Authors: Kate Hewitt
He
couldn’t accept hurting Mollie, which would surely happen if he stayed with
her.
Loved her.
Eventually his true self would be
revealed,
just as it had been the night he’d raised his hand
to his father. The night he’d ended one misery, and embarked on another. He
would never be free. You couldn’t be free of yourself.
Control.
Jacob instinctively tightened his grip around
Mollie, pulled her closer still. He didn’t want to let her go.
One dance.
One dance in a public place was safe enough. He
could give himself that.
And
then … then he would walk away. Just as he always did.
They
didn’t speak. Mollie knew words would break what was growing and stretching
between them, this silent, sensuous dance that was still edged with
desperation. She felt it when Jacob pulled her closer, she recognised it in
herself. She didn’t want it to end.
She
laid her cheek against Jacob’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of him, the
faint tang of his aftershave, the warm musk that was simply him. She felt him
stiffen slightly in surprise, and then his fingers splayed along the curve of
her hips so that she was pressed against him from shoulder to thigh.
When
he touched his finger to her chin and tipped her face upwards, it seemed
utterly natural and right for Mollie to let him do so, to wait, her eyes half
closed,
her
lips parted for him to kiss her. She knew,
at least in one fuzzy part of her brain, that she was offering herself in a
silent, yearning invitation. She recognised that, and didn’t care. Shame and
pride had ceased to matter or even exist.
There
was only this moment, silent, wonderful,
hopeful
,
and yet …
He
didn’t kiss her.
His
finger still touched her chin, cool and dry, and Mollie opened her eyes to find
him gazing down at her with such an expression of conflicted torment that she
gasped involuntarily.
‘Jacob
…’ she whispered, just as she had once before, when just as now he’d touched
her with one finger and looked at her with such pain. What kept him from
kissing her? Was even this about control?
The
word died on her lips as he bent his head and finally closed the distance
between their lips as she’d so wanted him to. He stole the very breath from her
as his lips touched hers, moving over her mouth as if exploring this new,
precious
territory. Then he deepened the kiss, pulling her
even closer so their bodies felt joined, seamless, and desire plunged deep in
her belly; her hands fisted in his hair, awareness of anything but Jacob and
the desperate sweetness of his kiss fading to nothing.
For
it
was
desperate. The kiss was imbued
with a longing that made Mollie feel like this was all they would have, all
Jacob would allow, and she pressed closer, wanting more.
Asking
for more.
Jacob
broke the kiss, his breath a raw shudder. ‘It’s late,’ he said. His voice
sounded hoarse and he stepped away quickly, leaving Mollie half stumbling in
the remnants of a dance. She gathered herself quickly, straightening her
shoulders and nodding even though her breath came in gasps and her lips stung
from his kiss.
She
didn’t dare speak, couldn’t, as she followed Jacob from the dance floor. He
walked stiffly, his body radiating a new tension.
They
didn’t speak all the way up to the hotel suite. Mollie felt unbearably flat.
There was no heady expectation, no sensual tension.
Mollie
didn’t know why Jacob had stopped, why he’d felt he had to stop.
So much for his proposition.
He must have known she would
have accepted tonight—and yet he’d refused. For that was what the ending of
that kiss felt like: a refusal.
A rejection.
And why?
He wanted her; she knew that. She’d felt that. Yet
something—some memory, perhaps—kept Jacob from acting on his instincts,
fulfilling his desires. And perhaps it was for the better, because if anything
happened between them it would surely end up causing her pain.
Even if, for a moment, for a night, it would be so very sweet.
Still
silent, Mollie followed Jacob into the suite. In their absence the staff had
tidied up and left a few low lamps burning, so the huge space seemed cosy and
intimate.
Jacob
ignored it all, ignored her, as he crossed the living room to his bedroom at
the end of the hall.
‘Good
night,’ he said, without even turning around.
Mollie
retreated into her own bedroom; the sheets had been turned down, a silk robe
laid out on the end of the bed. She touched its luxurious softness briefly,
sighing again, amazed at how unhappy she felt when the evening, the whole day,
had been so wonderful.
It
was only a little past ten o’clock, yet the evening was already over.
Reluctantly Mollie slipped off her dress and reached for her pyjamas. She
didn’t feel remotely tired; her mind and body still fizzed and ached, and she
knew it would be hours before she could sleep.
Hours to think and remember and
want
.
She
stretched out on the bed, too restless even to close her eyes. What was keeping
her from leaving her bedroom right now, and going to Jacob? Telling him she’d
accept his no-strings suggestion?
