Page 24 of Arrogant Heir

His green eyes are like interrogation lamps beaming down on me, and I shift in my seat. But I won’t let him intimidate me. I’m stubborn like that. Even if the yellow flecks in his eyes reveal a world of pain and my heart twists. I press on. It’s a battle of wills. He’s determined to cover things up. My job is to uncover them.

‘I still don’t see the relevance. To be honest, I’d rather not think about it.’

‘Yes, I understand that, and I’m sorry if it’s painful for you, but the truth is, tragedy sells books. Readers want to know the real story behind the Rochester dynasty. They want to read about real people and the adversity you’ve had to overcome along the way.’

Tilting my head to one side, I draw on the full power of my persuasive skills I’ve developed throughout my career. Well, that’s not quite correct. My mother would say that I was born with alarming powers of persuasion and have used them on her more than she would like.

But Damian is not so easily persuaded, and he pushes back. He’s got his own superpowers and by what I’ve experienced so far in these interviews, they involve revealing as little as possible. Speaking whilst saying nothing. It’s frustrating and will make for a dull book.

I tell him as much. ‘You have to share some of yourself. Your grandfather gave me a lot about his youth and when he first came to London. It will make for great reading because people will get a sense of the person behind the throne.’

‘Great,’ he says. A muscle moves in his square jaw and his face is all uncompromising hard lines. ‘So you have some personal stuff. As long as my grandfather is alright with sharing some of his stuff, and it’s not about me, then I’m fine with that.’

I take a few slow breaths and collect my thoughts. ‘Damian, you’re missing the point.’

That dark eyebrow shoots up again and I’m in danger of melting beneath the heat of his withering gaze. ‘How so?’

‘Well, you said one aim of the book is to repair your reputation. To undo the damage of your playboy years.’ My heart skips and dips as I push on and say what I think needs to be said for us to produce a brilliant book.

He smiles, but it’s a cold, humourless smile. ‘My playboy years?’ he says, his tone clipped.

By this time, I’m half wishing I hadn’t brought it up, but I’ve done it now, so I’m seeing it through. We’re like opponents dancing around each other and sizing one another up before we draw pistols for a duel at dawn. Okay, so my writer’s imagination may be overdramatising again, but you get the picture. I’m not backing down. And neither is he.

Now it’s his turn to shift in his seat. ‘Ms Jackson,’ he says.

‘Jamie, please,’ I reply. My brown eyes meet his green ones as we resume the parley.

‘How about you let me ask you a few questions about your dad, and I’ll write it up, and you have final say on what stays in the manuscript, anyway? If there’s anything you’re not comfortable with, we can just take it out. You have my word.’

He continues looking at me and there’s such agony in his expression that I consider backing down. I don’t want to cause him pain. Perhaps he needs some time to get used to the idea.

He sighs heavily and runs his long fingers through his black hair. ‘Okay. Do your worst. What do you wish to know?’

When I ask him what his father was like, his jaw tightens, and his shoulders stiffen. His discomfort is tangible, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch his hand gently. Our fingers brush before he withdraws his hand as if I hit him. He looks horrified by the gesture.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, embarrassed.

He shakes his head. ‘No,I’msorry. I know you’re trying to help.’

‘We can do it another time if you’d prefer to think about what you want to say first.’

The afternoon sun has disappeared, and the light is dim in the room, and throws shadows over his face. He’s achingly beautiful and untouchable at the same time. I’m spinning from the effect he’s having on me. I’ve never experienced anything like it. When our fingers touched, it sent a thrill spiralling through my hand and arm. The connection was electric, but clearly only I feel it.

He starts talking. ‘Everyone Dad knew—’ He pauses abruptly.

I wait patiently while he steadies himself.

After a while, he resumes. ‘Everyone Dad met adored him. He was kind and diplomatic and loving. Everything I’m not.’ He bows his head and rakes his hand through his hair again. The atmosphere between us is charged as I wait for him to continue.

‘Dad was the life and soul of the party. When he died, it was like a light went out and none of us could turn it back on. We’d lost our energy source. Mum went into a terrible dark depression, and it took years for her to come back to us. Even now she’s not the same mother she was before we lost him.’

My eyes fill with tears, and I bow my head to hide my face from him and pretend to be typing notes, but I’m recording, anyway. Instinctively, I know he’ll hate me showing emotion like this and will withdraw into his shell again. I get a grip on myself and push back the tears. Fathers are a sensitive topic for me too and a whole load of unpleasant feelings come up for me as he speaks. I’m envious of anyone who had a father they loved as much as that. But equally destroyed by the idea of the younger Damian losing him.

I regain control of my emotions. ‘How did the accident happen?’ I ask quietly.

Damian rifles through his drawer and won’t look at me. He’s silent for a few minutes, and I see his green eyes are shining. Finally, he raises his head and says, ‘You know what? You’re right. Let’s leave this for now. I’ll have a think about what I’m comfortable sharing and we’ll continue another day.’ His voice is tight and tortured.

My heart contracts, but I hold my hands firmly in check, so I’m not tempted to reach out and comfort him. It seems he hates sympathy almost as much as showing me he is vulnerable to emotion, just like the rest of us.

---