For 100 Nights (100 2)

“No. I’ll do it.” My reply is too sharp, and so is my abrupt rise from the vanity chair. I realize that as soon as I pivot to face him and see his questioning look.

I try to cover my blunder with a smile and a quick peck at his mouth, but Nick is watching me too closely now. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I smile again, but it feels tight. “I’ll go get that for you.”

He follows me out to the bedroom. My purse is sitting on the dresser beside the form he’s left for me. I unzip my bag, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. My fingers are shaking, despite my best effort to calm my nerves. I hate lying to Nick, and as desperate as I am to pretend nothing is wrong, my body seems determined to betray me.

I fumble to retrieve my wallet. It catches on the coiled shoulder strap, and before I can prevent the disaster from happening, my purse tumbles to the floor. I drop down to retrieve it, but there’s no correcting the mistake.

Some of the contents spill out onto the rug, including the fat bundle of cash.

Nick pins me with a stunned look when I swivel my head to glance up at him. “Where did all of that come from?”

“I . . . I sold my paintings.”

He frowns. “When?”

“Yesterday.” I start to stuff the money back into my purse, but there’s really no point in it now. I stand up and face him, guilt and dread raking me.

“You sold them.” He sounds confused, almost disbelieving. He’s still staring at the stack of hundred-dollar bills, and I know he doesn’t need me to tell him how much I’m holding in my trembling hands. “Avery. What the hell are you talking about? Sold them to whom?”

“Kathryn.”

His head snaps back as if I’ve slapped him. His tone is deceptively level. “What?”

I swallow, unable to tear my attention away from the thunderhead of fury that’s beginning to gather in his narrowing gaze. “I bumped into her at Lita’s exhibition. I had no idea she’d be there, Nick. We ended up talking for a little while. She gave me her card and said she wanted to see my work.”

“Kathryn Tremont.” A curse boils off his tongue. His eyes are flashing with outrage as he rakes his hand over the top of his head. “You talked to her two days ago and this is the first I’m hearing about it? Jesus Christ, Avery. Are you telling me you took money from her?”

“I didn’t take anything,” I point out. “Kathryn liked my paintings and she bought them.”

“It’s the same fucking thing!” His sudden explosion of anger makes me flinch. I’ve never seen him this upset. His powerful chest is heaving with every breath. His handsome face is flushed and ruddy with furious color. “I can’t believe you would do this. You know how I feel about her and yet—”

“No, Nick. I didn’t know how you felt about her.” As terrified as I am that this breach of his trust could be irreparable, I cannot cower. “I didn’t know anything about what happened between you and Kathryn, because you refused to tell me.”

“I told you to stay away from her. God damn it, that should’ve been enough!” Sharp, controlling words.

There was a time when I would have bristled at such an arrogant assumption of authority, even bucked against it with vitriol of my own. But right now I hear Nick’s harsh outburst for what I know it truly is.

Shock.

Pain.

Even fear.

For all of the secrets and shames I’m still protecting, Nick had tried to bury his with Kathryn. The grief over the gift he had lost. The anguish of having that special part of him ripped away by his own father’s careless actions. Worse than careless, if what Kathryn said is true—that Nick’s father had nearly killed him that day.

Nick had wanted to shut all of that out of his life when he destroyed his art then turned his back on Kathryn and her desire to help him, to heal him.

He thought he had shut it all out.

Until this very moment, when he stares at me and his gaze lights with dawning understanding.

“She’s not well, Nick.” I swallow and shake my head. “Her cancer is back. I think she may be dying.”

A tendon pulses in his jaw. “Kathryn’s health isn’t my concern. You are.”

His right hand flexes at his side, unclenching the fist he’d been holding almost subconsciously. He glances down at the scars that twine around his forearm and down onto his fingers. A rueful smile twists his mouth.