by Naima Simone
“I couldn’t—”
“No, you couldn’t save her.” She brushed a fingertip over the bullet wounds hidden under his tattoos. “But sometimes it’s enough for a woman to realize and acknowledge in the deepest part of her heart and soul that she was worth the effort. That come hell or high water, you’ll go to bat for her…lay down your life for her. And that’s what you did, Ciaran. Why you survived that night, only God knows, but it doesn’t negate that she was so precious and necessary you went there to save her. And she died knowing that certainty. Love, not failure.”
He stared into her eyes, glimpsed the conviction there. He wanted to feel the same surety, to accept it. Desperately.
“I can tell you don’t believe me.” She swept a kiss across his mouth. “But that’s okay.” Another kiss. “I’ll believe for both of us until you get there.” And another kiss, longer, deeper, wetter.
He opened wide, letting her take the lead. Letting her convince him to believe.
Letting her begin to heal him.
Ciaran jerked awake, blinking into the darkness, the echo of shouting, gunfire, and cries ringing in his ear. Sweat coated his face, neck, and bare chest. His chest that heaved with rough, deep gasps for breath.
Jesus Christ. He sat up on the couch cushion and scrubbed his palms down his face. It’d been a while since he’d had that dream. No, not dream—a nightmare. Of blood and death. Of the night he’d lost Sam. Only it hadn’t been Sam with the gun to her head, fear darkening her eyes. It hadn’t been Sam who’d slumped to the floor. It hadn’t been Sam he’d failed to save.
It’d been Sloane. Her dark hair even darker, matted with blood and brain matter.
Ciaran moaned, a shiver racking his body like an earthquake. The terror and grief hadn’t faded yet, and he tasted both on his tongue, acrid and slick.
Oh God. He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t survive it again.
And she died knowing that certainty. Love, not failure.
Sloane’s words from earlier rang in his head, growing louder and louder like the shrill whistle of an oncoming train.
She died…she died…
Maybe Sam had gone knowing he loved her. But she’d died. Because he hadn’t been fast enough. Smart enough. Strong enough. Because he’d been blinded by emotion instead of relying on the training that had been ingrained in him.
And he was repeating the same mistake with Sloane. Again the image from his nightmare flashed across his mind’s eye. Another blank stare. Another life snuffed out. Another stain of guilt on his soul.
“Ciaran?”
He lifted his head at the murmur coming from the direction of the living room entrance. For just a second the vision from his dream superimposed itself over Sloane’s features, and he flinched, his chest seizing. But then he blinked and the gory image disappeared, leaving her face softened by sleep and clear of blood.
She moved further into the room, but he remained glued to the couch, unable to move. Shit, at this moment, unable to speak.
With a sigh, Sloane sank to the love seat across from the sofa he’d been dozing on. The sofa he’d sought after she’d fallen asleep in the bed they’d made love in. Remorse and shame packed into his already crowded chest.
“When Phillip left, and I had to take a good hard look at myself and all that I had allowed, I came to several realizations. One, you teach people how to treat you. Two, if that was love, I can do bad all by myself. And three, I would never allow myself to be controlled again. None of those resolutions were—are—easy, but you were my first real test. Because of the assaults and stalking, I’ve had to bend and submit when I wanted to tell you to go to hell. When I wanted to run and demand that you don’t follow. I’ve also come to know your heart in these past days. Although you can be harder to read than the Sphinx, you’re a man of honor, kindness, humor, and incredible passion.”
“Sloane, I—”
But she held up her hand to halt the apology he would have uttered. Apology for what, he didn’t exactly know. For the hurt smudging her unwavering gaze? For whatever had woken her and driven her out into the living room?
“Let me finish, please. I feel like I know your heart, Ciaran, but as of tonight, I also know your demons. I hate that you’ve suffered. Hate that you bear the burden of pain and guilt. Especially over something you had no control over. But I also know I woke up alone in that bed.”
