Chapter 10 — Julian

He stopped smiling before he reached me.

I held up Mara's email.

"Julian Ashford."

He glanced at the screen, then at my face.

"Vivian."

"Don't make yourself look wounded. I'm the one who was lied to."

He sat down opposite me without attempting it.

That frightened me more than any performance would have. He knew this mattered.

"Miles," I said. "You let me believe he was your father."

"Yes."

"Tessa helped."

"I put her in that position."

"And your actual father?"

"Knows about you. Knows I made a mess of explaining who I was."

I looked down at the email again. It was easier than looking at him.

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"I kept deciding it would be after the next good day. Then I'd have a good day with you and couldn't bear to risk it."

"So the punishment for making you happy was another lie?"

He flinched.

"No. That's not—"

"That's what it felt like when I put the pieces together."

He lowered his eyes.

For a while, the only sound was Maisie investigating the paper bag behind him.

"I wasn't afraid you'd want my money," he said at last. "I was afraid you'd turn me into a sensible choice. A family to work with. A name worth marrying."

"You thought I couldn't want the man and understand the rest?"

"I thought about the way you look at Grant. Like everything he offers makes you want him less."

"Grant thinks offering enough gives him the right to ignore my answer."

Jamie looked up.

"You gave me something I wanted," I continued. "Then you made it harder to trust it."

He stood, then stopped himself halfway toward me.

"May I sit beside you?"

I nodded.

He came slowly, leaving a little space between us.

"I can tell you everything now," he said. "Nothing borrowed. Nothing improved."

He told me about his mother's family, her separation from Richard, and the years he had spent abroad. Jules had been a family nickname. Cole was his mother's name. Jamie was a professional name chosen because I had once said I liked it while watching a film with Tessa.

"You remembered that?"

"I remember things I shouldn't. The first perfume you wore when you visited. Which chair you took at breakfast. The way you said you weren't going home until somebody said yes to your pitch."

His mouth curved without humor.

"I wanted to be one of the things you wouldn't give up on."

I turned toward him.

The words didn't excuse him. They made the hurt harder to keep simple.

"I haven't given up," I said. "I'm deciding whether you can stop hiding when you're frightened."

He nodded.

I held out my hand. He took it as though I might withdraw it.

"You owe me more than looking beautiful while you apologize."

His eyes lifted to mine.

"I know."

"Good. Because it's unfairly effective."

He laughed once, unevenly, and I finally let him lean against me.

Over the next week, he answered questions before I had to ask them. He introduced me to the people he called when trouble began. He stopped claiming his clothes were bargains. He called Richard with me sitting beside him.

His father listened, then said, "I'd rather meet the woman herself than keep hearing about how badly you've explained me."

I liked him immediately for that.

Jamie looked at the ceiling.

"I'm losing control of this conversation."

"You should have surrendered earlier," I told him.

On the morning of the television recording, a delivery van scraped our car at an intersection. Walter stayed to deal with the driver while our security team arranged another vehicle.

I disliked how often the van's driver looked toward the back seat.

Jamie noticed too.

"We'll keep the footage," he said.

I took the replacement vehicle's keys.

"I know these roads."

He came with me, calling security as we pulled away.

Ten minutes later, a black pickup made its fourth unnecessary turn behind us.

"That one," I said.

"I see it."

I changed lanes and took the streets near the college, where delivery trucks and morning traffic made following someone difficult. Then I turned into the forecourt of a police station.

The pickup went past.

I stopped the car with my hands still steady. It wasn't until I released the wheel that they began to shake.

Jamie took both of them.

"Look at me."

I did.

"We're here," he said. "You're safe."

After the report, security escorted us to the studio ranch. Jamie remained pleasant until Grant asked whether our drive had been comfortable.

Then he put his phone on the table between them, showing a clear photograph of the pickup.

"Who hired that driver?" he asked.

Grant glanced at the screen.

"I wouldn't know."

"Good. Then you won't mind explaining that when you're asked."

His voice made the room quieter. Grant didn't attempt another joke.

During the recording, I refused to describe the old dispute as a publicity stunt. Jamie smiled through questions about being kept by a wealthy woman.

"She does spoil me," he said. "I'm not embarrassed about it."

The host asked whether he hoped to marry me.

Jamie turned toward me rather than the camera.

"Yes."

The answer was so immediate that my throat tightened.

Grant watched from the side of the set.

He had paid to put us in front of an audience and discovered too late that an audience could hear us refuse him.

Two days later, my father called from his island vacation.

Richard had introduced himself over dinner. Afterward, his security staff had identified men watching my parents' hotel. The local authorities were investigating, and my parents had moved somewhere safer.

"Are you both all right?" I asked.

"We're fine. Richard wanted you told immediately."

Jamie took the phone when I held it out. He listened without interrupting, then asked to speak to his father.

His voice changed, but his hand stayed around mine.

"Find out who sent them. Give the authorities everything. I want the people who hired them named, not just the men outside the hotel."

This time, I didn't feel shut out of the strength in him.

I held on to it.

He looked at our joined hands while his father spoke, and squeezed once. We were finally hearing the same conversation, standing on the same side of it.

That evening, Grant invited us to a dinner honoring Richard's visit to Los Angeles.

His personal message added that Ashford's son had apparently chosen a bride.

Jamie read it beside me.

"He thinks you're about to leave me," he said.

I folded the invitation.

"Then let's give him an evening he'll remember."