The From Paris With Love And Regency Season Of Secrets Ultimate Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

weren’t they? He was going to marry her. He wanted to marry her.

      He’d invested considerable energy into figuring out the next steps—marriage, a house, a stake in the ground—and Evangeline was throwing it back in his face.

      This was killing him. His insides tossed and turned faster than a shoreline in a hurricane.

      “Oh, we’re finished,” she called, and slammed something—a drawer. “A good lawyer will help us work out the visitation rights.”

      Visitation rights. Lawyers. If this was a nightmare, it was not ending fast enough.

      “Lawyers are not the answer.”

      “Why, don’t you have one?”

      He rolled his eyes at her scathing tone. “I am one. Granted, not well-versed in the ins and outs of international custody law. But I’m pretty sure I could hold my own given time to acclimate.”

      Some shuffling. The door flung open to reveal Evangeline’s ravaged face. He hated it when she cried. Hated being the reason.

      “You’re a lawyer?” She spit it out like he’d admitted to being a member of the Black Panthers.

      But at least she was talking to him again. He had to get this situation back under control before she took off to Monte Carlo and he never heard from her again.

      “I passed the bar. Is that really important in light of the other really important thing we should be discussing? The baby?” he prompted.

      She crossed her arms. “Well, we’re full of disclosures today, aren’t we? No wonder you’re so sanctimonious. Anything else you forgot to tell me?”

      “It’s not like I hid it on purpose to make you mad. It just never came up.”

      “But it perfectly illustrates the point. I trusted you.” She was so worked up, she bristled. “I’ve never been anything but honest about who I am yet I don’t know you at all.”

      Direct hit. He had worn his mask far longer than she had.

      Punching photographers. Sex on the roof. Midnight confessionals. None of that was really him, and she was calling him on it. This was all his fault.

      A doozy of a headache landed right behind his eyeballs.

      “I didn’t set out to deceive you.”

      All at once, she deflated. “I thought...well, it doesn’t matter now.”

      “It does matter. Evangeline—” He pressed a fingertip to both eyelids, willing the headache to disappear. It didn’t. “I don’t want to deal with custody and visitation through lawyers. The baby belongs with both parents.”

      Evangeline and the baby belonged with him, in Dallas. Their choices about the future had been taken from them, and he’d think about why that made him so happy later.

      “Then come to Monte Carlo with me.” Her soft brown eyes beseeched him, pulling at him. Unearthing the confusing, unnatural reaction he had to her. “Prove that you’re the man I think you are. More hinges on it than what’s going to happen with the baby. You came to me broken. I want you to be whole again. Let me heal you.”

      “But you’ve already done that.” He couldn’t help it. He pulled her into his arms, and the feel of her, the warmth, the familiar scent of her hair, knocked his equilibrium loose, nearly putting him on the ground. “That’s why I can go back to Dallas and pick up the reins of who I was. Because you made me feel alive again.”

      Alive. Yes. And without her, what would he be?

      “No.” She buried her face in his neck. “You’re not healed. If you were, you would be able to love me.”

      That was the kicker. They had different definitions of healed.

      “I didn’t lie to you. I told you I didn’t have anything to give. I’m sorry, but a baby doesn’t change that.”

      She nodded. “I understand. And it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t marry you. If we were in love, I...well, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

      She’d sliced through everything, right to the heart of it. She wanted him to love her. And he couldn’t.

      The purgatory of loss was too painful. He wasn’t willing to risk backsliding into a hole of depression again. Not even for her.

      Especially for her. She made him feel too much.

      This was not the opportune time to figure out all this. He’d been searching for a way to get back on track, not searching for someone like Evangeline.

      “No compromise?” He had a sick feeling in his gut that he already knew the answer.

      “Oh, Matt.” She kissed him, lightly, and her lips lifted too quickly. “Sure I’d compromise. London. Madrid. Pick a place. Monte Carlo isn’t nearly as important as what it represents. You won’t fully heal until you accept that your old life is gone. You can’t go back. Neither of us can. All we can do is move forward. If that’s what you want, Monte Carlo is the answer.”

      He couldn’t chase her around the globe like a teenager with a trust fund and no responsibilities.

      “Not for me.”

      It wasn’t the right answer for her, either. She’d never find the next steps in Monte Carlo, and the anguish would swallow her whole if he wasn’t around. How in the world did she think she’d survive without him?

      The baby belonged with him. She belonged with him. He wanted to howl with the injustice of it, that he couldn’t make her see the logic.

      She stepped out of his embrace, dry-eyed. “Then, this is goodbye.”

      * * *

      Matthew called a cab instead of Lucas, though he knew his brother would pick him up from the airport. Family would always be there for him, regardless of the grief he’d put them through for the past eighteen months. But he couldn’t face anyone.

      Not yet. Not when he still couldn’t process that he’d left Evangeline in Venice.

      The mother of his child. And he’d had to let her go.

      After several more arguments, a bucket of tears—not all hers—and a bunch of slammed doors, he’d finally given up trying to reason with her. Stubborn woman. She refused to see what was best and actually threatened to disappear if he didn’t accept her decision.

      Ultimately, their connection was nothing but the magic of Venice, blowing smoke and illusion to cover the truth. They weren’t meant to be together.

      The cab pulled up at his parents’ house. The driver hefted the suitcases from the trunk, accepted the folded bill with a nod and drove off, leaving Matthew on the sidewalk in the middle of the suburban neighborhood he’d grown up in. The neighborhood he didn’t recognize at all.

      His mother had planted something flowery and purple in the side yard that he’d never seen before, and the house’s wood trim had been painted. Maybe the brick had been power-washed. A car rushed by on the street behind him, likely only driving thirty miles an hour, but it felt more like a hundred. All of it lent to the sense of being somewhere unfamiliar.

      There weren’t any cars in Venice. Boats slipped by quietly in the canal or sometimes the cheerful call of a gondolier announced its presence. People strolled the streets and enjoyed a slower pace. He’d grown used to it. Preferred it.

      The front door creaked, and his mother poked her blond head out. “Now there’s a sight for sore eyes. Get in here, honey. You should have told me you were coming.”

      Matthew grinned at the break in her voice. “Hey, Mama. It was a surprise.”

      “It certainly is. Surprise me less or you’ll give me a heart attack.” She flew over the doorstep and into a fierce hug.

      This, at least, felt very familiar.