That evening after Nicholas was asleep, Penelope joined Reid in the living room where he sat with his head leaned back on the couch, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
“Are you okay?” she asked, settling next to him. She sat close enough for her thigh to touch his, well aware of what had happened—or almost happened—on this same couch just a couple days earlier. Was she tempting fate, cozying up to him tonight? Of course. Was a sexual tryst with Reid Colton what she wanted? On that matter, her mind vacillated. Oh, she wanted Reid. She knew sleeping with him would be pure pleasure. But in her heart of hearts, she wanted to make love to him, not just have mind-blowing sex. She wanted meaning and commitment and...all the things she feared Reid could never offer her.
She wanted...to be wanted. To be valued. To be needed. And how could a man who wanted for nothing, who had the world at his feet, who could snare any blonde bombshell at whom he crooked his finger, possibly need anything she had to give?
And yet the instinct in her to help, to heal, to care drew her to him tonight, wanting to ease whatever distress had his mouth drawn tight, his gaze distant and his brow creased.
When he didn’t answer her query, she put a hand on his knee and jostled him. “Earth to Reid. What’s going on? Wanna talk about it?”
He angled his head and slanted a look at her. “Just thinking about...everything.”
His vague response needled her. His generic answer was just another form of evasion, of keeping her at arm’s length.
She gave a wry snort. “Oh, good. Only everything. I was afraid it was something specific.”
He arched a sandy-brown eyebrow that told her he heard the bitterness in her tone. After another moment of quiet, he said, “So I talked to the family today.”
“And?”
He rose from the sofa and stalked over to the wet bar to uncork a bottle of wine they’d started at dinner. He refilled both of their glasses and carried them back to the sofa. “They were predictably upset with Hugh’s betrayal.”
She exhaled heavily as she took her glass from him. “Why does that make me feel...guilty? Like I should share some of the blame?”
He shook his head as he scowled. “Don’t even go there. Nothing your father has done is your fault.”
“I know that. It’s just a guilt-by-association thing. He’s my father, so I hate how that paints me thanks to my relation to him.” She clutched her wineglass tighter, an acid fury and frustration with her father seething in her gut. “Even though I saw how he treated my mother when she was sick, it just shocks me, galls me to think my father could be so...greedy. So—” she waved her free hand, trying to find the right word “—so cold toward his own flesh and blood. And then I pray in my next breath such selfishness and heartlessness aren’t hereditary. I’d hate to think Nicholas, despite my best efforts to the contrary, could turn out so morally bankrupt by some cruel trick of nature over nurture.”
She sipped her wine, her gaze meeting Reid’s over the rim of her glass. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to reply, but then pressed his lips in a taut line, his sandy brown eyebrows drawing into a frown over a keen blue stare.
“Reid? What is it? What were you going to say?”
He flashed a fake smile. “Nothing.”
She huffed her irritation with his continued distancing tactics. “Reid, talk to me. I hate it when you shut me out like that!”
He gave her a negligent shrug. “Just...agreeing your dad is a piece of work. And to say I seriously doubt Nicholas will be anything like Hugh Barrington.” He gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. “Not with you for his mother.”
“So you don’t think heredity can trump environment?” She tilted her head, pondering the awful possibilities. “What if my father is the way he is because of some genetically controlled mental illness? What if Nicholas got some gene for—”
“Pen, no.” Reid shook his head and gave her an odd, guilty-looking grin.
“I’m just saying...he could have.”
He shook his head harder. “No, he couldn’t. Just...trust me on this?”
She cocked her head farther to the side, studying his peculiar expression. He seemed unable to meet her gaze now, and that alone spoke of some deception or compunction on his part. A tickle of uneasiness quivered in her gut.
“Reid? Tell me.”
His expression grew pained, but he still refused to look at her.
Her hand trembling, she set her wineglass aside and slid down the couch toward him. She gripped his forearm, digging her fingers into his muscles. “I’m sick of hidden agendas and deception and feeling like there’s a storm about to break that I have no control over.” She tightened her grip, shaking his arm. “How can I move forward without fear if I’m worried there’s a reason to be looking over my shoulder or questioning everything I’ve put my faith in?”
He lowered his chin, his eyes closed. “Hugh Barrington isn’t your father.”
She froze, replaying his words in her head as if to reassure herself she’d heard him correctly. “What are you saying? Of course he—”
“No. He’s not.” Finally he raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were soft and full of concern...along with a brutal honesty. “Not biologically, anyway.”
Her spine stiffened as she processed his assertion. “If you’re implying that my mother cheated on—”
“No!” he said quickly, wrapping his hand around hers where it still clutched his arm. “You were adopted, Pen. I found the legal papers when we searched Hugh’s office.”
She blinked, stunned. Adopted?
“I thought maybe you knew, but—”
“No...” she whispered, still digesting the revelation, trying to refocus the camera of her memory through this new lens. Her heart drubbed a slow, strong beat as if staggering under this new weight.
He scrunched his face into a wince of regret. “I’m sorry if I—”