"On the marriage. You could have waited until at least daybreak." Eppie raised her brows. "You aren't going to convince me it was for the sex, because the morals at this table don't ride that high."
Emma grinned, too tired to be horrified by Eppie's sex comments, or the fact the rest of the table had gone quiet to hear her answer. "Mattie," she said sleepily, sagging wearily into Harlan's side as he put his arm around her and pulled her close. "Mattie Williams."
"Mattie? Who's Mattie?" Eppie asked, raising her voice to be heard over the music, while Clare smiled knowingly.
Emma reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She flipped to a picture of Mattie, the one that showed her with her beautiful brown skin, pink ribbons on her braids, and her big smile. "I teach her. She lost her parents, and I want to adopt her—"
"We," Harlan interrupted. "We want to adopt her." He took the phone from Emma and looked at it. His brow furrowed, and his face grew serious as he studied it.
Emma realized that she'd never shown him a picture of Mattie before. Suddenly, uncertainty rippled through her. What would he think of her? Would he change his mind? Would he—
Then a smile softened his face, a genuine smile, and he brushed his index finger over the screen of her phone. "Mattie Williams," he said softly. "She needs a family."
Emma's heart tightened as he handed the phone to Eppie, grinning as he answered the sudden barrage of questions about this little girl. As he talked about Mattie, repeating the things she'd told him, he leaned forward. His voice was urgent, and he was making eye contact with everyone. Emma realized that he cared about this little girl he'd never met, and he was making sure that everyone knew it. She could see his genuine concern in every line of his body, in the tone of his voice, in the way his gaze kept flipping to the picture still on her phone.
Tears filled her eyes, and she bit her lip as true understanding filled her.
She wasn't alone anymore.
Harlan was her partner in this, and he would see it through to the end. She looked across the table and saw Astrid watching her. Quickly, she wiped away the tears, but it was too late. Silently, Astrid handed her a tissue. "Harlan," she said. "I think Emma needs to dance."
Harlan glanced down at her, then his arm tightened around her shoulder. "Dance with me?" he whispered. Without waiting for an answer, he stood up, took her hand, and led her onto the dance floor.
The music wasn't slow, but he took her right into his arms, pulling her close as he moved them across the floor. Emma wrapped her arms around his neck and hid her face in his chest, trying to regain her composure.
"Em?" Harlan's whisper tickled her neck. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she muttered into his chest.
"Emma." He lightly bit the side of her neck, tickling her. "Talk to me."
"I'm fine."
He feathered a kiss over her earlobe, making her shiver. "I know that we don't have a real marriage," he said quietly, "but I thought that the one thing we had was honesty. You're not fine. Talk to me."
She couldn't help the small smile as she finally lifted her face to look at him. "Aren't husbands supposed to be insensitive boors who never notice when their wives are upset?"
He grinned. "I think I made it pretty clear I wasn't going to be a good husband." He flattened his hand on her lower back and pulled her closer, until her breasts were flat against his chest. "So, talk to me, wench."
She laughed then. "I wasn't upset. I was actually happy. I—" She hesitated. "You seemed to really care what happens to Mattie, and..." She shrugged apologetically. "I'm a girl. I get weepy at things like that."
Harlan spun her around in time to the music. "Of course I care. I told you that."
"I know, but I could see it." She touched his face. "You're a good man, Harlan."
Something flickered in his eyes, something dark that seemed to take the lightness out of his expression. "No, Emma, I'm not. Don't let today fool you. I can play the game very well, just like my father could."
The ominous tone in his voice was like a cold wind on the back of her neck, and suddenly she didn't want to have that conversation. Not tonight. Tonight had been too perfect. She wanted to pretend right now that this night was going to last forever. "You look like you're mad at me," she managed to tease. "I think you better kiss me or people are going to think we're heading for divorce already."
Harlan didn't look away from her, but his eyes seemed to gleam with sudden heat. "I don't think I should kiss you," he said.
