CHAPTER TEN

ROMAN GARNERSTOOD at the floor-to-ceiling window of his executive office in the Garner Building and stared down at the River Thames as it wound through the City of London thirty-two floors below. A light summer rain was falling, obscuring the stunning view he'd worked his ass off to earn. But it didn't really matter, because nothing seemed to matter any more.

He felt like crap.

He'd cancelled the trip to New York he'd planned to take with Milly, not able to face the loft apartment—or dealing with the thousand and one things he'd left hanging in the US for over a month—without having Milly there with him, the way he'd imagined.

Without her vibrant personality brightening up the soulless concrete and steel design, and the empty spaces in his heart—which he hadn't even known were there until he'd met her.

He raked his hand through his hair. And cursed under his breath.

How come he could still smell her? That intoxicating aroma of sex and flowers with the slight hint of turpentine from her art that had driven him wild on Estiva and made him want her, always. And how come he could still see the devastation on her face, when he'd walked away from her that evening in Wiltshire, after shooting everything to hell, deliberately?

He'd done her a favour, damn it. Done them both a favour. He had nothing to offer her. Or any woman. He never had. Never would.

He'd always been broken. He could see it with such clarity now. He'd always shied away from commitment, from intimacy, for a very good reason. It was way too much trouble. And offered way too much opportunity to get hurt the way he'd been hurt as a boy. And he was right about the romantic declaration of love she'd thrown at him out of nowhere. She didn't love him, she didn't even know him, not really. They'd had two glorious weeks of sex and sparring, shared a few half-hearted home truths. That was all. And however jaded and tough and independent she thought she was, she had no idea how the real world worked. Or she wouldn't have fallen for a man like him, decided to trust him, so easily.

But even if all the rational arguments, the qualifications and explanations for the way he'd deliberately used and humiliated her made total sense in his head—because he'd done it for her own good—he couldn't seem to come to terms with the thought of never seeing her again. Never touching her or having her wake up warm and willing in his arms. Never being able to tease or tempt her, or watch her paint as if her life depended on it... And he couldn't lose the scent of her in his nostrils. Like a phantom, torturing him, making him hard and ready when he woke up sweaty and yearning for her in the night.

He couldn't sleep now, couldn't eat, couldn't even throw himself into work because he didn't care about any of it any more. He felt more exhausted now than he had while he was struggling with the burn-out.

And worst of all, he couldn't forget her—not her forthright, snarky, endlessly funny and challenging personality, not her succulent, seductive, responsive body, or her open, generous and honest heart.

He missed her, so much. And he was scared that would never change.

Not so much because of the stupendous chemistry they shared, or all the ways she had lit up his life—energising and invigorating him and making every single day seem richer and better and more exciting than the last—but also the way she had stuck by him.

Because no one had ever done that before. Not unless he was paying them.

She'd stood up to her family on his behalf, and made him want more. In the end, it had terrified him enough to make him determined to push her away as soon as he'd left Cade's study.

Why, then, did he keep reliving the moment she'd told him she loved him? The way she'd hugged him and held him, when he'd needed it the most. In those raw, visceral, terrifying moments after he'd finally slammed Cade with the truth... And realised the guy had never known who he was.

And why did some daft part of his heart want to believe that declaration still?

Because thinking about it incessantly was starting to drive him insane.

The intercom on his desk clicked on, and his PA's voice echoed round the office.

‘There's a Mr Brandon Cade here demanding to see you, Mr Garner. He has two solicitors with him.'

The name got his attention. And sparked his fury.

He swore again. But the fury died as he strode across the room, feeling weary right down to his bones.

He was too tired to deal with this nonsense now. But he supposed he was going to have to. After all, he'd been waiting for some kind of response to his accusations ever since he'd made them. He hadn't expected Cade to turn up in person. But the legal team didn't surprise him. He was probably going to get served with a lawsuit, now, for having the gall to suggest the Cades' precious blood flowed in his veins.

‘He doesn't have an appointment. Shall I insist that he make one?' his PA asked, knowing Roman was not in the mood to see anyone, and hadn't been ever since he'd returned to the office a week ago.

He toyed with the idea of sending Cade packing. It would serve him right for showing up unannounced. But he couldn't even find the energy to despise Brandon Cade any more. Which just went to show how low Milly Devlin had brought him.

He snapped on the intercom. ‘No. Send him and his vultures in and hold my calls.'

