Healing Kiss, page 12
“Mom.” Tristan sighed and motioned Lillian to follow him. “I’ll be back, Mom.”
He lowered his voice an octave when they stepped out of the room. “I’m sorry, Lillian. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. This is not a good day for her.”
“It’s okay. I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Thanks for understanding. Wait for me outside. I’ll be just a minute, and then I’ll drive you back to the house.”
Chapter Fourteen
Lillian found a seat in a nearby lounge empty of other visitors and tapped her foot on the floor while she waited. It shouldn’t matter if Tristan’s mom disliked her, she’d be out of his life after tomorrow anyway. The reminder didn’t offer much relief.
She pulled out her cell phone and checked her flight, which appeared to be on time. A shadow fell across her lap, and she half-rose from her seat before she realized it was Tristan. He hadn’t exaggerated when he said he’d be just a minute.
A knowing awareness flickered in his gaze. “Thank you for meeting my mom.”
She shouldered her purse and stood. “It was nothing. Do you need to stay with her? I can take an Uber to your house if there’s someone who could leave my suitcase on the porch and the keys to the rental.”
His gaze sought hers out, stubbornness carved in the hard lines of his face. “She was only here for a treatment. My mom’s caretaker is with her and will take her home and get her settled, so I can drive you. We’re still on for the fundraiser tonight, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He gestured for her to go in front of him.
They walked side by side until they reached the elevator and then rode in tense silence to the lobby. She shoved her hands in her pockets, doing her best to ignore her thundering heartbeat. She wished he’d speak and tell her what he was thinking, but they were halfway to the exit before he obliged.
“I’m sorry I put you through that.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad I got to meet your mom. I know how important she is to you.”
“She’s not always that difficult. I wish…”
She waited for him to finish, but he didn’t, and after a minute of silence, she couldn’t resist prompting. “What do you wish, Tristan?”
He shook his head and sighed, gravel in his voice. “I wish you could have met my mom in normal times, before Huntington’s. She was warm and funny and good with people. All my friends loved her. I loved her. The woman I introduced you to isn’t anything like the woman who raised me. Huntington’s has stripped her personality until I hardly recognize her. This is all I have left.”
His voice hitched on the last word, and she automatically reached for his hand. Their fingers entwined, his palm warm and sturdy and right in hers. She never wanted to let go. But she must.
The exit doors slid open, and they stepped outside together.
Even with his solid strength, she paid attention to their surroundings, alert to danger. The March sky was overcast, and it was breezy, but the late-afternoon sun managed to peek out from behind the clouds, casting flickering shadows on the pavement.
They paused as if they’d made an agreement.
“The crazy thing is, I thought she would be in a good mood. She usually is after she’s finished a treatment and knows she’ll be going home,” he murmured, his thumb sliding against hers. “Zoey, I want you to know I’m here for you…at any time…if you need me.”
Never had she been more tempted to tell all, to bring him into her world and lean on his considerable strength. But if she did that, she’d be risking his life without giving him a choice. And she cared too much to put him in danger. She moved forward, and he came with her.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. You have enough to worry about with your mom.”
They had reached his car, and the doors popped open. She pulled her hands from his and climbed inside. She fastened her seatbelt, and he did the same, but he made no effort to start the car.
“Are you sure you have to leave tomorrow?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Zoey lay her head back on the seat and closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of relief when Tristan didn’t argue. He started the car and drove out of the hospital lot and toward home.
Tristan put on his sunglasses and stepped on the accelerator, passing a line of cars on the right. Zoey—or Lillian rather—was determined to leave. He could feel her determination from where she sat next to him, eyes closed to shut him out. She would continue her stubborn refusal to confide in him.
On some level, he understood it. They’d only known each other a short time—why should she trust him? He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. Because whatever her issues, he wanted to help her, dammit. The more she pushed him away, the more Tristan vowed to slip through her defenses.
As if she heard his thoughts, Lillian stirred, opening her eyes and clutching the purse that was never far from her body—it either sat in her lap like now, or it hung from her shoulder. He turned at the light and headed east toward home. It wouldn’t be long before Brian would figure out the rest of her story. Why wasn’t he more satisfied by the thought?
Lillian stared out the window, avoiding his gaze. When he’d kissed her, she’d kissed him back, which meant the attraction he felt for her was not all one-sided. And yet, she’d refused to acknowledge it, refused to confide in him, refused to let him into her world. Although he didn’t understand why it was so, her continued refusals hurt.
He tightened his grip on the wheel and sped up, easing his car into the right lane. Perhaps it was only his ego she’d damaged. It didn’t feel like it, though. It felt like she’d reached a hand inside his chest and squeezed his heart. His gut twisted at the thought of saying goodbye tomorrow. He couldn’t shake the frightening feeling he might never see her again.
If this was their final evening together, then he would use the opportunity to convince Lillian to confide in him. Maybe there was still a chance to earn her trust.
