Chapter Thirty-One
Leland
I woke naked on the floor, my cheek irritated by the roughness of the carpet. My body was limp, my head hurt, and my senses were groggy.
As I struggled to open my eyes, I wondered if this was what hitting bottom looked like for a man. The glaring midafternoon sunlight shooting through my windows wasn’t enough to blind me to the reality that there was vomit—my vomit—only a few inches away.
Christ, how long had I been passed out on the floor? My squinting gaze focused for a moment. This was my bedroom. Why wasn’t I in the bed?
Bits and pieces of memory began to pull together in gruesome technicolor. I’d dragged Layla from the theater and she had called me a madman. Maybe I was. God knew I’d been through enough in my life to make any man break. In the last twenty-four hours I’d had an avalanche of blind turns, the kind no man walked away from intact.
My mind fixated on the image of Richard and Miguel.
Nope, that wasn’t a nightmare caused by booze. It had been real. What else tormenting my psyche for acceptance was real as well?
It took effort to push over onto my side.
Oh fuck.
Layla was naked in my bed.
My hope that had been a false memory demolished.
Raking back my hair, I struggled not to lose my sanity even more than I already had as I fought to remember how that had happened.
She’d been waiting for me.
Worried—my stomach turned—because I’d let her believe her safety was wrapped in me. I’d frightened her enough at the ballet that she’d given me her body like a sacrifice on an altar for her continued security.
She’d put me to bed.
And then I was fucking her.
Shit. More than once and in a variety of ways. The ragged emotions inside me draining out as a torrent into her. The last time with her pushed up against the headboard and me ramming into her from behind.
I’d only stopped when I’d blacked out.
I clutched my splitting head. Six months of working to heal her and I’d shredded it in a single sodden night. That she’d initiated it didn’t make it better than what Hector had done to her. He debased her body for his ego and I debased her for my need of comfort and from hurt.
It wasn’t sexual for me. It was desperation, heartache, and loneliness. The life of a NOC is unending loneliness. But somehow I didn’t think telling her that would make it better. That I’d used her in a moment of weakness not to self-destruct over Richard and the hard choice I had yet to make: betraying him or betraying Jena and my country.
That made me wince, and when I moved to stand up the ripping pain caused me to groan aloud. Layla’s eyes shot open with the instant alertness of a cat, and I froze.
She scrambled from the bed, not bothering to cover herself with even the sheet. “Wait. Don’t try to walk alone. I don’t want you falling again.”
The unsteadiness of my legs warned me to listen to her, and once her arm was around my waist my weight melted into her side.
“Remind me never to drink again,” I mumbled in a meager attempt at my usual glibness.
“You didn’t lose consciousness because you were drunk. You were close to sober the last time we—” She broke off and sank her teeth into her lower lip. “I think you hit your head when you fell.” She finished on a soft, breathy whisper.
“Fell? Is that why I was on the floor?”
She peeked up at me from beneath lowered lashes. “You wanted to leave me the bed and sleep somewhere else. You were very distraught. You didn’t get very far. I’m sorry I left you there. I couldn’t move you. I’ve been out of my mind with worry that you wouldn’t wake.”
I’d tried to leave, to put distance between grieving, selfish, needy Leland and her. That was small consolation that did nothing for how shitty this made me feel. And it was painful to see her concern for me—given what I’d done to her—which made me feel like a bastard.
After turning, I dropped down to sit on the bed, fought my swimming vision, and then lay back. “How long have I been out?”
“About thirty hours.”
Thirty hours? Christ. I’d lost a day.
Her hand slowly reached toward my head, and when she touched it I growled in pain.
Her shaking fingers pulled back quickly. “You have a lump there. But at least it’s not bleeding anymore.”
“Thank you.” The muscles of my throat contracted as I fought to hold her clear, blue stare. “I don’t deserve you taking care of me and certainly not your worry. Have you been in this room with me the entire time since I hit my head?”
She nodded—it wasn’t a lie that she’d stayed with me, but she was afraid of why I’d asked. I could see it on nearly invisible tells on her face.
She could have run.
She could have killed me.
For some reason, I didn’t deserve, she hadn’t.
I had to tightly pucker my lips to keep back the emotion. “Scoot, Layla. Get out of here. You look exhausted and I just want to sleep.”
She patted my arm once and I followed her with my eyes as she rose from the bed and crossed the room.
“Layla?”
She stopped at the door and looked back at me nervously.
“Why didn’t you call a doctor for me if I was in that bad a shape and my head bleeding?”
