Page 45 of Vincent
"You're sleeping with him."
"Well, in all honesty, we don't do much sleeping." She rolled her eyes at the look he sent her. "What do you think?" She nodded towards the delicate peach and apple concoction she was hoping to try out on Vincent's family.
"I think you're making a bloody mistake," her brother growled, deliberately misinterpreting her question.
"Thanks."
"This is delicious, by the way." He popped the rest into his mouth and savored the taste on his tongue. "But you already knew that. It amazes me that you're so damned talented in the kitchen and utterly stupid when it comes to that man."
"His name is Vincent, and call me stupid again and you'll be banned from this kitchen for the foreseeable future," she warned darkly. "We're good. Our relationship-"
"Is that what we're calling it now? Where has he taken you out to? I must have missed that part of it. No fancy restaurants, the museum? I went to Jackson Colby's showing just last week and that's something you would have enjoyed. Where were you?"
"That's none of your business." She turned towards the stove with the pretext of stirring the rich cream sauce.
"I think I can answer that question. You were here in bed with him, because he wants to keep you a secret. Honey, you deserve better than a man who just wants a roll in the proverbial hay."
"Enough!" Whirling around, she pinned him with a look that seared through his soul. "I, I knew what I was signing up for." She yanked the apron off and dumped it onto the counter. "I love him, and for your information, we talk. I understand him and I'm prepared to wait until he's ready. So, if you're not on board, then to hell with you. It's my life-" She turned and hurried out of the kitchen before the tears started.
"Son of a bitch," Andrew whispered fiercely. "If he hurts her-" Biting off an oath, he went to find her.
She was sitting in the living room, curled up on one of the single sofas, a cushion clutched to her chest.
"Go away," she told him tonelessly.
Ignoring the sharp request, he sat across from her, his heart wrenching when he saw the tears on her cheeks. "You're my sister."
"That's right. Sister. And I'm old enough to make my own mistakes."
"So you're admitting it's a mistake?" He held up his hands as she pinned him with a glare. "All right. I was over the line. But I love you and I hate that you're hurting."
"Who says I am?"
He merely lifted a brow. "You love the guy and yet he's content to stay here with you. Hiding in your place. You've never been to his residence, I'm sure of it. He never introduced you officially to his son. What is that telling you?"
Ignoring the sharp pain his observations brought her, she lifted her chin. "It tells me he's not ready. I'm prepared to wait."
"And if he's not ready, say a month from now, a year, what then?"
"I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."
"He's a moron." Andrew surged to his feet angrily and started pacing. "You're a frigging catch. Any man in their right mind would know that. Christ, Thea, can't you see he's using you?"
"He's not!"
"Then force his damn hand. Ask him to make a decision."
"He's not ready."
Staring at her in frustration, Andrew whirled towards the window. "All right," he told her wearily. "I give up. Like you said, it's your life and you're a grown ass woman, free to do whatever the hell you please. Just don't come running to me when he breaks your bloody heart again. I cannot bear it." Before she could respond, he strode from the room. She sat there and listened as he slammed the front door shut.
Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and felt the tears leaking through her eyelids. Those very questions had been tormenting her over the past few days. He would come to her every night and leave at a certain time to go home to his son. God knows she did not resent that. What kind of monster would she be if she begrudged the man going home to tuck his son in?
But each time he left, he took a piece of her with him. He made no promises. The lovemaking was shattering, that much she could attest to. He would lose himself when he was with her. He made love to her with a desperation that was unbearable.
He could not get enough of her. It was not pretense, and he was certainly not seeing his dead lover when he made love to her. It was her name he called out. He saw her, and for that she was eternally grateful.
But he never talked about her. He never mentioned her. He barely spoke to her at all unless she asked him specific questions. Like she did when she saw him on the news that day.
