Page 28 of A Touch Wicked
Emma stiffened. “No. I can’t.”
“Why not? You admitted you have no husband.”
“I—” She hated saying it again, the same excuse; always the same one — “I can’t.”
James let out a breath and she heard him button up his trousers. “Darling, if yoursomeonehasn’t offered for you, then he’s either penniless or an imbecile. If you know who I am, then you’re aware of my title and my not-insubstantial fortune.”
She jerked out of his arms and bent to pick up her clothes. Her hands shook so badly that she could barely tie up her drawers.
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?” he demanded. “If it’s a good match, I’m one of the best. If it’s to be fucked every night, then you’ll have that, too.”
“It has nothing to do with that. You don’t know my name or my face.”
“Then show me.” His eyes bore into hers. “Remove that mask right now and show me who you are.”
Emma clutched her torn chemise to her chest, trembling.Don’t cry. Don’t cry.“I can’t do that, either.”
“Can’t.” Now his French took on a dangerous lilt. “Can’t? Is that the only goddamn answer you’re capable of?”
“James—”
“Don’t. You don’t get to use my name while you deny me yours.” He shut his eyes briefly and sighed. “Give me something. Anything that belongs to you. Stop me from walking out that door right now, because once I do, I’m not coming back.”
Emma’s tears fell now, hidden by her mask. That mask, the very thing she believed brought her freedom, now felt like a curse.
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
That word. Such a small word. An awful word. It defeated her. It made her clutch her ripped clothes as if they could bring her strength, but they were armor pierced and made vulnerable. So easily broken now.
“Then this is the last time I see you,” James told her, his voice hard. “Had you only taken off that mask, I would have given you everything. My heart, too, I think.” His laugh was short, rough. “Yes, even my heart.”
He didn’t say goodbye.
Their sandcastle had been swept into the sea.
Chapter 16
Surely God made gin to help men forget the things that hurt most.
Yes, it was the drink of choice for addicts as their lives spiraled out of control. It made sense that most mixtures of gin hurt during the first drink — too sweet, too vile, too strong.
Because then there was the second drink.
Oh, the second drink went down easier. It rewarded men who didn’t immediately push it away and ask for something else. Then every subsequent glass made you feel as if you were floating, beyond everything. Nothing mattered.
After all, James had no wish to see the pieces of his shattered heart. He deserved every fracture, every fragment, for wanting a woman who had asked for nothing from him beyond pleasure. He was the one who demanded more, assuming he had begun to eclipse hersomeone, that she cared for him.
But she hadn’t.
The dream had been made flesh, and she pined for another man who wouldn’t have her. Just as he’d pined for her.
“So you’ve turned to spirits now,” Richard said, leaning against James’s office doorway. “No wonder your butler looked concerned when I came in. Do you know it smells in here?”
James groaned and leaned his head back against the chair. He’d been drinking steadily for the last couple of days. Last night, he'd passed out in his study, and —
What time was it?