He surged to his feet as if propelled. Thrusting his fingers through his hair, he stalked across the room, away from her, away from the shame that had nothing to do with Sam and everything to do with the pain he’d unintentionally inflicted.
No, a voice whispered against his skull. At least here be honest. When he’d slid across that mattress and walked out of the bedroom door, a part of him realized what he was doing. Placing distance. Telling her without words that sex was all they had, nothing more. That his quiet confession and unloading of a past he never spoke of didn’t mean anything. He’d been firing his warning shot across her bow, putting her on notice.
And she’d just called him on it.
“Sloane.” He turned to face her, his voice hoarse from the nightmare and the confusion cycling inside him. “I made it clear from the beginning what my first priority was. Protecting you, keeping you alive. God knows I wasn’t expecting you. I shouldn’t have touched you, but I did. I broke my rule about getting involved with a client; I fucked up. Even now I’m fucking up because I want you. But, I can’t”—he shook his head, curled his fingers into tight fists—“I can’t have a repeat of Sam. I won’t. Not with you.”
“And what about me? What I want? Do my choices factor in at all?”
He clenched his jaw, trapping the “No, not when it comes to this,” inside. But he might as well as have said it for the sad comprehension that dawned on her face.
“I can concede to your experience with keeping me safe. But deciding my life for me as if I’m too naive? No. You don’t have that right, that power.”
“I’m not trying to control—”
“Yes, you are. Even if you think it’s for my own good. Even if it’s from a well-intentioned place. You’re not doing it out of malice or contempt like Phillip. No, yours is from fear of pain, of guilt and shame.” She rose, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders and his shirt that concealed her curves from him. “I get that you don’t want any involvement with me to distract you from keeping me alive. But if you were honest with yourself, you’d admit it’s not just redemption you’re looking for. You’re afraid. Afraid to feel, to risk loving and losing. To forgive yourself because it would mean living again. Afraid of pain.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rasped, heart thudding against his sternum. Stop talking now, the wounded beast inside of him howled. I don’t want to hear any more.
“I do. I’ve been there. Living with Phillip was horrible, but looking at myself after he left was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done. I’ve lived in fear. Fear of failure, of risking my heart again, of disappointing those I love, of never being enough. It’s crippling, but there comes a time when you stop coping and start being. You’re still coping. By walling yourself off from others. By not letting anyone in but so far… By not sleeping next to a woman.”
Her shoulders straightened, and she notched her chin up. The gesture, while proud, couldn’t deflect from the pain in her gaze. Pain he’d placed there.
“When I woke up alone, I laid there, staring at the ceiling, beating myself up because I so hoped you would be there when my eyes opened.” She briefly closed her eyes. “But then I realized I choose not to let you treat me like the other women you’ve slept with. I choose to be worth more than a screw that you can easily walk away from. Not for you, but for myself. I’m so sorry for your loss, Ciaran,” she whispered. “But you can’t let go, and I can’t give in.”
She turned and on silent, bare feet retraced her steps across the room.
“Sloane,” he murmured, and she paused witho
ut turning around to look at him. Sadness and regret throbbed inside of him. Sadness, regret, and a yawning, foreboding sense of precious sand slipping through his fingers. “I wish I could be who you need.”
“You could,” she said softly. “If you chose to be.”
She left the room. Left him exactly as he claimed he desired.
Alone.
Chapter Seventeen
Mid-morning sunlight beamed through the windows of Sloane’s Hamptons bedroom. At ten o’clock the streams only reached mid-way across the room, but in another couple of hours, the bright sunshine would bathe the west-facing room in its light.
Standing at the window and staring down at the English gardens and considering the direction of the sun prohibited her from thinking about the silent, brooding man in the room. And the pain that crawled through her like a virus.
