Star-Crossed Scandal. Kimberley Troutte

him out.”

      “That’s crap. It was your fault and mine, too. I was so wrapped up in my own personal hell that I couldn’t see what was happening in yours. Our kids deserved better parents than us, Claire. You deserved a better man. I’m sorry.”

      She cocked her head. “I’ve never heard you apologize before. Or laugh like you just did. You’ve changed.”

      “I’m working on it.”

      “I can see that. Don’t change too much.” Her gaze traveled over his tanned, muscular arms. “You’re a good-looking man. Strong, rich, sexy. You’re fine the way you are.”

      “You don’t know me anymore.”

      “What do you mean? I married you and had your three children. I know you.”

      “I’m not the man you married. You left that guy for dead a decade ago. With good reason. I’m not an angry, despicable sap anymore. I...I woke up.”

      “You woke up? What does that mean?”

      How could he explain it? He’d suffered from depression for most of his life. Deep down he’d known he needed help, but his parents had said that Harpers didn’t have those problems. Claire must’ve known he was ill too, but she pretended the despair that overtook him—sometimes so debilitating that he locked himself in a dark room for days—was normal behavior.

      She’d put up with the way he treated people. He’d been an ass, not because he wanted to be, but because he didn’t know how to interact, to connect, when he hurt so much. Hell, running a multibillion-dollar company was far easier than connecting on a deeper level with the people he loved.

      He’d closed off his feelings to survive. The only emotion that seeped out occasionally? Anger. Matt had been the only one who stood up to him, taking the rage that RW fought to control, shielding the rest of the family from RW’s outbursts. His son shouldn’t have had to live that way. None of them should’ve.

      After a while, RW had reached a breaking point. Why take his next breath when no one cared if he did? His kids hated him. Claire wished him dead—that’s what she screamed at him more than once—and he didn’t care anymore. Ten years ago, he’d sent the kids away so he couldn’t hurt them anymore and he quit life.

      Or he tried to.

      By some miracle he never deserved, a beautiful woman rescued him. She’d said he had a mental illness. If the wound had been in his leg, would he have let it fester and rot without treatment? she’d asked. No. So why be ashamed of the pain in his psyche?

      Gentle, kind and strong, Angel became his therapist as he started the arduous process of healing his mind. Feelings, like colors of the sunset and sweetness on a tropical breeze, flooded his senses. He wanted to survive. No, more than that—he wanted to be happy.

      Angel told him happiness was achievable if he followed her three rules: seek redemption, make amends, forgive yourself. The first two were going to take a lifetime to achieve, since he’d hurt so many people. He didn’t deserve forgiveness.

      But even though he was undeserving, he sought redemption anyway.

      And he fell in love with Angel.

      For the first time in his life, he had a purpose.

      He woke up.

      Claire would never understand. She turned her light brown eyes on him and twirled a platinum-blond curl around her finger. “Things weren’t always bad between us.”

      “They weren’t good enough. I know the difference now. I don’t intend to ever settle again. How about you? Don’t you want to feel joy? Happiness? Love?”

      It was her turn to laugh, but there was more spite than humor in it. “What has gotten into you? You really think a guy like you can fall in love? When will you have time for it?”

      His mood darkened. “Why are you here?”

      “I want what’s mine.” She leaned over the table. Her stature was fiercely determined, but something else, too. Desperation. “The kids are back and you are better. Plunder Cove is where we all belong. Together.”

      He leaned over, too. “No. Go home, Claire. I’ve found someone else and I’m going to marry her, if she’ll accept me.”

      He didn’t tell her that he had no idea where Angel was at the moment.

      “Polygamy is a crime, sweetheart,” she said with a wicked smile. “Or have you forgotten? I didn’t sign your divorce papers.”

      “Damn it, Claire! Enough. Sign the divorce papers, take your money, hop on that broom of yours and fly back to Santa Monica.”

      “Now, that’s the man I remember.” Crossing her arms, she sat back. She seemed rooted to the chair and was decidedly not leaving.

      “This is my home,” he said, “passed down from my family. Mine. Understand me? Be happy with the money I’ve given you the last ten years and get on with your life. Leave me the hell alone.”

      Without yelling or throwing anything, RW got up and walked away. He was surprised at how steady and sure of himself he felt.

      He picked up his cell phone. “Robert, bring the Bugatti around to the side. It’s time to go.”

      Claire would eventually sign those papers. He had no doubt. He needed to move on to the next item on his agenda.

      He was sneaking off to a quiet town on the coast, far away from prying eyes. If all went as planned, he’d be back before his kids knew he’d left Plunder Cove. If they realized he’d overstated the extent of his illness this morning to sneak out, he’d have some explaining to do.

      He couldn’t drag his children into the danger surrounding Angel. He was expendable. Hell, he was living on borrowed time already. But the woman who’d saved his life needed him to save hers.

      She’d been running from a Colombian gang of murderers and drug dealers for years, barely staying one step ahead of them. She’d been hiding in his home under an assumed name all this time. But when the gang came to his home, searching for her a few months ago, Angel fled to protect him.

      She thought she’d be able to hide from the gang, from him, but he had resources she couldn’t imagine.

      Enough was enough. He’d do whatever he could to force Cuchillo and his gang to their knees and bring Angel home.

      Even if it meant sacrificing himself as bait.

       Three

      Chloe was about to combust or squeal or any number of things that would not be the least bit professional. Instead she quickly went down to the restaurant to talk to her sister-in-law.

      She found Michele in the kitchen, her arms coated with flour as she kneaded pasta dough.

      “You’re here!” Chloe said.

      “Where else would I be? Oh! How’s it going with Mr. Dreamy Eyes?” Michele asked with a smile.

      “He’s so handsome...and that voice, the accent, oh, my God. He turns me to mush.” Chloe closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Complete idiotic mush. Mind if I pace a little? I grumble better when I’m moving.”

      “Grumble? Why aren’t you ecstatic? You get to spend all week with him.”

      “It’s not him—it’s me.”

      “Have at it.” Michele motioned to the floor. “Just don’t slam anything around. I’ve got cake rising in the oven.”

      “I’m not my mother. I don’t slam things.” Chloe paced quietly, making sure not to stomp.

      “Hey, speaking of the wicked witch...” Michele glanced over her shoulder and