“When are you going to go after her?”
“I’m not.” Resigned to his fate, Zane plopped onto his bed, the only seating in the place.
“Then you’re even more idiotic than I thought. Zane, you’re in love with the woman. Go after her.”
“And tell her what? That I can’t stop thinking about screwing her?”
She smacked her forehead. “Men. Do not lead with that. How about telling her that you miss her and want her in your life.”
“Why would she agree to that?”
“Because she’s as much in love with you as you are with her.”
“I’m not sure that’s enough.”
Sadness crossed Marcy’s face as she walked across the room and sank onto the bed next to him. “That’s terrible.”
“I only met her two weeks ago.”
“What difference does that make?”
He shrugged. His heart told him it didn’t matter. But his brain kept yelling at him to run hard and fast, to avoid anything that could bring him to his knees the way Felicity’s death had.
“You’re scared.”
It wasn’t a question, so Zane decided not to answer. That didn’t make it untrue. Elle’s last word echoed through his head.
Coward.
“No one could blame you, Zane. You went through hell when Felicity died.”
“I never told you about her.”
“Simon did. Do you think he’d hire you without telling me everything?”
No, probably not, although Zane hadn’t really thought about it before now. “You can’t protect everyone—including yourself—from everything, Zane. Didn’t your job teach you that bad things happen to good people? All we can do is make the most of whatever time we’re given. You have to take a risk. Take the risk or get out of the game.”
“I thought that’s what I was doing.”
Marcy shook her head. “Poorly. You’ve been walking around this place like a wounded bear for the last week. I’m starting to get complaints. Zane, you don’t belong here and we both know that.”
Two weeks ago he would have argued with her. But something had changed.
“Neither do you.”
Marcy’s pert nose wrinkled at his words. “We’re not talking about me right now.”
“Yeah, yeah.” If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t enjoyed being on Île du Coeur for months. At first he’d needed the solitude and the undemanding job so that he could heal. And while he wasn’t sure he would ever completely conquer the guilt, at least he’d been able to admit that Elle was right. He wasn’t the one who’d pushed Felicity out that window.
Marcy reached over and placed her hand over his. “If you don’t take this risk and start living again, Zane, then you might as well have jumped out that window after her.”
A lump formed in the back of his throat. Zane forced it down. Damn it, he hated when Marcy was right.
“Who knows? It may turn to shit. But at least you’ll have put yourself back out there. It’s time to stop hiding and start building a life again.”
Elle’s words, almost identical to Marcy’s, had been haunting him for days.
“Marcy, I hate to do this to you.”
“But you quit. Yeah, I know. Good thing I’ve been calling around for your replacement.”
Tugging at her ponytail, he said, “Minx.”
“It’s a good thing you came to your senses or I was going to have to confiscate some sedative from the infirmary and ship you to Atlanta. Your replacement arrives on the afternoon ferry.”
This time when he tugged, he pulled a little harder.
“Ouch,” she said, grabbing at her scalp. “You have three hours to pack.” Marcy looked around. “Shouldn’t be difficult. Looks like you never actually unpacked.”
No, he really hadn’t. The island had never been home. But then, for a very long time he hadn’t known where he belonged.
Maybe he’d finally figured it out.
15
ELLE SAT IN HER STUDIO, staring at the blank canvas in front of her. She’d been doing the same thing for the past four weeks.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The first week, she’d moped around and been too upset to think about working. The second and third weeks every time she’d picked up a brush Zane had managed to make his way into the painting—no matter what the subject was. Hell, she’d even tried her hand at something abstract, a style she hadn’t used since art school. And still, she could see his form in the random lines and splattered dots.
This week, she’d decided not to try painting at all, to give herself some time away.
But that hadn’t helped. She’d gone shopping in the little farmers’ market downtown and nearly had heart palpitations when she thought she saw Zane in the crowd. She’d even gone to visit her father, hoping a plunge back into her rigid childhood home would remind her why she and Zane wouldn’t have worked out anyway.
It was one thing to maintain a fling for a week, it was entirely another to build a relationship that could last.
Someone should explain that to her heart.
Instead of the reminder she’d needed, she’d ended up crying on her father’s shoulder—something neither of them really liked.
But he’d been there for her, in his gruff and stiff way, telling her that any man who didn’t realize how special she was was a moron. She’d needed to hear the words, even if, as her father, he was obligated to say them.
And so here she was, staring at the canvas, itching to load paint onto the brush and just let go. And scared to let herself do it in case she would regret the picture that would form before her.
Although, she probably shouldn’t be. In the past few weeks she’d done her best work, fueled by the emotions jumbled inside her.
Taking a deep breath, Elle closed her eyes and let herself go. With vivid, sure strokes, she layered paint onto the canvas. She had no idea how long she sat there. Hours definitely. She ignored the growl of her stomach and quenched her thirst with her trusty bottle of water only when she took two seconds to step back and stare.
Zane’s face, in profile, took up most of the canvas. Stern, determined, with that slight tilt to his lips that hinted at more beneath the surface he showed the world. In the lower right corner, she’d put herself. Staring after him as he walked away.
