At that instant, the bittersweet image of him as a lover invaded her mind without mercy. He'd been kind and generous once. Remorse over what might have been tugged at her heart. Though hardness tinged his eyes now, she still remembered love brimming in his gaze as they lay beneath white linens, his skin flush with satiation.
"Some things are not easily forgotten, Nicky."
A knot wedged in her throat. She didn't know what to add, to make him understand. Even if she told him everything, nothing would be gained by it. Too much had happened—far too many secrets. Despite the vast wealth between them, neither of them could turn back the clock and reclaim a life that could have been.
"It appears you've changed, Fie." The severity of his expression softened, reflecting the regret she felt. "You used to avoid unpleasantness. Now you indulge in it. Money and power have seduced you."
Oh, how he'd misread her. Her eyes blurred, drowning in tears. The sting of his accusation hit her hard, like an unexpected slap to the face. Futilely, she held back her emotion. But a tear betrayed her, exposing her weakness.
And Nicky witnessed her defeat.
A tear rolled down her face, its path glistening at the fire's edge. In his lifetime, her beauty had struck him many times. One of the more memorable being the day she'd willingly surrendered her virtue to him, a precious gift given only once. But none of these instances, grouped in aggregate, moved him as greatly as this moment. Such power reigned in the grace of a single tear.
He felt defeated before he'd even begun.
She wrung her hands, allowing her frailty to show for the first time since he'd entered the room. Many times, he'd rehearsed this conversation in his mind, yet none of it went as planned. He hadn't counted on his reaction at seeing her for the first time since she was nineteen years old. And if it were possible, she was more beautiful now than he remembered.
Dismissing such sentiment, he pressed with the cruelty he'd honed over the years, cultivated by her denial of his affections. He wanted desperately to regain control—at her expense.
"Is that regret I see in your eyes, Fiona, or pure, unadulterated guilt? How do you live with the harsh reality of having hired the assassination of your dearly departed husband, Charles? Was the money that important to you?"
Shock jarred her. Through the tears, resentment leached to the surface—all at his hand.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Her words denied him, but the sternness and the staunch resolve in her tone spoke volumes. She knew exactly what he implied. "And why now? Why are you just now coming forward after all this time? It's been twenty-five years since Charles died."
"Was killed, Fiona. Charles was murdered. A sniper bullet, as I recall. I suppose you'd blame the hazards of the job. Being the head of a crime family has its disadvantages. For my part, let's just say I'm weary of the competition."
He was too clever to spell everything out for her. He'd tolerated their head-to-head arms-trading endeavors up till now. But when he'd used a freelancing Mickey Blair for another job, he'd learned the man had worked as Dunhill Security for more than twenty-five years, a curious fact for a hired assassin. The link to Fiona was too tantalizing to pass up. After a discreet background check, he put two and two together. Now, with the truth painfully obvious in her eyes, he knew he'd been right about Fiona's guilt. His gamble had paid off.
But to use Christian Delacorte, Fiona's charity case, as a pawn in their chess match—his part had been masterfully played. She'd given a life to Delacorte, keeping him apart from her criminal endeavors, perhaps buying the love of a troubled child to create some semblance of family. Irony of ironies. His rival would be imploded from within—at the hands of an innocent.
Checkmate, Fiona!
Defeat was manifest in her eyes. A culmination to his wicked scheme. The pinnacle of his success. So why did he not feel victorious?
"So this has all been about business, even after all these years?" She raised up, moving to the edge of her seat. His silence was her only reply. Then Fiona did something he hadn't expected.
She knelt at his feet.
Her hand softly touched his as she gazed at him, weariness etched in her face. The emerald-green of her eyes brimmed in misery. Her voice was only a whisper.
"I never stopped loving you, Nicky. You know how Charles was. He would have killed you if he'd found out about us. I couldn't let that happen." With fresh tears, she urged him to understand, clutching his hand. "It would have meant a war between the families—a vendetta. No one wins, and so many would have died needlessly. Charles wasn't a man to be trusted. If you only knew—"
"I know about trust broken, Fiona. We could have—" No use rehashing the past. He let the words flounder in his throat, replacing them with the question he truly wanted to ask. "If you still love me, why didn't you say anything before now?"
She pulled her hand from his and swallowed hard. Fiona couldn't look him in the eye. She was hiding something.
"You claim to love me, yet you keep your secrets. Why?" he pleaded, hearing the heartache in his voice, despising the weakness she provoked. "Why?"
"Some decisions are better left in the past, not dredged up for the world to see. It's not just about you and me anymore."
What did she mean?
For him, it had always been about her. He hadn't been the same since the first time he saw her all those many years ago. His successes, his competitiveness, all of it had been posturing for her. He'd never married, hoping she'd surrender to him. With her rejection even now, so much had been for naught. Yet the ultimate question still lay before him. Would he knowingly destroy her now? Could he kill the last vestiges of the young, idealistic man he used to be when he was with her?
"And some decisions are a result of the past, a past unwilling to stay buried," he contradicted.
Nicholas stood and gazed upon her, a lump rising in his throat. Crumpled at his feet, she looked broken. Her youthful innocence was gone, displaced by an agonizing love that had somehow endured. But he knew all about that.
In their youth, love had burned hot like a flame, wildly flickering and dancing for all to see. When she married another man, he believed that fire to be snuffed for good. Yet unexpectedly, today, he found the red glow of a fiery ember in her eyes, still raging against all odds. It caught him by complete surprise.
"And you're wrong, Fie. It has always been about you and me."
Stepping around her, he walked away, unable to look back. Instead, he focused on his hollow footsteps. The sound nearly drowned out the regret heard in her choking sobs. The splendor of the grand chateau drifted by in a blur. He felt numb.
He couldn't turn around. If he had, he might never want to leave.
"He's asking for you. ICU room eight." Yolanda smiled weakly. Raven could tell the woman was exhausted. "He doesn't have the strength for a long visit, but I'm afraid you're going to have to be the judge of that. He's so stubborn."
Raven stood, rushing to Tony's wife with open arms. Closing her eyes, she held the woman firmly in her embrace, willing her strength. "How are you holding up?"
When they parted, Yolanda shrugged without complaint. "I'm gonna take his parents to the chapel, maybe get some coffee in the cafeteria." Unspoken emotion lay just beneath the surface of her words. "Come find me if—"