‘Could you do it, Sebastian? Could you raise another man’s son?’
‘Of course,’ Seb answered bluntly. ‘If he were the son of the woman I loved then I’d love him, too. And if he was some poor kid who had no parents and needed some, then sure, I’d step up.’
The words went easily from him but he registered their importance only as he uttered them. Of course he would. For the right woman he’d take on a tribe if she asked him to. If Ana asked.
The tightness in his chest went vice-like. God, why hadn’t he thought of that before? Did he have the courage to ask it of her? To take him on for good?
Because he could promise her that no matter what the fates served, he’d somehow find a way to build the family he knew she craved. And he craved it too, didn’t he—that love, that sharing, that security that neither of them had had?
And he could offer that too. For he would never leave her—not until death made him.
Could she say yes to that? Would that be enough?
Seb reached across the table and put his hand on his mother’s wrist. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Sure.’ She smiled, a bit tremulous, but genuine. ‘I’ve done a lot of work, Seb—a lot of counselling. I know how hard it must have been for you. How much I burdened you. And I’m sorry for that.’ She placed her hand over his and squeezed. ‘But look at the man you’ve become. What mother could want more when she has a son like you?’
Ana eventually dragged herself from the heaven that was Seb’s bed. She’d spent hours lazily dozing, revelling in the warmth and the sheer blissful relaxation. Of all the nights they’d lain together that had been the most profound—so utterly intense. The connection between them had been more than intimate, more than physical. There was a bond there—an invisible, unbreakable bond. She hadn’t dreamt it, and finally felt as if she could believe it.
Nervous, she giggled at her thoughts, trying to make herself take it one day at a time and not get too fanciful. But she felt as if she’d been healed within. Her doubts from yesterday felt as distant as Pluto. She really believed it now—he cared. He thought she was beautiful. He’d told her. And he couldn’t hold her, caress her, touch her like that if he didn’t have real feelings for her. So maybe, just maybe, they might work things out.
She pulled on a robe and floated down to the study—motivated to get some real stuff done on the business. Feeling more positive and refreshed and enthused and simply more alive than she ever had.
He’d obviously been in there before going to work. The filing cabinet was open and a few files lay scattered over his desk. She pulled them together so she could access the computer keyboard, but stopped as she glanced at the writing on the cover of one. It was his writing. But it was her own name in the ink.
Curiosity was an instinct impossible to ignore.
She knew it would be bad before she lifted the flap. But that knowledge didn’t stop her. A kind of fatalistic certainty made her do it. Better to know. But even so the shock was something else.
She stared at the signature. The date. So vivid against the white paper. And she tried to comprehend its meaning.
Failed.
Blind fury roared through her system.
He’d signed them. He’d screwed her senseless for hours last night, then gone straight to his study and signed the divorce papers.
She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe even he could go from such tender togetherness to such coldhearted severance. What had last night been about for him—a final farewell?
She roused her rage more, anything to cover the pain searing inside. She had actually started to think…to hope…dared to believe he might one day use the ‘L’ word.
Well, she would use it—LOSER.
That was what she was. A colossal fool who’d stayed far too long hanging onto the roller coaster that was Sebastian.
‘Ana.’
She lifted her head and sick bile rose in her throat. He was in the doorway.
‘You once warned me not to come near you,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Well, I’m warning you now, Seb. Don’t come near me.’
But he didn’t listen. He just did as he wanted, didn’t he? As he always did. Her hands shook. She curled them into fists, crushing the paper she still held as he stepped nearer and nearer.
‘Ana.’
She flew at him, throwing the pages ahead of her, wanting the edges to cut him. To draw blood. Never having struck out at anyone in her life, she was unable to stop the violence in her now. Her fingers spread, the tips curling to claws, and she swiped through the air—wanting to slap or scratch or mar. Anything to bring vengeance. Desperate to hurt him.