‘And he has struck you?’
Helena swirled the whisky, then sipped, grimacing a little as she swallowed. ‘Twice.’ She put the glass down, slipped off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her, favouring her bruised foot. ‘The first time I was thirteen. My mother was good at running interference between Father and me, but I provoked him one day when she wasn’t around. He backhanded me across the face.’
The acid rose into Leo’s throat. A man could inflict pain on a woman or a child with an open-handed slap, but a backhand was a whole different level of vicious. He clenched his jaw.
‘It hurt,’ she went on, her gaze focused inward now, presumably on the past and whatever unpleasant images her memory had conjured. ‘But the pain didn’t make me cry nearly as mu
ch as the argument my parents had afterwards.’
Her chin quivered. The tiny movement was barely visible, yet still a deep-rooted instinct urged him to fold her in his arms.
He resisted.
Not only because he had told himself he wouldn’t touch her unless invited, but because the compulsion stirred a dark, remembered sense of futility and loss. Of how he’d felt as a child, wanting to protect his mother, then his father, only to face the bitter reality that loving them, believing he could save them, had not been enough.
Loving them had only made his sense of inadequacy, of life’s unfairness, more unbearable when they were gone.
Leo swallowed, tightened his jaw. He wouldn’t let emotion distort his thoughts. Not now, in front of Helena—the woman for whom he’d once lowered his guard, opened himself to the possibility of love, only to have life serve him yet another reminder that love only ever led to disappointment and loss.
He dragged his hand over his face. Pieces of past conversations were slotting together, crystallising into a picture he didn’t much like. This won’t hurt only my father. It will hurt others, too—my family.
He refocused. ‘This grace period for your father and his company—who are you really buying time for?’
She blinked, but didn’t prevaricate. ‘My mother.’
‘Why?’ He knew the answer—it had already settled like a cold, hard mass in his belly—but he wanted to hear her say it.
‘When my father is angry or drunk or upset about something he can’t control—like losing his company...’ She paused, and the brief silence practically crackled with accusation. ‘He lashes out at her.’
Leo pushed to his feet, his blood pounding too hard now for him to sit. He stared down at her. ‘So you’re telling me the takeover has put your mother at a greater risk of abuse?’
‘Yes.’
He scraped his fingers through his hair. Frustration, along with another, more disturbing emotion he didn’t want to identify, sharpened his tone. ‘Why did you not tell me this a week and a half ago?’
Her chin snapped up. ‘I told you I was worried for my family.’
‘But you didn’t give me the whole story.’ He paced away and back again. ‘Dio, Helena!’
Her posture stiffened, cords of tension visible in her slender neck. ‘This is my mother’s private life we’re talking about—an issue that’s sensitive and painful. Not to mention perfect fodder for the gossipmongers. I couldn’t trust what you might do with the information.’
He bit back a mirthless laugh. She didn’t trust him? He let his disbelief at that feed his anger, because the other emotion—the one that was feeling a lot like guilt—was burning a crater in his gut he’d prefer to ignore.
‘Besides...’ Accusation blazed in her eyes. ‘Would you have reconsidered your plans if I’d told you everything then? Are you reconsidering them now?’
Dammit. Did he have an answer for that? He dragged in a deep breath, reminded himself that Douglas Shaw was the villain in all this. Not himself. ‘Violent men can have many triggers, Helena. The takeover has clearly upset him—’ as intended ‘—but any number of things could set him off. Changing my plans will not change the fact that your mother is in a volatile relationship and constantly at risk of abuse.’
‘I understand that. But when my father learns that you plan to dismantle the company it isn’t going to “trigger” a bad mood. It’s going to trigger a major meltdown. I need more time before that happens—time to convince my mother to get out.’
‘And our arrangement gives you that time, does it not?’ Time he could extend, if he so chose. But not by much. Convincing his board to back the takeover hadn’t been easy. The buyout of shares had been costly, and divesting the company’s assets would be critical for balancing the books.
Helena’s shoulders suddenly lost their starch. Her gaze slid from his. ‘Yes. It does. And hopefully it’ll be enough.’
The resignation in her voice, the slope of her shoulders as she stared down at her hands, undid him.
His anger drained and he sat down.
‘Your mother’s never considered leaving?’ He strove for neutrality but still the censure crept into his voice. He knew domestic violence was a complicated issue. Understood that fear and circumstance could deprive victims of freedom and choice. But surely Helena’s mother had resources? Options? Why would she tolerate abuse?