My gaze drops to the corkscrew on the floor.
The drinking and her reaction both point to fear. Probably some kind of abuse. I recall how she abruptly stopped dating five years ago. Something must’ve happened back then…
An abusive boyfriend? Or worse? My throat tightens and sudden sympathy stirs. Maybe she isn’t the innocent wonder woman she tries to project, but nobody deserves to be hurt like that.
“I just want to see if you have a temperature,” I say, my voice gruff.
She relaxes slightly, and I touch her forehead. Her skin is slightly cool, almost clammy. Her stomach growls, then I remember that she didn’t eat anything on our flight. And I don’t recall seeing her eat at the party either.
“When was the last time you ate?”
She blinks. “I don’t know. Breakfast?”
Exasperation worsens my temper. “No wonder you’re not feeling well. You should’ve had something. Didn’t you see that huge birthday cake?”
“No. I can’t eat.”
“I’m not your mom. Nobody else here is, either.”
She stares up at me. “What?”
“St
op with the not eating.”
Confusion still clouds her eyes.
“I don’t care how ‘wide’ you get.” Her damned mother told her she’d better stay thin when she was only a teenager. Mother of the Century. “You’ve lost weight since our dinner at La Mer.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth rubs her face. “I’m not…it’s not about my mom. I just can’t eat. Food is going to make me sick.” Her warm, perfect composure is completely gone now, her shoulders drooping and her gaze unfocused.
Standing over her, I glower. I should get another room, but that’s not happening now. I can’t leave her like this—pale and hungry. A cynical part of me says she’s gotta be faking it, but I know better. There’s no way this is a ruse. Nobody can affect clamminess or force their stomach to growl.
“When I checked in, the front desk said this is the only room available. I’ll take the couch,” Elizabeth murmurs.
What kind of man does she think I am? I should just carry her to bed, dump her there and order her to sleep. But I can’t.
I consider ordering room service, then change my mind. Mom used to get the most horrible indigestion when she forced herself to eat when she wasn’t feeling well. Elizabeth’s probably the same.
After getting two fresh glasses, I pour us more vodka. Anybody else I wouldn’t serve more alcohol, but I know how well she can handle her liquor. She’s one of the few people who can drink me under the table.
She immediately takes hers and throws it back.
After a moment of silence, she asks, “Shouldn’t you be getting back to the party? There are a lot of people who could help your business. And your…cousin’s there, too.”
“I’m done.”
Her tongue runs over her lips. She isn’t doing it for sexual effect. “Are you close to Andy?”
“Yes.” Then because I don’t want to sound too abrupt, I add, “He’s a decent kid, hardworking, although he can be a bit awkward from time to time.”
After exhaling softly, she finishes her drink.
I turn, placing a knee on the couch so I can face her fully. She looks at me with raw, anguished eyes. I can see her bleeding. Hurting. And instead of her pain giving me satisfaction, I ache for her. And suddenly it occurs to me that maybe the last ten years weren’t as great for her as I assumed. Something horrible—something truly painful—is haunting her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elizabeth