“You mentioned earlier, that you work from home.”
“Oh, right.” She nodded. Though she was proud of the career she’d established, she felt almost shy to discuss it with this man. “I’m a free lance website designer.”
She’d surprised him. She could see from the way his features leaped at the description. “You are, huh?”
“Yes. Why does that seem strange to you?”
He laughed, and leaned forward. “It doesn’t. It’s just not what I would have guessed.”
“And what might you have said?”
He sobered, looking at her with undisguised fascination. “Something artistic,” he settled on, finally. “Something creative.”
“Oh, but this is,” she gushed. “I do everything – from the layout, to the copy writing, to the artwork. I’m a full service designer. Full accountability, that’s the way I like it. I get to create a site from scratch. It’s great.”
“And are you good at it?”
She laughed softly. “Yes.”
Had he been expecting her to evade that question? To pretend modesty?
“I know that must sound a little conceited, but I am good at it.”
“And you’re able to fit it in around being a parent.”
“Yes.” She rearranged herself in the chair, unconsciously bringing her body closer to his. “Well, I sort of had to,” she pointed out with a grin. “Not like I had another choice.”
He was impressed, despite his intention to keep her at arms length. “So you work when you can, and that’s enough to support you.”
“Yes. I make a good living from it. I’ve only stayed in this tiny place because Georgia’s downstairs, and it’s allowed me to save most of what I earn. I’m so freaking angry to think of William taking my money.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe he did it.”
And although avenging his sister’s death was his main play, he didn’t want to think about William Ansell-Johns. “Is web design something you’ve always wanted to
do?”
“No.” She shook her head, and her face wore a mask of self-derision. “All I’ve ever wanted was to be a wife and mother.” She groaned audibly, and then hit his leg. “Don’t you laugh at me. I realise how absolutely pathetic it is. The truth is, I’m one of those sadly unprogressive women, who grew up on Disney cartoons and actually thought being rescued by a Prince Charming was awesome. Feminists around the world would have every right to hang me up as the worst kind of woman.”
He was smiling, and more than that, his heart was laughing.
“I came to New York, and bam. I met my Prince Charming.” Her eyes assumed a faraway look. “He was everything I thought I wanted. Gorgeous, rich, flattering, and he told me everything I wanted to hear.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “I really thought I was living the fairy tale.”
“And when did you know you weren’t?”
She lifted her wine glass from the floor and carried it to her lips. “We’d only been married a week when I found out that he’d had an affair with my cousin. On the night of our rehearsal dinner.” Her body language was stiff. “I was mortified. I felt very guilty, you see…”
“Guilty?” He interjected, his anger scathing.
She forced herself to continue with sharing the confidence. Now that she’d started, there was no sense in holding back. “Yes.” She ran her finger around the edge of her wine glass, looking for a way to distract herself. “I was … inexperienced … when I met Will.” She blinked away the past. It was so real, though, that she almost felt like she could reach out and touch it.
“You mean, a virgin?” He queried silkily, ignoring the way his body responded instantly to her revelation.
She nodded. “Yes. William thought we should wait until our wedding night, and I agreed. Actually, I thought it was incredibly romantic and respectful. Remember, I considered myself to be a long lost cohort of Cinderella and Princess Ariel,” she made an attempt at lightening the mood with a joke.
“And his inability to keep it in his pants made you feel guilty why?” He was leaning closer to her. He stretched one arm along the back of the sofa. His fingers were just a hair’s breadth from her shoulder.
“He was never the kind of man who could go without.” She shook her head. “I got caught up in the fantasy of the wedding, without realising that if he wasn’t sleeping with me, he must have been doing so elsewhere.”
“Jesus Christ,” he swore, standing up abruptly and stalking across the small lounge room. “You’re actually making excuses for his jackassery?”