He might as well get this confrontation over with. After all, everything else had been shot to hell, why not let his half-brother join the feeding frenzy?

Cade entered the office first, wearing a dark, double-breasted designer suit. His gaze was flat and direct, but seemed surprising neutral. Then again, he got the impression Cade wasn't a man of strong emotions, unless his family was involved.

Unlike Roman, apparently.

Roman held out an arm to indicate the sunken seating area in the far corner of the room. ‘Take a seat. If you want a drink you'll have to help yourself,' he all but snarled, as a young man and an older woman, also sharply dressed in business attire, followed their boss into the open-plan space, both carrying briefcases.

All the better to screw him over with.

He turned back to the rain-fogged view, the prickle of resentment going some way to cover the cramping emptiness in his stomach.

‘I'd prefer to stand, thanks,' Cade said.

‘Suit yourself.' Roman threw the remark over his shoulder. ‘Say whatever you've come to say, then get out. I've got work to do.'

Which would be true, if he could conjure up the energy to do any of it, but Cade didn't need to know that.

Cade cleared his throat. ‘Okay, Roman,' he said. ‘I don't blame you for making this difficult. I deserve that.'

The prickle of resentment became a flood at the use of his given name. The condescending bastard.

But then Cade continued. ‘I'd like to start by apologising for my father and Cade Inc's appalling behaviour towards you and your mother over the last thirty-two years.'

The words—delivered in a low voice, grave with purpose—didn't register at first, the buzzing in Roman's ears becoming loud and discordant. He swung round, forced to look at the man.

Terrific.Was he having audible delusions now, too?

‘What did you say?' he asked. Surely, he hadn't heard that correctly. Was this some kind of a trick? To get him to drop his guard?

But Cade's expression didn't look cagey, or surly or combative. It looked one hundred per cent genuine. Reminding him for one agonising moment of Milly again—as if he needed any reminders of her.

‘I'm here with the head of my legal team, Marisa Jones,' Cade continued, indicating the woman with him, who gave Roman a brief nod.

‘Hello, Mr Garner, nice to meet you,' she said, as if they were all at a tea party in Buckingham Palace. What the hell?

‘I want to make some kind of restitution in the only way I know how.' Cade swallowed, but his gaze remained locked on Roman's. ‘It's taken me a week to work out all the details. But I'd like to offer you fifty per cent of the Cade Inc shares and the real estate portfolio I inherited from my father. The property in the will included an island in the Bahamas, estates in New York, Paris and Melbourne and, of course, the ancestral estate in Wiltshire. Take your pick. Although I should probably warn you, our ancestral estate is a total money pit.'

Our?

Roman jolted, certain he was having some kind of massive delusion now brought on by stress and exhaustion... And heartache.

‘Is this some kind of a joke, Cade?' he bit out. ‘Because I'm not laughing.'

Why was the guy trying to mess with him? Hadn't they already messed with him enough? He and his wife and his cute little daughter, and most of all his sweet, headstrong and unbearably hot and intoxicating sister-in-law?

‘Call me Brandon,' the man said, which wasn't a reply. ‘After all, you're the only brother I've got.'

Roman swore a blue streak and collapsed into a chair to hold his head, which felt as if it were about to explode. Because now nothing—not one thing in his life—made any sense any more.

Cade took charge, because of course he did, the domineering bastard, ushering out the legal team and pouring Roman a glass of water from the room's bar.

But Roman was only dimly aware of it. His mind reeling, and his emotions—which had always been so steady and predictable up to about three weeks ago, before a certain someone had tried to steal his boat—all over the place again.

He finally ran out of curse words. A glass of chilled water appeared at his elbow.

‘I think you'd better drink this,' Cade said. ‘You look like you need it.'

‘What I need is a double shot of vodka and a Valium,' Roman said, but took the glass and downed the contents in several quick gulps.

It didn't do much for his cartwheeling emotions, or the cramping pain that had now tied his stomach into a knot, but at least it stopped him going for a gold medal in the profanity awards.

‘I can see I've shocked you,' Cade began. ‘That wasn't my intention. Maybe I shouldn't have come here, but I felt I should speak to you in—'

‘Why?' Roman interrupted him. He didn't want excuses or clarifications, or carefully worded apologies three decades after the fact. Nor did he want any part of the Cade legacy, or the Cade money, not any more, because he had his own. But he did want to know what the hell was going on.

‘Why would you do this? When you hate my guts?' he added, when Cade seemed nonplussed by the question.

