Maid for the Millionaire by Susan Meier Page A

flippant reply. She felt the sting of his unspoken rejection. She wasn’t good enough for him. She’d always known it.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me before?”
    She snorted a laugh. “Tell my perfect, handsome, wealthy husband who seemed to know everything that I was a clueless runaway? For as much as I loved you, I never felt I deserved you.”
    He smiled ruefully. “I used to think the same thing about you.”
    Disbelief stole her breath. Was he kidding her? She’d been the one with the past worth hiding. He’d been nothing but perfect. Maybe too perfect. “Really?”
    â€œI would think why does this beautiful woman stay with me, when I’m an emotional cripple.” He combed his fingers through his hair as if torn between the whole truth and just enough to satisfy her openmouthed curiosity. Finally he said, “The guilt of my brother’s death paralyzed me. Even now, it sometimes sneaks up on me. Reminding me that if I’d left a minute sooner or a few seconds later, Tom would still be alive.”
    â€œThe kid who hit you ran a red light. The accident wasn’t your fault.”
    â€œLogically, I know that. But something deep inside won’t let me believe it.” He shook his head and laughed miserably. “I’m a fixer, remember. Even after Tom’s death, it was me Dad turned to for help running the business and eventually finding a replacement he could trust with his company when he wanted to retire. Yet, I couldn’t fix that accident. I couldn’t change any of it.”
    â€œNo one could.”
    He snorted a laugh. “No kidding.”
    A few more seconds passed in silence. Fear bubbled in her blood. She had no idea why he’d confided in her, but she could see the result of it. She longed to hug him. To comfort him. But if she did that and they fell into bed, what good would that do but take them right back to where they had been? Solving all their problems with sex.
    She grabbed her handful of napkins and walked them to the laundry room, realizing that rather than hug him, rather than comfort him, what she should be doing is airing all their issues. This conversation had been a great beginning, and this was probably the best opportunity she’d ever get to slide their final heartbreak into a discussion.
    She readied herself, quickly assembling the right words to tell him about their baby as she stepped out of the pantry into the kitchen again.
    Cain stood by the dishwasher, arranging the final glasses on the top row. She took a deep breath, but before she could open her mouth, he said, “Do you know you’re the only person I’ve ever talked about my brother’s accident with?”
    â€œYou haven’t talked with your family?”
    He shrugged and closed the dishwasher door. Walking to the center island, he said, “We talk about Tom, but we don’t talk about his accident. We talk about the fact that he’s dead, but we never say it was my fault. My family has a wonderful way of being able to skirt things. To talk about what’s palatable and avoid what’s not.”
    Though he tried to speak lightly, she heard the pain in his voice, the pain in his words, the need to release his feelings just by getting some of this out in the open.
    This was not the time to tell him about their baby. Not when he was so torn up about the accident. Hecouldn’t handle it right now. Her brain told her to move on. She couldn’t stand here and listen, couldn’t let him confide, not even as a friend.
    But her heart remembered the three sad, awful years after the accident and desperately wanted to see him set free.
    â€œDo you want to talk about it now?”
    He tossed a dishtowel to the center island. “What would I say?”
    She caught his gaze. “I don’t know. What would you say?”
    â€œMaybe that I’m sorry?”
    â€œDo you really think you need to say