If I Trust You (Mills & Boon Spice) Page 5

  “I’ve reflected,” he said finally, wiping his mouth with a napkin and setting his plate on the table.

  “And? Any grand discoveries?”

  “No. Not really,” he admitted, leaning back after he took a swig of ice water. “I was different than Linc in that way. The work has always been reason and reward enough for me. It was Linc who was worried he’d built up his empire for nothing, that it was a hollow victory. ‘What’s it all for?’ he’d ask me every once in a while.”

  “Was he unhappy?” Deidre asked in a hushed tone.

  He met her gaze. “No. I would say he lived a happy, fulfilled life. But everyone has a sore point. For Linc, it was that he’d never had a family with whom he could share all that he had to give.”

  Deidre studied her thighs, blinking to soothe the sudden burn in her eyes. Oh, no. She really wished these tears would be over and done with.

  Her breath caught when she felt Nick touch the juncture between her neck and shoulders. His long fingers combed through her hair. He didn’t speak, but she knew he’d noticed her emotional upsurge. She felt like she needed to explain.

  “It’s just...it’s hard, knowing he wanted a family so much and didn’t know he had one all along.”

  Didn’t know he had me.

  The thought of both Linc and her having similar longings while separated by half of the world, both ignorant of each other’s existence, made grief spike through her. They’d found each other, but for such a brief time. Now he was gone forever.

  She stared at the flames and muffled a sob. A hot, vivid flash of anger at her mother mingled with her sadness. Her wretchedness was so complete in that moment, she didn’t protest when she felt Nick’s arms surround her. She managed to stifle the sound of her misery, but she couldn’t disguise the tremors that racked her body. Nick didn’t comment, just absorbed her sadness, his body seeming to cushion the impact of her grief.

  She realized she’d never really wept since Lincoln died. Nick cradled her waist and encouraged her to rest the back of her head on his chest. He ran his hand along her shoulder and upper arm. For several minutes, she cried silently while she stared at the fire.

  Nick closed his hand over her shoulder muscle and rubbed it. She felt his heat through the tiny holes of her sweater. She held her breath. Awareness of him, of his closeness, of his hard, male body made her misery fade. His hand stilled, as if he’d recognized the alteration in her mood at the same moment she had.

  She stood abruptly from the couch and grabbed a napkin from the table. She wiped off her cheeks and walked toward the mantel. How crazy could she be, going to mush like that in front of a man who doubted she was Lincoln’s daughter, who doubted her morals and her character?

  “Surely Lincoln didn’t grieve that much over not having a family,” she said flatly as she leaned down toward the flames, her back to Nick. “He had you, after all.”

  “I worked for him, Deidre.”

  “He loved you like a son,” she insisted. “Everyone says so. He positively glowed with pride every time he spoke of you. Why can’t you admit you thought of him like a father?”

  When he didn’t speak, she twisted her chin over her shoulder, feeling regretful at her outburst. Had she sounded bitter just then? She’d accused him last night of being envious of her relationship with Lincoln, but perhaps she was the one who was jealous of Nick’s lifelong association with Lincoln. She didn’t know what to think when she saw the way he studied her, his face impassive, his eyes hooded.

  “I won’t admit it, because it’s not true. I never expected Lincoln to treat me as his son. I worked my ass off for him—as a stable boy, as the foreman of his ranch, as an advertising executive, as a new global unit president and finally as his CEO.”

  “I didn’t mean you’d taken advantage of your relationship with him,” she said, caught off guard.

  “Other people thought so, when I was younger,” he stated bluntly. “Maybe that’s why I was so intent on making sure my work spoke for itself. I never wanted to give anyone the slightest reason to suspect that I’d used Linc. My record stands on its own.”

  Deidre blushed. She hadn’t realized it was such a sensitive topic for him. Of course, what he’d said made complete sense. There would always be those who thought the worst of a person’s motives.

  “When I told you last night that the officers of DuBois Enterprises had been known to think Linc was foolish for putting so much trust in another human being,” Nick continued, “I was talking about myself. There was loads of backbiting and plenty of rumors about Linc’s gullibility when I first started working for him and rising in the ranks.”

  She stared at him, her lips parted in amazement.

  “Maybe you’re thinking it’s pretty damn hypocritical of me to sit here and say that I was accused of taking advantage of Lincoln when I was young, and then turn around and do the same to you,” he said quietly. “But it’s different, Deidre.”

  “How?”

  “Because I did build a record of service to Linc, his company and it’s employees. I silenced all the naysayers, many times over.”

  “How am I supposed to compete with that, Nick?” she asked, frustrated.

  “I’m not asking you to. All I’m asking is that you spend time with me, allow me to get to know you...form my own opinions.”

  “Haven’t I been doing that tonight?”

  “Yeah, you have. And I appreciate it. More than you know.”

  Deidre wondered if she’d ruined their peaceful evening with her emotional outburst when he suddenly stood.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to sound so angry—”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m not leaving. I just thought of something, that’s all. It arrived yesterday.” She stared at him, bewildered, when he waved at the front door. “I’ll go and get it. It’s in the car.”

