Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [127]
There were tabbed folders crammed full. Blueprints, reams of reports and spreadsheets. Her heart stilled—pictures of her with her twin sister Raven, taken last May at her grandfather’s funeral. Dozens of them. There were others, too. Even a photograph of her with Justin, back before she’d broken their engagement. The manila folder seemed too heavy to hold; the glossy images slid out of her hand and all over the kitchen floor.
Then she spotted the most damning piece of Jago’s betrayal—the signed proxies. She recalled hunting for them just after New Year’s and Jago saying he’d mailed them. Her brother Cian needed those proxies to block the takeover bid. She could only stand there and stare. Her whole life laid there on the wooden tiles.
Coming through the door, Jago appeared frustrated. That concern was nothing compared to what flooded his eyes when he saw her there, holding the paper with the Trident Venture letterhead. He first noted her furious expression, then his eyes fell on the trident logo and the bastard knew. He knew! Finally, he saw she stood in the midst the pile of 8×10 photos, the proxies at her feet. He paled, blood draining from him.
Oh, she wanted to kick him in the seat of his pants, and this time, it wasn’t a spike in the hormones. Ridiculously, he made a leap for the letter, but she backed up out of reach. When he recognized his action was nothing short of ludicrous, he stopped and closed his eyes. The corners of his mouth flexed into a grimace.
Unable to stand the sense of her whole world being nothing but a tissue of lies, she turned to leave. It was just too much. She had to get away, calm down until she could form a coherent thought. Stepping over Clint who rubbed around her ankles, she headed toward the door only to have Jago block her path.
Asha stared up into his beautiful face, the face she so loved; she just wanted to cry. Instead she hurled the insult, “Bastard.”
“I want to—” he started to say, but she slapped him. Hard. Shocked, he reeled not from the physical blow, but the mental anguish he saw in her eyes. Seizing the chance, she pushed past him and headed back to her cottage. “Asha, wait,” he called.
Jago caught up with her as she pushed open the sliding door. Damn him. She just wanted to get away for a spell. She needed to calm down, if not for herself, then for the child she carried. Despite, he wasn’t going to let her do the sensible thing. When she saw it would turn into a pushing match over the door, she retreated to the fire, seeking its warmth. Needing its warmth.
They stared at each other. Lovers. Strangers. Deceiver and deceived. How could the world be turned topsy-turvy in a single heartbeat by a piece of paper?
“Mershan. Not Fitzgerald. When were you going to tell me? ‘Hold it, preacher, the name’s wrong on the marriage license.’ Is that the perfect time?”
“Hold the melodrama. This will be rough enough without lacing everything with sarcasm,” he suggested quietly.
Asha silently counted to ten. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Jago Mershan. You don’t have that right.”
“Too bad. I’m taking it. You’re white as a sheet. Please sit down—” He reached for her, but she jerked away. For several heartbeats he watched her, then finally nodded.“I was going to tell you tonight. That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
“Oh, please. Jerk. You asked me to marry you, and the whole bloody time you were lying.”
“I wasn’t. I just didn’t tell you everything. My name is Jago Luxovius Fitzgerald Mershan—”
The cat padded over, curious at Asha’s raised voice. “Sic ’im, Clint. Of course, be careful—you might get foot-in-mouth disease.”
“Asha—
“Don’t ‘Asha’ me, you . . . you . . . worm! How could you ask me to be your wife when you were lying?” She vibrated with umbrage.
“Because I love you so much that I’d do anything—”
She