But there was no escape inside her own mind. Jacques’s face kept pushing itself into her thoughts as though she had kissed him, begged him to not leave her yesterday instead of six years ago. Sweat beaded on her brow, her stomach a twisting void.
She had done everything in her power to keep him, to make Jacques love her, yet he had left her, trampled her heart into so many pieces. The same question she hadn’t been able to answer that night or ever since haunted her waking thoughts now. She slapped her hands on her cheeks and shook her head, groaning, as though she could hold the devastating thought at bay.
But all her defenses crumbled like cardboard paper as it wound its way into her head.
Whatever she did, however much she tried, there were some things she couldn’t change about herself. She couldn’t...
No. She couldn’t do this to herself. She cursed and swiped the tears pooling in her eyes. She had cried enough tears to last her a lifetime.
Scrolling through her BlackBerry, she read the text she had received from Kim early morning for the hundredth time. I’m okay. Can’t make it back yet. Am so sorry.
The short message didn’t tell Liv anything. The fleeting hope that she could get out of here soon died with it. She threw her bedroom door open and walked into the living room, refusing to indulge in miserable speculations that she already knew the answer to.
Alexander nodded at her from the couch, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He had been perversely silent all through the flight yesterday and even after they’d landed. Almost as if he knew how close to the surface her emotions were teetering. One wrong word from him and she would have clocked him. But of course, he hadn’t given her that satisfaction. Instead, he had been a perfect gentleman all day.
She meant to ignore him but her gaze inevitably drifted down his body as he rose from the couch. Tight black jeans hugged his powerful thighs and dear God, the man had a taut behind she could ogle for hours. His gray V-necked tee stretched across the muscular contours of his chest, the short sleeves revealing strong forearms.
Heat crept up her neck as he neared her in a quick movement, the awareness of her perusal shining in his eyes. Her skin felt too tight on her body. He tilted his head sideways and studied her. “Are you approachable now?”
She shrugged and turned, glad that he hadn’t mentioned her checking him out. The shards of grief that had dulled her mind into numbness mere seconds ago dissolved away.
Forbidden lust—1, gut wrenching grief—0.
Turning away from the captivating sight of him, she walked around the hall. Cream marble floors gleamed under her feet enhanced by white walls. Simple, sleek, red furniture dotted around the living room punctured the austerity of the pristine white. Understated luxury yet tasteful at the same time with a hint of warmth that had been missing in the island mansion.
The living room led into a vast balcony, offering breathtaking views of the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. A luxury private jet and a penthouse in the heart of Paris with such beautiful views, she couldn’t help be impressed despite her dark mood. She traced the concrete railing with her fingers, feeling uncharacteristically peeved.
Alexander King might have turned his back on his A-list Hollywood star parents when he was only seventeen, but the fact that he was filthy rich in his own right incensed her further. Why couldn’t he have been an abject failure like her?
And nothing she had seen so far indicated that he flaunted his wealth, unlike her father. No gold-edged trimmings in sight, no false imperiousness around his staff. On the contrary, his staff seemed too happy to follow his every command. He didn’t need constant validation of his success. For all she knew, the man had been born with the arrogant confidence he wore like a second skin.
She turned back to the living room. A surprising sense of comfort settled in her stomach. Andy Warhol’s turquoise Marilyn Monroe graced one wall. She passed by the Hollywood Diva with a grin on her face. The scandalous actress’s painting in Alexander’s penthouse looked as out of place as she had felt in the wedding gown.
“What are you grinning about?”
His voice behind her scrambled her senses. “I imagined it to be different.” Spying the leap of awareness in his gaze, she hastened to clarify. “This place has such a relaxed feel to it.”
“Meaning I’m uptight?”
She grinned again, unwilling to take the bait. “Meaning, is it yours?”
He glanced around the living room, as though looking at it anew. Something akin to affection danced in his gaze. “Emily decorated this place. She fancies herself an interior designer, so I gave her free rein last summer.”