Brave Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #3)(60)

Shit.

I was really hoping to get out of here without seeing him again. It sets me back almost to square one when I see him, when he says things that I long to hear him say. But at least this will be the last time. After today, I can move forward consistently, heal a little more each day. I hope. I’m hoping that out of sight really is out of mind. And heart.

I sigh. I suppose leaving tomorrow won’t be that big a deal. I wanted to drive to Missouri. Take my time. Think. Just be . . . away. I was planning to stay in a hotel until the movers could pack and move my things to my new place. One day’s delay won’t change any of that. The type of delay, however, might change what I think about on the trip tomorrow.

Actually, it won’t. I have no doubt that I’d have thought of Tag ninety percent of the time anyway. Now I’ll just have fresh images, fresh words to dwell on.

Fun, fun.

I straighten the papers and stuff them back in the envelope. I take a twenty out of my wallet and head back to the door. When I swing it open, the man is still standing there on the stoop; he moved away from the door just enough that he could stand in the bright morning sunshine. His head snaps around when he hears the door and he smiles reflexively.

I hand him the money. “Thank you for bringing these. It seems I’ll be delivering them myself, so I won’t have further need of your services.”

He nods and discreetly accepts the money as he takes my hand in both of his. “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

I watch him walk off, feeling suddenly anxious about what the rest of my day might hold. I haven’t heard from Tag since the offer was made two days ago. In a way, I expected that I might. But then again, I knew I wouldn’t. This is what he wanted all along. What’s left to say?

That’s why I’m nervous about meeting him at Chiara. But I will. I have to get this sewn up before I leave. That’s why I pull myself to my full height and square my shoulders. I have to do this and I have to do it now.

The over-two-hour drive only makes matters worse. By the time I get to the winding road that starts up the mountain toward the vineyard, my palms are sweating and I’m nauseous. The idea of leaving Tag behind, of making our “end” final, wasn’t nearly as upsetting when I was safe at home. At a distance. It seemed like a nebulous thing. But now, knowing that I’ll be laying eyes on him for the last time in just a few minutes . . . it’s almost more than my poor heart and nerves can handle. This is not the eventuality that I hoped we’d have. I never saw this coming.

I barely feel the warm wind whipping through my hair as I start down Chiara’s long, beautiful drive. I’m hardly aware of the lightly scented air or the familiar rows of grapevines that are flying by. I have only one thought, and I’m less than five minutes from him now.

I slow nearly to a stop when the house comes into view. There are four shiny black cars in the circular drive. My heart sinks. I had thought Tag would try once more to tell me that he loves me, that he made mistakes where we are concerned, but I suppose he really is getting the only thing he wanted now. Those cars look like they belong to businessmen, men like my father and Michael and their lawyers. All the ingredients to settle up a matter such as this, when all Tag had to do was sign the papers.

Dread floods the back of my throat like bile, and I swallow hard. Whatever lies ahead, this will all be over soon and I’ll be on my way to a new state, a new home and a new life. One day, all this will be a vague, unpleasant memory.

That’s what I tell myself as I pull to a stop, as I shift into park, as I get out of my car and again as I mount the steps. I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle, ready to face the inevitable, but it swings open before I can, startling me.

Tag is standing just on the other side of the opening, his gray eyes unreadable. My heart lurches in my chest when his lips curve into a polite smile. Polite. He’s not even going to pretend that there was more to us than this.

“Come in,” he says, holding the door as though this isn’t still my home.

An unbearable sadness drips through my veins like slow-moving cold water. I return his polite smile and step inside, my stomach turning over miserably when he holds out an arm directing me toward the dining room. I’m not surprised to see a few people, businessmen, who I don’t know. I am, however, surprised to see my father here. His expression is carefully blank when his eyes meet mine.

I frown at him as if to ask why he’s here. He merely shakes his head in one small, short gesture. I’m even more apprehensive now. This was supposed to be an easy transaction. Not . . . this.

I feel Tag’s hand at my lower back and I jerk involuntarily. Not because he scared me or because I’m repulsed by this touch. Quite the opposite, in fact. It feels like electricity. Like heaven. Like home. Like no touch for the rest of my life will ever compare to it.

If I were a lesser woman, I might dissolve into a puddle of tears, but instead, I square my shoulders and meet every curious eye in the room, nodding to each of the gentlemen as I go.

“Gentlemen, this is Weatherly O’Neal Barton. Weatherly, this is Tom Geffen, my lawyer. To his left is Gerald, the head of the Randolph Consolidated legal department. Beside him is Fritz Montgomery, the largest shareholder at Randolph Consolidated besides myself, as well as a board member.”

“Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure,” I say demurely, my insides a jittering mass of jelly contained only by the clenched muscles of my abdomen. I can do this part. I was bred for this part—to face men like this.