Duchess by Susan May Warren Page B

impossible.
    Made her believe in the impossible.
    â€œHow dare you.” She drew in a quick breath. “How dare you do this? We had a deal, Dash. A deal . You’d make me a star, and I’d make you rich. I’m trying , for Pete’s sake. What do you think I’m doing up there, week after week? Rooney nearly killed me—and then you go and do this?” She clenched her teeth, cut her voice to low. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I would have kept my word.”
    She was shaking even as she moved toward the bed. Someone had pulled up a vigil chair and she grabbed the back of it. Leaned over it to talk into his ear.
    â€œWe were supposed to be partners. To build something. To show the world that we didn’t need to play by their rules, that we could write our own futures. ”
    She wanted him to open his eyes, but she would have settled for a twitch, even a glower. But he couldn’t even keep that part of his promise. The one to rise to her accusations, to keep up with and even tame the temperamental bombshell Roxy Price.
    She bowed her head, both hands on the chair. No. This was not right. “Listen.” Her voice trembled. “Just wake up. I forgive you, okay? I just—I need you to wake up, Dash.”
    Please respond. Please…
    Her breath turned to fire in her chest as she watched his face. Nothing moved on his countenance, his lashes dark against his cheeks.
    She looked away, blinking fast. “You’re so—you’re so stubborn. Arrogant, really. You just always have to have things your way. I should have figured that out in Paris, when you told me I wasn’t the marrying kind.” She turned back to him. “Then why did you marry me, Dash?” She wiped her cheek, drew a faltering breath. “Why did you marry me?”
    She came around, stood in front of the chair. Touched his hand, remembered how he’d held hers, first in Paris then before the justice of the peace in Hollywood. She wove her fingers between his. Swallowed. “Oh Dash. You can’t break my heart. Not like this.” She lifted his hand, pressed it to her forehead. “Please, Dash. Don’t leave me. You have no right to leave me.”
    â€œNo. He has no right to leave me .”
    The soft, even angry voice made her turn. Irene Marshall stood at the end of Dash’s bed, her face white, looking drawn and exhausted.
    And she looked very, very pregnant.
    She wore a long-sleeve, drop-waist, navy blue dress, with lace at the neck and cuffs. And a string of pearls at her neck.
    Rosie’s gaze went to her belly, and Irene curled a hand over it, as if to protect it.
    No…
    She looked back at Dash. Oh no. “Please don’t tell me that Dashielle Parks is the father of your child.”
    Irene’s breath hitched, but Rosie heard venom in her voice when she finally said, “We were going to marry the moment you two were divorced.”
    Rose swallowed. Closed her eyes. “Of course you were.”
    â€œWe were!”
    She turned to her. “Is that what Dash told you?”
    Irene’s mouth opened, closed. Her eyes sharp, despite her grief. She turned away, pressed a hand to her mouth. “Why do you think he loaned you out to Rooney? It wasn’t for the studio. It was so you’d be out of the way.”
    Rosie swallowed, her chest closing in on itself.
    â€œI think he was hoping that you’d find someone else.” Irene turned back, her eyes red. “You did, didn’t you? That stuntman?”
    Oh.
    She glanced at Dash. Oh, that scoundrel. He’d probably even sent the press to hunt up a scandal.
    Irene’s voice softened. “He told me that you’d be upset, but that maybe you’d understand.”
    Understand.
    Rosie glanced at Irene through her peripheral vision. The woman clung to the end of the bed, stared at Dash as if she might shatter, so much love, so much fear on her face, it could skewer