After their “talk” last night, they’d both risen early—not that she’d gone back to sleep—and returned to the Hamptons. The ride had been quiet, the silence heavy, deafening. What she’d said to him the night before…it’d needed to be said, for herself as well as him. But God, did she regret the distance it’d placed between them. It’d only been a few days since they’d known each other, but the absence of the closeness they’d shared hollowed out a hole in her heart.
Had it only been a few days? So much had happened in that time. She’d faced her ex. She’d been attacked. Her former student had been arrested on stalking charges. And she and Ciaran had become lovers.
The biggest change, though, had been in her. A couple days ago, she’d entered this house with anxiety curdling her stomach. Nervous about seeing her family, enduring social events she hated, facing Phillip. Today, the same tests remained, but she possessed a confidence that had been missing for far too long. Ciaran hadn’t instilled the strength and esteem…he’d reminded her they were already there.
And it had been that same confidence and esteem that had allowed her to walk away from him last night. No matter how much it hurt.
“We’ve been gone overnight, so I’m going to go downstairs and make a couple of quick phone calls. Will you be okay staying here for the next thirty minutes or so?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied. So polite.
A hard sigh. “Sloane, I—”
A knock interrupted whatever he’d been about to say. Instead of finishing, he strode across the room and opened the door.
“Good morning, Ciaran,” Chelsea greeted, her tone as bright as the morning. “Is my sister decent?”
“Yes, I am,” Sloane called out, humor breaching the heaviness in her heart.
“Damn,” she chirped, entering the room.
With a snort, Ciaran shook his head. “I’ll be back in few,” he reminded Sloane, then left, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Sloane,” Chelsea drawled, sinking to the bed and crossing her long, pretty legs, bared by a stylish, white pair of shorts. “I have to tell you, if he were my man, neither of us would be decent. Ever.”
Waving her hand, Sloane barked with laughter. “You’re crazy. I think Mother’s having a bit of a crisis trying to figure you out now.”
Her sister snickered. “Speaking of Mother,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Fair warning. She’s in a tizzy wondering why you and Ciaran left so abruptly last night. You know you messed up the after-dinner cocktail count.” She grinned, her blond ponytail swinging with her theatrical head toss.
“I know, but it couldn’t be helped. Ciaran had an emergency call from his job, and I insisted on accompanying him for the long drive back to Boston. I didn’t want him traveling by himself so late at night,” she said, delivering the explanation she and Ciaran had come up with to explain their sudden exodus.
“Oh, well, she should understand that. Or just have Ciaran flash that pretty smile and she’ll be a goner. We were all a little worried, but I’m glad everything’s okay.” Chelsea tipped her head to the side and studied Sloane. “Everything is okay, right?”
She parted her lips, prepared to give her pat answer of “Yes, of course,” but what came out was, “No. I’m in love with Ciaran.” Shock rippled through her, cold, paralyzing. “Oh my God, I love him.”
Jesus, how stupid could she be? Falling for Ciaran Ross. And not because God had decided to borrow the DNA from some long distant Celtic warrior and create this virile, courageous, beautiful man. No, Ciaran had proven three times last night that he desired her.
She was stupid for falling in love with a man who was more unavailable than the president. Of course a stalker still hunted her. But even if that hurdle was jumped, he still loved his dead girlfriend. And how did Sloane fight a ghost?
She didn’t. A shard of sadness sliced her chest.
“O-kay,” Chelsea said, frowning. “And that’s a bad thing, why? Even bitter as I am about Greg’s cheating ass, I can still see what a catch Ciaran is. Especially after that jerk Phillip. You deserve someone sweet.”
Shaking her head, Sloane loosed a sharp crack of laughter. “Oh God, it’s such a bad idea.” And then she found herself unloading on her younger sister—a woman she would have never cast in the role of confidante. But there she was, telling Chelsea about Ciaran being in love with a dead woman, how he was afraid to risk loving again, the helplessness she was drowning in. She skipped the details, careful not to reveal how she and Ciaran met or the circumstances of him accompanying her to the anniversary party. But she admitted everything else to Chelsea, who sat quietly listening, not uttering a word. Just…listening.
