The Dominant - Page 34/50

“You’re confusing my dog,” I said when she threw another snowball.

She turned and smiled. “He loves it.”

Apollo took off after another ball, determined to get it, and she giggled when he skidded to a stop.

“I think he loves the person throwing them.” I decided to try my hand at her new game. It worked—Apollo looked back, saw that I threw the snowball, and danced in circles.

“You’ve stolen my game,” she said. “Now he won’t want to play with me.”

I watched, delighted, as she balled up a handful of snow and threw it in my direction. I’d grown up with a cousin who went on to become a professional football player—I’d actually expected her to hit me. But the ball went wide and missed.

“Oh, Abigail,” I said, moving toward her. “That was a big mistake.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be wearing a sign, would you?”

I scooped up a handful of snow. “Not on your life.”

She backed away from me, holding up her hands as if in surrender.

“You threw a snowball at me.” I tossed my own ball from hand to hand. Her eyes followed its movement.

“I missed.”

“You still tried.” I pulled my arm back, pretending I was about to throw the snowball at her, but at the last minute threw it to Apollo instead.

It was too late, though. She’d yelped and run off before the ball left my hand and, the next thing I knew, fell facedown in the snow.

I jogged the short distance to her, anxious to ensure she wasn’t hurt. What if she had broken something?

As I approached, she rolled over and moaned.

“Are you okay?” I held out my hand to her. She looked fine. Wet, but fine.

She shivered. “Nothing hurt but my pride.”

The library would be nice and warm by now. The fire had been going for a good while. She took my hand and climbed to her feet.

“Time to go inside?” I asked. “Something warm by the fire?”

I shut down the various images that sprang to mind—Abby and me by the fire, limbs intertwined, the way the firelight would play off her skin.

Remember the plan, I told myself. No sex this week.

The plan was very slowly, but very thoroughly, going straight to hell.

Chapter Twenty-seven

We shuffled into the house, Abby sniffling in wet clothes. I took her into the library and sat her by the fire while I went upstairs to gather something dry for her to put on. I glanced into the kitchen on my way downstairs. She needed something warm to drink as well. Should I make coffee?

I took the clothes into the library, and my eyes fell on the decanters I kept filled and displayed.

The brandy.

While Abby dressed, I poured, and when she settled back in front of the fireplace, I handed her a glass and sat beside her.

She sniffed it. “What is this?”

“Brandy. I thought about coffee, but decided this would warm us quicker.”

She swirled her glass. “I see. You’re trying to get me drunk.”

“I don’t, as a practice, try anything, Abigail.” I nodded at her glass. “But it is more than forty percent alcohol, so you’d better have only the one glass.”

She took a tentative sip, choking slightly as the fiery liquid made its way down her throat. She looked at me, shrugged, and took another sip.

“Mm,” she said, so quietly I could barely hear.

I leaned against the couch and closed my eyes as the alcohol slowly warmed my body. Apollo crossed the room and put his head on my feet. A feeling of contentment swept over me—Abby was at my side, we were safe and warm in my house, and Apollo was well. For just a moment, I could close my eyes and life was damn near perfect.

Abby’s voice broke through my reverie. “Did the library come with the house, or is it something you had added when you bought it?”

I opened my eyes. She sat, still swilling her glass.

And she wanted to talk.

Finally.

“I didn’t buy this house,” I said, watching her. “I inherited it.”

Her eyes grew wide. “This was your parents’ house? You grew up here?”

“Yes. I’ve made major renovations, like the playroom.”

She moved closer to me. “Has it been hard to live here?”

Linda had asked me the same thing when I graduated from college and told her of my plans to renovate.

“I thought it would be, but I’ve redone so much, it doesn’t resemble my childhood home anymore. The library is very much the same as it was then, though.”

Especially with her in it—it was once more the hub of the house. She filled it with light and warmth and life.

“Your parents must have loved books,” she said.

I looked around me. My parents had loved this library. I wondered if that was the reason I’d given the room to Abby—to somehow capture for the house some of what had been missing since my parents’ death.

Mom and Dad would have loved Abby. They would have gotten along so well. Some part of me knew, even though I had been so young when they died.

“My parents were avid collectors. And they traveled frequently.” I waved toward the section of the library that held maps and atlases, remembering my father’s joy and my mother’s delight whenever they added a new volume. “Many of the books they found overseas. Some had been in their families for generations.”

“My mom liked to read, but mostly she just went for popular fiction.” She set down her glass and hugged her knees.

She laughed softly. “This from the man who said no one reads classics.”

Ah, she remembered.

“That wasn’t me.” I put a hand to my chest. “That was Mark Twain. Just because I quoted him doesn’t mean I agree with him.”

