and knocked on the door. She wouldn’t open it.”
“Did she talk to you?”
“No. She told me to go away.” She dropped her gaze once more, as if afraid to look at him.
“Did you tell her it was you?”
“Of course, I did. She still told me to go away.” Her face crumpled and she dashed at her cheeks with the tips of her fingers, as if wiping away tears. “She hates me.”
Jesus. He’d had plenty of clients cry before. He dealt mostly with estate law; he understood the despair people went through after they lost a loved one. The anger and the fighting that usually accompanied such a loss as well, considering most of his clients were wealthy, much like the Renaldis.
So why did this woman’s tears upset him so? Tempt him to go to her, pull her into his arms and whisper words of comfort? He wanted to bury his face in her hair, kiss her temple, smooth his hands all over that curvy body and tell her everything was going to be all right.
Though he didn’t know that for a fact, had no way of knowing. Maybe it wasn’t going to be all right. Maybe it was going to be a complete disaster.
“Don’t give up. This is the first time you’ve approached her. Once she realizes you’re not going away, she’ll come around,” he said.
“Maybe four days isn’t enough. What if it’s not enough, Gavin?” She lifted her head, tear-filled eyes meeting his. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry. I’ve cried enough tears to fill a thousand oceans, I swear. I’m so tired of being sad.”
“Then stop being sad and start getting angry. Let it fuel you, let it give you the determination you need to reach your mother and get her to talk.” Anger was an excellent motivator, far better than sadness.
She sniffed, dabbed at her eyes yet again. No streaky make-up, no flushed cheeks and red nose for her, oh no. Even in her complete and utter despair, she was beautiful. “I tried angry. It got me nowhere.”
“You haven’t tried angry on your mother, I bet.”
“It won’t matter. Doesn’t seem like much matters to her but herself.”
“Then tell her that. Tell her how much it hurts, how selfish she’s being. Tell her how damn angry you are, finding out your life has been completely turned upside down from something she did. You’re the innocent one in all of this. You realize that, don’t you? It’s not your fault your mother had an affair. It’s not your fault you’re not the blood daughter of Giorgio Renaldi.” Anger flared in his blood, made his voice rise. Damn it, it was ridiculous, how she’d been treated. By the man who raised her, her father, though he denied it now in death.
What a cowardly thing for Renaldi to do. The only brave one in this situation was the crying woman sitting across a too-wide table from him.
“There’s no need to yell,” she said softly.
“I’m pissed off.” He leapt to his feet, started pacing back and forth. “I yell when I get mad. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
He thrust both his hands in his hair, glaring at her incredulously. “I’m not mad at you . Jesus.” He threw his hands into the air, gesturing at the ceiling. “You’ve been put into a shitty situation, Stasia, dealt a really bad hand, yet you won’t give up. You keep coming at it and coming at it, turned down at your every single move. Don’t give up now, not while you’re so close.”
“I’m not close. I’m back at square one.” She wrapped her arms around herself, ran her hands up and down her bare arms. She wore a simple red cotton sundress held up by skimpy straps, one of them drooping off her shoulder, revealing that she wore no bra. He hated that his thoughts went there. Straight to deliciously intimate images, his mouth pressed against that beautiful shoulder, his hand beneath the front of her dress, cupping her supple flesh, his thumb rubbing against her hard nipple…
“If you think like you’re defeated, you’ll believe it,” he said, shoving the lurid
“Did she talk to you?”
“No. She told me to go away.” She dropped her gaze once more, as if afraid to look at him.
“Did you tell her it was you?”
“Of course, I did. She still told me to go away.” Her face crumpled and she dashed at her cheeks with the tips of her fingers, as if wiping away tears. “She hates me.”
Jesus. He’d had plenty of clients cry before. He dealt mostly with estate law; he understood the despair people went through after they lost a loved one. The anger and the fighting that usually accompanied such a loss as well, considering most of his clients were wealthy, much like the Renaldis.
So why did this woman’s tears upset him so? Tempt him to go to her, pull her into his arms and whisper words of comfort? He wanted to bury his face in her hair, kiss her temple, smooth his hands all over that curvy body and tell her everything was going to be all right.
Though he didn’t know that for a fact, had no way of knowing. Maybe it wasn’t going to be all right. Maybe it was going to be a complete disaster.
“Don’t give up. This is the first time you’ve approached her. Once she realizes you’re not going away, she’ll come around,” he said.
“Maybe four days isn’t enough. What if it’s not enough, Gavin?” She lifted her head, tear-filled eyes meeting his. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry. I’ve cried enough tears to fill a thousand oceans, I swear. I’m so tired of being sad.”
“Then stop being sad and start getting angry. Let it fuel you, let it give you the determination you need to reach your mother and get her to talk.” Anger was an excellent motivator, far better than sadness.
She sniffed, dabbed at her eyes yet again. No streaky make-up, no flushed cheeks and red nose for her, oh no. Even in her complete and utter despair, she was beautiful. “I tried angry. It got me nowhere.”
“You haven’t tried angry on your mother, I bet.”
“It won’t matter. Doesn’t seem like much matters to her but herself.”
“Then tell her that. Tell her how much it hurts, how selfish she’s being. Tell her how damn angry you are, finding out your life has been completely turned upside down from something she did. You’re the innocent one in all of this. You realize that, don’t you? It’s not your fault your mother had an affair. It’s not your fault you’re not the blood daughter of Giorgio Renaldi.” Anger flared in his blood, made his voice rise. Damn it, it was ridiculous, how she’d been treated. By the man who raised her, her father, though he denied it now in death.
What a cowardly thing for Renaldi to do. The only brave one in this situation was the crying woman sitting across a too-wide table from him.
“There’s no need to yell,” she said softly.
“I’m pissed off.” He leapt to his feet, started pacing back and forth. “I yell when I get mad. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
He thrust both his hands in his hair, glaring at her incredulously. “I’m not mad at you . Jesus.” He threw his hands into the air, gesturing at the ceiling. “You’ve been put into a shitty situation, Stasia, dealt a really bad hand, yet you won’t give up. You keep coming at it and coming at it, turned down at your every single move. Don’t give up now, not while you’re so close.”
“I’m not close. I’m back at square one.” She wrapped her arms around herself, ran her hands up and down her bare arms. She wore a simple red cotton sundress held up by skimpy straps, one of them drooping off her shoulder, revealing that she wore no bra. He hated that his thoughts went there. Straight to deliciously intimate images, his mouth pressed against that beautiful shoulder, his hand beneath the front of her dress, cupping her supple flesh, his thumb rubbing against her hard nipple…
“If you think like you’re defeated, you’ll believe it,” he said, shoving the lurid
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