Those dove blue eyes went wide. “I don’t have a phone and I don’t know how to call for help.”
No phone. Yes, that was right. The only phones in the hacienda were mine and password blocked to her.
Panting, I let my lids droop. I was out before my door closed behind her.
* * *
I slept until night the following day, but when I woke I didn’t feel much better. The crushing headache hadn’t left, I sensed that Layla had been in and out checking on me, and I was hungry.
I hit the intercom beside the bed. “Rosa, bring me my dinner and a full pot of coffee. No wine.” But ten minutes later it was Layla coming through my door carrying a tray.
She smiled as she set it across my lap. “You’re hungry. That’s a good sign, I think.”
“Famished.” I leaned in, smelling the steaming plate of Rosa’s house specialty: pork tamales, rice, and beans.
Her relief came in full force when I grabbed my fork. I had a bite halfway to my mouth when I noticed her hovering over me. “Go eat, Layla. I’m fine.”
“I already have,” she replied, happy.
I wanted her to go, but she sank down near me to watch as I ate. Having her stare at me the way she was made it impossible to taste the food.
“Listen, I’m fine. I don’t want you waiting on me.”
Layla shrugged. “I like to.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She frowned, alarmed.
“Behave like a servant. Not to anyone. Especially not me.” My voice was a tad angry.
Her brows inched up. “I don’t feel like a servant. I feel like your wife.”
Oh fuck.
I set down my fork. “But you’re not. I’ve already explained. Our arrangement isn’t permanent. In fact, as soon as I can find your family I’m sending you to them. You’re only here because I haven’t located them yet.” And yes, that last part was a lie—I hadn’t looked—but once I was one hundred percent back on my feet I planned to, despite Jena’s warning and Hector.
“Why don’t you want me?” Panic blocked out the shimmer in her eyes.
“It’s not an issue of want. It’s an issue of doing the right thing.”
Her eyes flashed. “For who? You or me?”
“In this case, there’s no conflict. Sending you away is the right thing for both of us.”
Shaking her head, she stared down at her fingers as she anxiously wrung her hands. “It would break my heart if you sent me away. I’m in love with you, Leland. And you must feel something for me. I’ve never had a man make love to me the way you did. Like you couldn’t get enough and wanted to get lost in me. You must feel something.”
Christ, she was crying. For the first time in six months I’d made her cry, and over all things, having sex with me and the thought of giving her freedom. It was better to be clear, but that didn’t make it easier.
I set aside my dinner and moved close enough to her to gently run my hand on her back. “Don’t cry. It’s not you. You’re a lovely girl and I feel such compassion for the terrible things you’ve been through. But you deserve a better life than this. And something better with a man than what you have with me.”
She whirled around to face me directly. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”
Fuck, that wasn’t saying much.
“What happened with us in this room is never going to happen again. I was drunk or it wouldn’t have in the first place. Layla, my sweet. I’m gay. Not bisexual. Gay.”
Her gaze softened and then she giggled. “I know that, Leland. You’re not very good at keeping your secrets. Six months you didn’t fuck me. And when we’re out it’s the men you watch. I noticed. It doesn’t mean we’re not good together.”
I raked back my hair in frustration. “I don’t want a good relationship with you. And I don’t want you thinking it’s good with me. I want you gone from here.”
After pouting, she kissed me on the cheek. “But it’s already everything I want. Please, don’t send me away, Leland.”
Damn those eyes of hers.
“Promise me you won’t,” she begged. “I’ll be anything you want me to be. Just keep me.”
That landed in my gut like a spear. It was agony to hear a heart screaming out to be loved. And more appalling, she reminded me of me.
Me with Richard.
Back in Georgetown.
Only she didn’t have my smooth composure.
Or my power in the world.
Or the cunning of my brain I used without remorse to get me what I wanted.
She was a cat scrambling in water, trying not to drown.
That was why she had her claws in me and didn’t want to let go. Letting go to Layla was drowning. We were kindred spirits, that was for sure.
That thought, coupled with Richard in my mind, firmed my resolve. People only changed when they were forced to, most often by a cruel act with disastrous consequences. As it would be for Richard when I filed my report with Jena and she got a hold of him.
If I’d been stronger in my love for him maybe he wouldn’t have become the man I saw in the alcove with Miguel. I owned a part of who he was for how I had been while loving him.
I lifted her chin and met her gaze directly. “I won’t send you away for a while, Layla. I still need to find your family and figure out how to get you back to them. But this arrangement ends soon. And you’re not going to change my mind about this. Discussion done.”