The word felt like a phrase in a foreign language he was trying for the first time.
Her brow pulled in a flinch and her eyes grew shinier. Her mouth opened, then she closed it again, as if she couldn’t decide how to respond.
He dropped his hands, startled by a deep stab of disappointment. “I didn’t think you’d lie to your mother about something like that.”
“I didn’t,” she said quickly, folding her arms. “I mean. Yes, I do, um...” She cleared her throat. “Love you,” she said with a little thrust of her jaw, brow a line of determination as she dragged an air of confidence around her.
He’d seen her don this look a thousand times when the pressure was high and now knew it was her defense mechanism, something she’d learned to wear against those who’d been hard on her after her father’s death.
She shouldn’t feel a need for it with him. Laughter rose in him, the kind fueled by soaring joy. It was alien, yet powerful, like a ferocious storm he ought to fear, yet a primal part of him reveled in it.
“Why haven’t you said?” he asked, bemused.
She finally met his gaze, searching so deep, he went on guard. Angst crept into her expression.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
He mentally took a long step backward. Here was the issue with deep feelings. They turned quiet words into explosives that could go off if they weren’t handled very carefully.
Love had never been on his radar. A psychologist would accuse him of taking all those lovers to counter the absence of affection in his youth, but he would argue that he had a healthy sex drive. He’d learned early to take pride in his accomplishments and let his self-esteem hinge on his opinion of himself, no one else’s. He didn’t yearn for acceptance or fulfillment. He was utterly secure.
Even with his son, he didn’t nurture to earn the unconditional adoration Enrique showed him. He met his son’s needs because it filled him with deep, personal satisfaction to see the boy content. Did he love his son? He suspected that yes, he did, but he hadn’t framed it in so many words to himself.
What he felt toward Enrique was simple and instinctive, but his regard for Sorcha was more complex. He was in the most intimate relationship he’d ever had, but was this love? He was too honest a man to blurt out such a statement without being absolutely sure.
How could he be sure, though? His scientific mind wanted points on a graph. A series of tests and results. Hard data.
“You know I’m not wired for it,” he said cautiously.
* * *
Sorcha told herself he wasn’t saying that to be cruel, that she had always known this about him, but his deflection still felt like a knife to the chest.
She was facing down his lost memory of Valencia all over again, but in a higher, more acute octave. She loved him. She had begun to believe he had feelings for her, but he didn’t. Not on the level she was at. Everything she thought they shared was actually only in her mind, her heart. There was nothing on his side but sexual attraction, respect perhaps and a strong sense of responsibility.
“That’s why I haven’t said.” She hated that her voice wavered. “I should check Enrique.”
He didn’t let her go. “It doesn’t mean we can’t be happy. You’re happy, aren’t you?”
She wanted to claim she was and walk away, just to end this painful moment, but she shook her head.
“I’ve been telling myself I should be,” she said, staring blindly toward the hall. “You’re the one who told me I shouldn’t take on another dependent just to feel loved. When I married you, I told myself it was better to have a husband who provided for me, than one who loved me and left me to fend for myself, like Da did to Mum. I thought it was unrealistic to expect both love and material support, but it’s not. Da did make provisions for us. He loved us and wanted to take care of us.”
She swallowed, still taking this news in. All her mixed, resentful feelings toward her father fell away and love, wistful love, was left. It was freeing, yet painful, making her ashamed that she’d doubted him.
And it cast her marriage in a dark light. She had settled for support, which wasn’t a bad thing, especially when she’d had hope for love.
But her husband wasn’t wired that way.
Hope was gone.
The walls of their gorgeous house came into focus. The furniture she’d chosen with such care, wanting to create a home for them, suddenly seemed very superficial. A placebo for the environment of love she’d really been seeking.
“I’m going to check flights,” she said. “I’d like to see Mum.”
“Not wait for me?” He tightened his hand on her arm, not hurting, but she could feel his tension.