Hilary’s restless pacing came to abrupt halt halfway through his acid diatribe.
Christian scowled and mentally rolled his eyes. So much for peace, understanding and the Jedi way. The stark resemblance between this warrior woman who stood in front of him and Megan only fueled his regret at his lack of restraint.
“You don’t even know about what happened to her, do you?” Hilary seethed.
He watched the woman who suddenly felt like his mortal enemy through the narrowed slits of his eyelids. Her words—no, this whole confrontation—had caused a bitter taste to rise in his throat, but he refused to take Hilary’s bait. Which is exactly what her aim was in coming here, Christian realized. He would have sunk his fist into a man’s face for less than what Hilary said next. But things being what they were, he felt strangely comforted instead.
“Did you tell Megan that you killed your wife?”
Seconds passed in silence.
“Damn it, did you?” Hilary shrieked.
Christian picked up the Gibson guitar on the sofa and carefully placed it back in its stand.
“I don’t have the answer you want to hear, Hilary,” he finally said when he turned around. “My wife died of leukemia five years ago. I loved her and I mourned her.”
She hesitated for a moment, obviously put off by his response. She launched right back into battle mode after a few seconds.
“And you didn’t coax her a little bit to the coffin with your infidelities?” she taunted.
He tightened with fury at the repeat of the slanderous remark. It was hard not to get defensive when a missile hit tender territory. But then a look of triumph flickered across Hilary’s face. She’d shown her cards too quickly for a poker-player like Christian. The knowledge that she was purposefully trying to infuriate him helped his diffuse his anger.
“Did you just come here to sling shit at me, Hilary, or do actually have anything of relevance to say?” he asked levelly.
Her mouth twisting in anger. “I’ll tell Megan about your wife. Every sordid detail.”
“Do your damndest.” He laughed mirthlessly as he scraped his fingers through his hair. “Not that I don’t hate to end this entirely pointless conversation, but I’m going to bed.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to listen to me, you smug bastard.”
“Why should I? Listen, Hilary, I care about Megan. More than you imagine, I can tell you that for certain. But that doesn’t mean that you have the right to come into my home and insult me.”
“If it were true that you really cared about Megan, you would leave her alone. Starting right now.”
Christian’s heavy-lidded, bored expression told her that he was sick of hearing the same old song. He loosely crossed his arms and waited.
“You’re going to end up hurting her. You know it as well as I do.”
The image of Megan on the elevator last night flashed into his mind, but he stilled his qualms with effort. “People get hurt sometimes in relationships. That doesn’t mean they’re not worth it. It doesn’t mean someone should go live on a desert island or something. Megan is an adult. She’ll decide if she thinks the risk is worth it or not.”
Hilary’s lips curved derisively. “By relationships, don’t you mean convenient sex? Leave her alone. She’s not what you’re used to and she shouldn’t be some kind of twisted challenge for your bored, thrill-seeking, rock star self to toy with.”
“Didn’t I ask you to leave?” he grated out. He’d reached his limit.
Hilary stepped closer as if she’d recognized the chink in his armor and was going in for the kill. “Your family used to live in the neighborhood, Christian. You know about what happened to Megan when she was a little girl. You must realize how vulnerable she is. Don’t you have an ounce of decency in you?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said, that old, rank taste rising in the back of his mouth.
“You don’t remember Henry Nightingale? He was the husband of Sheila Nightingale, who ran a daycare center on West Jackson back in the late eighties. The story was splashed all over the newspapers twenty plus years ago. I can’t believe you don’t know what I’m talking about. If you’re truly ignorant about it, I’m sure your parents aren’t.”
He felt queasy. He didn’t know exactly what Hilary was talking about, but a formless, nameless dread came over him. He didn’t want Hilary to continue.
He wished she’d get the hell out of here.
“Henry Nightingale is still locked up in Joliet,” Hilary continued relentlessly. “My mother and I still go there every year for a parole heari
ng along with the families of the four other children that he raped while they were under his wife’s so-called care. We do everything in our power to make sure that he stays locked up forever.”