Grayson's Vow

It was really somewhat concerning.

"It's the appropriate way to handle this, Kira. Now, can we go? I don't want to hit any traffic in San Francisco."

"Who will take care of Sugie?" I asked, attempting one final argument.

"Charlotte. Virgil will help out, too. The dog seems to have taken a liking to him."

I huffed out one final breath, but then relented. Fine, he could come and see for himself exactly why I would rather marry him than take anything from my father in this life or any other. He would see . . . well, he would see exactly who I was. And that scared me. Why? And then it came to me—I wanted The Dragon to respect me. I didn't want him to see me as the spoiled heiress he'd obviously judged me to be that day in his office when he'd shown me such cold disdain. I didn't want him to see the grandeur of where I'd grown up and think that was any part of who I was or what I wanted out of life. I had married this man, and yet I'd never intended on letting Grayson Hawthorn into my private life, my private pain. I had set up this arrangement as a business venture. And now, suddenly, I realized, it was turning into more—for me at least. I cared. And that scared me.

And was probably very, very stupid.

Swallowing my own sudden confusion, I rolled down the window as we drove out the gates, inhaling a breath of the air, still sweet with the scent of late summer.

"Where were you planning on staying?" Grayson asked once we'd turned onto the freeway.

"A hotel," I answered.

"Not with Kimberly?"

I shook my head. "Now that I have the money to stay at a decent hotel, I'd rather not impose on them. Their apartment is so small."

Grayson nodded. "She seems like a good friend."

"She is. She's the best." I smiled, leaning my head back on the seat. "We grew up together. Her mother came to work for us when we were both five. She's more like a sister, really. My mother had just died," I bit my lip, "a skiing accident, and well . . . Kimberly's mother, Rosa Maria, sort of took me under her wing for a time." I smiled, happy to turn my thoughts to anything other than confronting my father with my marriage. "Kimberly's birthday was a couple days after her mother started working there, and Rosa Maria threw a very small party for her and invited the kids of the others who worked for us. I was desperate to go, and begged my father to take me out to get her a present, but he’d said, 'You won't need to buy her a present because you won't be going. A Dallaire does not belong in such low company.'" I had deepened my voice to mimic my father's masculine tone and smiled over at Grayson. He had a small frown on his face and didn't smile back. "Well, as you might imagine," I flashed him another smile, sitting up straight, "I wasn't going to take that for an answer, so I took a necklace my mother had given me with a small heart on it and had our gardener, George, clip it in half. I put it on a string, snuck in to Kimberly's party, gave the makeshift necklace to her, and declared it meant we would be best friends for all eternity." My heart filled with warmth at the memory. "She still has it."

Grayson was silent, as he sucked at his lip, not looking at me. I stared ahead, feeling awkward, and after a few moments, I felt his eyes on the side of my face. "Are you still close to Rosa Maria?"

"No," I said sadly. "My father dismissed her years ago. It was awkward, and painful since he'd been having a relationship with her, and essentially traded her in for a newer, younger model to serve as both his new housekeeper and new bed partner. Rosa Maria didn't respond to any of my attempts to reach out to her after that." I waved my hand, trying to wave away the subject and the associated hurt that always came from discussing it.

"She blamed you?" Grayson asked, a strange edge to his voice.

"Kimberly says she doesn't, but it's too painful to have any contact that reminds her of what my father did to her. She loved him, I believe. While he . . . well, he saw her as nothing more than a convenient way to keep his house clean and his bed warm."

"I see," he said, his voice tight. I glanced at him, feeling as if, somehow, he really did see—even more than I was sharing with him.

Frowning, I shook my head. "So, what were you and Kimberly talking about before I came downstairs yesterday morning?" I asked, realizing I hadn't had the chance to ask Kimberly before we'd been interrupted by his confrontation with Charlotte.

He smiled over at me, breaking the somber mood that had existed as I’d discussed the subject of Rosa Maria and my father. The afternoon sun slanted through the window and hit Grayson's face, bringing out the deep, rich brown of his eyes and highlighting the ruggedness of his still-unshaven jaw. I looked away, biting my lip. Ignore the bright scales, I repeated in my mind. "You," he said, and when I swung my eyes back to his, his smile deepened. "She was telling me some interesting stories about the trouble she's had to pull you out of over the years."

I snorted. "She's a nice girl, but she exaggerates. It's one of her worst flaws."

Grayson's chuckle was deep and warm. "I don't know. I'm inclined to think she doesn't." He glanced back at the road, still smiling. "She says you get these ideas in your head . . ."

"Just fun," I defended. "Not trouble."

"With you, it seems to be a very fine line." I gave him an irritated look, but blinked when I saw the smile on his face—full of charm and genuine affection.