Page 113 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“How do you know about any of that?”
“Your father told me.”
He sounds apologetic, the fucker.
After I tear off all his limbs, I’ll set them on fire.
When Kimber speaks again, her tone is no longer brisk. It’s confused, edged in desperation. “But . . . in the hospital . . . he told me he loved her. He said he was happy—”
“Your father was a romantic,” Dominic says softly. “You know that. A romantic who only saw the best in people. He looked at life through rose-colored glasses. He was a lamb, no match for the Moretti lions.”
Fury pulses through me like acid, corrosive and hot. There’s nothing more I’d like to do than reveal myself and choke the truth out of him, but I’d look like a fool strolling out of my hiding place now. She wouldn’t believe me anyway. He’s her father’s best friend, a man she’s known her entire life, and I’m the untrustworthy ex-stepbrother who forced her to trade kisses for her own designs.
Who she disliked on first sight.
Who’s done nothing but irritate her since, orgasms notwithstanding.
I already know how this story ends. It’s not with a happily ever after.
THIRTY-TWO
KIMBER
I feel sick. I’m going to be sick all over my shoes, the floor, the front of Dominic’s white linen shirt.
How could I have been so stupid?
Again?
“That’s really upsetting to hear,” I tell Dominic, my voice shaking. “I don’t want to believe it.”
His expression softens. He clucks in sympathy, patting my shoulder. “I know. You have a good heart, like your father. It’s hard to hear such awful things about people. Believe me, tesoro, I hate to have to tell you. But you’re like a daughter to me, and now that your father’s gone, it’s my job to look after you, yes? So. This is what you do.” He turns businesslike, folding his arms over his chest. “First thing, you turn the marchesa out of the house.”
“No.”
We’re both surprised by that. I had no idea it would come out so forcefully, and Dominic’s rapid blinking tells me he didn’t, either. I hurry on, talking over the pathetic groaning of my heart.
“My father specified in his will that she stays in the house until she dies. I have to honor that. It’s what he wanted.”
Dominic sputters, “But she cannot be trusted!”
“He loved her,” I say firmly. “He was alone for almost thirty years after my mother died, and for whatever reason, the marchesa made him happy. I won’t throw her out.”
I can’t believe I’m saying the words, but they feel right. The marchesa might be a snooty unlikeable witch, but she gave me a dress to wear to my father’s funeral, and she gave birth to the god who made me understand what sex was really supposed to feel like, even if he is a lying jerk.
I know it’s too soon, and I know it’s ridiculous, and I know I’m in love with you.
I wonder if his mother coached him to say those words. How to say them, with such sincerity shining in his eyes. I wonder how soon he planned on bringing up the sale of the business again.
I wonder if he was eventually going to ask me to marry him, get everything squared away legally, get all the paperwork out of the way so he and Mumsy-Wumsy could have everything they wanted. My breath catches—returning the sketch pad was such a clever move.
“The longer she lives there, the better her case to make a claim of ownership on the property.” Dominic is beside himself. He’s not the only one who can’t believe I’m taking the marchesa’s side. “And the more she’ll try to win you over with her wiles!”
“Trust me, she’s not trying to win me over.”
“No? She hasn’t given you any gifts? Done anything special for you to make you like her?”
The dress. And she said Brad should be shot.
