What? Loved? Who said anything about love? No, not loved—liked. One of the things she liked about him.
“I thought you bought a dress already?” He stretched his arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers skimming her shoulder.
She fought against pulling away from him—fought against resting her head on his shoulder, the way she had earlier in the garden. “Mags decided against that one.”
“How was Brynn?” he asked, angling toward her, his face almost touching hers.
“She didn’t want to go home and was freely sharing that opinion about every two minutes. But she and Dad had a long talk.”
His eyes swept over her face. “She’ll be all right, darling. What about you? Did you and your father work things out?” The concern in his voice melted her heart.
“No.” The sting of betrayal was still strong where her father was concerned. But he had promised Brynn that he’d move more slowly with Karen. Allie wondered what slowly meant in his world, but she’d bit her tongue for Brynn’s sake.
Arnold stood in the doorway, as if he’d suddenly appeared. The man was one stealthy butler. “Dinner is ready.”
Trevor took Allie’s arm and hauled her up next to him. Walking behind his parents, he slowed his pace and, leaning down, whispered, “You’ve taken such good care of them, darling.” He kissed the side of her head.
She glanced up at him, at his gorgeous eyes, his sometimes cruel mouth, which was now tilted in a smile. Struck dumb, she faltered.
Love. She was in love with Trevor Blake. The realization ran through her, filling her with panic.
Shit. When had this happened? And how did she make it stop?
Immediately, Trevor halted beside her. “What’s wrong, love? Are you ill?”
She blinked and tried to wipe what must be a horrified expression off her face. “No, sorry. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You’re quite pale.”
“I’m fine.” She tugged at his arm, and they resumed walking to the dining room.
Allie didn’t say much as dinner progressed. She tried to act normally, but she wasn’t hungry and ended up pushing food around on the plate.
What if he figured out her feelings? Would he ridicule her, pity her? Or would he simply shrug, tell her it was her problem to deal with, and pretend like it didn’t matter?
Allie felt empty as she sat next to him. Her stomach was a little queasy and an overwhelming tide of hopelessness enveloped her. They would never work. They were too different, and he was too cynical.
And even if Trevor wasn’t completely disillusioned by his parents and their failed marriages, he and Allie would never be able to build a relationship on the foundation they had now. She was a paid mistress and he’d never see her as something more.
It took forever before the dessert course was served. When Allie declined, Trevor did too.
He pushed away from the table and glared at her. “Let’s go.” He pulled back her chair, took her hand, and dragged her out of the dining room.
She glanced back at his parents, but Mags just smiled and waved with her spoon.
Allie had to jog to keep up with him. “Slow down, Trevor.”
He didn’t. When he reached the library, he yanked her inside, shut the door behind them, and locked it. Then, leaning against it, he folded his arms across his chest. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you? You’ve looked shocky all evening.”
Allie debated with herself: tell him what was bothering her—not all of it, not about how she loved him, God no—or lie. But Trevor could sniff out lies like a dog on a hunt. She decided to go with the truth.
“Brynn and Monica said something today, and it made me feel…” She raised her shoulders. “Weird, I guess. That’s all. I’m fine.”
“What did they say?”
Allie wandered around the room. She ran her finger over a row of books—Shakespeare. “Did you inherit these from your grandfather as well?”
“Allison,” he said pleasantly.
Oh no, she was in serious trouble if he was being pleasant.
“Are they old? They look old.”
“We’re not leaving this room, darling, until you tell me all of it.”
Allie sighed and walked to the wooden chess table. Carved pieces of ivory and onyx stood in formation. She picked one up and studied it. The knight was heavy in her hand. “Trevor, it’s nothing. I’m just being sensitive.”
“What did they say, Allison?”
She glanced up at him. “Brynn mentioned that we’re living together.”
“And so we are.”
“I’m fucking you for money, Trevor.” She should have eased into it, but talking to him was like taking a dose of truth serum. Everything came tumbling out whether she wanted it to or not.
With his blank expression in place, he stared at her.
She set the piece on the chessboard and waited for him to say something biting and sarcastic. His eyes were dark and a tick jerked the left side of his impassive face.
“You may leave any time you wish. The debt is cleared.” He turned and unlocked the door then left the room.
Allie stared after him. “Well, hell.”
***
He strode to his office, paced in front of the window a few times, poured himself a scotch, and drank it in one swallow. It burned down his throat.
Bloody hell.
Trevor turned and very calmly, very precisely, threw his glass at the James Ward landscape hanging across from his desk. A few drops of whiskey trailed over the painting, and the glass shattered and rained to the floor. He should clean that up. No reason why Frances should take care of his mess.
He’d been worried about Allie since she came down for pre-dinner drinks. She’d been quiet and wan, but as they walked to the dining room, she appeared to be on the verge of a panic attack. She hadn’t eaten dinner, wouldn’t look at him.
He merely thought she was worried about her father and Brynn.
To know she still thought of herself as a whore—it gutted him. God, he thought they were past that. But her sad eyes ripped right through him.
He couldn’t have anticipated anything like her. She invaded his life, his home. His every bloody thought. He rubbed his breastbone. Now she was leaving him. He should be used to it by now. Everyone left.
Without knocking, Allie burst into the office, her gaze darting around the room. She took in the whiskeyed landscape and the broken glass before looking at him. When she did, her eyes pinned him to the floor. “Do you want me to go? Is that what you’re saying? Because if that’s what you’re saying, you should say it to my face.” She swung the door shut and advanced toward him. Allie’s chest rapidly rose and fell and she rubbed her palms against her skirt in jerky, nervous movements.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers to keep from reaching out and grabbing hold of her. “I said you may leave any time you wish. What is so bloody difficult to understand about that?”
She stepped closer, her face a mask of anger. “Quit being a coward. If you want me to go, say the words.”
He leaned down, got in her face. “If I wanted you to go, I would have said, ‘Allison get the fuck out of my house.’ Is that what I said? Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“No, you idiot.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed before carrying on. “I wanted to hear that you want me without the stupid debt being in the way. That you don’t just want me because you bought me.”
“I want to fuck you because I like fucking you,” he yelled. “I like having you in my home, is that too difficult for your tiny brain to comprehend?”
“Good, because I like being in your home. But I don’t like having this mistress thing between us,” she yelled back. She gave his chest a shove with her finger for emphasis.
“That’s why I said the debt was cleared. Maybe you need your hearing checked.” He poked her back gently.
“I can hear just fine. You’re shouting loud enough to bring the house down.”
“I can shout however loudly I please”—his voice raised a decibel—“as it is my goddamned house.”