Dad had a stroke. I’m flying back.
“What?” she cried and hit the button to call him. “I’m coming back now. Don’t leave without me,” she said as soon as he answered.
“Why?” he asked flatly. “Because you think I’m going to inherit everything now? He’s not dead.”
It was a slap in the face delivered from three hours away.
“You’re upset,” she said shakily, as much to remind herself as him. “Have a maid pack my things from the hotel. I’ll meet you at the airport.”
He ended the call, so she had no idea if he would do as she’d asked.
Saint was stewing in his seat on the tarmac, hating himself for what he’d said to Fliss.
He should have called her back, but he’d been fielding calls from his mother and doctors and the board as word had spread that his father was in hospital.
When he saw the headlights come through the gate toward his jet, he let out a sigh of profound relief that she’d gotten here safely. As much as he’d resented the pilot delaying takeoff—because Fliss had called Willow and told them to hold the plane—he was still shaken by that damned Death card, worried it had been meant for her.
“Willow doesn’t work for you,” he snapped as she came aboard and took her seat next to him.
“Willow has your best interests at heart, same as I do.”
“Do you?” he scoffed. Why the hell was he talking to her this way? Had his father actually died and started inhabiting his body?
“You may go ahead and be an ass to me if you need to let off steam,” Fliss said with cool patience. “But I didn’t cause your father’s stroke.” She closed her belt and gave the attendant a tight smile to indicate she was ready for takeoff.
He was being an ass. Why?
Because she hadn’t been there when it had happened. He’d thought she was leaving him, and he’d been so hurt, so cast adrift he hadn’t known how to deal with it except to go on the attack.
She was here, though. Exactly where he wanted her, expression stiff with hurt.
“I am upset,” he admitted. “Even if he survives, he’ll be too ill to work. The board has already named me interim president. This isn’t the way I wanted it to happen. I wanted him to choose me.” God, that sounded puerile. “To trust me. To give me something that showed—” He couldn’t say it.
His father had withheld the same words that Saint had. God, that hurt to acknowledge. He was exactly like his father. And if his father didn’t survive, that meant Saint wouldn’t ever make his peace with the old man.
Fliss’s soft hand covered his.
His throat tightened. His eyes grew hot. He used his thumb to pinch her fingers to his palm. He didn’t deserve her kindness and wondered what had prompted such generosity.
But he knew. Love. She loved him.
He was a selfish bastard for accepting it, but he drank it up like rare scotch.
The first few days were fraught and filled with hurry up and wait.
Saint was pulled in every direction, leaving Fliss helpless to do anything except provide what support she could. She reminded him to eat and curled up to him anytime he sat down, hoping it would pin him down long enough to force a small rest. He always responded by drawing her closer and occasionally nodded off, but he never stayed still long. He was up early and came to bed late.
She invited Norma to eat dinner with them every night so she wasn’t spending evenings alone. Norma accepted a few times, but they were somber occasions without much conversation.
Eventually, Ted’s condition stabilized enough to determine he had lost the use of his left arm and leg. His facial muscles were affected, and he was having trouble with cognition and speech. His doctors believed he would improve over time, but he would never fully recover.
Saint came home one evening looking very tired after a long meeting with the board.
“How did they take the news?” She knew he’d conveyed Ted’s prognosis today.
“Voted me in as president,” he said without emotion.
She poured him a scotch and brought it to him, sensing what a bittersweet accomplishment this was for him.
“Thank—” He took the glass with one hand and caught her wrist with the other, looking at the ring on her finger.
“It was delivered this morning.” She had fallen in love with it all over again. “You should have seen the production I went through before they would release it. I thought we were going to have to start our baby-making all over again because they seemed to want our first born.”
Saint didn’t crack a hint of a smile. He absently set aside his drink and held her hand in his two, studying the stone as if it were a crystal ball.
At his continued silence, her stomach wobbled. They hadn’t talked about marriage since she’d driven away from the jewelry shop in London.
“I know this isn’t the right time to make announcements. I don’t have to wear it if you’d rather I didn’t.” She started to withdraw her hand, but he held on to it.
“One of the board members asked me today whether we were getting married. I didn’t know what to say.” His troubled gaze came up to hers. “I was such an ass to you that day. Not just after the news about Dad. Before.”
“Saint.” She had worked her way through that and wasn’t holding any grudges.
“No, let me say this.” His mouth pressed flat a moment. His brows did the same. “Love is a really loaded word in my world. It always comes with strings. Historically, anyone who said they loved me wanted something, and so everyone said it. Almost everyone. If there was someone who didn’t want anything from me, who criticized me and implied I didn’t have anything they wanted, then I assumed they didn’t love me at all.”
He was talking about his father. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but he was cradling her hand in his two, moving the ring enough that it caught glints of light and threw out flashes of rainbow colors.
“I wanted to put a ring on you. To lock you in. I wanted that from the beginning. That’s why I sent the earrings.” Saint flicked his gaze to her naked lobes.
