Witness (8 page)

She couldn't speak; unshed tears clogged her throat. Shaking her head, she waved her hands at her sides, telling him to leave her alone.

“I did not pretend you were Whitney.” He reached out to touch her, but didn't. He dropped his hand to his side. “I might've had a few drinks to dull the pain that night, but I knew who you were and I knew what I was doing.”

“You were—” she gasped for air “—using me.”

How could he deny the truth? He had used her. Used her to forget another woman's heartless rejection. Used her to salve
his bruised male ego. Used her because she'd been there at his side, offering her comfort, her love, her adoration.

“Yeah, you're right. I used you. And that's what I regretted. I regretted taking advantage of you, of stealing your innocence. But I didn't regret the loving.”

The unshed tears nearly choked her. The pain of remembrance clutched her heart. He didn't regret the loving? Was that what he'd just said?

He grabbed her shoulders in a gentle but firm hold. She tensed, every nerve in her body coming to full alert. She couldn't bear for him to touch her, yet couldn't bring herself to pull away.

“I told you I was sorry for what happened, that I regretted what I'd done.” Ashe couldn't see Deborah's face; she kept her back to him. But in his mind's eye he could see plainly her face eleven years ago. There in the moonlight by the river, her face aglow with the discovery of sexual pleasure and girlish love, she had crumpled before his very eyes when he'd begged her to forgive him, told her that what happened had been a mistake. She had cried, but when he'd tried to comfort her, she had lashed out at him like a wildcat. He'd found himself wanting her all over again, and hating himself for his feelings.

“I've never felt so worthless in my life as I did that night.” Deborah balled her hands into fists. She wanted to hit Ashe, to vent all the old bitterness and frustration. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he'd left her pregnant and she hated him for not caring, for never being concerned about her welfare or the child he had given her.

He turned her around slowly, the stiffness in her body unyielding. She faced him, her chin lifted high, her eyes bright and glazed with a fine sheen of moisture.

“When I took you, I knew it was you. Do you understand? I wanted you. Not Whitney. Not any other woman.”

“But you said…you said—”

“I said it shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have. I didn't
love you, not like I should have. I couldn't offer you marriage. What I did was wrong.”

She quivered from head to toe, clinching her jaws tightly, trying desperately not to cry. She glared at him, her blue eyes accusing him.

Dear God, he had hurt her more than he'd ever known. After all these years, she hadn't let go of the pain. Was that why she'd gone to her father? Is that why she'd accused him of raping her? Or had she accused him? Was it possible that the rape charges had been Wallace's idea? The thought had crossed his mind more than once in the past eleven years.

“Neither of us can change the past,” he said. “We can't go back and make things right. But I want you to know how it really was with me. With us.”

“It doesn't matter. Not any more.” She tried to pull away from him; he held her tight.

“Yes, it does matter. It matters to me and it matters to you.”

“I wish Mother had never brought you back.” Deborah closed her eyes against the sight of Ashe McLaughlin, his big hands clasping her possessively.

“She's doomed us both to hell, hasn't she?” Ashe jerked Deborah into his arms, crushing her against him. “I would have made love to you a second time that night and a third and fourth. I wanted you that much. Do you understand? I never wanted anything as much as I wanted you that night. Not Whitney. Not my college degree. Not being successful enough to thumb my nose at Sheffield's elite.”

Her breathing quickened. Her heart raced wildly. She wanted to run. She wanted to throw her arms around Ashe. She wanted to plead with him to stop saying such outrageous things. She wanted him to go on telling her how much he'd wanted her, to tell her over and over again.

“Why…why didn't you tell me? That night? All you kept
saying was that you were sorry.” Deborah leaned into him, unable to resist the magnetic pull of his big body.

“You wanted me to tell you I loved you. I couldn't lie to you, Deborah. I'd just learned that night that I didn't know a damned thing about love.”

“Ashe?”

