“There are other problems with this place, Olivia. Like the leaking roof,” he said. His doggedness was starting to seriously annoy her.
“You should leave,” she said, injecting a fair amount of additional frost into her voice.
“But . . .”
“Greyson, I don’t need you for anything. Not anymore. I was curious about what you had to say, but I can’t say it’s blown my socks off.”
“What about Clara?” His eyes, which had often flitted toward the baby during their conversation, drifted back to Clara and for an instant revealed such naked yearning it almost had the power to soften Libby toward him.
Almost. But not quite.
“Truthfully? I’d rather she never knows you. But I know you’ll come in with your money and your lawyers and take what you want anyway. So I’m willing to discuss the matter with you.”
“Now?”
“No. I’m exhausted. Clara and I should be getting to bed.”
“Of course,” he said, huffing a resigned little sigh. He pushed himself to his feet and joined her at the coffee table, his gaze fixed on Clara, who shifted her big blue eyes to the stranger standing beside the familiar figure of her mother. She stared at him fixedly, her mouth forming a pout and her forehead wrinkling. It was the face she made when she was deciding if she should cry or not.
“She has my eyes,” he whispered, his voice filled with reverence. Libby didn’t say anything in response to that. Clara kicked vigorously at the sound of his voice, the pout fading from her lips as she decided to reward the dark, pleasing timbre of his voice with a gummy smile instead.
Greyson’s mouth widened as he responded with a delighted grin of his own. The smile was very similar to—if more toothy than—his daughter’s. Greyson didn’t smile like this often—usually they were pale, close-mouthed imitations of this gorgeous grin—and it completely transformed his face, taking it from austere and coldly handsome to breathtakingly beautiful in an instant. He looked approachable, warm, and eminently likable.
It was probably a good thing he didn’t smile like this often. Because people would too easily be deceived into thinking he was a nice guy. Cold and austere suited him. It accurately reflected the man beneath the handsome face and perfect body. Libby, who had been graced with a few of these rare smiles during their first two months of “courtship,” had allowed herself to believe in its warmth rather than the more usual sternness of his features. She had been convinced there was something more there.
More fool her.
Watching him now, Libby tried hard to maintain a neutral expression, but she would have to have a heart of stone not to be affected by the sight of father and daughter meeting for the first time. And it looked like love at first sight. It made Libby feel like punching something when she thought of the time that had been wasted because of Greyson’s stupidity. They could have been a family; father and daughter could have properly bonded even before birth. Greyson had robbed them of that opportunity, and it was lost forever.
“Would you like to hold her?” she found herself offering, surprising even herself with the question. His eyes jerked up to meet hers. They were wide with panic, hope, and what looked like longing.
“I-I’m not sure. What if . . . I mean . . . I’ve never held a baby before.” His voice, usually so confident, was halting and unfamiliar in its timidity.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, bending to unclip the seat’s safety harness. She picked up her happily cooing baby and held the active, wriggling bundle close.
“Cradle her the way you would a rugby ball,” she instructed him.
“I’ve never held a rugby ball in my life,” he said coolly, back to his usual arrogant and aloof self in an instant. Well, almost. His eyes were still trained on Clara, and his hands curled and uncurled restlessly as if he itched to reach for her.
“Seriously?” she asked in surprise, a little taken aback by his statement. “Not even at school?”
“I played lacrosse and tennis. And dabbled in cricket a bit,” he said, and she cleared her throat. She remembered that. She used to watch him play. He had been a fantastic athlete, of course. He’d been fantastic at everything, studies and sport. Greyson had seemed incapable of doing anything less than perfectly.
“Well, just do what I’m doing. It’s pretty instinctive. You’ll manage.” Because Greyson always did. Aside from their marriage, Libby was pretty sure he had never failed at anything. Which explained his staggering arrogance. She wished that, just once, he’d be bad at something. Just to take his ego down a notch or two.
Well, he didn’t look arrogant now, just nervous and a little terrified. It was an expression she had never seen on his face before, and Libby found that she liked it. And that made her feel like even more of a bitch. Clearly the anger and resentment she harbored toward him ran much deeper than even she knew.