Page 35 of A Nine-Month Deal With Her Husband

‘Ah, sweetheart, what’s got you in such a state?’ Ben asked, placing both his hands on her bent knees.

She darted a look at the brown box. ‘I went to the bank,’ she told him.

‘Okay,’ Ben said. ‘You can tell me all about it, but we need to get you up off this cold floor first.’

He stood, gripped her hands and pulled her up. Cupping her face, he used his thumbs to brush away the tears before holding her head against his chest. Millie buried her nose into that space where his shoulder met his neck, inhaling his sea-and-sunshine scented cologne, her arms around his waist. Ben held her close and Millie knew he’d hold her until she was ready to talk, to make the next move, or leave his arms.

She could stay here for ever, he gave the best hugs, but she knew she had to face down the contents of that box. She couldn’t avoid it or ignore it, she couldn’t choose only the best parts of her past.

‘I didn’t expect you to be here,’ she told Ben.

‘Nothing needed my attention at the office. I was missing you, so I came home,’ Ben told her.

Millie stepped back and bent her knees to pick up the box, but Ben got there first, lifted it and tucked it under his arm. He opened the glass door leading into the open-plan lounge, dining and kitchen area and placed the box on the wooden table in the kitchen area. He suggested that Millie sit and asked her if she wanted some wine.

She glanced at the oversized clock on the cherry-red wall above the stove. It was only three in the afternoon and a bit early.

‘I’m done with work for the day and you’re on holiday, so why not?’ Ben asked.

Why not indeed? Millie watched as he chose a bottle of wine from the rack next to the fridge, remembering he had a state-of-the-art cellar in the basement. It was next to the state-of-the-art gym and the sauna, which was also top of the range.

Millie took the huge glass Ben held out to her and sipped. Ben slid on to the bench across the table from her, waiting for her to tell him the reason for her tears.

If she didn’t tell him, if she changed the subject and moved on, he would let her. Ben didn’t push. Millie took another sip of her wine and stood, moving to stand at the head of the table. She lifted the lid on the box and looked at Ben.

‘As you know, I went to the bank to find out what Magnús put in the safety deposit box. And it was Magnús, he paid to rent it and I’m the only person who can access it. I have no idea why he didn’t send the contents to me, directly.’

‘I suppose there are no gold bars, loose diamonds or wads of cash?’ Ben asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that.’ She picked up the top file, saw that it was labelled with her mum’s name and rested it on the table between the box and Ben. ‘These are some of my mum’s papers, her birth and death certificate, her schooling records, letters between her and her parents. I never thought to ask where they were, I assumed you had them.’ She picked up a picture, smiled at the two stick-like figures and handed it to Ben.

He studied her childish drawing and the side of his mouth lifted in a sexy smile. ‘I see your sketching skills hadn’t yet kicked in,’ he commented.

‘I was four,’ Millie protested. She pointed to the purple bobs around her mother’s neck and at her ears. ‘I did draw her necklace and earrings, though.’

Ben chuckled and handed the drawing back. She looked at it again, saw her wonky handwriting, Millie and Mum, and thought she might frame it and put it in her baby’s nursery. Dipping her hand into the box, she pulled out a thick file. It was unlabelled and she handed it to Ben.

He frowned, placed it on the table in front of him and flipped open the cover. His expression became more puzzled as he flipped through the papers. ‘These are prison records, Mils.’

She sat on the bench next to him and Ben shuffled over to give her more room, but kept his strong thigh against hers, giving her the anchor she so badly needed. ‘Yeah, he was in and out of jail for most of his life. Icelandic jails, Danish jails—he even did a stretch in the UK.’

Ben picked up a photograph of a narrow-faced man with dark hair and winged eyebrows. He looked from her to the photo and back again. ‘This is your dad,’ he quietly stated. ‘You have his nose, his eyes, his eyebrows, the line of your jaw.’

Millie nodded. ‘Yep.’

She tapped her index finger on the photograph between them. ‘His name is Hans Grunsmar, his mother was Icelandic and his father Finnish, according to his birth certificate. He was thirty-eight when he died and thirty when I was born. He was in jail at the time.’

‘Wow.’

Millie thought she might as well tell Ben the rest. Or as much as she’d gathered from skimming the police records and letters her mum and parents exchanged. ‘He and my mum were never married and they met when she was young, eighteen or nineteen. He was ten years older than her and he was married. Her parents freaked at their relationship and banned my mum from seeing him. So they ran away together, to Manchester.’

Millie blinked back her tears, thinking of the letters her mum wrote to her parents and never sent.

‘He was abusive, emotionally and physically. He made my mum believe her parents didn’t love her any more and wouldn’t take her back, that they were ashamed of her. As a result, she spent far longer with him than she should’ve.’

Ben’s big hand came to rest on her back and his rhythmic strokes calmed her down.

‘Tell me what you found out, Mils,’ he softly commanded.

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