“Like I said. You see too much.”

I ignore the comment. “Mike seemed eager to give you whatever he wanted to give you. I expected you to return pleased, not cranky like a bear.”

“Cranky like a bear?”

My lips quirk. “Yes. Cranky like a bear.”

He studies me with a hooded look, his lashes thick veils hiding his eyes from my prying gaze. He is beautiful in the starlight--and the wine, or perhaps Chris himself, has washed away my inhibitions.

I reach up and trace his full, sensual mouth that I know can both punish and please, studying him. My fingers travel his face, tracing his high, defined cheekbones, and down to the light stubble on his square jaw. I imagine how the stubble could scrape my bare skin. I am infatuated with his beauty, his talent, his wit…his body. But I want to know the man.

“Talk to me, Chris,” I plead when the silence stretches eternally.

He draws my hand into his and kisses the back. “Not an easy thing to do when you’re touching me.” He slides my hair behind my ear. “Especially when you’ve been drinking and I can’t do any of the many things I planned to do to you while you’re pantyless.”

A slow smile slides onto my lips. “And braless.”

“Thanks for reminding me because I’m not going to push you when you’ve had too much to drink.”

Push me? Please. I yearn to know what that means. “What happened to Mr. I’m-No-Saint?”

“Apparently he comes with limits, namely yours.”

I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about the wine I’ve consumed any longer and the hard lines of his expression tell me I’m right. “My limits aren’t as narrow as you think.”

“I guess that’s yet to be decided.”

My brows furrow. While he’s playful as usual, there is an undercurrent of tension in him that isn’t going away. “What happened with Mike?”

“You’re giving me whiplash, baby. That’s a sudden change of subject.”

“And you’re avoiding an answer.”

“For someone so tipsy, you’re pretty damn pushy.”

“I used the word ‘cock-fight’ the last time I was drinking,” I remind him. “So yeah. I am.”

His lips quirk. “Ah yes. How could I forget?”

“What happened with Mike?” I repeat.

“He gave me something that used to be my father’s. He thought I’d like to have it.”

I’m shocked he’s really answered. Tentatively, I push for more, “But you didn’t want it?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“No.”

“What was it?”

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small laminated card and hands it to me. I study what appears to be a wine judge’s certificate with his father’s name on it.

I glance up at Chris, at the hard set of his jaw, and I feel the ache in him, the turbulence and pain. “Why didn’t you want this?”

“Because Mike and Katie don’t know that wine was my father’s drug of choice. It’s how he tried to forget the day he was behind the wheel of the car when my mother died.”

Air rushes from my lunges. “He was driving?”

“Yes. He was driving and he never forgave himself for letting her die. He hid behind the tasting events and the judging tables, and slowly drank himself to death.”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest. Chris not only lost his mother that tragic day, he’d also lost his father. “Oh God. Chris. I’m sorry.”

Anger crackles off of him. “Come on, Sara, you of all people know sorry is not what the hell I want to hear.”

“I do. You’re right.” Damn the buzz in my head that won’t let me communicate properly. His sharing this with me is a huge breakthrough. Desperately, I fight the buzz; I try to let Chris know I’m here for him. “If this is the deep, dark secret you think is going to make me run away, it’s not. I’m not going anywhere.”

He barks out in bitter laughter, and turns me so that I am against the rail, his hands framing my shoulders, his body no longer touching mine. Dark Chris is back, and he is harder and edgier than I have ever seen him. His voice lowers and bites like a whip. “If you think this is my darkest secret, then it tells me you have no idea just how dark life can get.”

“How do you know if you don’t try me?”

“You can’t handle it,” he grinds out. “End of story. And you’re not going to get a chance to prove me right. I’ve broken rules with you, important rules I’ve lived by, and you’re the one who’ll pay the price. I’m not going to let that happen.” He pushes off the railing. “We’re leaving.” He grabs my hand and when he sees the card in my palm, he tosses it into the water. My stomach knots as I double-step to keep up and watch the small piece of his father flutter toward the water. My heel catches on a board and I stumble again.

Chris rounds on me and catches me. “And stop drinking too much damn wine.”

I’m appalled at his reprimand, my defensiveness rising to the challenge. “You gave me the wine, you…jerk!”

His hand tightens on my arm and he pulls me close. “Finally you get what I’ve been telling you. Yes. I’m a jerk. The kind of jerk you don’t deserve.” He takes my hand and starts walking, and like the jerk he proclaims to be, his steps are fast and my footing is painfully unsteady.

We round the building without ever going inside, and head to the limo parked off by to the side of the drive. He yanks open the door. “Get in.”

“What about Katie and Mike?”

“Get in, Sara.”

My throat thickens with emotion and I consider refusing, but the world is spinning around me, and not entirely because of the wine. I slide into the car and over to the far window. I watch Eric scramble upright from an apparent nap and straighten.

“Is everything okay, sir?” he asks as Chris climbs into the vehicle.

“We’re ready to return to the hotel,” is Chris’s only answer. He slams the door beside him and this time he does not move to sit beside me.

We are worlds apart.

***

The ride back is short and tense, but it is long enough for the anger to build to a near-explosive level inside me. I have let Chris turn my life upside down in a matter of a week. It’s insane. It’s everything I said I would never let a man do again.

When the car stops I open my side and get out. Eric quickly does the same. “Thank you, Eric, for the tour.” I turn on my heel and let him shut the door I’ve exited.

Chris is waiting on me as I round the trunk, a predatory gleam in his gaze, hot and filled with desire. It pisses me off. I am not prey. I am not a token to be used and played with. I tug the shawl around me and cross my arms, giving him no chance to take my hand, and head inside the hotel.