She couldn't fight the stab of disappointment. "Why not?"
His grip tightened on her. "Because I've spent all day kissing you and holding you. The night's almost over. It's dark. We're going to be home in a few minutes where your bed is. If I kiss you now, I'm going to unleash something that isn't going to stop when we get home."
Her heart started to pound, and excitement leapt through her. "Then you shouldn't kiss me," she said.
"I know." But his hand slid up her spine, a slow, decadent caress that seemed to curl right into her belly. His fingers cupped the back of her neck in that little move she was beginning to recognize as his trademark when he wanted to really kiss her. "But I think I'm going to do it anyway."
She swallowed. "Okay," she whispered.
"Okay?" He bent his head until his mouth was hovering over hers, like a great promise.
Her throat too tight to speak, she could manage only a nod, but that was apparently enough. His lips closed on hers instantly, a kiss of ownership, a kiss that was pure seduction and desperate need, the explosion of tension that had been building for hours.
She clung to him, kissing him back, losing herself in the very essence of who he was, in the strength of his body, the scent of soap and man, and the taste of his kisses. She knew him, this man, his kisses, his touch, and he seemed to ignite a fire within her.
There was no fear lurking within her, no anxiety, and no worry, just an unreserved need for Harlan and for what he gave her. The kiss grew more intense, more dangerous, more—
"Okay," Griffin's hands came down on both their shoulders. "I think you two are excused for the night."
Harlan broke the kiss, but didn't release his grip on Emma. He simply grinned at Griffin, the highly satisfied gleam of a man who liked what he had in his arms. "Yeah, I think you're right. Emma? You ready?"
She knew she should be embarrassed to leave early after such a searing kiss, but she didn't care. To the world, they were newly married, so what else would they want to do but be alone? "Let me just grab my purse."
She hurried over to the table, which was empty now. There were lots of summer folk still roaming around, but most people were on the dance floor. Her purse was on the floor by her chair, and she bent down to pick it up. As her fingers closed around it, a polished dress shoe appeared next to her foot, and a hand settled on her shoulder. "Emma?"
She went ice cold at the familiar voice, and her breath seemed to clog in her throat. She couldn't move. Couldn't stand. Couldn't tear her gaze away from the white wingtip next to her sandal.
"Emma? Did you hear me?" The hand tightened on her shoulder, and Emma stumbled to her feet, twisting out of his reach as she stood.
His hand fell from her shoulder, but there he was, as glitteringly handsome as he always was. The man she'd given her heart to. Preston Edward Jones, the third. Her ex-husband of barely one month.
* * *
Emma's throat went dry and her heart was hammering so hard it was like a drum thundering in her head. Instinctively, she took a step back. Her foot caught on a chair rung and she tripped.
Preston reached out to catch her—
"No," she hissed, twisting out of his reach again, only to wrench her ankle violently, where it was still caught on the chair. She yelped in pain and sat down hard on the floor, grabbing her ankle.
Preston crouched in front of her, his eyes gleaming as they roamed over her. "I thought I might see you here," he said.
Emma felt exposed and raw
with him staring at her like that. Pain was spiraling through her leg, and she pressed her palm to her injury, biting back a sob. "You don't belong here," she snapped. "Go back to Florida." She glanced toward Harlan, and was horrified to discover that the table was blocking her view of the dance floor. She couldn't see Harlan, and he wouldn't be able to see her. With both her and Preston on the floor, no one would see they were there.
Frantic, she grabbed the chair seat to pull herself up, but Preston blocked her hand, leaning in closer. "We need to talk."
"What is wrong with you? We're divorced. It's over. You can go be with all your other women—"
"I don't want them." He leaned closer. "See, here's the thing, Emma. Once I lost you, I realized that it had all been a mistake. I want you back. I want to marry you and give you all the things I didn't give you before."
