Kiss Me Kate (The English Brothers Book 6) (13 page)

Étienne woke up after a fitful night sleep, his leg aching from overdoing it at the ball last night and a rock-hard erection demanding relief.

He shouldn’t have kissed her.

He never, ever should have kissed her.

Clenching his eyes shut and shaking his head at his own stupidity, he couldn’t help the rush of hurt he felt when he recalled her words, “
No, Étienne. I didn’t make any mistakes.”

Surprised by the sudden burning behind his eyes, he whipped the covers off his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed, looking down at the scar tissue that covered the lower portion of his left leg. When he’d woken up in the hospital the morning after his accident, Mad had informed him that the lower and larger bone of his leg, the tibia, had actually cracked in half and broken through the skin from the impact of his car hitting the tree. He had no memory of the accident or his injury, but the scar was enough of a reminder of what had happened, and a warning that a hurting heart could lead him to reckless behavior.

Seamlessly, he flashbacked to another time he’d made a rash decision that had ended badly.

When Étienne had been expelled from St. Michael’s and subsequently been informed of his parents’ decision to send him to the Chambers-Ford Military Academy in Mississippi, he’d had only one thought: Kate. If New York felt like a thousand miles away, Mississippi may as well be a million, and he wouldn’t be home until summer break at the end of June. And even then, he’d only be home for a few days before heading to France for the rest of the summer. Not to mention the rules of the school—which were lengthy, strict and well-documented in his father’s tirade—only allowed for one phone call a week: to his parents and no one else. Faced with months before he’d see her face or hear her voice again, Étienne had stolen his father’s car in the middle of the night and driven to New York.

Arriving at Kate’s posh Fifth Avenue building, he’d given his name and demanded that the concierge call her apartment. Pacing back and forth in the lobby of her building, he’d waited for almost half an hour before her father, dressed in pajamas and a bathrobe, had finally arrived downstairs, stepping out of the elevator with a grim expression.

“You’re Étienne Rousseau?” he confirmed.

“I am. I’m here to see Kate.”

“I’ve called your father. His driver’s bringing him up from Philly. He’ll be here in two hours.”

“My father?” Étienne shook his head. “No! No, I-I’m here to see Kate. I have to see her!”

“Absolutely not. It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am
to her
?”

Kate’s father sighed heavily, his eyes steely. “I know you’re trouble. I know you were in a fight with my nephew, Alex, and got expelled from school.”

Étienne had flinched, reaching up to touch his bandaged nose that Alex had broken. “I drove all the way up here and I-I leave for military school tomorrow.”

“Sounds like your parents know what they’re doing.”

He’s saying no. He’s saying no. He’s not going to let you see her.

“Please.” Étienne’s heart beat faster and faster, panic increasing his frustration as he reached out to grasp the older man’s arm. “I promise if I can just have five minutes with her—”

“Out of the question,” said Mr. English, snatching his arm away and turning back toward the elevator.

“Please, sir!” begged Étienne, raising his voice, which ricocheted off the gilt walls and mirrors of the elegant lobby.

“Wait here for your father. If you get back in that car, Dante will call the police,” he said, gesturing to the doorman.

Furious and frustrated, Étienne’s eyes had filled with embarrassing tears. Kate was
here
. She was a few yards above his head, sweet and warm, asleep in her bed. Her chest was rising and falling with every breath, her lips slightly parted, the body he’d loved so tenderly was curled up and still with sleep.

This was his only chance. He
needed
to see her. He
had
to see her.

As Mr. English stepped back onto the elevator, Étienne rushed toward the older man, frantically trying to push past him and reaching wildly for the buttons, though he didn’t even know the floor she lived on. Mr. English had fallen into the elevator wall from Étienne’s push, but the concierge and doorman raced to the elevator, pulling Étienne out and forcibly restraining him in the lobby.

“Please!” he sobbed, pushing against the men holding him, but unable to break free.

Mr. English straightened his bathrobe and ran a hand through his gray hair, fixing a lethal gaze on Étienne. “Stay away from my daughter. She knows what you did. She doesn’t want to see you. If you
ever
come near her again, I’ll have you arrested.”

As the elevator doors closed, Étienne’s eyes slowly shuttered, and his muscles went limp as the lobby attendants dragged him to a bench by the revolving front door to wait for his father.

She doesn’t want to see you.

His Kate. His love. His heart. His first. His only.

She doesn’t want to see you.

The ache in his chest had been so sharp and overwhelming, he hadn’t moved from his seat on the bench until his father arrived. Following him like a sleepwalker back to the car, and deaf to his two-hour tirade as they drove back to Haverford, all Étienne could think was:

I lost her.

…and the fact that his lungs still breathed and his heart still beat in his chest seemed fantastical, because inside, he felt dead. The girl he loved more than anything didn’t love him anymore. Just like that.

Even now, Étienne’s hands fisted in his bed sheets as he remembered the feeling—the stark and utterly horrifying realization—that he’d somehow lost her. And in the weeks that followed, without a single letter from her forwarded to him at school, her father’s words were proven as true. She’d turned her back on him, never even giving him a chance to explain exactly what had happened with Alex.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Étienne stood and hobbled without his cane, leaning on his bed, then dresser, then door frame to make his slow way to the bathroom. As he turned on the hot water in the shower and stripped out of his boxers, he thought again that he shouldn’t have kissed her last night. If losing Amy had prompted a night of furious drinking that led to a broken leg, losing Kate again would be…catastrophic.

Stepping into the steamy shower, he revisited the decision he’d made before going back to work last Monday morning: blissfully free of Amy, he wasn’t interested in a serious relationship, not with anyone, and certainly not with Kate English. Right?

