A Nordic King(42)

I hear her words but they don’t sink in. There’s something about the warmth and depth of her eyes that makes it impossible to think. It’s like slipping into a warm bath until you’re so enthralled you wouldn’t even notice if you drowned.

“What?” I finally ask, and the word comes out in a rough whisper.

“Nicklas,” she says, and it’s like she’s thrown ice water in my face. “Your secretary. He was…” She lowers her voice, looking briefly toward the girls’ room. “He was Helena’s butler.”

“I know.”

“But he was the one driving the car that killed her. Almost killed you, too.”

I swallow thickly, my gaze dropping to the glass in my hands. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“I know. They said the roads were slippery.”

“I said the roads were slippery,” I tell her, looking at her sharply. “I was there, Aurora. It wasn’t his fault.”

“But why keep him working for you, after all that?”

Guilt. It’s guilt.

It’s the lie.

It’s the fact that Nicklas was never driving at all. That it was me behind the wheel. That it was me who drove off the road. That it was me that killed my wife.

It was never him.

And yet his own guilt over his affair with Helena, his guilt over the fact that his actions caused me to lose control, and the fact that no one would ever believe him over me, made him take the blame.

So my guilt is two-fold.

One, for killing my wife.

Two, for making Nicklas a villain in the public eye.

And he was a villain. Perhaps he still is. He’s threatened many times to ruin me, to write a book, to tell the truth. But he also knows that in order to protect my family, I will lie until the bitter end, and my lies are stronger than his truth ever will be.

Because in order to tell his truth, he has to tell all of it.

He’ll have to throw Helena under the bus.

It’s not something I’m willing to do.

And I can only hope the same stays true for him.

So I keep Nicklas employed because if I didn’t, he would have nothing. He would have no job, no future. It’s all part of the bargain. He’s universally hated as the man who killed Helena, and it’s true, it doesn’t matter how many times I tell the world that it was an accident, they still blame him. Just as they would blame me, if they knew the truth.

I glance up from my glass at Aurora’s searching face. There’s nothing but curiosity and concern in her eyes. Something tells me that of all the people in the world, my secret would be safe with her.

But I can never test that theory.

I clear my throat and give her a tight smile. “Let’s just say I believe in second chances.”

For anyone else but me.

She frowns at that. “It’s just weird.”

“Why?”

Her eyes roam around the room as she thinks. “I guess … because I see him with you and it’s apparent that he despises you.”

“Despises me?”

“A lot. And it’s also apparent you don’t care for him either. That, I totally understand. I don’t like him either. He’s rude. Ruder than you are, I should say. I don’t know, it’s just a bizarre relationship to me but obviously none of my business, so...”

I sit back in the chair and tap my fingers along the glass. “I’m sure it looks that way. I’m sure a lot of things look a certain way when you have no idea what’s happening underneath.”

“Kind of like you,” she remarks, taking a large swallow of her drink.

“What does that mean?”

“You know what I mean.” She gives me a steady look. “This is the first time I’ve been able to talk to you like this. To get even a hint of the man you are inside. Who you really are.”

I bristle at that. One moment I’m being blinded by her smile, the next she’s pissing me off by prying and overstepping her boundaries. “I think you’re assuming too much. Again. And anyway, what about you? At this point you know more about me than I do about you. I have a resume to go on, but that’s it. I can’t find any other information on one Miss Aurora James.”

I’m watching her carefully so I notice that the spark in her eyes falters just a little and that she’s calculating something, trying to figure out what to say. It’s curious, considering how regularly she just blurts out what she’s feeling.

“Not everyone can be found on social media,” she says, looking down at the ridiculously pink bedspread.

“I can see that. So then tell me. Where did you grow up?”

“A town you’ve never heard of.”

“Try me.”

“It’s barely even a town.”

“Just tell me the name. You have something to hide?”

She glances up at me, her eyes sharp. “No.”

“Then tell me.”

“Fine. It’s Windorah. In Queensland.” And her accent magically becomes extra Australian. She snarls. “Hey. Don’t make fun of my accent.”

“I didn’t say a word,” I say in protest, raising my palm.

“You’re smiling.”

“Am I?”

“Figures the only time I make you smile is when I’m talking full-on Aussie,” she says, shaking her head.