Authors: Sydney Allan
"I…I'm in shock, that's all. It's such a surprise." She forced a smile and reached behind her back, hitting the light switch.
He scratched at a sprinkling of acne along his chin as he studied her. "I can't believe you're not thrilled with everything I did. I was sure you'd be happy." When she didn't answer, his regard swept the room. "No new paintings yet? Don't tell me you're still refusing to paint."
"I told you, I don't want to talk about it."
"Yeah, yeah. But you're too talented to stop. To hell with your mother! She's a bitch. You shouldn't listen to her."
She cringed. He made it sound so simple, saying the same thing her grandmother had when she'd been young and her brothers had bullied her, "Just ignore them. Nothing they say can hurt you."
But she knew better. No matter what anyone said, no matter what trite adage they proclaimed, she knew words did hurt. They slashed a soul, stole a spirit, slaughtered a will.
Words had done that, and more, to her.
"We've had this discussion before, Steven. I don't see any point in rehashing it now."
"I wouldn't bother if I didn't care."
She shook her head. Just when she thought she'd had enough of him, he said something like that. Something unexpectedly sweet. Uncomplicated and loyal. It was as though he knew how she felt, could read her thoughts.
Too bad the rest of the time he was completely blind to her needs. Loneliness, the wish to have someone at her side as she floundered through life, had led her back into his arms over and over. The desire to have someone in the world who cared whether she lived or died.
God knows her mother didn't.
Why couldn't she simply accept aloneness, thrive in it?
A thick arm thrust out to her, and a tight grip clamped upon her wrist. "I know what'll make you happy. Come on, let's go. We'll be late." Grinning, he tugged her toward the door.
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise." He glanced over his shoulder at her as he led her down the corridor. She'd seen that look before, playful and full of mischief. His spontaneity and love of life were some of the things she had enjoyed about him. And he'd always been affectionate.
Don't do this!
"But…but I have an appointment."
"Can't you cancel? It's been such a long time." He stopped walking and searched her face, his eyes cruising over her features before seizing her gaze. "I really missed you," he added in a soft voice.
Her resistance faded, disappointing and shocking her. She was still weak, and he still knew how to get her.
"I cleared everything with your boss already. What was her name?" He stopped and tapped a fingertip to his forehead. "Oh, yeah. Murphy, Angela, isn't it? Nice woman. She's very excited about my write-up. Was happy to help me out with my little surprise…" His expression scolding, but his voice mirthful, he started walking again and continued, "…so don't give me any grief."
"Grief? Far be it for me to do that," she said. She'd never given him a bit of trouble, outside of breaking up with him several months ago. But, gauging by his jovial manner, that hadn't bothered him a bit. If anything, it appeared to have encouraged him to pursue her with more vigilance.
He flashed a toothy smirk, and she wondered if he knew exactly how she felt about him. That he was a nice guy, a friend but someone she could never love.
But if that were true, why wouldn't he stay away? Why cling to a dead relationship like a drowning man did a chunk of cement? It made no sense--especially in Steven's case. He was certainly able to find someone to take her place, especially now.
Steven dragged her from the lodge into the muggy air outside. Indoors, the air-conditioning leeched the heavy dampness and heat from the air, but outside the warm afternoon had matured into a stifling evening. The water-laden air smothered her like a steam bath. Summer had grown angry and overbearing, and even the deep shade surrounding the lodge offered no relief. An instant slick of sweat coated her skin.
He led her to his old, rusty Ford truck and opened the door. Gallantly sweeping an arm, he said, "My lady."
She reluctantly slid into the familiar seat. She'd ridden in his truck countless times. Made love in the vinyl cloaked seat once or twice. The memories brought a shiver, despite the heat. This was a huge mistake. She needed to get out of there. Now. Before she said or did something she'd regret. As he slipped into the driver's seat beside her, she gripped the passenger-side door handle and said, "Look, I'm sorry, but I promised--"
He lifted an index finger to her lips and cooed, "Shush…
Mon amour
. I have something special planned for us tonight." The fingertip traced over her lips before trailing down her throat. His eyes flashed. "You are so beautiful. I'd forgotten how lovely you are. I was a fool to wait so long to see you."
The suffocating heat was draining the energy from her, and her eyelids grew heavy. But as they fell over her eyes, shielding her from the world outside, the image of Garret's face flashed into view. And when full male lips claimed hers, she believed they were Garret's for a fraction of a second, until Steven moaned.
"Oh, God!" she said, lurching away. The armrest dug into her back, and her eyelids snapped open. She pressed her hands to her mouth. "Oh God, oh God, oh God!"
"What's wrong?"
"I need to go. I'm sick." She wasn't lying. Her empty stomach was in spasm, sending bitter acid into her throat. She had to be sick to imagine Garret's face as she kissed another man. And she had to be sick to fall into Steven's trap again. If she encouraged him for one more minute, he would never leave her alone, and she'd end up in a dead-end relationship with him again.
No, no, no
.
"You're sick? I'm sorry. Can I get you anything? Some soup? A warm bath?" She couldn't miss the seduction on his face, the way his eyes glittered as he flirted with her.
"No, thanks anyway. All I need is some rest. Sorry to ruin your surprise." She gripped the door handle and gave it a healthy tug, but the door didn't open. She checked the lock, and after making sure, the door was indeed unlocked, tried to open it again.
"Sorry, forgot about that. The handle's broken." He leaned forward until the warmth of his breath heated her lips. The interior of the truck grew stifling.
Shoving him away, she turned from him, yanking on the handle in earnest. "Steven, this isn't funny. It's really hot in here. Let me out!"