And yet.

His brain filled with thoughts of last night: her lips under his, her soft body pressed against him, the warmth of her skin, the smell of her hair. Somewhere inside of Étienne was the fifteen-year-old who’d loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone else, before or since. Bending his neck and flattening his palms against the slippery, copper-colored tiles, he thought of her face when he told her Tony was gay and winced all over again remembering her embarrassment and pain. Hurting Kate so long ago, even inadvertently, had been an obscenity to Étienne, contrary to everything he felt for her, in opposition to his very existence. His heart still longed for hers in a way that was unceasing…and last night he’d discovered that his desire to care for her and protect her was no less urgent than it had been twelve years ago.

“No, Étienne. I didn’t make any mistakes.”

He drew a ragged breath as her words passed through his head. Some part of him must have hoped there’d been a misunderstanding—that she’d somehow never found out about him and Alex or the comments that were inaccurately ascribed to him. Some small part of him had naively hoped she didn’t have all of the information, that she was somehow kept from him, or hidden from him—that she hadn’t willfully deserted him.

But no. Her words last night had blown this final, pathetically-small hope to smithereens. She had believed her cousin’s version of events implicitly and without question, turned her back on Étienne, moved on with her life and forgotten him…and as she confirmed last night, it
hadn’t
been a mistake.

He could see she was still attracted to him, as he was to her, but she clearly didn’t reciprocate the ridiculous fixation he had on her. She’d let her feelings die years ago, and even though he was unable to do the same, he needed to respect her feelings. Despite his longing for her, he needed to leave her alone.

He tightened his jaw.

Fine.

Before they met again at the airport tomorrow, he would apologize for kissing her and make a promise that it would never happen again. They would settle the outstanding legal issues that required their attention in New Orleans, and he would forbid J.C. to ever enter into a business agreement with English & Company again. And because he probably wouldn’t get the opportunity to ever clear his name with Kate, he would have to make peace with the truth as he knew it: he never could have hurt her, as she believed, for three simple reasons…

He’d loved Kate then.

Just as he loved her now.

But maybe someday, if God was merciful, he’d find a way to get over her.

***

Kate couldn’t very well pack a bridesmaid dress to wear in New Orleans, so she chose her least frumpy dress: a charcoal gray sheath, slightly more fitted than the rest, and hung it in her garment bag with a simple black cardigan sweater and the heeled shoes she’d worn last night. It wasn’t exactly sexy, but this trip was about business, wasn’t it? Yes. Right. Business, not kisses.

She sighed, distracted by the memory of the kiss that had rocked her world last night.

Sitting down on the bed with butterflies humming in her tummy, she recalled Étienne’s arms coming around her waist—the savage thrill that had shot through her body as he yanked her against his chest and covered her mouth with his. Everything Kate had been so desperately missing in her life, including hot, wet, sweet, messy, filthy kisses that made her toes curl, had suddenly been hers for a split second on that balcony last night. A protective hero, a compassionate savior, a stone hard, hot, demanding, brooding sexpot of a man who wanted her, who claimed her, who took her.

She lay back on her bed as heat flooded her groin, making her muscles contract and relax with the memory of his passionate words, “
I’ve missed you so.”

Whispered so urgently near her ear, the words had sounded genuine. Could it possibly be true? How?

She didn’t understand.

They fell in love. They had sex. She went back to New York, and then…nothing. After sending two weeks’ worth of letters to him without a reply, Kate had gathered her courage to call his home before her overprotective parents got home from work. His mother had answered, and Kate had asked to speak to Étienne.

“I’m sorry, dear. He’s not here,” Mrs. Rousseau had answered.

“I see,” Kate had murmured, “Will he be home later? Perhaps I can try ba—”

“He won’t be here later,” said his mother, an edge creeping into her voice.

“Oh. Well, um, can you tell him I called?”

“I suppose I can let him know. Your name?”

“Kate. Kate English.”

“English?” she’d asked, sounding surprised. “Did you say Kate English?”

“Yes, we, um, we met over Spring Bre—”

“I know who you are, Miss English, and I’m quite sure my son doesn’t want to speak to you.”

“W-Wait. What?”

“He doesn’t want to speak with you. Please don’t call here again.”

“But, Mrs. Rousseau, I don’t—”

The line had already gone dead.

Kate had held the phone to her ear for several minutes, her lips parted in confusion and her heart thudding painfully against her ribs. When she called back again, she got a busy signal.

“I’m quite sure my son doesn’t want to speak to you.”

Kate had finally hung up the phone, walking slowly back to her room where she wept for hours. He didn’t want to speak with her. He hadn’t answered any of her letters, and he didn’t want to speak with her.

At first, Kate had decided that her conversation with Mrs. Rousseau was a mistake of some kind: a misunderstanding, because Étienne
did
love her and
did
want to hear from her—she was sure of it. She continued to write two more weeks’ worth of letters before Lib had insisted she stop. Only then, she’d started the long, painful process of letting go.

How could he “miss her so”
now
, but never do a thing to find her, to connect with her, to let her know that he still had feelings for her
then
? It didn’t make any sense and the whole situation made her head hurt, because Kate was starting to wonder if there was more to the story than she knew. There had to be.

Or maybe she just
wanted
there to be.

Because the part of her heart that still belonged to Étienne, that still
loved
Étienne, had hoped for years he’d suddenly appear in her life with a completely understandable explanation for why she’d never heard from him again. But here he was, in her life, and no explanation had been forthcoming…yet.