, scowling.

His bluntness and accusation cement me where I stand. Panic overtakes me as he storms past me, appearing to take everything in and searching for something to throw in my face.

“Farrington Blake phoned me. You remember Farrington?”

He’s not asking me, although I do remember that idiot. My grip on the door handle tightens. Any other woman wouldn’t cower. She would face him and remind him that he’s asking questions that are none of his damn business. A braver person would ask him to leave and not return until he learned how to treat someone like a human being. And a stronger person wouldn’t put up with such disrespect.

But when it comes to my father, I’m not brave, or strong, or grown. I remain that fearful child battered by his words, terrified he’ll hit me, and reduced to nothing.

My mother’s voice rings in my head.Don’t cry. You’ll make your father mad,it tells me.

I don’t want to think about her, or what she did to herself because of him, or that she left me when she left him and never looked back. So I think about my father, because he’s here, and awful, and hurtful. Just as he’s always been.

Get out,I want to say.You ruined me. Get thefuckout of my home.

“Farrington Blake,” Father repeats, growing more irate. “My former investment partner.”

But this isn’t your home,I remind myself.And he’s the one who can kick you out.Sweat slicks my palms.Two months. You’re free in two months.

“I asked you a question, Contessa.”

Two more months.

“Are you that dense?”

Just two more.

“Contessa.”

Jesus. Two months seems like an eternity. I shut the door, not bothering to flick the deadbolt. “What do you want?”

His hideous scowl, the one that ages him, deepens at my words. My tone is feeble, but hits him as if I shouted. “Howdareyou?”

“How dare I what?” I slap my hands against my sides. “Question your behavior? There’s clearly something you want, or need, or desire. Tell me what it is, but don’t treat me this way.”

He storms up to me, his fury darkening his complexion. “Do you remember Farrington or not?!”

I want to tear my hair out. “Yes. What about him?” I mean to scream, but his looming presence has me shrinking away.

Although he’s angry, a certain satisfaction plagues his sharp features. He enjoys watching me squirm, and it makes me sick. “He saw you last night, stumbling intoxicated out of some pub downtown,” he accuses. “He said you were clinging to a man, barely able to keep your feet under you.”

I blink back at him, stunned. “I wasn’t drunk. I was laughing and—”

“That’s not what it looked like to Farrington—nor to the other investors in Spencer’s campaign he’d been dining with.”

Like I give a damn what those men think of me.

“Who is he, Contessa? Who is this man you chose to parade before my associates and embarrass me with?”

Father and his “associates” are everywhere. Even when he isn’t with me, there’s no escape from his presence. My mouth tightens. Curran is the one thing I have that’s all mine. Our relationship is sacred—no,he’ssacred. I don’t want my father to know anything about us.

Yet as I take in his anger, and sense my own flare, I know I may no longer have a choice.

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