Reckless Kiss
Page 116
Asshole. “That story you told me was real.”
“No shit. What difference does it make now?”
Stepping forward, I place the envelope on the table beside his hand. “In this envelope is the fair market value of your grandfather’s land—provided you sold it today.” He starts to speak, and I hold up my hands to stop him. “I know, it’s not the same. We don’t know if your grandfather would have sold Fate. We do know there’s no oil there.”
“It’s developed, commercial real estate.”
“Yes, it is. If we had been alive, perhaps we would have done something different. We weren’t.”
He lifts the envelope, and opens the flap, glancing at me once more before sliding the check out slightly. His brow furrows. “What’s this?”
“That’s your half.” Another step forward. “I’m extending this as a peace offering. I want us to be friends.”
He doesn’t move.
He stares at the envelope, still as a stone, then stands. “I never wanted to hurt my sister.”
Acid is in my throat, but I force myself to hold steady, to focus on making peace. I promised Angel. “Okay.”
“If I had known—”
“We don’t have to relive it.” My jaw clenches, and I can’t stop myself from asking. It haunts me, an echo of pain in my stomach. “Have you heard from Mateo?”
“No. For all I know he’s returned to Mexico.”
“He’d better stay there.” Then I do something I never thought I’d be able to do—I extend my hand to shake his.
He hesitates a moment before reaching out and clasping my hand. “This doesn’t change how my grandfather died.”
Our hands are clasped, and I hold his gaze. “No one knows what happened in that room that night. You and I faced off in this house, and you were shot. You could have been killed. Was that my fault?”
His jaw tightens, and he thinks about my question. Our hands are still clasped, and he nods. “We were both at fault.”
“I wouldn’t say that—”
“I told you to stay away from her.”
“You knew I wasn’t going to do that.”
His lips press into a line, and he releases my hand. “We’ll release that story to the past.”
“When I get back, we’ll go for a drink.”
“I’ll have the family here. We’ll have a party.”
“Put it on the calendar for March.”
He nods, and a ghost of a smile curls his lips. “Our family will reunite.”
“What’s left of it.”
I’m pulling into the private parking lot for chartered planes. My bags are checked through, our flight plan has been filed, and I’m aching to be in my seat and in the sky.
Even a few days feels like too long now, and I can’t wait to see how much progress the workers have made.
Inside the Gulfstream G3, a lone flight attendant helps me with my carry on. “Welcome, Mr. Dring. I’ve got whiskey or beer—”
“I’ll have a scotch if you have it.”