The man blinked, clearly taken aback. ‘I never hated you, Roman, even when I just thought you were a business rival. The truth is, I admired you, your bravery and tenacity, even if I did not agree with your methods most of the time, or some of the stories you chose to print.'

He heard the edge he'd noticed before. But it was blunter now, and held no bitterness.

‘Just to clarify something,' Cade continued, the edge softening even more. ‘Was that why you were so focussed on outing me as a deadbeat dad? Because you believed I had chosen not to acknowledge Ruby, you thought I was just like him?'

Roman shrugged, but the movement felt stiff and surly as he ran his thumb down the frosted glass, not quite able to look the man in the eyes. ‘Yes,' he forced himself to admit, even though it felt too revealing.

‘I see. Well, just so you know, I had no idea I had a daughter until Ruby was four years old. Which, to be fair, was mostly my own fault, so I don't blame you for coming to that conclusion. But I should also make you aware, I would rather cut off my left nut than be anything like the bastard who fathered us both.'

Roman swung his head around to stare at Cade, but the fierce frown made it clear the man meant what he said.

‘You didn't like your father?' he asked, stunned by the revelation. And the disjointed way it made him feel. As if his whole life had just been broken apart like a jigsaw puzzle and fitted back together to create an entirely different image.

‘Our father, you mean,' Cade corrected him, gently. ‘But to answer your question... No. I didn't like him. For most of my childhood and adolescence, I was terrified of him. My mother died when I was a baby. She killed herself, probably to get away from him,' he added with a wry sadness that stunned Roman even more. ‘After that, I was brought up by a string of governesses who he would fire if I got too attached to them. When I was five, he decided to ship me off to a succession of increasingly austere and disciplinary boarding schools to show me how to be a man. The only times I ever saw him was when he wanted to punish me, usually with random acts of cruelty, which...' he paused, his expression becoming rueful as he sighed ‘...after over a year of therapy at my wife's insistence, I have finally come to realise he took great pleasure in administering because he was a sadist. But were never, ever my fault.'

Roman straightened, horrified but also strangely moved by Brandon Cade's forthright and unsentimental recollections. His father—their father—had been a monster. Why had he never considered that Alfred Cade's crimes might have extended far beyond the man's callous treatment of his mother and himself?

‘Sounds like I dodged a bullet never having to meet him,' he muttered.

‘You have no idea,' Brandon murmured vehemently. ‘Our father was a sociopath and a narcissist, who was never capable of loving anyone but himself. So it doesn't surprise me he didn't acknowledge you as his son. But you have to believe me when I tell you, I had no idea we were related that day in Cade Tower.'

Roman nodded. Surprised to realise he believed him. And it made a difference. A big difference, to how he remembered that day. Why wouldn't Brandon Cade have had him kicked out of his offices, when all he'd seen was a mouthy little upstart with no prospects? After all, that was exactly what he had been. He might well have kicked himself out, under the same circumstances.

But then Brandon surprised him even more when he added, ‘Unfortunately, though, the personnel manager with me when you confronted me did know who you were.' He took a deep breath, let it out again, his expression pained. ‘I'd inherited John Walters from my father. He seemed competent. But what I didn't know was part of his job during my father's tenure was also to manage his "indiscretions". I asked Walters to find room for you on our apprenticeship programme that day, because it was clear to me you had potential as a journalist. You were smart and articulate and tenacious, and I was impressed with your gall. But when you said your name, Walters recognised you as my father's illegitimate child. And had you kicked out of the building. I should have checked up on you, though, made sure Walters had followed through on my request, and I didn't. So you're going to have to accept my apology for that, too.'

‘Okay,' Roman said carefully, stunned again by Brandon Cade's honesty and integrity. And his willingness to take the blame for crimes that had never been his.

‘Good.' Brandon stood, then glanced towards the door. ‘How about we call Marisa and her assistant back in and I can give you the documents we've been working on relating to your inheritance? Nothing has to be decided today, obviously, but I—'

‘No.' Roman interrupted him. ‘Thanks,' he added, when Brandon's expression became mulish. ‘I don't need any part of your inheritance,' he continued. ‘It sounds like you earned the Cade legacy the hard way by having to deal with that bastard. So I'd say we're even on that score.'

‘That's not why I told you about our father,' Brandon said, the edge right back again.

‘I know, but it's the truth, though, isn't it?' Roman sighed and stood up, so he could stand toe to toe with his brother.