  Her confusion had only amplified by the time he returned a minute later, carrying an opened cardboard shipping box. Deidre hurried to finish clearing the coffee table of the remnants of their dinner, making room for him to set it down.

  “What is it?” she asked a moment later when she’d returned from the kitchen, her eyes glued to the box.

  “Open it,” he encouraged.

  She knelt next to the table while he sat across from her on the couch. She peeled back the box flaps and peered inside, seeing dozens and dozens of black-and-white and color photos. Excitement pulsed through her. She reached for the five-by-six photo of a woman smiling at the camera, an exquisite arrangement of white hydrangeas and roses on the table before her, sunlight flooding through the window behind her.

  Recognition clicked in her, rapid and absolute.

  “It’s Lily DuBois,” she whispered.

  “Let me see,” Nick requested gruffly.

  She turned the photo. He gave a small smile.

  “Yeah. That’s Lily.”

  “You knew her?” Deidre whispered.

  He nodded. “I knew both Lily and George, Linc’s father. George was a rancher. He owned a huge spread between Tahoe and Carson City. When they got older, Lincoln bought a house for them in South Lake, and they spent most of their time there.”

  “What were they like?” Deidre asked as she withdrew another picture, this one of Lily in the arms of a large, suntanned man with silver-gray hair and a winning smile. She studied every nuance of the couple’s faces, hungry for the tiniest details. Lily and George DuBois—her grandparents.

  “The two of them couldn’t have been more different, but they were perfect for each other. George was a lot like Linc, bigger than life, personable, a natural horseman, smart and methodical when it came to business. Lily was reserved. Elegant. A sweeter lady never lived. She was English, did Linc tell you that?”

  Deidre nodded, now studying Nick like she had the ph
otographs, so eager for any tiny morsel of knowledge about people and a history she’d never known.

  “Lily never lost her accent. It made her seem so refined, but never standoffish. Her warmth was her hallmark. She loved flowers and used to show her roses in competitions. The one thing both Lily and George had in common was the love of the land. Lily was always in her garden, George with his horses.”

  Deidre continued to dig through the photographs, peering at the faces of people she’d never known, but who somehow seemed familiar to her. There were photos of Lincoln as a young man, tall and whipcord lean, deeply tanned from his days working on his father’s ranch. She saw Lily working in her garden, always wearing a white straw hat to protect her skin from the sun.

  “Here’s a picture of one of Linc’s Christmas trees,” Nick said a few minutes after he’d begun to join her in examining the photos.

  Deidre came around the table and sat next to him on the couch. There was the magnificent pine tree arranged in the picture window of the great room of The Pines. Standing before it was Lincoln, perhaps at around forty, looking fit, handsome and happy. Next to him stood his mother and father. George had his arm around a tall young man, wearing jeans and a sober expression.

  “That’s you,” Deidre whispered as she studied the image of a teenage Nick. He’d been very handsome and intense, even as a boy. A strange feeling went through her, seeing Nick standing there with Lincoln’s family—her family. “What were you so serious about?”

  Nick frowned at the photograph, his brows forming a V shape. “Who knows? I probably was worried about getting my homework done or something,” he said dryly.

  “Homework?” Deidre laughed. “You were that serious about your schoolwork? How come?”

  “I think I’m about sixteen in the photo. I was trying to get a scholarship for college,” he said, shrugging.

  “Wouldn’t Lincoln have helped you with college?”

  “He would have. I didn’t want him to,” he said in a clipped tone that made Deidre realize she was once again treading on tender territory. He must have realized how he’d sounded because he waved his hand sheepishly. “It was a thing between Linc and me. He always wanted to give me more than I was willing to take. He would have taken over as my foster parent at any time, but I...”

  “What?” Deidre prompted.

  He shrugged. “I was stubborn. I resisted the idea, for some reason. Linc offered to adopt me, as well, but I told him no. I ended up making peace with the Garritsons—the family that fostered me and three other boys—until I went to college. It’s ironic, I guess, how I rebelled against foster families when I was a kid and then finally accepted a family because I didn’t want Linc to take me.”

  “I don’t understand. You and Lincoln got on so well together.”

  He glanced at her sharply. “I didn’t want to rely on his generosity. I didn’t have much of anything as a kid but a huge chip on my shoulder that might loosely—very loosely—have been called pride,” he said with a wry smile. “I spent most of my time at The Pines. I thought of it as home, but I always kept that barrier between Linc and me. I wanted to prove I was worthy of every opportunity he gave me, and it’s hard to do that if you’re legally lord of the manor, if you know what I mean. I’d like to think he understood my need for independence and to prove myself, but I’m not so sure he did. He would tell me I was too serious and needed to enjoy my youth while I still had it. It was an ongoing refrain between the two of us. Just a few days before he passed, he was admonishing me for working night and day on a merger deal.”

  “He wanted you there with him. He likely suspected the end was coming,” Deidre murmured, carefully placing the photograph on the table and leaning back on the couch, her gaze on his profile.

  “He was right. I should have been with him every minute instead of on the phone, worrying about meaningless business details. I regret it now,” he said stiffly.