He falls into step beside me, softly announcing the obvious. “People are watching us. They can tell you’re pissed.”

“How very observant of them.” I keep walking toward the elevator and I know I’m swaying. I’m flipping drunk and that just ticks me off more. It means I trusted Chris to take care of me. I don’t need to be taken care of. I don’t want to be taken care of.

We step into the elevator and he leans on the far wall, watching me. I turn and stare right back at him. His eyes slide over me, a hot caress, and damn it, I hate how much I crave his touch. I hate this power he has over me.

He says nothing. I say nothing. The air crackles with sexual tension but I cling to anger. You can’t handle it. I’m so tired of men telling me what I can and can’t handle.

The doors open and I head for the hallway, and I sway. Chris’s hand slides to my waist and heat darts through my body. “Don’t,” I hiss without looking at him. “Just don’t help me and don’t touch me.”

His hand falls away and I start walking. The hall is long and it feels like an eternity before Chris swipes the keycard to the door.

All the anger I’ve bottled for the past half-hour explodes from me when I enter the room. I kick off my shoes for stability and toss my purse, which I don’t even remember holding, to the ground.

I whirl on Chris before the door even shuts behind him and unleash on him. “You’re making me crazy, Chris. No picket fences, no talking about the past, yet you ask about my past and then you take me to meet your godparents, who you know will tell me about your past. I had no expectations from you besides you whisking into my life and thoroughly f**king me before going back to Paris. I was okay with that. It’d been five years. I needed sex, not this…this making me crazy thing you’re doing.”

Before I can blink, I’m against him, his hand sliding into my hair, pulling my face to his, his other hand caressing my breast, my nipple. “You want to be fucked? Is that what you want from me, Sara?”

“Yes,” I whisper but I know it’s not enough anymore, not with Chris. “I want…” A wave of nausea blasts through me and my hand presses against his chest. “Oh God.” I push away from him and he lets me, as I desperately seek the bathroom, and have no idea where it is. Chris guides me beyond the bed and I remotely register entering a smaller room and a light being flipped on but all I see is the toilet.

I drop to my knees in front of it without a second to spare and what follows isn’t pretty. Chris approaches and I wave him off. “Go away,” I choke out. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Forget it.” He goes down on a knee beside me. “I got you like this, I’m going to take care of you while you’re going through it.” He hands me a towel which I clutch eagerly and I can’t argue anymore. I fall into eternal heaves, and he is holding my hair, stroking my back, until I collapse on some shiny white surface I think is the side of the tub.

Chris eases me off of the tub, cradling me against his body. “We need to get you out of this dress. It’s a mess.” He tugs it upward. I am a limp noodle and barely raise my arms to help him pull it over my head.

I am na**d on the bathroom floor, and Chris slides his arms under my thighs and behind my back as he picks me up. Clarity begins to come back to me. I put my trust in Chris to take care of me and he is but I am sick all over again thinking of the irony of what has happened.

He pulls back the sheets and settles me in the bed, pulling the covers up, before kneeling in front of me. “Let me get you some water.”

I grab his hand before he can leave. “Chris…me getting drunk on wine after what you told me--”

“You did nothing wrong tonight. I did.”

“No,” I argue, certain, for reasons I’m not clear-headed enough to analyze, that him taking the blame is a problem. “Chris.” I don’t know what else to say. I’m too sick and to weak. “I…we…”

“Rest, Sara. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

The question is, will he be here tomorrow? And should I want him to be? But it doesn’t seem to matter what I should want. I just want to be with Chris.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I blink against the morning sunlight in my eyes and swallow against the dryness in my throat. Awareness comes to me first with the throbbing of my head, next with the horrid taste in my mouth, and then, with the warm weight wrapped around me. I’m na**d, under a blanket, and Chris’s arm is draped over my body.

For a moment, I lay here absorbing the implications and the complications that have become our relationship, remembering the explosive fight we’d had. The turbulence of that battle fades away in Chris’s embrace. Because Mike and Katie don’t know that wine was my father’s drug of choice. My poor damaged artist. He’s been through so much and thought Mike had meant well with his gift, instead he’d sideswiped Chris and left him reeling. I’d been there for the aftermath and thanks to the wine, I’d handled it horribly.

Guilt twists in my empty, aching stomach as I remember hugging the toilet, with Chris watching me be sick on the very drink that had destroyed his father. And still, he’d tenderly taken care of me, and been my hero.

“You’re awake.” The raw, morning rumble of his deep voice burns through me and I’m amazed at how easily everything about this man affects me.

“And embarrassed.”

He nuzzles my neck. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

He tries to turn me and I push to a sitting position, tugging the sheet with me and scooting against the headboard. “I’m radioactive. Unsafe until I shower and brush my teeth.” I frown, noting he’s wearing the clothes he’d had on the night before, a dark blond stubble thick on his jaw. He looks rough and sexy, his blond hair a wild hot mess. “You’re fully dressed.”

“Because you’re not and I didn’t want to be insensitive to how sick you were.”

“Oh.” Could he really want me when I’ve just been sick? Surely not.

“Oh,” he repeats, his lips quirking.

I wet my parched lips and my head thunders as if in reaction. I press two fingers to my temple, a moan slipping from my lips. “Dear Lord, I’m hung over. Will this hell never end?”

Chris climbs over my legs and grabs a bottle of water and some pills. “I called down to the front desk last night and had them bring some ibuprofen. You fell asleep before I could give them to you.”

Blown away by his thoughtfulness, I touch his jaw, letting his whiskers rasp against my fingers. “Thank you.” My hand falls from his face, and tenderness fills me. “I guess you aren’t a jerk all of the time.”