Page 63 of Bound by Their Christmas Baby

He would have married her on Christmas Day knowing that it was a last resort for her. Knowing she was standing there, pledging her life and heart to him purely because he’d presented her with that sole option.

He’d been trying to prove that he was nothing like his father; instead, he was so very much worse. He’d been terrified of losing Abigail and yet he hadn’t realised until now—until it was too late.

With a hoarse oath, he pitched the Scotch glass at the wall so that it cracked into several pieces and hit the ground with a splintering shriek.

He was terrified of losing Abigail and so he’d lost her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

GABE STOOD OUTSIDE the door to his Manhattan penthouse for so long he wondered if, in the week since seeing Abigail, he’d become some kind of madman. It was his home—at least it had been until she’d left Italy. He felt as though a nest of snakes was writhing in his chest cavity.

He clutched the soft toy he’d bought for Raf in one hand and lifted the other to the door and knocked. Twice. Loud. Confident. Nothing that betrayed the way his stomach was twisting and his mind was spinning.

It wasn’t until she pulled the door inwards that he realised how late it was. He winced at the sight

of her—so beautiful, so sleepy, her long hair pulled over one shoulder, the oversized T-shirt she was sleeping in showing more leg than was helpful in that moment, for he needed to keep a clear mind.

‘Gabe?’ She blinked and rubbed her palms over her eyes.

‘It’s late, I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Were you asleep?’

It was a stupid question—he could see quite clearly that she had been.

‘What are you doing here?’ She didn’t invite him in. There was a wariness to her, a fear that he’d put there. At one time he might have pushed inside anyway, just as he had on the night he’d discovered Raf. But Gabe was done steamrollering Abby into submission. All along he’d been so wrong.

‘Abigail.’ The word came out as a hoarse plea. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘I need to speak with you.’

‘Now?’ She swallowed, her throat shifting, her vulnerability making him ache.

‘I…can come back in the morning, if that’s better?’

His contrition obviously confused her. She frowned, blinked her big eyes and then stepped backwards, gesturing for him to come inside.

He did so quickly, before she could change her mind, shrugging out of his suit jacket and discarding it carelessly over the back of a chair. ‘This is for Raf,’ he said needlessly, holding up the little monkey toy.

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘He’s sleeping. If you wanted to see him.’ She angled her face away from him and he wanted to shout, No!, because he needed to see her, to study her, but he didn’t. Instead, he clenched his hand into a fist by his side, urging himself to be patient, to be gentle. To respect her autonomy and to respect the fact she’d probably tell him to go to hell—with good reason.

‘I do, of course.’ He nodded. ‘But I meant what I said. I need to speak to you.’

She frowned. ‘Is everything okay? Are you sick? Is it Noah?’

His chest crushed. Why hadn’t he noticed the level of her compassion before? Why hadn’t he understood that she was full of care for others—which in part had led to her downfall? It was compassion for Lionel that had sent her to Gabe, and compassion for Raf that had brought her to Italy.

‘I’m fine.’ He didn’t mention Noah. It was early days there and he was keeping a close eye on the situation.

‘Good.’ She stepped away from him, towards the kitchen. ‘Would you like anything? Coffee?’

He shook his head but followed her, watching as she poured herself water and took a small sip.

‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ she said, but her eyes shifted away from him and he ached for her, for the obvious hurt he’d inflicted.

‘I thought that if I married you I’d be a better man than my father. But it turns out I’m every bit as bad. Worse, actually.’

Her eyes lifted to his face and she said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

‘I told myself it was right for all of us; the best thing we could do for our son. But I ignored your feelings and needs. I should have helped you to live a better life here, in New York, but I was selfish. I wanted you in Italy and so I bullied you into coming there with me. I treated you so much worse than I accused your father of doing. How you didn’t scratch my eyes out is beyond me.’

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