He covered her lips with his own. She clung to him, returning his kiss with all the pent-up passion within her. The taste of her was like a heady wine, quickly going to his head. It had been that way eleven years ago. The very touch of Deborah Vaughn intoxicated him.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, gripped the back of her head with one hand and slipped the other downward to caress her hip. He grew hard, his need pulsing against her. She wriggled in his arms, trying to get closer. Their tongues mated in a wet, daring dance. A prelude to further intimacy.

When they broke the kiss to breathe, Ashe dropped his hand to her neck, circling the back with his palm. His moist lips sought and found every sweet, delicious inch of her face.

Deborah flung her head back, exposing her neck as she clung to him, heat rising within her, setting her aflame. Ashe delved his tongue into the V of her blouse, nuzzling her tender flesh with his nose. Reaching between them, he undid the first button, then the second, his lips following the path of his fingers.

A loud blast rent the still autumn air. Ashe knocked Deborah to the ground, covering her body with his as he drew his 9 mm out of his shoulder holster.

“Keep down, honey. Don't move.”

“Ashe? What happened? Did—did someone shoot at us?” She slipped her arms around his waist.

Lifting his head, Ashe glanced around and saw nothing but an old red truck rounding the curve of the road, a trail of exhaust smoke billowing from beneath the bed. He let out a sigh of relief, but didn't move from his position above Deborah. He
waited. Listening. Looking in every direction, lifting himself on one elbow to check behind them.

“Ashe, please—”

“It's all right.” After returning his gun to its holster, he lowered himself over her, partially supporting his weight with his elbows braced on the ground. “I'm pretty sure the noise was just a truck backfiring.”

“Oh.” She sighed, then looked up into Ashe's softening hazel eyes. Eyes that only a moment before had been clear and trained on their surroundings. Now he was gazing down at her with the same undisguised passion she'd seen in them when he had unbuttoned her blouse.

Her diamond-hard nipples grazed his chest. His arousal pressed against her. She needed Ashe. Needed his mouth on her body. Needed him buried deep inside her. Needed to hear him say that he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything or anyone.

“It's safe for us to get up now, isn't it?” She heard her own breathless voice and knew Ashe would realize how needy she was.

“I don't think it's safe for us anywhere, honey. We're in danger from each other here on the ground or standing up.”

When he lowered his mouth, brushing her lips with his, she turned her head to the side. But she still held him around the waist, her fingers biting into his broad back.

“Eleven years ago, you weren't much more than a girl. What you felt was puppy love. And I was a confused young man who didn't have the foggiest idea what love was all about. But I was older and more experienced. I take the blame for everything.” Ashe kissed her cheek, then drew a damp line across to her ear. “We're both all grown up now. Whatever happens between us, happens between equals. No regrets on either side. No apologies. I want you. And you want me.”

She shook her head, needing to deny the truth. If she admitted she wanted him, she would be lost. If they came together
again, for him it would be sex, but for her it would be love. Just like last time. She couldn't have an affair with Ashe and just let him walk out of her life after the trial. She couldn't give herself to him and risk having her heart broken all over again.

“Please, let me get up, Ashe. I'm not ready for this.” She shoved against his chest. He remained on top of her, unmoving, his eyes seeking the truth of her words.

Nodding his head, he lifted himself up and off her, then held out his hand. She accepted his offer of assistance, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. She brushed the blades of grass and crushed leaves from her dress, redid the open buttons and straightened the loose strands of her hair.

“I need to get back to work,” she said, not looking directly at him. “Let's take this food back to the office with us. We'll be safer there. We won't be alone.”

Without a word, Ashe gathered up their sandwiches, returning them to the paper bag. She was right. They'd both be a lot safer if they weren't alone. He intended to do everything in his power to protect Deborah, to make sure no harm came to her. But could he protect her from what they felt for each other? From the power of a desire too powerful to resist?

 

L
ATER THAT DAY
Ashe stood in the doorway of Allen's room watching Deborah help the boy with his homework. She played the part of his mother convincingly. He wondered how long she had substituted for Miss Carol. Ever since illness had sapped Miss Carol's strength and she lived in constant fear the cancer would return?

