Unconditional (15 page)

I wasn’t going to be defeated on the other side of the world by two Australian guys, some photographers and a revelation.

A revelation.

Oh damn, Brendon had told Raph I had…

My knees crumpled beneath me.

Heather caught me before I hit the floor.

“C’mon, Maci,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around my torso as she helped me straighten up. “Let’s get you to the bed.”

She hooked my arm around her shoulder and, with a grunt and a snicker, carried me the rest of the way across my room and deposited me on the bed.

I slumped into a back-aching bow and pressed my forehead to my knees. My eyes prickled. My stomach churned.

“Is it true?” Heather smoothed a hand up my back, the shifting on the mattress telling me she’d sat beside me. “You have Parkinson’s disease?”

There was no pity in her voice. Only curiosity.

I nodded against my knees. “Yes.”

“Did you only just find out?”

“No. I’ve known for over a year.”

The hand on my back grew still. “Is it getting worse while you’re here?”

I shook my head. At some point I was going to need to lift my forehead from my knees but not yet.

Heather was quiet for a moment. “Did you want to keep it a secret?”

My forehead mashed up and down on my knees as I nodded.

“Why?”

Finally, I raised my head and looked at her. “Because it sucks. Because people treat me differently when they know. Because I feel…”

The word to describe how I felt about it all wouldn’t come.

Heather watched me frown and wave my hands about in some ridiculous effort to scoop up the word from the air around me.

“Less?” she offered.

I let out a sigh and dropped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Hot tears leaked from the corners of my eyes to dribble a path down my temples and into my ears. I sniffed, my nose well on its way to being blocked with the snot of self-disgust and self-pity. “Less is a good way to describe me. Especially when you add it to the word
functional
. Maci Rowling—less functional. That’s me.”

She sat beside me for a bit, silent. “Is that the only reason you’re so flustered? Did the paparazzi upset you? And did The Biceps
really
punch Raph in the mouth?”

“The jaw,” I corrected from my place flat on the bed. “And I think…” Letting out a ragged sigh, I sat upright again and raked my hands through my hair. “I’m upset because I didn’t want people to know I had Parkinson’s and now it’s just out there, and…”

“And?” Heather prompted when I didn’t finish the sentence.

“And the way Raph looked at me when he found out, and the word he used…and Brendon beating him up and…”

Heather did exactly what I didn’t expect her to do. She burst out laughing. “Oh God, Maci. Being your friend is like being on one big American TV show. I love it.”

I swiped at my nose with the back of my hand and gave her a surly glare. “I’m glad my misery is entertaining for you.”

Not in the least bit contrite, she laughed again. “Maci, in case you haven’t noticed, I have ADHD. I’m medicated up to the eyeballs most days, and on the days I’m not, I feel like I’m a hummingbird on crack. I know it’s not going to kill me, but it’s not exactly fun to live with. However, I’m not in the least bit embarrassed by it or ashamed of it. I know the people who really matter to me, my real friends, will like me, love me, regardless.”

I shook my head. “I know what you’re trying to say, Heather. Honestly, I do, but Parkinson’s
will
kill me. Eventually.”

“So you’re going to live in a what? State of duplicitous, untrusting denial until then?”

I studied my knees, throat tight.

“Look, I know we’ve only been friends for a fortnight,” Heather went on, her voice kind, “and it’s not really my place to say anything, but I’m going to anyway because I have zero filter and I like you a lot. Living a lie, even a lie of omission to protect yourself, is dumb. If you’re not going to be honest with people, how do you ever expect them to be honest with you?”

Scrunching up my face, I balled my fists. My hands were shaking. Both of them. Badly. In fact, I could feel the ticks and tremors begin to take over my whole body. “You sound like Brendon.”

“A very smart man,” Heather said. “Who would have thought it under all that yummy muscle? Speaking of Brendon, has he kissed you yet?”

The unexpected question pulled me from my grumpy pout. I let out a wry snort, flicking Heather a sideways glance. “Today.”

A wide grin stretched her lips. She wriggled, a puppy about to get a new chew toy. “
And
? Was it as hot and crazy and wild as I imagine?”

The knock on my door saved me from answering.

