The Rogue (The Moorehouse Legacy #4)(42)

He went over to a group of tea roses and stared down at the fat, rainbow-vivid blooms. Then he took a seat on a marble bench and plugged his elbows into his knees.

He looked up at her, his eyes burning. “You’re right. We don’t know each other all that well, do we?”

She sat down beside him, the bench’s stone warm against the back of her legs and her seat.

In the silence that followed, a crazy impulse took hold of her. She fought it, but ended up losing.

“There’s a remedy for that whole not-knowing thing.” She cleared her throat. “You could stick around. I could stick around. We could…stick around.”

His gaze shifted away. When he rubbed his face, she knew with a chill that the next thing he was going to do was shake his head.

And he did. “It wouldn’t work. I’m not…built for that.”

Pain lanced through her chest.

But you knew this about him, she reminded herself. You knew this before you were with him. He couldn’t have been any clearer in front of that café yesterday morning.

Fine, but it still murdered her.

“Mind if I ask why relationships don’t interest you?” When he hesitated, she said with an edge, “Or is that too personal?”

“They’re just not for me.”

“Why?”

He looked her in the face. At first, the exhausted light in his eyes offended her because she assumed he was impatient with her question. But then she saw something else: pain. An achy, lonely pain.

“I wish I had a better answer for you.” He stood up. “Let’s go back to the house, okay?”

“Now who’s running?” she whispered.

A vicious word drifted out of his mouth. But then he said, “Yeah…you’re right.”

He rubbed the top of his head, making his hair stand up even straighter. Then he glanced back at the mansion. As his eyes narrowed, he seemed to be tracing the lines of the massive house as if he were taking mathematical measurements.

“I’m not…” His voice drifted. “I’m really not worthy of you.”

She frowned, appalled. “Spike, I don’t care if you didn’t grow up like I did. I’m not into money.”

“I know.” A shadow of a smile lifted his lips. “Although I do feel compelled to mention that your garage is bigger than the house I was raised in.”

“Not my garage. My father’s, then my half brother’s. Never mine. And I’d like to point out that your bike is bigger than the bunks I sleep on.”

Now he really smiled. “Touché.”

But his expression drained away quickly. “If I were a different man, Mad—” He shook his head as if cutting his words off with the motion. “I have no regrets. Well, no regrets in that I wouldn’t change anything. I couldn’t. But I am sorry for how I can’t…do this with you.”

His conviction and sincerity were so deep, they were written in the very lines of his body: the calmness of his breathing, the steady gaze, the loose hands at his sides.

Clearly his freedom was important to him, she thought. And considering the way she felt about being out on the ocean, she could respect that. Yet, why couldn’t—

Stop it, she said to herself. Stop trying to negotiate. He is what he is.

“Spike, after this weekend, will I ever see you again? And not in the relationship sense. I know that’s not in the cards. I’m talking as…friends?” God, she hated that word.

His chest expanded as he took a deep breath. Before he could speak, she got up and started for the house.

“Actually, don’t answer that. I already know what you’re going to say.”

*

As Mad got ready for dinner in her bedroom, she kept waiting for Spike to knock on the door and tell her he was taking off.

When the rapping sound finally came, she thought, okay…so this was it.

She grabbed the loose black skirt she was going to wear, pulled it on and braced herself as she went to open the door.

The bracing turned out to be a good idea, though not for the reason she’d expected.

Amelia was standing in the hall. “May I come in, Madeline?”

Mad was so surprised, she stepped back and let the woman pass.

Man, check out that dress, she thought absently.

Amelia was wearing an ice-blue sheath and plenty of aquamarines, looking as if she’d stepped out of the pages of Women’s Wear Daily. As she glanced around, her blond hair shimmered. Positively shimmered.

“This is different from when you stayed here,” she said.

“I know.”

“It doesn’t suit you.” The comment was soft, almost an afterthought, the kind of subtle taunt that had always been Amelia’s stock in trade.

Mad straightened her spine. “Thank you for pointing that out. But you didn’t come here to talk drapes, did you?”

Amelia’s eyes drifted over. “The dark red suited you. It was vivid. Strong. This is too weak to be your room.”

Mad frowned. And the expression stuck as a long silence followed.

“Amelia…what are you doing here?”

The woman’s manicured hands traced over the pale blue stones at her throat. On another person, Mad would have thought the gesture was a show of nerves, but not with Amelia. You had to care what people thought to be nervous and Amelia had never given a damn.