to change his mind so his response didn’t surprise her.
Turning once more from the window, she stared at him. “Your brother wants to sell.”
He shifted in his chair, put his hands behind his head, legs stretched out underneath the table, his long body in one careless, indolent sprawl. As if he didn’t have a care in the world. Yet those eyes of his were so sharp they were like shards of glass. “.” And I’ll tell him if he sells it to you I’ll leave the company.”
“You think he’d stop the sale if it meant losing you?”
“I don’t think it, Victoria. I know it. Morrows stick together.”
So did de Winters. But she knew if she threatened to leave her father’s company, if she gave Cameron de Winter a choice between herself and the land deal, he’d choose the land deal.
She wasn’t his blood. She wasn’t his choice. She’d never been his choice.
A longing broke open inside her, a longing so intense she had to turn away so Donovan wouldn’t see it.
What would it be like to be chosen? And what would it be like to be able to trust that choice so completely you knew down to your bones that you’d never be left. Never be abandoned. Never be unwanted.
Her throat closed, the pressure in her chest increasing.
She’d never had that kind of security, at least not since her mother had died. But she’d hoped this deal would go some way toward proving to him. That she was worth choosing.
Determination settled down inside her. Donovan would change his mind. She’d make him. The only question was how. With the threat of Jax out of the equation she needed some other way of one-upping him.
“I think we’re done here, aren’t we?” His lazy voice came from behind her. “Well, it’s been fabulous doing business with you, Ms. de Winter, but—”
“But nothing.” Victoria turned back, purpose steeling her spine. “We’re not done, Mr. Morrow. Not by a long shot.”
“You’re still not getting it, are you? I’m not selling.” That smile again. “Not now, not tomorrow, not in a hundred fucking years.”
“And there’s nothing I can do to make you change your mind?”
“Well, unless you have another slice of Morrow history somewhere up your sleeve, then no.” He dropped his arms, began to gather up the papers in front of him.
Oh, hell. He was going to leave.
Victoria walked swiftly over to the table. “I said we’re not done.”
He didn’t even look at her. “I’m afraid we are. I have another meeting in …,”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes, and I don’t want to be late.”
“But … we haven’t finished.”
Donovan’s blue eyes lifted to hers, pinned her to the spot. “Yes, Ms. de Winter, we have.”
Something twisted in her chest. Something painful. “Well, have you got another meeting time? Tomorrow maybe?”
“I’m afraid not.” That impersonal, horrible smile again. “I’m afraid my schedule is going to be booked up for the foreseeable future.”
She understood then. If he walked out that door, that would be it. The deal would be over, and not only that. It was highly likely she’d never see him again, either.
The painful feeling in her chest intensified.
“This isn’t about the land. This is about last week, isn’t it?” she said abruptly. “You’re punishing me for walking away from you.”
He laughed, but there was a harsh edge to it. “Why would I do that? To punish you, I’d have to care. And I don’t. So there goes that theory.”
Without thinking she reached out and put a hand on his arm.
Donovan froze and she felt it, too, the burn of their chemistry. The heat of him beneath the wool of his suit jacket. The hard strength of muscle and sinew that all the wool in the world couldn’t hide from her.
Green flames sparked in his eyes and she saw it. Anger.
Yes, she’d been right. She
had
hurt him. And he
was
punishing her.
“If you don’t care, then why are you so angry?” she demanded, keeping her hand on his arm,
Turning once more from the window, she stared at him. “Your brother wants to sell.”
He shifted in his chair, put his hands behind his head, legs stretched out underneath the table, his long body in one careless, indolent sprawl. As if he didn’t have a care in the world. Yet those eyes of his were so sharp they were like shards of glass. “.” And I’ll tell him if he sells it to you I’ll leave the company.”
“You think he’d stop the sale if it meant losing you?”
“I don’t think it, Victoria. I know it. Morrows stick together.”
So did de Winters. But she knew if she threatened to leave her father’s company, if she gave Cameron de Winter a choice between herself and the land deal, he’d choose the land deal.
She wasn’t his blood. She wasn’t his choice. She’d never been his choice.
A longing broke open inside her, a longing so intense she had to turn away so Donovan wouldn’t see it.
What would it be like to be chosen? And what would it be like to be able to trust that choice so completely you knew down to your bones that you’d never be left. Never be abandoned. Never be unwanted.
Her throat closed, the pressure in her chest increasing.
She’d never had that kind of security, at least not since her mother had died. But she’d hoped this deal would go some way toward proving to him. That she was worth choosing.
Determination settled down inside her. Donovan would change his mind. She’d make him. The only question was how. With the threat of Jax out of the equation she needed some other way of one-upping him.
“I think we’re done here, aren’t we?” His lazy voice came from behind her. “Well, it’s been fabulous doing business with you, Ms. de Winter, but—”
“But nothing.” Victoria turned back, purpose steeling her spine. “We’re not done, Mr. Morrow. Not by a long shot.”
“You’re still not getting it, are you? I’m not selling.” That smile again. “Not now, not tomorrow, not in a hundred fucking years.”
“And there’s nothing I can do to make you change your mind?”
“Well, unless you have another slice of Morrow history somewhere up your sleeve, then no.” He dropped his arms, began to gather up the papers in front of him.
Oh, hell. He was going to leave.
Victoria walked swiftly over to the table. “I said we’re not done.”
He didn’t even look at her. “I’m afraid we are. I have another meeting in …,”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes, and I don’t want to be late.”
“But … we haven’t finished.”
Donovan’s blue eyes lifted to hers, pinned her to the spot. “Yes, Ms. de Winter, we have.”
Something twisted in her chest. Something painful. “Well, have you got another meeting time? Tomorrow maybe?”
“I’m afraid not.” That impersonal, horrible smile again. “I’m afraid my schedule is going to be booked up for the foreseeable future.”
She understood then. If he walked out that door, that would be it. The deal would be over, and not only that. It was highly likely she’d never see him again, either.
The painful feeling in her chest intensified.
“This isn’t about the land. This is about last week, isn’t it?” she said abruptly. “You’re punishing me for walking away from you.”
He laughed, but there was a harsh edge to it. “Why would I do that? To punish you, I’d have to care. And I don’t. So there goes that theory.”
Without thinking she reached out and put a hand on his arm.
Donovan froze and she felt it, too, the burn of their chemistry. The heat of him beneath the wool of his suit jacket. The hard strength of muscle and sinew that all the wool in the world couldn’t hide from her.
Green flames sparked in his eyes and she saw it. Anger.
Yes, she’d been right. She
had
hurt him. And he
was
punishing her.
“If you don’t care, then why are you so angry?” she demanded, keeping her hand on his arm,
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