Both Heather and I swung our attention to the door. I don’t know what Heather’s stomach did at who was standing there, but mine dropped. And then knotted. And then burst into wild, maniacal butterflies.

“So?” Raph arched a brow at us both from where he leaned against the doorjamb, his expression…ambiguous. “Was it?”

My breath seized in my throat. Probably because my heart was doing its best to smash its way into it. “Was it what?”

Raph’s jaw bunched. “Was Osmond’s kiss hot and crazy and…and whatever other adjective Heather used?”

At my side, Heather took my hand. “How could it not be?” she replied.

I didn’t correct her. Not because I wanted Raph to think otherwise. I was just too damn tongue-tied. And embarrassed.

And angry.

Raph’s dark eyes studied me. “How could it not be…” he echoed, the tone in his voice as unreadable as the expression on his face.

I ran my gaze over that handsome face, seeking out an answer to the mystery of his state of mind. Instead, I found the split on his lip caused by Brendon’s fist mashing against it.

For some reason, the sight filled my throat with a lump. I met his stare again.

Numb disappointment rolled through me. Raph had looked at me in many different ways since our first meeting in the men’s restroom at the airport—with mirth, with enjoyment, with lust and confusion—but never had he looked at me with pity.

Until this wonderful, fucked-up day.

I turned my head away, not wanting to see it.

“Has the fracas outside calmed down yet?” Heather asked, her fingers through mine warm. An anchor I really needed.

Was she right? Was I lying to myself about my condition? Or was I doing the right thing? The safe thing?

“Don’t know,” Raph answered. As always, the dark timbre of his voice with its distinct Australian accent made the junction of my thighs throb. Damn it.

“I left Osmond and Horn having a discussion about the situation and the pap took off at the sound of a cop siren nearby.”

“Someone called the cops?” Surprise filled Heather’s voice.

I risked a glance at Raph. He was watching me, his expression and stare unreadable. Still, at least it wasn’t pity anymore, right? “No idea.”

“Is Brendon okay?” I asked.

Raph’s jaw bunched. “If you mean did Horn break him, the answer’s no. He’s still in one piece.” A wry grunt escaped him. “In fact, I think he may have broken Horn. Guess Osmond isn’t just glamour muscles after all.”

Heather let out her own little snort. “You sound miffed, Raph. And jealous.”

Heat flooded my cheeks, but despite the squirming unease trying to take a hold of me, I didn’t look away from Raph. I needed to see his reaction to her jibe.

The muscle in his jaw clenched again. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat. His chest rose and fell as he took a slow breath. And then, his gaze holding mine, he pushed himself from the doorjamb and walked into my room. “Mind giving me and the American girl here a moment alone, Heather?” he asked as he crossed to where we both sat on the bed.

My heart smashed into my throat again.

Heather’s hand in mine squeezed tighter. “You need me to stay?” she asked, her voice soft. Understanding shone in her eyes.

Catching my bottom lip with my teeth, I shook my head. “I’m…I’m okay.”

She studied me with a narrow-eyed inspection for a heartbeat and then let out a short sigh. “If only you really believed that, Maci,” she whispered.

Before I could respond, she rose to her feet and left. Just like that. Closing the door behind her. Leaving me alone in my room with Raph.

I flicked a glance at him. Shifted on the bed. Brushed my palms over my thighs. Dropping my stare to my legs, I wished I wasn’t wearing shorts.

The end of my bed shifted as Raph sat beside me. My tummy—and other areas of my body—clenched at his close proximity. I didn’t move. Didn’t lift my stare from my lily-white thighs. My pulse pounded in my ears.

“
Sick
wasn’t a wise choice of words, was it?”

His low voice caressed my sanity. As did his statement.

I shook my head, keeping my gaze locked on my thighs. Nerves gnawed on my insides like a pack of ravenous dogs. “No.”

Silence stretched between us for a moment, heavy and tense. “I’m sorry,” Raph finally said. “I’m sorry about everything. I’ve been worried sick about you since we lost you. I didn’t have your mobile number and I couldn’t find Heather. And when I did she said you were in hospital and I freaked out and rang every bloody one in Sydney and when I finally found the one you were at, they informed me you were gone and they didn’t know where to. And that freaked me out even more.”

I stared at my thighs. Inside, I was an emotional mess.