He chuckled and turned the key in the ignition. The truck's motor chugged to life, and rattled noisily as it drummed a steady rhythm. "You're so dramatic. I'd forgotten about your tendency for melodrama. If you were hot, you should have said something."
"The heat's not the point," she murmured, still trying to get the door open. "Why did you come here?"
"I told you. I'm writing--"
"No. The truth. What are you doing here?"
"Okay, you got me. I came to see you. You're happy, aren't you? Glad to see me, right?" He donned his playful pout, the one that had worked on her countless times.
"No. I mean, yes. Oh, I don't know what I mean." Her mind had turned to mush.
"After we broke up, I was devastated. Didn't you realize how much I love you?"
"No, I guess I didn't. Sorry." Her voice sounded flat and impatient, even to herself.
"You sound so cold. What's happened to you?"
She fiddled with the air-conditioning vents. Warm air hissed from them too slow to cool her. Leaning forward, she directed the vents at her face. "Can't we talk about this somewhere else? Preferably with central air? It's a sauna in here. We could go back inside the lodge and--"
"Somewhere else? Sure we can." He interrupted and threw the truck into gear. It started rolling down the driveway.
Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.
She looked out the window. As the truck rumbled past the lodge's main entrance, Garret stepped out and stared at her, Raphaela at his side. Faith watched his intense gaze follow her as she bounced by him in the truck.
Her forehead fell against the window. Trapped. She could do nothing until they arrived wherever Steven intended to take them. Her spastic stomach clenched and unclenched in a familiar rhythm, one she had felt more times than she cared to remember.
In one tear-producing, breath-stealing lurch, the bitter contents of her stomach spilled onto the truck's floor.
Steven didn't bother looking at her. With a wrinkled nose, he said, "Still have that nasty ulcer, eh?"
* * *
Garret watched the rusty Ford carry Faith down the shaded drive and out of sight. Her fiancé? She'd never mentioned a fiancé. But then again, why should she? They weren't dating or anything.
No, she was his therapist. Nothing more.
Nothing more, like hell. He'd had hours to think about what had happened earlier, and he'd decided he wasn't going to deny his attraction to her--or apologize for it. He wouldn't risk her job, but he was looking forward to getting to know her better.
And he was certain he wasn't blind, or delusional. She had been interested in him as well. After all, she had reacted to him, initiated that first touch, that surprising, wonderful connection. He closed his eyes and let the memory of it trickle through his mind. Tentative and provocative. The memory sent heat to his face.
A fiancé!
A tug at the leg of his shorts tore him from his thoughts, and he glanced down at Raphaela. She looked up at him and met his gaze for the first time.
At that moment, the simple feat swept everything else from his mind.
His baby girl was the only thing that mattered. He was here for her.
To hell with Miss Faith LeFeuvre. Let her have her boyfriend--correction, fiancé.
All juiced up, looking like a bloated Ken doll.
He'd never have guessed she was so shallow, never would have expected her to go for the gym rat type. All brawn and no brain.
Her mistake.
"Come on, Ella. You want to go swimming? It's mighty hot tonight."
Raphaela grinned, the expression tugging tears from his eyes. He stooped down, and she watched him, her gaze still fixed to his.
God, did he want to grab her and hug her tight! That was without doubt the most beautiful, awe-inspiring smile he had ever seen. Her face beamed like an ethereal angel with translucent skin, brilliant eyes the shade of a calm sea, ebony curls that spiraled to her shoulders.
Casting aside his fear, he reached to her and pulled her to him. To his surprise, she didn't shriek or squirm. Her body relaxed against his, and she rested her head on his shoulder. His breath hitched then ceased; his heart pounded out one beat then paused. He didn't move a muscle, not an eyelid, or a toe. He didn't swallow. Nothing. He wanted the moment to last a lifetime.
Six years of love poured from his body, and six years of tears slid down his cheeks. "I love you, Raphaela."
A moment later, in the length of a single breath, Raphaela resumed a ramrod posture, yanking herself free from his grasp to study the lacy leaves overhead flutter in a soft breeze. The magic was gone.
An hour later, she sat waist deep in the crisp water of the glittery spring-fed lake, trailing her fingertips over the water's glossy surface and studying the ripples as though they held a secret message.
Garret wished he could read that message.
He sat behind her, settling upon the gritty beach, sand seeping into the legs of his swim trunks and sandals. Neck-deep in fluid memories of the distant past, of days long forgotten when his love for Marian had been new, he crossed his ankles and leaned back against a fallen tree. Had they made a mistake by divorcing? Should he have fought harder for their marriage? Had he wanted to?
No. No. And no.
The tide of his thoughts changed, drifting to the recent past, to a wild rushing river and a spontaneous and equally wild attraction. There had never been that sort of fire between Marian and him, not even in the beginning. Why did Faith present such a fierce draw? What was it about her? The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. If anything, she was a very unlikely candidate for a relationship, so very different from him.
And yet, he could no more deny their attraction--or at least his attraction to her--than he could deny his need for air. Despite their obvious differences, she held some sort of deep, primal allure. He didn't understand it. Although she was indeed intelligent and fascinating, his attraction to her wasn't rational. No, it was completely illogical--a force a man surrendered to rather than understood.
If Faith had not stopped him outside the shed and again by the river, what would he have done? The memory of her breasts heaving against the silky material of her dress played through his mind. Her slender neck rising from the ruffled décolletage, and toned, suntanned arms reaching to him. Heat stirred in his center. He knew what he would have liked to do.
"Ella's doing better, don't you think?" Marian's soft voice intruded upon his thoughts, forcing the memories back to a deep, quiet place within. Marian sat next to him, her fingertip tracing circles in the crystalline sand between them as she watched Raphaela play.
"She has made some progress," he admitted, recalling the wonderful moment he'd shared with her an hour ago.