Lillian avoided looking at Tristan as she got out of his car and made her way to the door. There was no reason to interact with him any more than required—it would only make it harder for her to leave later. She’d go to her room, lay her outfit out for tonight, and freshen up.
Unfortunately, she had to wait for Tristan to unlock the door for her to enact her plan. It seemed to take a millennium as he disarmed the security system.
Her pulse pounded, but whether she feared Kinetica’s soldiers would be inside waiting or how her body responded to Tristan’s tall form, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was her skin tingled when he touched her arm, and the breezy scent of him could be bottled and sold for profit.
She took a whiff and held it in her lungs, avoiding his sharp gaze by pretending to check out the gleaming kitchen appliances—microwave, Keurig, dishwasher. Her eyes landed on the kitchen table. A centerpiece of pink tulips was perched in the middle between two ivory candlesticks, gold place settings, and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice.
Her stomach turned over. “You’re expecting company?”
“Yes.”
A pain settled in her chest. Was it with that glamorous hospital administrator, Angelina? Had he finally given in to her flirting? “I’ll just get my things and go then.”
“That would be a shame.” He removed his jacket and tossed it on a barstool. Then he moved toward her, accelerating her heartbeat. “The table is set for you and me, Zoey. I thought we could celebrate Hannah’s recovery with an early dinner.”
“Dinner?” Her pulse quickened, and her voice sounded breathless.
He stopped in front of her, causing her heart to beat harder if it were possible. His breath warmed her hair, and the temperature rose a notch. She couldn’t take her eyes off his broad shoulders and the few dark chest hairs that peeked from the vee in his shirt.
“Yes, dinner. There will only be appetizers and drinks at the fundraiser, and it has been a while since lunch. I don’t want you passing out. You have to eat, don’t you? Unless you were expecting something else?” He raised his eyebrows.
Something else? She stared at his hard chest and fought the devil on her shoulder that tempted her to enjoy his company. Would it be a horrible mistake? It was only four thirty—the event didn’t start until seven. Tonight might be the last time she’d ever see him in person again.
“Well…” Her stomach chose that moment to make itself known with a rumble.
He laughed. “Have dinner with me, Zoey.” His eyes were deeper than the ocean, a hint of magic swimming in their navy depths.
She sniffed. She really should find a way to bottle that smell. Oh, hell. What was one last meal together? Tristan was right, she couldn’t afford more fainting spells, and she had to eat, didn’t she?
“What’s on the menu?”
He smiled, giving her poor heart palpitations. “Eggplant Florentine with fire-roasted tomato sauce and toasted ciabatta.”
“Seriously?”
He laughed, and she felt the joyful sound in her heart. Now that she’d made up her mind to stay for dinner, the atmosphere between them took on a festive note.
“Seriously. I have a fabulous chef.”
“You have your own chef?”
“For special occasions like this…yes. I’m not much of a cook.”
He pulled the padded chair out from the table and motioned for her to sit. “I just have to heat up the meal. I promise, it will only take a minute.”
“Can I help?”
He smiled, revealing a glimpse of the dimple that only seemed to come out to play in moments like these. “To use the microwave and oven? I’ve got it. You sit and rest and talk to me.”
Talk to him? What safe topics could they talk about they hadn’t already covered?
He opened the fridge and proceeded to pull out an assortment of covered dishes, which turned out to be a tossed salad, butter, and a white casserole dish, which he put in the microwave.
“Will Angelina be at the hospital fundraiser tonight?” The minute the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them. Of all the questions to ask. That was not a safe topic. Besides, what business was it of hers?
“Yes, she organized it. It’s the largest fundraiser the hospital puts on. She’s been planning it for more than a year.” He pressed a button on the microwave until it beeped and hummed, then set the salad on the table along with the butter and turned to look at her, all trace of laughter removed from his expression. Tension vibrated on an invisible cord between them. “Are you married?”
The unexpectedness of the question had her skin tightening. Tit for tat, obviously. The heat in the room rose another notch, and she didn’t answer but took off her jacket and draped it around the back of her chair.
He stilled, his gaze never wavering, waiting for her response.
She pressed her lips together. Despite the way she’d evaded the topic earlier, she couldn’t outright lie now. “No, I’m not married. What about you?”
The tension in his expression vanished. “Nope, too busy working.”
Of course, developing the software that made him a billionaire. “You’re not working now.” Her stomach cringed. She really should change the subject.
“I’ve been a bit preoccupied with my mom.”
“Of course.”
He straightened a tulip in the vase. “Besides, I doubt I’ll ever tie the knot.”
He said it casually, as if they were discussing the weather, but the admission was meant as a warning. He could save himself the trouble—the last thing she wanted was commitment.
She dropped her gaze to the gold placemat in front of her, sliding moist palms down her lap. The earlier light camaraderie between them had faded and been replaced with…what? Fear? Curiosity? Her throat scratched.
