It wasn’t the insulted betrayal she expected, the betrayal he felt and angrily shared with her when he found out about her mother. Instead, his head tilted toward her, he touched their foreheads together a moment and he sighed.
This tender reaction made Isabella relax.
No, she didn’t relax.
She relaxed, her body, her mind, her heart, even her soul felt like it relaxed.
He drew away and said, “You need to talk to someone about it.”
“I have,” she explained softly. “They couldn’t help.”
His fingers flexed then eased.
His voice dipped lower when he asked, “Your father said you were weak?”
She couldn’t decipher if he was angry or disturbed by this.
She also didn’t answer verbally.
She just nodded.
This was met by silence.
Then in a voice that was lower, rougher and definitely angry, Prentice bit out, “He’s a f**king piece of work.”
“He’s out of my life,” she assured him quickly.
“He didn’t seem out of your life when he waltzed into a f**king wedding reception and right in front of everyone, including me and my children, literally brought you to your knees.”
All right.
Well.
Since his voice was even lower, rougher and now rumbling, Isabella thought it was safe to say he was now seriously angry.
“Prentice,” she murmured placatingly.
“Tell me how he’s out of your life,” Prentice demanded, not sounding placated even a little bit.
“We had words. He’s disinherited me.”
There was silence for a moment then Prentice’s head went back and he laughed. Regardless, he didn’t sound amused.
This alarmed her at the same time it confused her.
“Prentice?” she called.
His laughter died away and his head tipped back to look at her.
“He disinherited you. That’s rich. I love that. What an unbelievable ass.”
He wasn’t wrong about that. And he didn’t love it at all. He was angry on her behalf.
Oh dear.
She was beginning to think she was in trouble.
Prentice fell silent. Isabella couldn’t cope with silence.
“I told him I never wanted him to come near me again,” Isabella informed him.
Prentice’s thumb stroked her jaw and his voice lost its edge when he muttered his warning, “Don’t expect him to adhere to your wishes, Elle. That man will do whatever he damn well wants to do.”
She suspected Prentice was right.
However, it was time for another topic.
“What were you doing in my rooms?”
He dropped to his side but his arms came around her and rolled her to hers, facing him. One of his hands drifted up her back into her hair and he pressed her cheek to his chest.
“I came home, saw a light coming down the hall, heard the television on. I came up to talk to you and saw you were asleep. I turned off the telly and you started to move, like shudders, like you were cold. Then they got worse. Then you were making these noises, like you were terrified. That’s when I woke you.”
Well, that made sense. It was horrifying he saw that but it made sense.
“I’m sorry you saw that,” she whispered.
He was silent.
She took in a breath. Then she screwed up her courage.
This took awhile.
Finally, she said, “We should talk about –”
She didn’t finish.
His hand twisted in her hair, gripping it, he pulled her head back and his own came down, his lips finding hers and he kissed her.
His hands started roaming.
Then his lips started roaming.
Then his tongue started roaming.
A long time later, after he made her come with his mouth between her legs and she helped him come by opening those legs for him and taking him inside, he tucked her back into his front and held her close.
“Pren –”
“Quiet.”
“But –”
“Sleep.”
“We should –”
His hand came up, fingers curling around her breast, thumb gliding across her nipple.
She fell silent and a delicious tremble slid through her body.
“Elle. Sleep,” he ordered, pressing deeper into her.
She supposed they could talk tomorrow.
Or maybe she’d write him another note.
After she packed her bags, of course.
On that sad thought, she said, “Okay.”
His fingers tensed at her breast.
She let out a sigh.
Surprisingly, within minutes, she fell dead asleep.
No bad dreams. No turbulent thoughts. No tossing. No turning.
Just blissful, healing, beautiful sleep.
* * * * *
Prentice
Prentice woke before Elle and carefully disengaged from the dead weight of her sleeping body.
He pulled on his jeans, walked to the travel alarm on her nightstand, studied it, discovered how to turn it off and did so.
He put the clock back in its place, stood beside the bed and for long moments he watched her sleep.
Then he looked around the room.
Nothing untidy, nothing out of place, her jars and bottles arranged just so on the nightstand. Four journals perfectly stacked, precisely positioned.
He looked back at her, her face relaxed in sleep and he realized for twenty years he hadn’t seen her face looking like that.
Relaxed.
At-ease.
Determinedly, he set aside the thoughts that wanted to intrude in his brain.
Thoughts of Elle standing removed from the Annie and Mikey reunion when he’d first seen her after she came back.
Thoughts of Elle staring into the pasta as she stirred it when Mikey explained how she’d taken Annie’s abuse and patiently forced her friend to heal.
Thoughts of Elle clenching her fists tightly when she became anxious.
Thoughts of Elle on her hands and knees after her father struck her.
Thoughts of Elle lying on the couch last night, her body trembling violently, the terrified noises she made scoring his heart.
Thoughts he’d refused to let himself think, not now, not yesterday, not five days ago and not in the weeks after she got in her rental car and drove away from him without looking back.
Instead, he focused on something else.
He pulled on the rest of his clothes and found her handbag. Digging through it, he located her passport in a travel purse, pulled it out, shoved the travel purse back into her bag and slid the passport in the back pocket of his jeans.
Then he walked to the wardrobe and found her two pieces of empty luggage neatly stowed. He grabbed them both and took them out to his Range Rover, tossing them in the back.
Then he went back inside and made coffee.