“The man I called papa for the first ten years of my life, my mother’s first husband. He wasn’t my biological father.”
“How do you know? Did your mother tell you that?”
She clamped her lips down for a second, as if biting something back, and then said, “No. She never breathed a word of that to me. She took that to her grave.”
Dustin had always sensed a thread of resentment in Chantelle towards her mother, and wondered if this was the cause of it. He waited.
“Simon told me.”
“Clark?” he asked, surprised. “Your stepfather?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she was trying to block him out, or maybe other intruding thoughts. “He told me this on his deathbed. It was one of the last things he ever said to me.”
“And he’s sure of this? Is there any chance it may have been the ramblings of a dying man?”
She shook her head vehemently. “I’ve had myself tested. I’ve done a DNA comparison with my dad’s sister. We’re not related.” She looked at him, beautiful eyes shining green. “Renaud isn’t my biological father. Doesn’t mean I didn’t love him, though. I still love him so much.”
“You don’t need to be tied by blood to love someone,” he responded agreeably, thinking of Kim.
She nodded in acceptance of his truth, but murmured sadly, “But my mom. The lies. Why didn’t she tell me? There are so many things in my life that could have gone differently if only I knew the truth.”
He was dying to know what those things were, if only to know her better from the inside out, but instead, recognizing her distress, reached over and wrapped her in his arms. Relishing the softness of her, and the sweet smell of her hair.
Realizing that desire was slowly overtaking his need to comfort; the feel of her in his arms transmuted into something more. A hunger he’d been struggling to tame these past few nights, when they’d lain in the same bed but with an ocean’s width of space between them. As if they both knew that to make physical contact at night, even accidentally, would catapult them into intimacy.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that,he mused humorously.
She seemed to pick up on his thoughts. “You know, with my sibs gone, we don’t need to share a bed anymore.”
“I know,” he said mildly. But he didn’t let her go.
“You’re free and clear to go back to your own room.”
“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t budge. He asked a question with his eyes.
Her eyes responded.
He bent and kissed her and immediately his mind was thrown back to the last time they’d kissed with passion, deep into each other, wrapped in each other’s arms. As the present was layered upon the past, he felt his body respond, stiffen.
Her mouth was unresisting. In fact, she was aggressive, kissing him hard and with a hunger he hadn’t felt in her before. As if the tension of the past few days had translated into need.
Her hands came up to his chest, exploring, then slid under his shirt as if feeling him through the fabric wasn’t enough. The hair on his chest crinkled under her fingertips, like tiny wires connected to a low current. It sent a shiver up his spine, making him laugh softly.
She pulled out of the kiss to look at his face. “You’re laughing,” she chided.
“Not at you,” he promised. “You, I could never laugh at. All I can do is wonder.”
She smiled with such frank pleasure that he felt honor-bound to remind her, even as he lay her back against the sheets and positioned his body above hers. “You know I’m booked to leave in a week, right?”
She looked puzzled.
He reminded her, “I agreed to stay until your brothers left. I rebooked my flight for the day after they were originally scheduled to leave. The airline must hate me.”
“They probably do. We don’t have much time left together,” she said softly, as comprehension dawned.
“No, we don’t.”
“Then let’s make the most of it.” Boldly, she began pulling his shirt up over his head, and he shifted his body to allow her to do so.