He had been as much a victim as she of the powerful attraction between them. The end results just didn’t equal the same thing for them both. She had naturally thought marriage, being a romantic at heart, while he apparently simply took his pleasure where he found it. She couldn’t blame him for that. She figured it was as natural for him to do as it was for her to have expected more.

She supposed it might have hit her much worse, that he didn’t want to make their relationship permanent, if she weren’t already grieving over her father and what his absence meant. Ironically, she knew she had Vincent to thank for keeping her mind off of that grief.

Night after night he had come to her room. It had been addicting, his lovemaking. She had waited in breathless anticipation for his touch each night. All of which had added benefits for her that he certainly wasn’t aware of, because when she was with him, she thought only of him, but when she wasn’t, her grief would set in again.

She had no longer been able to hide that grief from her astute brother either. Which was why Thomas no longer asked her when their father was coming home. And she had caught Thomas crying the day he finally realized that their father wasn’t coming home. But by silent agreement, they weren’t going to speak of it—not yet.

So she had much to be grateful to Vincent for, not just for giving them a home for the holiday, but for his many and varied distractions when she might otherwise have wallowed in complete despair.

She still locked her door again that night, the night before Christmas. She might be grateful to Vincent, but she couldn’t continue to have an intimate relationship with him, now that she knew that was all he wanted from her.

It wasn’t easy, though. It should have been. She was rather numb, after all, over the new conclusions she’d drawn. But he came as usual, softly called her name from the other side of the locked door. She didn’t answer. And she knew she had tried to deceive herself again, because it was hurting more than she’d thought, that he didn’t care about her as much as she’d hoped.

The tears that soaked her pillow that night were for what might have been . . .

For Thomas’s sake, Larissa wore a bright, cheerful expression as she woke him and dragged him down to the parlor to open his presents, which she had bought and had hidden away many months ago. He had tucked a few under the tree for her as well, when she wasn’t looking, carvings he had made himself, and some for Mara and Mary, who joined them for the fun of present opening.