He stopped in Blair’s room on his way back downstairs. He hadn’t set foot in here since the day he’d returned from Firenze—when he’d given her the earrings and the clothes. A trace of her fragrance lingered in the air and he inhaled it deeply.
He hadn’t wanted to admit it, or even to believe it, but he’d missed Blair terribly during his time in London. It had been a physical ache, permeating his body and his mind. Not calling her had been difficult to deal with, but they’d left on such awkward terms—what could he have said on the phone that shouldn’t be said face-to-face? Yes, he’d missed her all right. Enough to realize how wrongly he’d treated her the night she’d asked about Marcella.
Wrongly? Hell. He’d been cruel. Deliberately deflecting his pain, his loss—his shortcomings—onto Blair.
But talking about Marcella had been like ripping the scab off a wound. And through it all he’d still been forced to beat back the desire that raged through him every time Blair was in his orbit. She’d sat there in that delicious concoction of night wear, her skin glowing translucent through the sheer folds of material, looking nothing like the woman he’d promised to marry, yet everything like the woman he loved.
The realization had been as painful as it had been eye-opening.
He had never loved Marcella as much as he knew he now loved Blair. What he’d felt for her was a pale comparison to the emotions that ripped through him now. And that made him feel even more guilty, if that was humanly possible—even more responsible for Marcella’s death. She’d been prepared to do anything for him, even risk her life for what he wanted, and how had he repaid her? By working all the hours that God sent him, by being a fleeting fiancé at the best of times. And yet, she’d stuck by him, loved him when he hadn’t deserved so much as an ounce of the measure of her love.
He hadn’t been the man Marcella deserved, and he hadn’t protected her as he ought to have, but one thing was certain. He would protect Blair and their unborn child with every last breath in his body, and that began with getting her back here, back home under his roof—and this time within the secure circle of his arms and his love.
Convincing Blair her place was at his side was going to take some doing. Carson’s was in her blood, of that he was now convinced. Yes, he could understand her needing to return home to be at her father’s side after his heart attack, but from what he’d understood from his brief conversations with her staff at the restaurant, she was busy in the kitchen for nearly all the hours available to her. A brief visit to her father each morning on her way home from the markets hardly counted, in Draco’s mind. She was there for the restaurant. She measured everything she was by that place, and somehow it was more daunting for Draco to know he was fighting for her against something, rather than someone.
He spied the jewelry she’d left behind on the dresser. That small gesture as telling as if she’d graffiti-sprayed it on the wall. She wanted no part of him. Well, it was time for her to reconsider.
It was nearly two in the morning when Draco’s jet touched down at Auckland International Airport. As the plane taxied to the private air terminal he itched to disembark, chafing at the delay created by the requirements to go through customs and immigration, however efficiently it was conducted. His driver waited for him in the terminal building and stepped forward to take Draco’s bag and lead him to the waiting limousine.
Draco drummed his fingers on his leg as they seemed to get every red light on George Bolt Memorial Drive, on their way to the motorway link that would lead them into the city. It was far too late to show up at the apartment and talk to Blair right now, but he had every intention of being there first thing in the morning—before she headed to the hospital to see her father, and before he was taken into surgery.
He rested his head briefly on the leather headrest, but started as his cell phone chirped in his breast pocket. He identified the number as that of his second in command here in New Zealand and flipped open the phone.
“Sandrelli.” His voice was clipped and cool in the confines of the luxury vehicle, but what he heard next struck fear into his heart and changed the tone and pitch of his voice in a split second.
“A fire? At Carson’s. When? Has anyone been hurt?”
As his questions were answered in succession, Draco felt as if a giant hand had reached out and squeezed his heart. If the fire started in the kitchen, would Blair have had warning as she slept upstairs in her tiny apartment? Then he heard the news he’d been dreading.
Casualties.