She closed her eyes against the promise that she'd heard so many times. Each time she'd tried to leave him, he'd talked her into giving it another try by promising the things she craved so deeply in her heart. Promises that she had believed every time because she'd wanted so desperately to believe someone could love her like that, to matter. "Stop it," she hissed. "Just stop it."
"No, I won't stop it. I love you." His hands were on either side of her hips now, crowding her. "I won't give up. I made a mistake when I let you go, and I won't stop until I fix it."
She stared at him, into those blue eyes that had once made her believe in love, the ones that had once made her believe in fairytales and prince charming. Those same blue eyes that had once made her heart heal. Those same blue eyes that she had trusted so completely.
God, she was such an idiot. Even now, when she knew what a bastard he was, a little part of her still responded to him, wishing that he meant what he said, that there really was a chance for her to be treasured the way she so desperately craved. As she tried to shield herself against her stupid yearnings for his words to be true, for the first time in her life, true hopelessness spiraled through her, a realization that she simply could not, ever, trust her judgment when it came to men, not if she was actually sitting there, her instincts searching for a chance that he might actually mean it this time. "Get away from me."
"You don't mean that. I can see the conflict in your eyes." Satisfaction gleamed on Preston's smug face. "You still love me, I know you do. Listen, I fucked up. I never meant to hurt you—" He suddenly went flying backward, crashing into a table and upending the contents across the floor.
Harlan stepped in front of Emma, and she realized that he'd grabbed Preston by the back of the shirt and tossed him across the floor. "You stupid bastard." His voice was a low, deadly whisper that made chills run down Emma's spine.
She stared in shock at the expression on Harlan's face. It was such raw fury, such visceral hate that she froze.
Preston shot to his feet, evidently unharmed, his fists balled as he faced Harlan. "What's it to you?" Preston's blond hair and white dinner jacket were like glaring perfection against Harlan's black tee shirt and blue jeans. Both men were large and well-muscled. She knew exactly how hard Preston could hit, and how many hours he put in at the gym with his trainer working on kickboxing, but it was Harlan who scared her the most. The anger and fury were gone from his face. His features were schooled into a cold, lethal expression of pure destruction. The face of a warrior intending to kill. He looked like a man who could kill without remorse, the one he had claimed to be all along.
She froze, stunned at the change in Harlan. "Harlan?" she whispered, as if she could call him back from the place he'd gone.
"You were dancing with my wife," Preston snapped, his hands bunched into fists.
"Your ex-wife," Harlan said, his voice still edged with lethal chill. "She's my wife now."
"Your wife?" For a split second, Preston's face paled, and Emma felt a surge of triumph at his panic.
"What? You never considered that anyone else could want me?" Emma leaned on a nearby chair, taking the weight off her injured foot.
"She's mine," Harlan snarled, still not taking his gaze off Preston.
"Is she?" Preston shot a glance at her left hand, then gave Harlan a triumphant smile. "She's not wearing a wedding ring," he said.
Emma looked down at her hand, even though she already knew she'd see bare skin. No ring. Of course no ring. Suddenly, the absence of it felt hauntingly empty, a statement to the world that she didn't really belong to Harlan, or anywhere, that her life was simply a lie.
"She always wore mine," Preston sneered. "I guess you're just the rebound guy." His condescending gaze took in Harlan's attire, and disgust twisted on his face. "I give you a month," he said, "until she realizes that she likes the life I can give her better. When was the last time you bought a woman a new car? Or a pair of shoes? Or even a package of gum?"
"Stop it!" Emma began to shake with anger. How many times had she heard that derisive tone directed at her? By Preston. By her parents. By his parents. Memories slashed at her, ugly memories that seemed to cascade through her mind, one on top of the other.
"Push me," Harlan said evenly. "Just push me a little further, you piece of shit." A new wave of coldness seemed to settle over Harlan. His hands were loose, not fisted like Preston's, but there was far more danger emanating from Harlan. She could see now the killer he claimed to be, the man who killed to save those he had vowed to protect. "You hurt her," Harlan snarled. "You stripped the light from her spirit. You made promises to her, and then you betrayed her."
