Page 6 of Nico
"We'd better be."
His gimlet stare had her biting back a smile. "I'm not him, dammit, Sadie. I would never hurt you that way. I have no need to use you to get ahead. I can bloody well do it on my own."
She shifted so that she was sitting up against the padded headboard and stared at the ash gray wallpaper without seeing it. "I cannot give into her obsession," she told him quietly.
He sat up as well and shifted his head to look at her. When they had first started seeing each other, it had taken a couple of weeks for her to open up to him about her family.
"You're not her."
She shook her head. "Mama has been married five times," she said, plucking at the sheets she had used to cover her naked breasts. "And all to men who could elevate her." She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. "Daddy was my rock." Her voice hitched and she had to swallow the lump that had lodged inside her throat. "He was a good man, loving and kind and indulgent. He loved her." She blinked at the tears and turned her head away, a gesture that pissed him off. But he remained silent. "He loved us, used to call her his queen and me his princess. The truck that ran a stop sign changed my life forever. I was only sixteen. I grieved for him. The grief felt like it was going to last a lifetime."
"She went through the motions for a year, before taking another husband. Rich of course, because she was beautiful and witty. Men adore her. She never consulted me. There I was trying to get through the loss, and she blithely announced at dinner one day that she was getting married. I sulked, argued, and cried. Nothing worked." She paused and felt a tiny jolt when he took her hand and linked their fingers as if to steady her, and it did.
"Anyway, I was headed for college, thank God. She did the decent thing and left the house daddy had paid for to me. By that time, she had no use for it anyway. After her third marriage, I was immune." She turned to look at him. "All those marriages and she never had another child, so the pressure is on me to marry 'well'. That's how she puts it. She wants a rich husband for me and has made it her quest in life."
Lifting their joined hands, he kissed her knuckles, his eyes holding hers. "And you're determined to thwart her."
"Yes."
"Even at the expense of your own happiness."
She moved restlessly and avoided his eyes. It was uncanny, the way he could quietly stare at you and make you feel as if he could see into your very soul. She supposed it was the artist in him. "You don't understand..."
"No, I don't. I want you in my life, Sadie."
She tried to tug her hand away, but he held on. "I'm not going anywhere."
"If I go to this function with you, we'll be labeled. You're the son of a multi-billionaire and also an up-and-coming artist."
"Yes. And I'm hoping you care enough about me to take the next step."
She studied him, searching his face for the edge of jest, some slant of mischief, but there was only steady intent. Sadie felt the warmth of his hand stilling her trembling fingers, his thumb tracing idle circles over her knuckles as though he could draw the words she could not speak directly from her skin.
"It isn't that simple for me." Her voice was a whisper, half-wariness, half-confession.
He leaned in, his forehead brushing hers. "You keep saying that, and I keep hoping you'll tell me why. But you never do." His voice was gentle, the way one speaks to a songbird perched on a fingertip, trusting it not to take flight.
The silence seemed to stretch, thick with everything unsaid. She inhaled, slow and ragged. "I'm terrified, Nico. Of losing myself. Of becoming her, or worse, a shadow behind you, known only by the name I marry into rather than the one I built for myself." Her words spilled out, jagged and raw, leaving her breathless.
He listened, patient. "You are the furthest thing from a shadow, Sadie. You light up every room you enter, whether you try to or not. I'm not asking you to become anyone but who you already are. I want us. The real thing. Even if the spotlight burns."
The sincerity in his voice pressed against the thorns of her doubt, and for a fleeting second, she let herself imagine it. Walking into that ballroom on his arm, heads turning, but her heart uncurling, unafraid.
She looked away, then back at him, letting a tiny, reluctant smile flicker across her lips. "You're relentless."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a maybe." She heaved out a sigh. "There are other issues involved."
"Such as?"
"Your family."
"Let me handle them." Drawing her into his arms, he touched her lips with his. "And table this discussion. I have an urgent need for you."
*****
He woke up at four in the morning as was his habit and sat there for a few minutes staring at her. She was curled up in the fetal position, her hands cradling her cheek and her hair spilling over one shoulder. The thin light from the moon was streaming through the emerald green drapes and allowing him to see and study her features. She was spectacularly beautiful. She had mentioned something about a mixture of Caucasian and Indian in her ancestry from her mother's side, which accounted for the defined cheekbones and the color of her skin.
