A flush rose up her neck, and the urge to follow it with his lips was a sharp twist in his gut.
She inhaled deeply, visibly gathering her patience. She jerked her chin toward the closed door. “Was that your assistant?”
“Yes.”
“He was very polite. You haven’t told him, then?” She looked at him pointedly. “That you think we’ve broken up?”
She could dig in with her fingers and push his buttons like no one else, and she knew it, but he ignored the bait. “It’s none of his business. He’s my assistant, not my psychologist.”
She started to reply, then paused. “Do you have a psychologist?”
“On and off since I was fourteen.” He shrugged. “I was okay with any suggestion that minimised the chances of turning into my father.” He lifted an eyebrow at the curious look on her face. “What? You disapprove?”
“No. Not at all. I was just thinking that I don’t give you enough credit.”
Unsettled, he moved irritably and dislodged a morning newspaper from the pile on the desk.
Lainie looked down where it had fallen. “Is there...more today?”
There inevitably would be. The media was relentless. They would wring any profitable topic dry. “I haven’t looked.”
She pulled hard on the end of her plait. “I had a call from a reporter this morning. Wanting to know if I’m standing by you in your time of trouble—” she seemed barely able to get it out “—or ratting on the sinking ship. His actual words. He’s left three more messages since.”
A pulse of fury penetrated the cold, bleak feeling in his chest. “What’s his name?”
“Anthony...something.”
“Not Sutcliffe?”
“That’s it. Do you know him?”
“He usually works for the London Arts Quarterly. They don’t scavenge for cheap sensationalism. He must be freelancing. I’ll deal with it. He won’t be harassing you again.”
She came closer to him, reaching out to touch his arm. He looked down at her fingers. He wanted to hold them. He wanted them tangled in his hair, flirting with his lower lip, stroking his back, running down his chest.
He needed her to leave.
*
He was distancing himself again. She could almost see his features icing over, after that protective reflex when she’d mentioned the stalker reporter.
“Richard...” God, she didn’t know what to say. She’d still been so determined when she woke up this morning. So insensitive, really. She’d thought she could come here and make him forgive her.
She’d been prepared for his usual armour, the frosty shell and snotty comments. She hadn’t expected him to look so...tired.
“I’m sorry.” She held his arm tighter, and he didn’t push her away this time. He didn’t do anything. “You know I’m sorry. I would never hurt you on purpose. You know that. I realise you don’t always listen when people speak, but you at least know me as well as that by now.”
“Lainie—”
“What can I do?” She bit her lip, hard. “Seriously, what can I do? I can’t...I can’t just undo it. I can’t stop them writing about it.”
“Do you think that’s what matters?” The words seemed to have been pulled from Richard with force. He bent down and picked up the paper, jerking it open. There was a large article on the third page with an appropriately lurid headline: Richard Troy Recalls Finding Father’s Body. “Factually incorrect, as usual. By sheer chance, I wasn’t the one who found him. It was a Monday. When I was home from school, I was expected to report to my father’s study on Monday afternoons to discuss what I’d achieved in the previous week. And what I could do better during the next.” His lip curled. “I was late. I got caught up at a friend’s house. The housekeeper found him. Screamed the place down like some bit part from Midsomer Murders.”
She was horrified. “Did he intend for you to find him?”
“No. It just wouldn’t have occurred to him. I doubt he gave me a second thought that day.” Richard sat down on the desk again.
How could he be so calm about that? He should be outraged.
He deserved so much better.
“I’m ashamed of him.” There was no heat in the statement. “Not because of the suicide, but for everything he did before that. Everything he was. It’s shameful.” He met her gaze. “But I’m doing my best to ensure he doesn’t have a lasting impact. Not on me. Not on anyone. The press can say what they like. They can dig out the truth—they can make up something more saleable. If anything, it’ll probably give my career a boost. An interesting dark past. Finally—the reason why he’s such a bastard.”
“But—”
“But it came from you.” He shook his head before she could interrupt. “I know. I know you didn’t do it on purpose, Tig.”
At the sound of that stupid nickname, Lainie’s throat constricted. She felt a burning sensation at the back of her eyes and swiped her thumb across her lashes.