Oh, God. It was too much. Was he going to kill Preston right there in the middle of the fair? "Stop." Emma grabbed Harlan's arm, shocked at how tense his muscles were. "Harlan, let's go—"
"You don't deserve to breathe the same air as she does." Harlan didn't take his eyes off Preston, who was starting to circle him, his fists ready.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Griffin jumped between them, followed quickly by Jackson and Jason, as well as the bartender that Clare had tried to set Emma up with. "Stand down, guys. Jason, get Preston out of here. Harlan, take off."
Jackson grabbed Harlan's arm, but Harlan didn't even seem to notice. He was just staring at Preston, with that same deadly expression on his face.
"Come on, big guy," Jackson said to Harlan. "Stand down. He's not worth it."
"No, he isn't worth it," Harlan said, not moving. "But Emma is."
Emma's throat tightened at those words, and suddenly it all felt like too much. She wanted to fall into Harlan's arms for defending her, and at the same time, he scared her to death the way he was bleeding violence. Seeing Preston again was overwhelming. How many tears had she shed over him? Seeing him, hearing his voice...it was like reliving everything he'd ever done to her. Numbly, she stumbled backward, clutching her purse. She just needed to get out. Get away. From Preston. From Harlan. From all of them.
Eppie came racing over. She yanked her hat off her head and smacked Harlan with it, and then Preston. "Stop it!" she shouted. "You boys are acting like toads! Pull it together! Harlan, for God's sake, didn't you even notice your wife is hurt? She needs you to help her, not be an ass!"
At Eppie's words, Harlan jerked his gaze off Preston for the first time, whirling around to face Emma. "You're hurt?"
She shook her head, hugging her handbag to her chest as she fought back tears, still inching away from everyone. "I just twisted my ankle. I just have to go. I need to go—"
His gaze shot to the foot she was favoring. Anguished guilt flooded his features, turning him back into the man she knew. Swearing violently, he strode toward her and scooped her off the ground, not even noticing when Preston started shouting at him, daring him to come back and finish. Harlan's entire focus was on her, his arms so tight around her. "I didn't even notice," he said, his face tormented. "How bad is it?"
"It's fine." She pushed at his chest, frantic, needing space. "Let me down."
"No. I'll take you to the hospital." He didn't even turn back to look at the crowd. He just strode across the field toward his truck, not e
ven hearing her protests.
"Harlan!" She hit his chest in frustration just as he reached the truck. "Let me go!" Tears were streaming down her face now, and she couldn't stop them.
He looked down at her, and his face went ashen. "Am I hurting you?"
"Just leave me alone," she whispered, too exhausted to fight. "I just want to go home."
He yanked open the door to the truck and eased her onto the seat. "I'll take you to the hospital—"
"No!" She grabbed his shirt. "For God's sake, just once, just this one time, will someone please listen to what I want? I just want to go home."
He stared at her for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Home, it is."
She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, relief cascading through her. "Thank you," she whispered.
He said nothing, but she heard the gentle click of him closing her door softly. She didn't open her eyes when he got in the truck. She simply wanted it all to go away. And by "all" she meant all the men who she'd ever married for any reason.
They just needed to go away. Forever.
Chapter 14
Harlan felt like shit, which was appropriate, because that was all he was worth.
There was no mistaking the way Emma tensed in resistance when he carried her up the steps to her cabin and across the living room to her bed. She hadn't spoken the whole ride home. She hadn't even made eye contact with him.
He deserved it. He knew he did. But hell, after having seen Emma smile at him earlier in the night, losing that affection felt like someone had taken a sharp dagger and carved out his damned heart. Her silence felt like hell.
Harlan set her down on the bed. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure what to do, but then quickly stepped back when she groaned and rolled onto her side, burying herself under the blankets. The faded quilt wrapped around her, its colored patterns mocking the blackness pulsing through him.
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