LEAD ME ON by Julie Ortolon (find a book to read TXT) 📕

The loss broke the last of her control, and grief came gushing out of her in a torrent of tears—all the love and anger and fear. She balled a fist and hit his chest. “Why couldn’t you be real?”

“God, Alli, I’m so sorry.” His arms tightened around her and he rocked her back and forth. “I’m so goddamned sorry.”

He held her like that as she cried, held her until her throat ached and her eyelids felt like sandpaper, until everything inside her felt hollowed out. When she finally subsided, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She felt too exposed to face anyone, even herself.

A long moment passed in horrifying silence. Finally, he kissed her forehead and shifted out from under her. “Wait here,” he whispered hoarsely.

She lay numbly, staring at the sunlight shining with blinding brightness off the white marble floor. By the time her sluggish brain thought about grabbing her clothes and running, it was too late. He came back in the room, walking toward her fully nude, carrying a white washcloth and a towel.

“Thank you,” she croaked and reached for the cloth.

He pushed her hand aside and nudged her onto her back so he could wash her stomach and between her thighs. She draped an arm over her eyes for a pretense at privacy.

“Since that isn’t exactly the most reliable way to prevent pregnancy, mind if I ask when you had your last period?”

“It ended two days ago.”

“Well, we have that in our favor at least.” When he finished, he dropped the towel to the floor, but didn’t move. “You’ll tell me, though, if there’s a problem.”

“There won’t be.” Although, suddenly, she almost wished she would get pregnant. She pushed the thought aside as irrational.

“Are you ever going to look at me?”

“No.” Her voice sounded as raw as it felt.

“Allison ...” He sighed. “I never lied about how I felt. If you can bring yourself to believe that, maybe we still have a chance.”

She squeezed her eyes as they threatened to tear up again. “I don’t think we do.”

“Because I’m John LeRoche’s son? If I could change that, I would go down today and have a blood transfusion. If it helps, I assure you, he’s not a part of my life. He’s a part of my past.”

“It’s not just that. It’s ... I don’t know. I can’t trust you.” She covered her face with her hands. “You lied to me.”

He rubbed his brow in frustration, searching for some way around the wall she’d put between them. His gaze landed on the canvas bag, and he narrowed his eyes as a thought struck him. “Alli, when did you first read Marguerite’s diaries?”

“What?” The unexpected question made her look at him in surprise.

“How old were you?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She sat up and scooted into the corner of the sofa, but she couldn’t stand up unless he moved and he wasn’t budging. She finally settled for wrapping her arms about her raised knees.

“I think it has a lot to do with the problems we’re having,” he said, “because you won’t let go of the past. I’ll admit, Henri was a total bastard. He misled Marguerite right from the beginning. But all that happened a hundred and fifty years ago so I’m having a little trouble understanding why you can’t get past it.”

“Because it’s still affecting us,” she insisted passionately. “He disowned his daughter, and people have been whispering behind our backs ever since.”

“You’re right. He was a bastard about that, too.”

“Then you accept that Nicole was legitimate?”

“I do, which I guess makes us cousins—albeit very, very distant ones, thank God.” He tried for a smile, but she didn’t return it. “I still say that has nothing to do with us. I personally haven’t stolen anything from you or your family. Besides, you own the house now, and from what I hear you just got a huge settlement from my side of the family, so the score has evened up a bit.”

“Yes.” Her voice turned subdued. “I suppose I should thank you for helping out. We heard about what you did.”

“You’re welcome. Although, for the record, it was an empty threat. I may not like my father, but I don’t hate him enough to intentionally try to destroy him.”

“Oh.” Her brow dimpled in a frown, and he wondered if his statement pleased or disappointed her.

“If we can get back to my question, how old were you when you read the diaries?”

“About fourteen, I think. I don’t know, I read them more than once.”

He softened his voice for the next question, knowing it would upset her. “Did you read them after you lost the baby?”

Her back jerked straight. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with anything.” Pushing at him, she tried to swing her feet to the floor.

“Hang on.” He braced his hands on the sofa arm and back, trapping her.

“You have no right to bring that up.” She shoved against his chest with balled fists. “I spilled my guts to you, opened up parts of my life I’ve never shared with anyone, and all the while, you were lying to me.”

He started to argue, but saw more than fury in her eyes. He saw vulnerability. “Would you like to get dressed before we talk about this?”

“I’d like to leave.”

He stood and she scrambled off the sofa. Gathering her clothes, she struggled into them as he pulled on his shorts and shirt. While her back was to him, he picked up the canvas bag and sat back on the sofa. She grabbed her purse and fumbled for the keys, then looked about for the diaries. When she saw him holding them her back straightened.

“Give them to me.” She held her hand out.

“No.” He raised a brow. “Not until you sit down and answer my questions.” He watched the struggle on her face as she weighed the odds of wrestling the bag from him.

Apparently deciding against it, she sat back down with her arms