The other two pictures were of me at Quincy Market the week before I was attacked. And the last was of me standing in the doorway between Caine’s bedroom and master en suite. I wore only his T-shirt. The shoulders were much too big, so it hung down, revealing lots of skin. Caine had made a crack about how he’d never known a guy’s shirt could be so sexy. In response I’d turned around and struck a pose, pouting ridiculously, my hair wild around my face.
Crying hard now, I shoved the photographs back in the drawer where he had hidden them.
I kicked the sideboard and immediately felt a sharp burn of pain tear through my abdomen. The tears came faster and I stumbled away into the hallway, suddenly desperate to get my hands on the pills so I had something to do, something else to concentrate on.
I found them immediately on the telephone table, and so I was back at square one with nothing else to contemplate but those goddamn photos.
Attempting to see through my blurry vision and all the while trying to soften the sounds of my crying, I hurried into the kitchen and fumbled with a glass as I pulled it out of the cupboard.
“Lexie?” Caine’s questioning voice came to me.
I stiffened, shoving the glass under the tap.
“Hey, hey,” he said soothingly, his heat hitting my back as he reached beyond me for the glass. With his other hand he reached for the Percocet, and in doing so trapped me against him. “Are you in pain?”
“I’m fine.”
He was silent a moment. And then, “You’re not fine. You’re crying.”
“I said I’m fine. I just need to take the Percocet.” I took his hand and tried to peel the bottle out of it. “Give it to me.”
“Lex, let me help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
I did not need to be saved by a man who couldn’t even save himself.
“Lex—”
“I said I don’t need your help!”
Suddenly his hands were on my arms and he was gently turning me to face him. I resisted, squirming against his hold with as much ferociousness as my wounded body would allow.
“Lexie, stop,” he huffed in confusion.
I couldn’t stop it now that my emotions had been unleashed on him.
All I could see were those photographs. All I could hear was his denial of how he felt about me. His rejection. His lies.
“Get off me!” I yelled, struggling hard now.
His grip on me tightened. “Lexie, stop it.”
But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
Every hurt I’d felt in the last few weeks erupted into violence. I was yelling and crying and pounding my fists against his chest.
“Stop it—you’ll hurt yourself,” I heard him growl.
It didn’t stop me.
His hold on me became bruising and he gave me a gentle shake. “Stop it,” he commanded hoarsely. “Lexie, stop.” And then he was kissing me. Hard. Desperate.
Stunned, I stopped struggling.
I let him kiss me, his hands moving from my arms to my hair, holding me to him as he kissed me like he needed to do so more than he needed to breathe.
Finally my brain blinked back into action and I froze, my lips no longer moving against his. Caine felt my reluctance and his kiss gentled. He brushed his mouth once, twice, over mine before pulling away.
We stared at each other, equally confused by what had just happened.
“I’m leaving” were the first words out of my mouth. “Not the apartment. I mean yes, the apartment, but more than that. Do you remember Antoine Faucheux? I introduced him to you at the airport.”
Caine’s fingers bit into my arms. I didn’t think he even realized. “I remember,” he said, his voice gruff.
“His sister offered me a job with her events management company in Paris. I accepted the offer today. I leave in four weeks.”
For a moment he searched my face as if attempting to discern my seriousness. Eventually his hands dropped from my arms and he took a step back. “Is that why you were crying?”
Anger flared through me worse than the pain I’d felt earlier. “I just told you I’m leaving Boston and that’s your reaction?”
His jaw clenched as he glared at me.
A somewhat better reaction than his previous bland question.
“No, that’s not why I was crying,” I answered anyway. “I found the photographs.”
Confused, he shrugged. “What photographs?”
“The ones you have of me, of us, in the side table.”
His reply was to take a few more wary steps back.
Renewed tears trembled on my lashes. “I’m leaving you. So the only thing you’ll have left of me are those fucking photographs.”
The blank wall came slamming down over his face.
I got it now. It was just like Effie said. Caine was never more cold and distant than when he was determined to hide what he was really feeling.
“I’m not going to stand here and have the same argument with you over and over. What I will say is that when I walk out that door I’m walking out of here hating you for throwing me away when the truth is … the truth is you love me. I know you do, even if you deny it. And if it were me, Caine, I wouldn’t be able to stand the idea of you ever hating me, no matter how far apart we are, and I will hate you if you don’t stop lying. So you either tell me what it is you’re hiding or you don’t, but you should know I will definitely never forgive you if you don’t.” I swiped away my tears. “And I’m so tired of the whole concept of unforgiveness.”
I waited for what seemed like forever for Caine to answer me. When he did I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned. His eyes hard, he nodded. “Fine, you want the truth, I’ll tell you the truth, but take your pills first.”
“I can do that,” I said, not liking the brittle, snappish tone he was using.
Once I’d swallowed the pills and was seated on the sofa at the other end of the room, Caine paced for a while, back and forth in front of me.
“Are you going to sit down?” My heart had begun to pound at his increasing anxiety.
Oh God, what is he hiding?
Instead of sitting, he stopped to face me.
My stomach felt sick.
When Caine met my gaze, that feeling worsened. He looked angry, and I didn’t know if that was because of me or himself.
“Caine,” I whispered.
“I’m not the guy for you, Lex,” he said, and I knew that he truly believed it.
I flushed with annoyance. “Surely that’s my decision to make.”