No one seeing Deborah and Allen together could deny the bond between sister and brother. Her whole life seemed to revolve around the boy, and he so obviously adored her.

While Allen struggled with the grammar assignment, he eased his right hand down to stroke Huckleberry's thick, healthy coat.

“Remember, Allen, it's rise, rose, risen,” Deborah said. “Do this one again.”

Nibbling on the tip of his pencil eraser, Allen studied the sentence before him. “Hmm-hmm.”

Ashe remembered how Deborah had struggled with algebra. When he had tutored her, downstairs at the kitchen table, she'd sat there nibbling on her eraser, a perplexed look on her face identical to Allen's. Ashe had been the one who'd had trouble with grammar, and Deborah had helped him write more than one term paper.

Gripping his pencil in his left hand, Allen scribbled the sentence across the sheet of notebook paper, then looked up at Deborah. “Is that right?”

Checking his work, she smiled. “Yes, it's right. Now go on to the next one.” She glanced up and saw Ashe. Her smile vanished. Standing, she moved her chair from Allen's right side to his left, shielding him from Ashe's view.

Why had she moved? he wondered. It was as if she were protecting Allen. But from what? Surely not from him.

Ashe walked into the room. Huckleberry lifted his head from the floor, gave Ashe a quick glance, recognized him as no threat and laid his head back down, his body pressed against Allen's foot.

“Hey, Ashe.” Allen looked up from his homework paper. “I'm almost finished here, then we can play a video game on the computer.”

“Maybe Ashe doesn't want to play,” Deborah said, standing up, placing her body between Ashe and her brother. “We've had a long day. Maybe he wants to read or watch TV alone for a while.”

“I'm alone all the time in my apartment in Atlanta,” Ashe said. “I like being part of a family. Allen and I are pals. I think we enjoy doing a lot of the same things.”

“Oh. I see.” Did he spend all his time in his Atlanta apartment alone? She doubted it. A man like Ashe wouldn't be long
without a woman. She pictured the entrance to his apartment. The thought of a revolving door flashed through her mind.

“Your sister used to have a problem with algebra,” Ashe said, walking around Deborah to sit down in the chair she had vacated. “English grammar seems to be your downfall just like it was mine. I guess guys have a difficult time choosing the right words, huh?” Ashe glanced up at Deborah, who glared down at him.

“I don't have to sweat making good grades in anything except this.” Allen punched his paper with the tip of his pencil. “I've got three more sentences to go, then watch out, Indiana Jones!”

Allen leaned over his desk, reading from his book. He jotted down the sentence, choosing the correct verb tense. Ashe watched the way his untutored handwriting spread across the page, like so much hen scratch. The boy's penmanship was no better than his own. Another shortcoming a lot of guys had in common.

Ashe noticed a crossword puzzle book lying on the edge of the desk. He loved working the really tough ones, the ones that often stumped him and stimulated his mind. He'd been a dud at English grammar, but he was a whiz at figuring out puzzles, even word puzzles.

Ashe picked up the book. “Have you got an extra pencil?”

Allen opened his desk drawer, retrieved a freshly sharpened number two and handed it to Ashe. “You like crossword puzzles, too?”

“Love 'em.” Taking the pencil and sticking it behind his ear, Ashe opened the book, found the most complicated puzzle and studied it.

He felt Deborah watching him. What the hell was the matter with her? “Are you planning on hanging around and cheering us on while we play Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade?”

“No. I just want to make sure Allen finishes his homework.”

“I'll make sure he does. Go wash out your lingerie or something. Read a good book. Call your boyfriend.” Ashe's expression didn't alter as he named off a list of alternatives to standing guard over her brother.

“I told you Deborah doesn't have a boyfriend. She won't give any guy the time of day.” Allen never looked up from his paper.

Ashe glanced down at the puzzle. “What's another word for old maid?”

Allen smothered his laughter behind his hand, sneaking a peek at Deborah out of the corner of his eye.