“And then I saw you with Osmond and I got jealous. I acted like a complete dick when what I should have done the whole time was look after you. Look at you, Maci, you’re hurt.” He touched my forehead gently, tracing the tips of his fingers over the grazed bruise just above my eye. “You’re hurt and it’s my fault. You’ll never be able to forgive me, will you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The nervous anticipation overwhelming me at the touch of his fingers on my forehead, the way he’d told me he was jealous…those things and more stole my ability to speak.

He let out a ragged sigh at my silence. “I feel like shit and I just want…I just…I was just…the whole situation… Fuck, why do I get so messed up around you?” The last bit was muttered, frustration clear in the question.

I raised my head to give him a glare. “I don’t know. Maybe for the same reason you swing hot and cold with me.”

He let out a sigh, raked his hands through his hair and turned to look at me. I could see tormented confusion in his eyes, like dark storm clouds on the distant horizon. Good. I was glad I wasn’t the only one feeling so wretched.

“I’m not good with trusting people,” he confessed. “Or putting myself out there.
Or
being open with people.”

“Wow.” I fixed him with a level look. “No kidding.”

He grimaced, no doubt at my sarcasm. “It’s not an excuse and there’s no messed-up backstory of family tragedy to justify it. Mum and Dad are still together, they still function as great parents and I don’t think I’ve ever seen them fight.”

“So what’s your excuse then?” I asked. Inside, I was still nervous and agitated. I think because I didn’t want Raph to give me a reason to
not
be angry with him. If I
was
angry with him, I didn’t have to deal with the consequences of
not
being angry with him. God, does that makes any sense?

At my side, he sighed again. “We Joneses don’t do emotional connections or sharing. We were raised to be self-sufficient and self-reliant. I think the need for a connection with
anyone
was starved out of us. Four individuals living under the one roof. That was us.

“And because we’re fifth-generation cattle farmers living on a massive property out in the country, that one roof was pretty sizeable. And the boundaries of our land are huge. Dad would spend the day checking the herd in one paddock or the other. Mum would spend it in the house office, door closed. And my sister and I would spend it at school, followed by working at whatever jobs had to be done when we got home, usually on the back of a horse or out in whichever paddock Dad wasn’t. Which meant if you didn’t need to interact with a family member in a given period, you just didn’t. So while I never saw them fight, I never saw them being affectionate with each other either.”

I studied him, his description of his detached family life sending a curling wisp of sympathy through me. Damn. What would that kind of upbringing be like? Being on the other side of the world from Mom during my stay in Australia was the longest I’d been without talking to her at least every day. And when my dad had been killed by the drunk driver… Man, that tore me apart. Still does.

A cold shiver rippled up my back. I swallowed, casting Raph a sad frown. “It sounds lonely.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is. Things exacerbated when my sister met Franz.”

“Franz is the prince?”

He nodded. “Our life turned into a fishbowl. Anything we did, had done or were going to do became fodder for the media and gossip mags, and all my walls—the ones ingrained in me thanks to my upbringing—went up. It didn’t help when old girlfriends came out and sold bullshit—sorry, I mean lies about me. And then the royal family discovered the stalker threats against me, assigned Horn as my bodyguard and…” He shrugged again. “And I turned into a bigger bastard than I normally am.”

He stopped, let out a wry grunt and turned his attention to his hands where they hung loose between his thighs before raising his head to give me a small smile. “But when I’m with you…those walls…I don’t want them to be there.”

I stared at him. Every fiber in my body tingled. Whatever my mind wanted to say, it couldn’t find the words. I wanted to be furious with him for saying something so wonderful. All I could do was stare at him.

He stared back at me, a frown pulled at his forehead. “Can I ask you a question, American girl?”

I nodded, my throat tight.

“Are you—”

Someone knocked on my door, interrupting him. He turned to it and, frown darkening to a scowl, muttered a low, “Jesus.”

“Hey, Plenty.” Brendon’s relaxed voice played with the room’s silence and I let out a gasp, spinning on the bed to watch him push the door wider and walk through it. He strode into the room, flicking Raph a sideways glance as he crossed to where I sat. Without another look at Raph, he squatted in front of me, hands cupping my knees. “You okay?”