I never should have suggested such a thing
.
Would
he reject her if she actually came to him, told him what she wanted? Showed
him, even? Could she risk it?
And,
the far more important question was, if he didn’t turn away, if he accepted her
offer, could she risk
that?
There
was only one way to find out.
Abruptly
Mollie sat up. She’d lived life on the sides and in the shadows for too long:
most of her childhood, most of her adult life. There had been a few sweet years
in university when she’d felt a part of things, happy and
normal
, but the rest of her life had been cloaked in isolation.
No
more. She was tired of it, tired of the loneliness. She wanted to live. She
wanted Jacob.
Quickly,
before she lost courage, Mollie threw off her pyjamas. She could hardly seduce
Jacob in nubby fleece, yet she wasn’t quite bold enough to go stark naked. She
put on her silk dress instead; she felt beautiful in it, and she needed that
boost.
Then,
taking a deep breath, she opened her door and headed out into the darkened
hallway.
The
entire suite was bathed in silence, and she could hear the steady ticking of
the clock—or was that her heart? Letting out a little breath of laughter,
Mollie pressed her hand against her wildly beating heart, far faster than the
clock. Heaven help her, she was so nervous.
She
tiptoed along the hallway towards Jacob’s forbiddingly closed door; no light
shone from underneath. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he had no reason to feel
restless and edgy and aching, the way she did. Maybe she’d imagined it all.
Mollie hesitated for a second, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Then,
possessed by both
a boldness
and a courage she’d never
known she had, she turned the knob and, with another deep breath, pushed the
door open.
The
bedroom was empty.
Mollie
felt it before she saw it; it took a few moments for her eyes to accustom to
the darkness. At least the hallway had been lit from the lamp left on in the
living room.
The
room
felt
empty, the door to the dark
en suite bathroom ajar, and Mollie saw the bed was untouched.
Jacob
had gone.
This
was the test: a tumbler of whisky, glinting under the low lights from the bar.
Jacob placed it in front of him and folded his arms. Then he waited.
He
hadn’t performed this test in years, for it had become too easy. He needed
greater challenges, bigger proofs of his self-control.
I am not that man
.
Yet
now he’d been reduced to what he always feared: that he
was
that man, the man his father had been, the man he’d shown
himself to be when he’d lost control that terrible evening … no matter what the
justification. He was just like his father.
No
. He could conquer that impulse,
control it. He had to, because if he didn’t—? What then? He would be no better
than his father. No better than the boy who had placed his fist in his father’s
face with so many years of pent-up rage,
who
had
raised his hand to his own precious sister in a moment of anger.
He
was
that man.
Yet
when he performed these tests, and succeeded, he felt, at least for a
moment, that
he wasn’t. Tonight he needed an easy victory.
God only knew walking away from Mollie—from her mouth and her eyes and the
sweet scent of her hair—had been far too hard.
Yet
victory, tonight, did not come easily. He stared at the tumbler of whisky for
twenty minutes. Once he reached for it. His hand trembled and he was appalled.
He hadn’t reached for the glass in years.
A decade, at least.
He jerked his hand back, folding his arms so his fingers curled around his
biceps hard enough to hurt.
He
was so weak.
‘You going
to drink that?’ The bartender glanced rather
sourly at the untouched glass; undoubtedly he’d been hoping for a more
lucrative barfly. Jacob smiled tightly. ‘Leave it.’
Shrugging,
the bartender turned away. It was only a little past eleven, but Jacob was the
only customer in the hotel bar. This wasn’t the kind of place to encourage
drunks to order another round. Everyone else had retired to their far more
comfortable hotel rooms.
Jacob
knew he couldn’t go there. Not when Mollie would be so close, maybe even
waiting. He’d fail that test for sure.
‘Jacob …?’
Jacob
stiffened. He turned slowly to see Mollie standing in the entrance to the bar.
She still wore her beautiful dress, but her hair was wild and unruly, her face
pale and shocked. He could see the freckles standing in bold relief on her
nose.
He
almost reached for the whisky again.
He
curled his fingers tighter, his nails biting into his own flesh, and nodded
tersely, feeling something close to resignation. There would always be a test
he could not pass.
A way to fail.
‘Hello,
Mollie.’
MOLLIE
stepped into the bar, amazed to find Jacob there. She’d been wandering through
the hotel, down empty corridors, disconsolate, uncertain, wondering where he’d
gone,
why
he’d gone.