The Billionaire's Christmas Baby(34)

…

“This is your house?” Jackson asked, shutting the ignition and leaning forward to get a better look.

“This is it,” she said, her voice still standoffish.

It had taken them only minutes to cross the little village of Hope’s Crossing. From what he saw of the town, through his haze of red, was that it was that Norman Rockwell, picture perfect type of place. Cutesy, put-it-in-a-snow globe type of village. But he wasn’t really interested in the town. His mind worked overtime trying to process everything. He felt like he was starring in some bizarre movie of himself. When had his life become so unpredictable?

He stared through the window at the red brick Victorian before him and his throat constricted involuntarily. It was so damn idyllic. It was small, ornate. There was cedar roping with dark red ribbons that framed the heavy molding on the windows and the pristine white porch. Urns were overflowing with cedar and other greenery. The white plump snowflakes that floated down from the sky only made it more magical.

He actually found himself unable to speak for a moment because never in his life had something ever evoked in him such a need to have a home. A real home. A house. With a wife. With kids. Hell, maybe even a white picket fence. But Jackson Pierce was not your white picket-fence kind of man. No, he was the guy who lived in a penthouse surrounded by skylines and anonymity. Steel and glass. Money and ambition. Shallowness and greed. Loneliness.

“It may not be a mansion, Jackson, but it’s perfect for me.” He heard her unlatch her seatbelt and he knew she was seconds from jumping out of the SUV.

“It’s you. Totally you.” It’s beautiful, sentimental, nostalgic, pure Hannah. Her cheeks bloomed with that gorgeous blush he found himself utterly hooked on and those lips that made him curse the fact that they’d never slept together that night.

“Oh,” Hannah said, furrowing her brow and looking out the windshield.

“What, no smart-ass retort?” he teased, feeling better for a moment. Then he pictured some jerk’s hands on Hannah and he felt the need to bash his fist through the windshield. So he frowned. And then she frowned back at him.

“Let’s go inside and see how we can straighten out this mess you got us into.” She didn’t give him a chance to argue as the door shut on his reply. Funny how she was the one giving him the cold shoulder.

He followed her up to the covered porch. They had a lot of straightening out to do, all right. He braced himself for a hell of a battle. She was so damn secretive about her life he wondered how he could feel such an intense connection with someone he knew so little about. But he’d found out way more than he’d bargained for thanks to that Jean woman.

He waited while Hannah fumbled with the old lock. Moments later he stood in her entranceway while she walked around turning on lights. He was struck by the hominess. Feminine and cheerful, with pale yellow walls, deep trim and molding, and wide-plank pine floors scattered with brightly colored rugs. He followed her into the kitchen, where she had already started brewing a fresh pot of coffee. She took out cups and was banging things around a little too loudly.

“Hannah.” His voice came out harsher than he intended, but he needed answers. He didn’t want a cup of coffee and he didn’t want to beat around the bush. “Care to tell me what that battle-axe was talking about back there?”

“What do you mean?” she asked stiffly, her shoulders squared, her back ramrod straight. A part of him wanted to cross the distance between them and knead the tension out of her slender shoulders, to whisper and coax whatever she hid out of her. But he knew she wouldn’t respond to that. He knew that she would see it as being weak.

“Don’t play games with me, Hannah.”

“I don’t play games,” she said, whipping around to face him.

He nodded, softening his features, his tone, hating that he had to ask something that was already killing him to think about let alone speak about. “Hannah, she said you were beaten and almost raped.” He watched as every single speck of color drained from her face. “What happened?” He caught a faint quiver in her chin when he spoke.

“That’s what this is about…what you’re angry about?” she asked, her voice shaky, her eyes wide and so heartbreakingly vulnerable that he just wanted to walk over and hold her. Hannah never let her vulnerability show, which meant…he clenched his stomach, not able to breathe at the thought…it confirmed what he already suspected…her reaction to things…the night he’d touched her arm…her withdrawal from him sexually.

“Jackson?”

He focused in on her pale face and nodded. “What did you think?”

“About your sister.” She took a deep breath, her eyes filled with pain. “It’s my fault that she killed herself. I missed the signs—”

“God, you can’t blame yourself. Of course I don’t blame you for that. How could anyone?” He walked across the room, unable to stop himself from offering her comfort. “Hannah,” he said roughly, gathering her against him. “I could never blame you.” His arms tightened around her. He felt all the tension leave her body, and she wrapped her arms around him. He wanted to reassure her, comfort her. How could she blame herself for Louise’s death? How could she hold more guilt than he? He had failed his sister. Not Hannah. He kissed the top of her head, the soft hair at her temples, his hands moving to stroke that tender spot on her neck. He wanted to shut out the rest of the world and stay in this Victorian cottage.