Weird, but, even though he'd always known their blood connection, he'd never really thought of them as being related until this moment. But when Brandon glared at him—the stubborn glint in his eye making it clear this was not the end of the inheritance discussion—Roman recognised the expression, because he'd seen it in the mirror often enough.

He didn't know if they could ever be brothers. There was a lot more baggage to unpack before that could happen. But right now, it didn't really matter to him. Because the only thing that actually mattered was what he had learned this afternoon.

His father had been a pig and now he was really glad the man had never wanted him.

Brandon Cade was a better man than Roman had ever given him credit for.

And, most importantly of all, he'd thrown something away that he shouldn't have thrown away, over something that had never really mattered in the first place!

He'd spent the first thirty-two years of his life believing the wrong thing about himself, about his past, about every damn thing really. And because of that, he'd been beyond terrified when Milly had looked at him with love and understanding in her eyes, and told him she trusted him, because a part of him was still that boy—scared of needing more, in case he didn't get it.

Well, to hell with that.

He'd been utterly miserable in the past week, because he'd believed he was doing the right thing by pushing her away. But life was too short to make that kind of stupid, self-defeating sacrifice.

If Brandon Cade could come to him, swallow his pride and try to make amends for something he hadn't even done, then Roman Garner—aka that mouthy little upstart Dante Rocco—could fly to Genoa and tell Milly Devlin he had made a terrible mistake. And beg her to give him another chance.

After the way he'd treated her, she might not want him back, she might well decide she never wanted to see him again. And he wouldn't blame her. But one thing he was not prepared to do was not give it his best shot. And if that meant kidnapping her and seducing her into a puddle of need until she agreed to give him that chance... So be it.

But for any of that to happen, he needed to find out where she was living first.

‘There is one favour I want, Brandon,' he said, laying on the reckless charm he'd once taken for granted. ‘And then we'll be all square.'

‘Consider it done. What is it?' Brandon said, falling neatly into his trap.

‘I need contact details for your sister-in-law in Genoa.'

Brandon frowned, the stubborn expression back with a vengeance. ‘I'm not about to tell you that. Milly is vulnerable, and you hurt her. A lot.'

Roman struggled not to wince. Fair.

‘She doesn't need you to drop back into her life and sweep her—' Brandon continued.

‘Save it, bro.' Roman cut off the lecture. ‘I'm not asking for your permission to date her. That's her decision. But, FYI, she's perfectly capable of telling me to take a hike herself.'

Or at least he hoped she was, because if he'd hurt her to that extent, he'd never forgive himself.

‘Why, exactly, do you want to contact her?' Brandon asked, driving a hard bargain. But it only made Roman admire the man more. His family was important to him. And while Roman knew nothing about that kind of loyalty, the fierce need to protect Milly was something he understood. Even if it was him she needed protecting from.

‘Because I need to grovel. A lot,' he said, forced to come clean about his intentions, but debasing himself in front of Brandon seemed like good practice for what he might have to do when he found Milly. ‘And the sooner I get started with that,' he added, ‘the sooner I can get round to begging her to take me back.'

Brandon still didn't look convinced, though. ‘It's nice that you care about her, but I'm not giving you her address.'

‘Why the—?'

‘Because we need to ask my wife first,' Brandon interrupted, neatly cutting off Roman's temper tantrum.

‘Do you have to get your wife's permission for everything?' Roman goaded, realising the grovel quotient was about to go up exponentially if he had to prostrate himself in front of Lacey Cade now, too.

He didn't have time for this. He wanted to get to Milly before she let what he'd done to her in that gazebo—intentionally humiliating her with her own quickfire response to his touch—fester any more than it had already.

‘Have you ever had a long-term committed relationship, Roman, with a woman you love and respect?' Brandon replied, doing that really aggravating thing of answering a question with another question.

‘No, but I'd like to try for one... With Milly,' he muttered, surprised the fear didn't kick him in the gut all over again when he admitted the truth out loud.

‘Good answer.' Brandon smiled, surprising him even more. Then he clapped a hand on Roman's shoulder. ‘Consider this your first valuable lesson, then, in long-term-relationship etiquette. If you want to get Milly back, the very best way to convince her you care about her is to persuade her sister you do.'

‘But that doesn't even make sense,' Roman said, his head starting to explode again.

Brandon's smile only widened. ‘Which brings me to valuable lesson number two. Which is that sense has sod-all to do with love, little bro.'