The yearning on the face of the girl, who was her yet somehow wasn’t, made her stomach clench with remembered dread. Sadness shadowed her eyes and tension filled the straight lines of her body.
Elle stared at it for several minutes, trying to objectively evaluate something she was entirely too close to. But after a little while, a light dawned in her head. It was her grandmother’s painting in reverse.
Instead of the beginnings of a fledgling love affair, it was the end of an unrequited love. Instead of highlighting physical passion, it demonstrated emotional devastation.
And maybe it would finally give her closure so that she could put the event behind her.... And maybe it wouldn’t.
Arching her back in a valiant effort to work out the kinks, Elle decided that, either way, she needed a break. Besides, according to the bug-eyed cat clock on her wall, her oldest brother would be here soon.
After the incident with her father, the men in her life had circled the wagons and begun taking turns checking on her. At first, she’d balked at the suicide watch, trying to convince them that she truly was okay. At least, okay enough not to need daily surveillance.
They hadn’t listened. It had taken her a few days to realize they wanted to be there for her. With her. To make sure she knew there were people in her life that did care.
It was really sweet. But it was also getting old.
Tromping into the kitchen, she stopped long enough to wash the splattered paint from her hands, before fixing herself a quick sandwich.
She hadn’t realized just how hungry she was—one sandwich was definitely not going to do it. She was rummaging in the back of her fridge, trying to find something that wasn’t either out of date, insanely unnutritional or completely unappetizing, when a loud knock sounded on her front door.
Not willing to leave the hunt, Elle yelled out, “Come on in, Bobby. It’s open.”
With a grunt of unhappiness, she pulled out an apple that didn’t look completely wizened. As soon as Bobby left, she’d grab her favorite pecan chicken salad from the deli around the corner.
Apple in hand, she started backing out of the fridge.
“Who the hell is Bobby?”
Elle smacked her head on the top shelf of the fridge. Swore. Slapped her hand onto the crown of her head in the hopes of holding her throbbing brain inside her skull. Spun around.
“Holy hell.” It was all she could say. Zane Edwards was standing in the middle of her kitchen.
She looked awful.
She had on her nasty, paint-splattered overalls. Her hair was pulled to the top of her head in a messy ponytail that she’d absently run her fingers through, making it even messier. She’d bet there were streaks of paint all the way through it. She probably looked like a deranged clown.
“Not exactly the reception I was hoping for.”
And then the anger surfaced and saved her from herself. “Just what were you hoping for, Officer Edwards? That I’d knock you to the ground, tear off your clothes and pick up where we left off?”
His eyes began to glitter, with mirth and a desire she really didn’t want to see right now. His lips twitched, but at least the man had enough sense not to actually let them smile. “Well, I wouldn’t have minded that.”
“Too bad. That isn’t going to happen.”
“A guy can dream, can’t he?”
“Not you. Not about me.”
He took a step closer to her, and Elle fought the urge to take a giant step back. She didn’t want to show him weakness, to let him know he could still affect her. But she also didn’t trust herself. If he touched her, she might actually start ripping his clothes off and drop him to the floor.
“Elle.” The single word was a warning, but she wasn’t sure about what. Every muscle in her body tightened, thanks to the fight-or-flight response rushing through her system.
“I just want to talk.”
“About what? You made it perfectly clear we had nothing to discuss. You made up your mind.”
“Can’t I change it?”
“No, that’s a woman’s prerogative.”
Hope was blossoming inside her chest, a hope she didn’t want. A hope she didn’t trust.
He took another step forward, his voice dropping. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” The words melted down her spine, seductive in their own right without the added benefit of his raspy, sexy voice. He’d done that on purpose, the bastard. Used his bedroom voice to utter the apology she didn’t want to hear, yet wanted desperately.
She speared him with her eyes, looking straight into him and letting him see every ounce of the pain he’d caused her.
“You broke my heart.”
His throat worked for several seconds. She watched the smooth, tanned column as his Adam’s apple bobbed. It was easier than looking into his eyes and seeing pity there. She didn’t want that.
“Excuse me for not being as quick on the draw as you are. I’m not as…emotional.”
“An excuse.”
“All right, I’m a coward. Is that what you want to hear? I was a coward.”
Elle couldn’t help herself, she lifted her gaze and looked into his green eyes. The golden flecks and deep brown swirls mesmerized her. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. She wanted to hate him but didn’t.
“I’m an idiot, Elle. Fortunately for us, that isn’t a crime. I didn’t realize how important you’d become to me until you were gone. I didn’t believe I could come to love anyone as quickly as I fell for you.” A gasp caught somewhere in the back of her throat. Did he just say what she thought he said?
“In fact, I didn’t think I’d ever love anyone again.”
The pain in his eyes sent an answering stab through her. She didn’t want to see him upset. She didn’t want him reliving that nightmare again.
“You don’t have to do this Zane.”
“You deserve the words, to know what I feel for you is different from what I had with Felicity.”