She peeled off her scarf without meeting his gaze. ‘I don’t like seeing dogs mistreated. I thought he was being unkind to it. I overreacted. I’m sorry. My mistake. Can we forget about it now?’
‘No, Aiesha,’ he said. ‘I want to know why you were so upset. Talk to me. Tell me why you got so hysterical.’
At first he thought she was going to refuse. She was rolling her scarf around one of her hands, the action mechanical, automated as if her mind was elsewhere. But then he saw the moment the screen came down. It was like watching a suit of armour being removed piece by piece. It started with her eyes, moved down to her mouth, her neck, and her shoulders—her whole body finally losing its tightly held stance.
‘I should’ve known...’ she said in a voice that vibrated with self-recrimination. ‘I should’ve known he would kill Archie to get back at me.’
James’s stomach plummeted and his heart lurched as if someone had shoved it. He swallowed thickly. ‘Who was Archie?’
The sadness in her grey eyes was overwhelming. ‘My dog.’
He was connecting the dots but it was a horrible picture that was forming in his mind. A ghastly scenario that he could see reflected in her pain-filled gaze. ‘Your stepfather?’
‘Yes...’
James gathered her close, his head resting on the top of her head as he tried to absorb some of her pain. ‘Oh, you poor little baby,’ he said in a shocked whisper.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against him as if he was the only thing she could rely on to keep her upright. She spoke in a muffled tone against his chest, telling him things he wished he didn’t have to hear, but he knew how cathartic this moment was for her. She was finally letting him in. Revealing everything about her past. About her pain. Why she was the way she was. He thought of her as that terrified young teenager, traumatised beyond belief and yet hiding it behind a mask of come-close-to-me-at-your-peril. His mother had seen through it eventually, but it shamed him that it had taken him so long.
He continued to stroke her silky head, letting her speak of the unspeakable, letting her release the pent-up anger and rage that had festered inside her for so long.
Then there was silence.
James was loath to break it but he could feel her shivering from cold and reaction. He eased back to look at her face, ravaged by grief and anger and tears that had taken a decade to spill from her eyes. He was so glad she had chosen to tell him. So relieved. So honoured. It made him feel as if she finally saw him as someone she could trust. Not someone who would exploit her or betray her. It was a nice feeling. A good feeling. He blotted her wet cheeks with the pad of his thumb. ‘Let’s get you into a nice hot bath. I’ll tell the jeweller to push back our appointment an hour.’
She put her hand over his and held it to her cheek. ‘James...’
He looked into her tear-washed grey eyes. ‘Yes?’
She chewed at her lip, looking so young and vulnerable his chest cramped. ‘I’ve never told anyone that... Not even your mother.’
He brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead with a gentle hand. ‘I wish I’d known ten years ago. I would’ve tried to help you.’
She trained her gaze on his shirt button. ‘I’m sorry about that thing with your father... I never intended to do anything other than show your mother what a jerk he was. I didn’t realise how much it would impact you.’
James tipped up her face to look into her eyes. ‘I knew my parents were unhappy. If you hadn’t brought things to a head, my mother might have struggled on in silence for God knows how long. I guess you can tell she’s not the type to give up easily.’
She gave a long sigh. ‘I owe her a lot. And how do I repay her? By stuffing up your engagement to Phoebe what’s-her-name.’
James was a little shocked to realise he hadn’t thought about Phoebe for days. He struggled to think of what he had liked about her. Liked? Wasn’t he supposed to have loved her? Had he loved her? He had liked that Phoebe fitted in with his lifestyle, that she was poised and well spoken, well read and cultured. That she understood the demands of his career and was content to stay in the background and support him.
But there were things he hadn’t liked, annoying little things he had chosen to ignore. Phoebe was not adventurous or playful, in bed or out of it. She was even more staid and formal than he was. She had no interest in people outside her social circle. She didn’t stop to talk to the housekeeper or the gardener.
And she would definitely not run screaming down a Paris alley putting her own life in danger to rescue a little dog....