  “You couldn’t have known precisely when his last days would be. You were there when the time came. You said your goodbyes. It’s normal to regret things when people we love pass,” she said softly. “We always wish we’d done and said more.”

  His gaze narrowed on her. Deidre wondered what he saw on her face. “Was this a bad idea?” he asked, nodding toward the table that was now littered with photos.

  She self-consciously wiped at a damp cheek. “No. It was a wonderful idea. Thank you for having the photos sent. Why did you?”

  “Why did I what?” His longish bangs had fallen on his forehead. Deidre suppressed and urge to comb the strands back with her fingers. How could he seem so hard and cold at times and all too human and approachable at others? A spell seemed to have fallen over her as she tried to gauge his reaction to the photos and understand his relationship to Lincoln. She saw him differently tonight than she had before. He felt deeply about Lincoln, but he rarely spoke of his feelings. It was as if he didn’t think he had a right to have such strong emotions toward Lincoln.

  Did he possibly resent her showing up at the last moments of Lincoln’s life, claiming to be his flesh and blood daughter? It saddened her to consider it, but she could completely understand if he did feel that way. She wished for the tenth time that evening that the circumstances between Nick and her weren’t so unusual, so tense, so inherently ridden with conflict. He was a complex, interesting man.

  “Why did you have the photographs sent, when you’re not even convinced I’m Lincoln’s daughter?” she clarified softly.

  The silence seemed to swell. Deidre experienced his gaze moving over her face like a physical touch. His nostrils flared slightly when his stare landed on her mouth.

  “I thought Linc would have wanted you to see them.”

  “Oh...I see.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I’m not so sure that you do.”

  She swallowed thickly. They’d started talking in hushed, intimate voices. She couldn’t unglue her stare from his moving lips.

  He lowered his head until their faces were just inches apart. He opened his hand along the side of her head. She trembled when she felt him moving his fingers through her hair. “Why didn’t you tell me about the genetic testing?” he asked, his breath fanning her lips.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I was mad at you for always pushing it. I was scared—”

  “Don’t be afraid,” he cut her off in a pressured tone. His hand came around and cradled her jaw. “I can understand you being angry, but don’t be scared. Not of me. Not ever.”

  She heard his voice through the pounding of her heart in her ears. She watched him, entranced by his image. He looked intent...fierce.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do ever since I laid eyes on you.”

  “What?” she whispered.

  “This.”

  He covered her mouth with his own.

  * * *

  Something had clenched tight in Nick’s chest when Deidre said the word scared. She looked sublimely beautiful staring up at him, her head cradled in his hand, her pink lips parted like a lush, blooming rose.

  He shouldn’t have brought over the photos. It’d been insensitive of him. He wasn’t sure if Deidre was Lincoln’s biological child, but he’d come to the conclusion after spending the evening with her that she believed it, heart and soul. She believed Lincoln, Lily and George were the family she’d never known. It must have been brutal for her to see them all alive and happy, to witness the evidence of all the days, months and years of lives she’d never known, and never would.

  His concern for her vulnerability didn’t silence his mounting desire for her. In fact, it seemed to be increasing it. An overwhelming need to protect her rose in him, mingling with an even more powerful mandate to devour her...possess her. He could have resisted her delicious-looking mouth as easily as he could have single-handedly turned night to
day.

  Her lips were as eager as his. It enflamed him, the way she leaned into him, the way she molded and shaped her flesh to his, the way she tasted. He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, hungry for more of her unique flavor. When he probed into the center of her warmth, and she opened for him so willingly, a groan burned in his throat.

  She was sweetness distilled.

  He probed the cavern of her mouth, stroking, caressing, seeking out more of her secrets. His other hand came up to cradle her jaw. He held her in place, his entire being focused on a kiss that was damned near singeing his very consciousness it was so hot.

  She slid her tongue against his and applied a suction that he felt all the way to the place he burned hottest. He muttered her name as he bit at her plump lower lip and then captured her mouth again in a searing kiss. She ran her fingers through his hair, her touch causing a shudder of pleasure to course through him. His hands settled on her shoulders. He brought her against him, suppressing a growl of primal satisfaction at how supremely good she felt. She arched her back and her breasts pressed against his ribs.

  He broke the kiss and gritted his teeth.

  “You’ve been driving me crazy since I first laid eyes on you,” he whispered roughly as he kissed her neck. It was true. He’d been consumed with a desire to touch her from the first moment she’d looked at him with those singular blue-gray eyes and tilted her chin up in that part amused, part defiant gesture she favored. Her skin was so smooth it was like pressing his lips against a fragrant flower petal. Her body seemed to flow beneath his seeking hands, sleek muscle, supple, tight curves—the perfect combination of strength and soft femininity. He pressed his lips against her throbbing pulse.

  “Your heart is beating so fast.” He slid his hand along her chest and rested it over her left breast. She stilled. Her heart pulsed against his palm. Her eyes were glassy with desire when he lifted his head, her lips rosy and damp from his kiss. A primitive, powerful urge rose in him to make love to her.