His belief in her was one of the things that had first made her fall so hard for him. She’d grown up being told by the world that she was inferior to her parents—there had been the “fugly” comments of the tabloids while the gossip magazines and bloggers had been more sly, calling her “awkward” and pointing out her ordinary teenage acne as a “brave fight” she was undertaking.

Other people hadn’t been as subtle. As a child, then a teen, she’d overheard more than one guest at her parents’ home say uncomplimentary things.

“You’d never believe the ungainly child was Adreina and Parker’s daughter.”

“I don’t know, maybe she’ll grow into those limbs. If she doesn’t… poor child.”

“Fugly is right.”

The adult Kit understood that those people had been vicious, sharpening their claws on a vulnerable target, but being constantly negatively compared to her parents wore away at a person. She’d never said that aloud to anyone but Noah, wary of appearing the “poor little rich girl.” But he got it. He knew it wasn’t about ego but about identity.

Kit didn’t want to be labeled as Adreina and Parker’s daughter. She wanted to be Kathleen Devigny, who was her own person quite apart from the two larger-than-life people who had created her.

“You are,” Noah had said to her the first time she admitted her frustration. “The world won’t know what hit it when Kathleen Devigny takes it by storm.”

She loved him for that and for his talent and his heart that was bigger than most people knew. He’d never told her, never mentioned it in even a single interview, but she knew he donated a large percentage of his income to charity. The only reason she knew was that she’d been in his hotel room one day when she’d picked up a piece of paper that had fallen to the floor. As she was putting it back on the table by the phone, she’d inadvertently read a few lines—enough to tell her the letter was from his accountant, itemizing donations made on Noah’s behalf. All the ones she’d seen had related to children.

Complex, beautiful, talented man, she thought, her heart hurting. She loved him, but she knew he was broken. Perhaps permanently.

“Let’s go sprawl on the couch and finish off this champagne,” he said after dinner.

Kit nodded because, broken or not, he was hers and she wouldn’t give up on him.

They’d just taken a seat on the sofa, Noah’s arm around Kit’s shoulders, when she got a text from Harper. Her mouth fell open. “Give me the remote.” Grabbing it, she switched channels.

“Blue Force?” Noah groaned as the iconic theme music came on. “I watched Dancing with the Stars. I should get to choose today.”

“I’m on it.” She snuggled close to his side. “It was taped three years ago, just before the series was put into temporary deep freeze—Harper just found out a few minutes ago that this is my episode.”

“Why the fuck would Harper put you on this piece of—” Clearly catching her warning glance, he smiled. “I must’ve been thinking of another show. This is pure genius.”

She made a disbelieving noise but stayed against him. “This was before Last Flight. I was still on Primrose Avenue and trying to break out into serious drama. These guys gave me a shot, so don’t you ever mock the show.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He ran his fingers over her shoulder. “What’re you playing?”

“A murdering junkie.” She grinned at the open disbelief on his face. “Wait till you see me—you won’t recognize me.”

Ten minutes into the show and there she was, lying in a dirty bed in a crack den, her face scarred by the pockmarks junkies created by digging into their skin, her hair matted and greasy. Her teeth, too, were yellow and cracked.

“Why would they spend all that time making a gorgeous woman look like a hard-core addict?” Noah muttered. “Why not just hire an actual junkie?”

“Watch, it’s a good episode.” It charted the descent of an Ivy League educated heiress into drug addiction and murder. “I get to be glamorous in some of the other shots, but I think I did my best work in the crack-den scenes.”

Noah watched quietly with her, and she could tell that despite his disdain for the show, he’d become hooked on the plot. Content and happy, she wasn’t prepared for him to suddenly jerk to his feet. Unbalanced, she braced one hand against the sofa cushion. “Noah?”

“I can’t watch this crap anymore,” he said and strode out.

Kit stared after him. She knew she should be hurt, but she was just confused. Sure, Blue Force was a spinoff of a spinoff, but it wasn’t trying to be anything but what it was—a quick police procedural that acted as brain candy after dinner. The writing was smart, plus the anchor cast had great chemistry. And it wasn’t as if Noah was a snob with this kind of stuff—she’d seen DVDs of action movies at his house, many of them far more cheesy than Blue Force.

Shrugging and deciding he was just in a mood for some reason, she returned her attention to the show but couldn’t focus, becoming more and more frustrated as the minutes passed. What was wrong with Noah, and why wouldn’t he talk to her?

Unable to let it go, she switched off the TV, then went looking for him. He was in the garden, beer in hand as he sat on the weathered wooden bench by the outdoor table. From the two other bottles lined up on the table, he’d started as soon as he left her. “Planning on getting blind drunk tonight?”

Looking up at her furious question, he laughed, but the sound held little humor. “This barely qualifies as alcohol.” He put the half-full third bottle on the table and got up. “What I’d like to do is get drunk on you.”

Frowning, she held her position just outside the doorway, not about to allow Noah St. John to intimidate her. “You’re drunk,” she said, putting a hand on his chest and pushing when he came too close.

“No, I’m not.” He backed her up against the house, placed his hands palms-down on either side of her shoulders. “You don’t hate the taste of beer, do you, Kit?”

“No, but—”

He kissed her.

Her parched, starving nerve endings shrieked to life. She’d dreamed of Noah’s touch for so long, and now he was finally, finally, touching her. He tasted of the crisp bite of beer and of Noah. Just Noah.

She had no defenses, no shields, no way to protect herself.

Fingers curling into his T-shirt, she rose toward him. He deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as he fisted a hand tight in her hair… and a hint of reason infiltrated her mind. This was all too sudden, too fast, too aggressive.

Not romance.

Not passion.

Anger.

Lashes flicking up, she saw his eyes on her face. Flat. Remote. He wasn’t involved, she realized, her pleasure turning into this ugly coldness that made her feel dirty inside. He was kissing her, but he wasn’t the least bit involved. She could’ve been a mannequin for all he cared.

Tearing away from him, she wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “Why would you do that?” she whispered, her entire body shaking. “Why would you hurt me that way?”

His eyes glittered. “You seemed to be having a good time.”

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth a second time, bleeding inside. Enough, she thought. Enough.

He’d fucked another woman in front of her and she’d managed to forgive him, had given him another chance, but she wasn’t a self-flagellating doormat. “Get out,” she said quietly.

Chapter 30

“Since you’ve been drinking,” she added, “I’ll call you a car. But you will get out.”

His face was stone, eyes about as soft as concrete. “So that’s how hard you’ll fight for me?”