Unbeknownst to Payton, the beautiful but impoverished Delilah was an opportunist. She’d agreed to marry Payton, not because he’d fathered her child, but because he had the potential to become a billionaire breakout painter in the league of Jackson Pollack. She dreamt of a life of riches and glamour. And he was the gateway. Except life didn’t turn out as she’d hoped.
Living in a decrepit loft in Venice Beach, California, the young couple struggled to make ends meet; years went by. Jaime’s father remained convinced that each painting would be his first masterpiece, his ticket to fame and fortune. Delilah grew angry and frustrated with Payton’s delusions and resented the love child they’d created because it was just another mouth to feed. More desperate to dress in designer clothing than to keep a roof over their heads, she took on a temporary job as the assistant to a mega-wealthy CEO, a recent divorcee. Victor Holden. Her sensual beauty, even at the age of thirty-two, was irresistible. Their relationship blossomed into something more permanent, both professionally and personally. Six months later, Delilah Zander was the next Mrs. Victor Holden. And thirteen-year-old Jaime was living under the roof of their Beverly Hills mansion along with Victor’s daughter from his first marriage—Vivien.
“My father was devastated. He never stopped loving my mother. We were his whole world.”
His voice hoarse, Jaime took a break to sip some champagne. I followed suit, eager to hear more. I’d already learned so much about him. His father’s portrait of him as a baby that hung in his office flashed into my head. His good looks must have stemmed from his beautiful mother and his creative talent from his artistic father, who I suspected was physically attractive as well.
“Why didn’t your father fight for custody of you? Even joint-custody?” I asked.
Jaime took another sip of the champagne and set the glass back onto the tray table next to the tub. Pain filled his eyes. His fans of thick lashes lowered. “He didn’t have a chance. He was stone broke and stoned out.”
I’d seen Jaime cocky-confident and I’d seen him angry-mad. But sad was something new. I ran my fingers through his silky, damp hair and met his forlorn eyes. I could feel them reach out to me. He inhaled a deep breath.
“Three months after my mother married Victor, my father took his life. He shot himself.”
With a gasp, I clapped a hand to my mouth. The explosive sound of a gunshot filled my head. Reliving my own gunshot, I shuddered.
Jaime tenderly cupped my face between his hands. “Are you okay?”
Returning to the moment, I nodded. I now understood what made Jaime Zander who he was. Why he needed money, power, and control. He was afraid of falling into a dark abyss in the footsteps of his poor, struggling father. By controlling women and shunning commitment, he could avoid being hurt the way his father had been by his mother. I also understood why he hated Victor Holden. Victor had destroyed his parents’ marriage and brought his father to the ultimate jumping off point of despair.
“Were you close to your father?” I asked softly, suspecting the answer.
“Very. Even with his downfalls. He was loving. Creative. Fun. He taught me to open my eyes and see the world. To use my imagination. I was a lot like him.”
The look on Jaime’s face grew melancholic. In his mind, he was traveling back in time. Reliving nostalgic memories with his beloved father.
A pang of sadness shot through me. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine how difficult it was for a beautiful, confused thirteen-year-old boy to lose his father, the person he loved the most in the world. Kevin, in a way, had gone through that tragic journey with his homophobic father; a different kind of loss, but nonetheless the loss of a cherished parent.
I gently rubbed my hand along the side of his face, relishing the soft layer of unshaven stubble. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
Jaime quirked a ghost of a smile. “My father’s always been my inspiration. A day doesn’t go by without thinking about him. I still miss him.”
I now saw Jaime differently. Behind the confident, cocky fa?ade was a sensitive, wounded soul. With my own narcissistic, negligent mother and broken childhood, there was a new, profound connection between us. I circled his face lightly with my fingertips. Though I already knew the answer, I asked, “Do you blame Victor for destroying your father?”
Jaime stiffened. His eyes blazed with fury. “I blame him for destroying my father and my mother.” He paused. “And for almost destroying me.”
My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“He abused me.”
The web of fine scars along his back flickered in my head. He was being opened, so I dared to ask him, “Did Victor physically hurt you?”
Jaime’s blue eyes narrowed and his lips clenched. He sucked in a sharp breath. “The bastard beat me. He liked using his riding crop.”