“How can you be sure?” She meant the words to be teasing, but they came out breathless.
His eyes met hers. “Because I don’t want children.”
She frowned and wrinkled her nose. “Why not?”
He grimaced. “Any child of mine could inherit Huntington’s. I won’t consign an innocent child to that fate.”
He turned away to check the oven, and she fingered the fancy cloth napkin. How sad a man as vital as him would never have children of his own, especially knowing he did not have Huntington’s. But she understood his dilemma all too well. If she ever made the mistake of having children, they would have a 50 percent chance of either inheriting the healing gene or some other mutation, like the gene that allowed Hannah to know the secrets of the heart. And any children who could cure the sick would have a target on their back.
“Have I shocked you?”
His deep voice interrupted her musings, and she realized he’d returned to the table, while she’d been preoccupied. She cleared her throat. “I’m sure there’s a lady out there who doesn’t want children also.”
“Do you?”
Her gaze flew to his, and it came to her then, someone had wounded him deeply—someone who had wanted children. He turned away, picking up the champagne bottle and pouring the sparkling liquid into their glasses. He handed her a glass and waited for an answer, his eyes challenging.
“Want children?” She took a gulp of champagne, the sweet taste dulling the ache in her chest at the thought of never having babies of her own. Yes, she wanted children, and a husband, and a white picket fence. Foolish dreams she had been forced to relinquish when she’d fled Cleveland. “No, I’m too into my job.” Which was as close as she’d allow herself to get to the truth.
He raised his glass, clinking it with hers. “To workaholics.”
He flashed a smile, pulling her from her sad thoughts, and the atmosphere magically lightened again. He tipped his drink and swallowed, and she found herself mesmerized by the way his Adam’s apple moved in his throat.
He refilled their glasses and offered her the salad. Pieces of tomato, cucumber, and black olive peeked out from under romaine lettuce drizzled with some kind of homemade dressing. She took a bite and chewed and swallowed, the combination of flavors bursting on her tongue.
“This is fantastic.”
“Thanks. I’ll let Chef Batz know.”
He had put on a pair of gray oven mitts with white writing on them. She squinted—one had a whisk and said, “Whip it good;” the other had kitchen tools and said, “Choose your weapon.”
She giggled, and he glanced over his shoulder.
“I like your oven mitts.”
He held them up and grinned. “A gift from my mother when I bought this place. Wait until you see the dish towels.”
He carried the steaming casserole to the table and set it on another hot pad in front of her. The smell alone had her drooling. The bread toasted in the oven came a few minutes later with melted garlic butter. My God, she’d forgotten how good home-cooked food could taste. Living alone, she didn’t make elaborate meals, and she rarely ate at restaurants.
She’d eaten most of the serving on her plate before she realized he wasn’t eating but watching her. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she grabbed for the champagne.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
He laughed. “I’m having too much fun watching you eat. I like a girl with an appetite. You have a bit of tomato sauce on your face.”
She grabbed the cloth napkin and wiped. “Better?”
“Not quite.”
He got up and came toward her. What was he doing?
“Let me.” He took the napkin from her hands and wiped her nose. His hands were gentle and strong and for a mad moment she wanted to melt into their solidness. Then he set the napkin down and pulled her up and into his arms.
And God help her, she let him.
Chapter Fifteen
She shouldn’t let Tristan hold her. But she had to admit, it felt incredible.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Lillian whispered, which had the satisfying effect of giving her a flash of Tristan’s dimple.
“Ravenous,” he said and dipped his chin until his mouth found hers.
He didn’t lie. His mouth stripped away any lingering resistance, nipping at her lips until she opened and he plunged inside. His tongue swept her teeth and the roof of her mouth, tasting of champagne and magic.
She threaded her hands through his thick, dark hair like she’d itched to do ever since they’d first kissed. She moved her hands around his neck, enjoying the feel of corded muscles and the cool mint and leather scent of him. His arms smashed her breasts against his hard chest, and he groaned into her mouth, his breath raspy.
They may have only remained locked together for minutes, but it felt like forever. Eventually, they had to come up for air, but he didn’t let her go, and she didn’t object. He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing labored.
“Don’t leave after the party. Stay for at least another day. I promised you a tour of the garden.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
She sighed and pulled herself from his arms. “I have a job. My life is…complicated.”
“Too complicated to delay your departure by a single day?”
She took a breath and tried to pretend her pulse wasn’t racing. “Yes.”
His expression grew challenging, which did nothing to calm her nerves. When he looked like that, she wasn’t at all sure what he’d do next.
“Tell me you don’t feel this…pull between us.”
“I…I have to get ready now.” She stood and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair. “Thank you for dinner.” She headed toward the stairs.
“Zoey, wait.”
She turned to look at him.
“Is it because of what I said earlier? About not having children?”
She swallowed the dryness in her mouth and was grateful she didn’t have to look him in the eyes.