“Tell me more about your parents,” she said, and my memory shot back to that day in the hospital after her accident.

“The afternoon they died, we were on our way home from the theater.” I hadn’t spoken of my parents’ death in years. Not since I was a boy and Linda sent me to counseling. “It had been snowing. Dad was driving. Mom was laughing about something. It was very normal. I suppose it usually is.”

Mommy was so pretty. Daddy looked at her and smiled. She laughed at something he said.

The car jerked . . .

“He swerved to miss a deer,” I said. “The car went down an embankment and flipped. I think it flipped. It was a long time ago, and I try not to think about it.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

But I wanted to tell her. I wanted to share this part of my life with her. This secret part.

“No,” I said. “I’m fine. It helps to talk. Todd’s always told me to talk more.”

The car fell for a long time. When it finally stopped, I wondered why. What caused it to stop? Would it start moving again?

“Nathaniel?”

“Nathaniel?”

Mommy kept screaming.

“I don’t remember everything,” I said. “I remember the screaming. The shouts to make sure I was okay. Their moans. The soft whispers they had for each other. A hand reached back to me.” Mommy’s hand. I couldn’t reach it. “And then nothing.”

Daddy wasn’t moving anymore. Why was he so quiet?

“They used a crane to pull the car out. Mom and Dad had been gone for some time by then, but like I said, I don’t remember it all.”

I didn’t like the hospital. Everyone looked at me with sad faces and talked outside my room a lot.

Someone brought me a bear. I was ten. I was too old for bears. I didn’t want a bear. I wanted Mommy.

“Linda’s been wonderful. I owe her so much,” I said. “She was very supportive.” I swallowed more brandy. “And growing up with Jackson helped. Todd, too. And Elaina, when she moved nearby.”

They were always so playful, so much fun.

“Your family’s the best,” Abby said.

“They are more than I deserve,” I said, standing. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get back to my work now.”

And finish the phone calls, for I was no longer ten years old. I was a man. I had responsibilities. My afternoon of play was over.

She stood up, too. “And I need to start dinner. I’ll take that for you.” She held out her hand for my glass.

I looked deep into her eyes. I’d shared more with her today than I’d ever shared with another person. She’d sat and listened and had just been there.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

I finished calling my employees while Abby made dinner, made sure all my workers were accounted for and safe. Before heading down for dinner, I called Jackson. His voice grew excited as he talked about how much he was enjoying his time with Felicia. From his tone, it appeared he no longer had any doubts about whether or not what he felt was real.

Last, I called Linda. She’d been at home when the snow hit and had tried to make it in to the hospital but ended up having to turn around and go home. I could tell from her voice she was still upset at being stuck at home and away from the action.

Mouth-watering smells met me as I walked down the stairs. Abby had made a meat loaf. I couldn’t remember the last time I had meat loaf. It was a meal I enjoyed but never thought about making myself. I sniffed again. Mashed potatoes, too.

“Something smells good,” I said, sitting down.

“Thanks.” She carried our plates to the table. “It’s been ages since I’ve cooked meat loaf.”

“It’s been ages since I’ve had one.”

She stopped, halfway into her chair. “Do you not like meat loaf?”

“Please.” I motioned for her to sit down. “I love meat loaf. I just don’t cook it for myself.”

She placed a napkin in her lap. “I don’t cook it often, but it’s my father’s favorite.”

Her father—the opening I’d been looking for. “Tell me about your parents. What does your father do?”

She finished chewing, and I took a bite of the mashed potatoes—red potatoes, skin on, a bit of garlic mixed with a touch of parmesan. Perfection.

“He’s a contractor,” she said. “He’s been building houses for as long as I can remember.”

“And your mother?” I asked, trying to sound as calm as possible. I was treading on dangerous ground.

Abby watched me with careful eyes. “Mom passed away. Heart disease.”

I hadn’t known that. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. She was so young, though. And just starting to get her life back on track after breaking up with my dad.”

It seemed only natural to ask how her mother had gotten her life back on track, but I was afraid if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep my involvement secret. I took a bite of meat loaf instead and then quickly changed the subject.

Tuesday, after breakfast, we sat in the living room. Abby talked to her dad on the phone and I worked through my never-ending e-mails. Yang Cai had grown more impatient—there was no longer any doubt I’d be going to China. The only question was when. I glanced down at my calendar—June, perhaps. Or July.

Abby must have left the room at some point—I noticed she’d been gone only when I looked up and saw her return. A mischievous grin covered her face.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Will you help me with lunch?”

She was planning something, I felt certain. But whatever it was would be better than worrying about Yang Cai. “Can you give me ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes will be perfect.”

She left, and I strained my ears trying to hear something from the kitchen. More dancing, perhaps? Did she really want me to help her cook?