She looks at me. “You know the details on that already. It was when my mother got mad at my uncle. To get back at him, she told my father that she slept with my him.”
“Holy fuck,” I breathe out. “I still can’t believe she slept with his brother and he forgave her.”
“Yes. And the truth is, that I hated my father a little afterwards, too. I mean, he never spoke to his brother again, but he forgave my mother. I couldn’t look at him in the face, and see the same man anymore.” She cuts her gaze, staring out at the city. “I wasn’t as angry at my mother at that point as I was at him. I mean, he was the one who’d become the fool.”
“And then he died.”
“Yes. On the same night I had an explosion with Macom that was the end of us—in my book, anyway. So, leaving felt right. It had for a long time. But I didn’t think it meant leaving my art. But my mother was a train wreck, and I wasn’t without a head for business. I wanted to protect my father’s pride and joy, but also, one day that winery would be mine. And with a management team, I knew it would be an asset and an income that supported, not destroyed, my painting.” She glances over at me. “I hated to think like that. It meant thinking beyond my mother.”
“It’s business. It’s smart business.”
“Yes. Well, I took it a step further. She refused to tell me what was going on, and the vines were lost and bill collectors were calling. I’d lost any hope of painting. I was consumed by her screw-ups and I couldn’t take it. I hired an attorney, Nick. I tried to take it from her. It was brutal.” Her hands clutch the railing. “She threatened suicide. She cried. She yelled. She made scenes at the winery, and I was losing my mind. I wanted her to go away. Ineededher to go away. And then…she was gone. Then she was dead. And Nick…” She looks down, her grip tightening on the railing. “Ikilledher.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Nick
“I killed her.”
Faith’s words, her tormented confession, roar through me like a tiger trying to ripmythroat out. I didn’t, I don’t, believe she is guilty of killing her mother or my father, but my father’s warning is burned into my mind:Faith Winter is the problem. She is dangerous.And mixed with her own statement, I need an explanation, peace of mind. I need to know what happened, and therefore, what I’m protecting her, and myself, from and I need to know now.
Still standing at the balcony, she has yet to look at me, like she doesn’t want to see what might be in my face. Or maybe she doesn’t want me to see what is in hers. Or both. Both, most likely. But I read people. It’s what I do. It’s who I am, and I glance down at her hands where they grip the railing, and her knuckles are white, telling the tale of dread and guilt. Urgency and need boil inside me, and not in the way they normally do for this woman. I step behind her, turn her to face me, and press her back to the railing, my big body pinning hers to it, my hands on the railing at her shoulders. “What the fuck does that mean, Faith?” I demand.
She looks up at me, her green eyes flashing with anger. “I shouldn’t have told you. Get off me.”
Her withdrawal stirs a spike of anger in me I can’t seem to control, when I control everything around me—but this woman, it seems. It’s a claw opening a wound I don’t even understand, and I don’t like anything I don’t understand. My hands go to her waist, my tone hardening. “I’ll let you when you explain yourself.”
Her hands go to my hands. “Let go of me, Nick,” she warns, her voice tight, icy. She tries to move.
My legs close around hers. “Not until you explain yourself.”
“Ishouldn’thave told you,” she says again. “I shouldn’t have trusted you.”
“Attorney-client privilege, Faith.”
This time, it’s her anger that is hard and fast. “Are you serious right now, Nick?” The question rasps from her throat. “Is that what we are now? Or I guess we always were? Is that why you think I told you everything I just told you? Because I have attorney-client privilege?” Her fingers press into my chest, the prelude to the shove I steel myself for, as she adds, “I don’t know why I thought we could be more than that,” and then throws her body into pushing me away.
I don’t budge under her impact, not physically, but I feel the emotional jab of those words. “I’m trying to give you the room to say whatever you need to say. I’mtryingto protect you.”
“Are you? Because that’s not what I feel right now. Not when you’re demanding what, a few minutes ago, I didn’t need you to demand. Iwantedto talk to you.” Her voice lowers, but it’s not less biting as she adds, “Get off me, or I swear to you, Nick-asshole-fucking-Rogers, I will make you. And don’t think I can’t, though maybe I should add: Don’t worry. I won’t kill you. I’m not quite as skilled in that area as you might think.”
My grip on her legs and waist tighten. “I was not implying that you were a cold-blooded killer.”
“Just a killer.”
“Stop.”
“Gladly. Let me go.”
“Damn it,” I bite out, feeling that urgency and need again. “Talk to me, Faith.”
“Not anymore,” she says. “Not ever again.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Youdid this.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” I repeat.