Page 4 of Vows in Name Only
“Yes, now you know,” he drawled, and the flames that had died down to a simmer burst to life...in her face.Oh God.He probably thought that was her pathetic attempt at flirting. “What are you doing out here, Devon?” he asked. “Theparty,” his lips curled into a faint sneer, “is in the house. Specifically, the great and dining rooms. This part of the property is off-limits to guests.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must’ve missed the signs,” she apologized. As soon as the words echoed between them, it hit her how flippant they sounded. “I mean, of course there weren’tsigns. But in a house this size, maybe there should be. Or at least little discreet nameplates like on bathroom doors—oh dammit.”
“Excuse me?” Cain growled, his frown deepening.
She shook her head, holding up a finger in the universal sign of “Wait a minute.” And she took that minute to take a deep gulp of wine. And another. “Honest to God, I’m more of a sipper and two glasses is my limit. I don’t know what made me think I could handle three. Here.” She thrust the goblet at him, and he accepted it. Either that or wear it. “Besides, given you were just damning someone minutes ago, you probably could use it more than me.”
Again, more staring on his part. And could she really blame him? She was acting like a lunatic. A tipsy, blathering, garden-invading lunatic.
Slowly, without breaking his visual connection to her, he lifted the glass to his beautiful, cruel mouth. And sipped.
Her knees might not have weakened, but by God, they wobbled. Why that sip was so hot, she couldn’t begin to explain. But the heat gathering low in her belly and flowing to all points north and south assured her, it most definitely was.
“You’re right,” he said. “I need it. Thank you.”
The wine. He needed the wine. Nother, as her body wanted to interpret his words.
“You’re welcome.” Unable to maintain peering into his unusual gaze, she brushed invisible lint from the skirt of her dark gray sheath dress. And as she recovered the space she’d placed between them, all embarrassment and disconcerting desire fled. “God, I was so focused on heading back to hell, I forgot.” She reached out to him, placing a hand on his forearm. Taut muscle flexed beneath her fingers and his jacket. But she didn’t allow it to distract her. “I’m so sorry for the loss of your father. Unfortunately, I know the pain you’re feeling, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
His scrutiny dropped to his arm, where her fingers still lingered. He didn’t move out from under her touch, and though it would’ve been the smarter option, she didn’t remove her hand.
“Heading back to hell?” he repeated, not acknowledging her condolences. She got it; after her mother died, she’d wanted to talk about anything other than her death. “Other than the obvious, where is that?”
She winced, her shoulders lifting to her ears. “Promise not to be offended?” He arched a dark eyebrow but nodded. “That reception. Large social events are my definition of cruel and unusual punishment, but that in there...” She shook her head. “I’m from a big, loud Italian family, so I’m not a stranger to repasts that turn into noisy gatherings with food and laughter. But not like that. There’s no one talking about your father, remembering him. There’s no sense of sadness that comes with losing someone you love. There aren’t any tears with the laughter. There’s no comfort from family and friends. What I escaped in there is...ghoulish.”
She lowered her hand from his arm and braced herself for his rebuke. Prepared herself for the same chiding smirk she’d received from her father when she’d voiced the same thoughts before seeking a place where she could get a break from the avarice and phoniness of it all.
But the ridicule didn’t come.
Instead, Cain studied her with an impenetrable stare that revealed nothing. That must be a handy skill.
She fought not to fidget under his regard, but just as she parted her lips to apologize for her insensitive words, he murmured, “Thank you, Devon.”
“For?” Being inappropriately blunt? Trespassing? Handing him secondhand wine? He had to be more specific.
“For having the courage to be honest when the truth isn’t pretty.” A small, half smile that struck her as a shade grim briefly curved a corner of his sensual mouth. “And for giving me a few minutes’ reprieve from my own hell.” He stretched the glass of wine back toward her, and as she accepted it, he lifted his other hand and shocked her by stroking the back of his fingers down her cheek. “I appreciate that more than you know.”
He stepped away, leaving her skin burning from his caress. She didn’t move—couldn’t move—as he sharply pivoted on his heel and strode away, disappearing as quickly and quietly as he’d appeared.
Only then did she graze her trembling fingers over the spot he’d touched so tenderly. With gratitude. Because surely, she’d imagined the flash of heat in his eyes. It’d been only a wishful reflection of the unwise and wistful desire that had coursed through her.
Yes, that’s all.
Still, what was the harm in believing in that fantasy?
It wasn’t like she would see Cain Farrell again.
Nope. No harm at all.
Three
Ayear.
That was the length of time required of him, and he could endure it. Hell, he’d endured his father for thirty-two years. Twelve more months was child’s play.
He could damn well do this.
The mantra marched through Cain’s head like a regiment of soldiers on a deadly campaign, and he clenched his jaw so tightly it throbbed. Either that or let loose the string of curses flaying his throat. And he would never give his father that satisfaction. Dead or alive.
