“The door was open. I didn’t realise it was off limits.”

Lucien’s unreadable gaze slid to the photograph frame, and then slowly back to Sophie.

“It’s a beautiful shot,” she said softly, watching him for a reaction. Practised as he obviously was at hiding his emotions, Lucien couldn’t stop the pulse that flickered along his tense jaw, nor the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard. Several seconds passed before he spoke again.

“Yes.” He paced across the room to the windows, his face in profile as he watched the fjord beyond. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t come in here again.”

It was a clear and direct dismissal, and it frustrated the hell out of Sophie. He’d employed the same tactic last night in the jacuzzi, slamming the brakes on in the face of any questions that went beyond the here and now.

“Is it your mother?”

She saw his throat move again, but his eyes remained fixed on the view.

“It is.”

“She’s stunning.”

Lucien nodded slowly. “She was.”

Sophie drew in a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“You obviously…” Sophie glanced back at the picture with new comprehension, then up at Lucien’s deceptively passive profile. “You must miss her.”

“Must I?”

Sophie frowned, aware that he was deliberately making the conversation as difficult as possible.

He turned to her. “Look, I need to make a couple of calls, Sophie. Would you mind…?” His eyes strayed to the door.

“Why do you do that?” Sophie asked, making no move to rise from his chair.

Lucien audibly sighed. “Do what?”

“Change the subject whenever I ask about personal stuff.”

He shrugged and rolled his eyes, a deliberate display of nonchalance that didn’t fool Sophie for a second.

“I don’t. There’s just nothing to say.”

“But surely you have family here in Norway?”

His jaw set hard again and his nostrils flared slightly. Sophie knew she was pushing him, but she wasn’t ready to stop. The scales of knowledge were currently tipped too far in his favour and she wanted to redress the balance.

He shrugged. “Some.”

“Brothers… sisters?”

“Why does this matter?”

“Because it does, Lucien. You’re happy enough to delve into my marriage. Surely I can ask questions, too?”

His eyes darkened as he considered his response. “Fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive wall. “No brothers. No sisters. My mother is dead. Anything else?”

Sophie baulked at the blunt delivery of his words, and the bleakness that lay behind them.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured again.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago and I’m a big boy. I can look after myself.”

She didn’t doubt it. But still something held her in the chair, even though he’d made it clear he wanted her out of his office and for this conversation to be over.

“And your father?”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed, and Sophie noticed the way his fingers bit into his upper arms.

“Enough, Sophie.”

So that was it. “Is he here in Norway?”

Lucien placed his palms down on the desk and fixed her with a fierce, unwavering stare. “I said that’s enough.”

Sophie drew herself up to a standing position and met his gaze squarely across the expanse of the desk. His breathing was infinitesimally too fast, and his eyes glittered with suppressed anger, although his tone remained even.

“We can talk about it, if it would help,” Sophie said softly, sensing that they were dancing around something at the very core of Lucien’s psyche.

He laughed harshly. “And suddenly she’s a psychiatrist. It’s a big leap from a PA, Princess.”

Sophie flinched inwardly, hating his sarcastic use of the endearment that up to now had seemed so intimate. “I was just trying to he…”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” Lucien’s words clipped across hers and shocked her into momentary silence. They faced each other across the desk.

“Yet you think I need yours,” she said.

“That’s different and you fucking well know it.”

“Is it?” She leaned towards him. “Why? Because you say so?”

“Yes, damn it.” Lucien thumped the desk for emphasis. “And because you needed my help, and I don’t need yours, or anyone else’s.”

His eyes burned into hers, and his tightly balled fists told her that he was every bit as tense as she was.            

“He’s dead, Sophie, okay? All of this was too long ago to matter, and it’s no one’s business but mine, but just for the record, my father is dead. Happy now?”

Stricken, Sophie searched Lucien’s face for traces of any expression but anger, but it was all there was. She didn’t understand what lay behind it, but something had happened to this man. Somewhere along the line, something big and ugly had happened to burden him with this heavy chip of utter self-containment he carried around on his shoulders.

She glanced down at the photograph one last time, then up again at the man the laughing child had become.

“No. I’m a long way from happy, Lucien,” she murmured. “I’ll leave you to your calls.” She turned to walk out of the room.

He was behind her before she made it to the door. He crushed her body against the wall with his own, his hands pushed into her hair. “I’m sorry, Princess. I’m sorry.”

Sophie closed her tear-filled eyes and held him, wishing her touch could melt away the iron tension from his shoulders and the bleak sadness from his eyes. She’d leaned on him hard to find out more about him, and all she’d succeeded in doing was unearthing memories that obviously hurt him to talk about.

She gentled his harsh breathing with tender hands and smoothed her fingers over the silk of his hair, until finally he lifted his head and kissed her. His lips moved slow and sweet over hers, balm to soothe the sting of his earlier harsh words.

“I’m sorry too,” she whispered into his mouth, opening her jaw to let his tongue slide in. She could feel his heartbeat strong against her own, and his erection hardening against her belly. Shaky fingers pulled at clothes in search of the comfort and warmth of naked skin, and they dissolved the tension in the only way they knew how, meshed together on Lucien’s office floor.