it was silly, a tiny stab of hurt. Seven years ago they’d spent five intense, heady weeks together, and though he’d mentioned a sister, talked briefly about their difficult childhood, he’d omitted that significant piece of information.
Still, was that cause to feel miffed? She, too, had been selective in what she’d shared about her family.
‘Did she have an...an accident?’
‘Yes.’ His tone was clipped.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I can see you don’t want to talk about this.’
She lifted a pitcher of iced water in an effort to do something—anything—to dispel the growing tension. She’d half filled her glass when he spoke again.
‘It was a car accident.’
Startled, she put the pitcher down and looked at him, but his head was angled down, his gaze fastened on the wineglass in his hand.
‘She was seventeen and angry because we’d argued about her going to a party.’ His black brows tugged into a deep frown. ‘I didn’t like the neighbourhood or the crowd, but she was stubborn. Headstrong. So she went anyway. Later, instead of calling me for a ride home, she climbed into a car with a drunk driver.’ He drained his wine, dropped the glass on the table. ‘The doctors said she was lucky to survive—if you can call a broken back “lucky”. The driver and two other passengers weren’t so fortunate.’
Helena tried to imagine the horror. Teenagers made bad decisions all the time, but few suffered such devastating, life-altering consequences. Few paid such an unimaginable price.
She struggled to keep her expression neutral, devoid of the wrenching pity it was impossible not to feel. ‘Sabine mentioned surgery. Is there a chance...?’
Leo’s gaze connected with hers, something harsh, almost hostile, flashing at the centre of those near-black irises. ‘Let’s drop it.’
Slightly taken aback, Helena opened her mouth to point out she had tried to drop the subject, but his dark expression killed that pert response. ‘Fine,’ she said, and for the next hour ignored him—which wasn’t difficult because over the rest of their dinner another guest drew him into a lengthy debate on European politics, while the American couple to Helena’s right quizzed her about the best places to visit during their six-month sabbatical in England.
When desserts began to arrive at the tables the compѐre tapped his microphone, waited for eyes to focus and chatter to cease, then invited one of the organisation’s patrons, Leonardo Vincenti, to present the grand auction prize. After a brief hesitation Helena joined in the applause. In light of his sister’s condition Leo’s patronage came as no real surprise.
His mouth brushed her ear as he rose. ‘Don’t run away.’
And then he was striding to the podium, a tall, compelling figure that drew the attention of every person—male and female—in the room. On stage, he delivered a short but pertinent speech before presenting a gold envelope to the evening’s highest bidder. People clapped again, finished their desserts, then got up to mingle while coffee was served.
Twenty minutes later Helena still sat alone.
Irritation sent a wave of prickly heat down her spine.
Don’t run away.
Ha! The man had a nerve.
She dumped sugar into her tea. Gave it a vigorous stir. Was he playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game? Or had he cut his losses and gone in search of a more agreeable companion for the evening?
Another ten minutes and finally he deigned to show. He dropped into his chair but she refused to look at him, concentrating instead on topping up her tea.
‘You have no boyfriend to spend your Friday nights with, Helena?’
Her pulse skipped a beat. No apology, then. No excuse for his absence. Had his desertion been some kind of test? An experiment to see if she’d slink away the minute his back was turned? The idea did nothing to lessen her pique.
She piled more sugar in her tea. ‘He’s busy tonight.’
‘Really?’ His tone said he knew damn well she was lying. He lifted his hand and trailed a fingertip over the exposed curve of her shoulder. ‘If you were mine I would not let you spend an evening with another man.’ He paused a beat. ‘Especially not in that dress.’
Carefully, she stirred her tea and laid the spoon in the saucer. He was trying to unsettle her, nothing more. She steeled herself not to flinch from his touch or, worse, tremble beneath it.
His hand dropped and she forced herself to meet his eye. ‘You said my dress was fine.’
His gaze raked her. ‘Oh, it’s fine. Very fine, indeed. And I am sure not a man here tonight would disagree.’
Did she detect a note of censure in his voice? She stopped herself glancing down. She’d been conscious of her plunging neckline all evening, but there were dozens of cleavages here more exposed than her own. And, though the dress was more suited to a cocktail party or a private dinner than a glittering gala affair—cause at first for discomfort—there was nothing cheap or trashy about it.
She crossed her legs, allowing her hem to ride up, until another inch of pale thigh defiantly showed. ‘And you?’ She watched his gaze flicker down. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a man like you would need a last-minute dinner date. Where’s your regular plus-one tonight?’
His lips, far too sensual for a man’s, twitched into a smile. ‘A man like me?’
‘Successful,’ she said, inwardly cursing her choice of words. ‘Money attracts, does it not? The world is full of women who find wealth and status powerful aphrodisiacs.’
One eyebrow quirked. ‘When did you become a cynic?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Maybe around the time you were getting rich.’
He lounged back in his chair, the glint in his eye unmissable. ‘In answer to your question, I’m between mistresses.’
‘Oh...’ She fiddled with the handle on her teacup.
Not girlfriends or partners. Mistresses. Why did that word make her heart shrink? So he enjoyed casual relationships. So what? His sex life was no business of hers.
She sat back, forced herself to focus. She couldn’t afford to waste time. The evening was slipping away. If she didn’t speak soon her chance would be lost. ‘Leo, my father and I are estranged.’
In a flash, the teasing light was gone from his eyes. Her stomach pitched. Should she have blurted the words so abruptly? Too bad. They were out there now.
A vein pulsed in his right temple. ‘Define “estranged”.’
She hitched a shoulder, let it drop. ‘We don’t talk. We don’t see each other. We’re estranged in every sense of the word, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Why?’
She hesitated. How much to tell? The bitter memory of that final violent confrontation with her father was too disturbing to recount even now.
‘We fell out,’ she said, her tongue dry despite the gallon of tea she’d consumed. ‘Over you and what he did after we—after I broke things off. I walked out seven years ago and we haven’t spoken since.’ She paused and glanced down. Her hands were shaking. She lifted her gaze back to his. ‘I dropped out of university and went to live in a rented flat. Father cut off my allowance, froze my trust, so I work at a full-time job. As a...a secretary. In a bank.’
Leo stared at her, his face so blank she wondered if he’d heard a single word she said. Her insides churned as if the tea had suddenly curdled in her belly. She wished she could read him better. Wished she could interpret the emotion in those dark, fathomless eyes.
And still the silence