“I didn’t fool myself into believing that just because we had sex, a happily ever after loomed in our future. Girl meets guy, girl and guy face peril and survive, girl and guy fall in love and ride off together—that plot line belongs in million-dollar action thrillers directed by James Cameron, not real life. But somewhere along the line, I forgot that and fell for a man who can love but doesn’t want to. Who makes me wonder if it’s just me he won’t love,” she whispered, confessing her secret fear. The one she didn’t reveal to him last night.
“That’s bullshit,” Chelsea growled, surprising Sloane. She jumped off the bed and stalked over to Sloane, grabbing her hand in a firm, implacable grip. “You are one of the most beautiful women I know. He is unworthy of you if he can’t recognize the second chance standing right in front of him. When all the shit with Greg hit the fan, do you know who I thought of calling first after I kicked the rat bastard and his whore out? Not Mother. Not the tons of so-called friends I had who knew about his cheating all along and didn’t tell me. You. I thought of calling you.”
“Chelsea…” The question, “Why didn’t you?” hovered on Sloane’s tongue, but she knew why. It was the same reason that had almost prevented her from confiding in her sister only moments ago.
“I’ve always envied you,” Chelsea said, knocking the air out of Sloane’s lungs. “You were always the strong one, the smart one. The confident one. You knew what Daddy and Mother wanted for you, yet you forged your own path, lived your own life. I, on the other hand, took the easy way out and became a mini-me of Mother. And because I didn’t have the balls to be my own person, I’m twenty-four, divorced, and a single mom with no prospects or idea how to support myself.”
Strong. Smart. Confident. Was that really how Chelsea had seen her? All this time…
Sloane reached for her baby sister’s other hand and squeezed. “Next time, call,” she whispered.
Chelsea nodded, her eyes shining brighter with unshed tears. “Will do. But for now, you’re going to fix your makeup, go find that man, and make him see the good thing he’s passing up.” She grinned. “And you can start in just an hour by putting on a sexy bathing suit and skimpy dress and showing off those curves. Everyone is headed out on the boat today. We’re leaving shortly. Another reason I came to find you. Butter up Mother by not being late. And oh, Daddy wants to see you. I last saw him on the patio.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll go find him. And, Chelsea?” She tugged her sister into a tig
ht hug. Their first true embrace in, well, years. “Thank you.”
“If you make my mascara run, I’ll hurt you,” Chelsea threatened, her voice suspiciously soggy. Her arms squeezed Sloane. “Any time, sis. Any time.”
At ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, the house didn’t yet buzz with much activity. Guests would be awakening and preparing for the outing her mother had planned for the day. So locating her father on the patio, sipping from a cup was easy and unencumbered. As she moved down the hallway, she scanned the living room and family room for Ciaran but didn’t see him. He definitely wouldn’t be happy when he returned to the bedroom and found her gone. But going straight from her room to the patio, she would be fine.
“Hey, Dad.” She eased next to John, her elbow brushing his on the rail he leaned against. Smiling, John slid his free arm over her shoulders, hugging her into his side. Long seconds of silence settled between them like a comforting blanket. Times like these with him were rare, with his workaholic schedule and her job. But these were the moments she cherished. “I’m sorry about skipping out last night. Ciaran had a bit of an emergency back in Boston that couldn’t be helped.”
John clucked his tongue, flicking his free hand. “I knew if you left in a hurry, it had to be important. And it didn’t ruin the evening. Although, I am glad you made it back in time to see Matthew. He has to leave early, so he’ll be happy to see you before then.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Aunt Grace, too?”
John shook his head. “No, she’s staying. Business came up.” He sipped from his cup, and the dark, fragrant scent of coffee tickled her nose. “Phillip was also looking for you last night.”
“Really?” She fought to keep the distaste and anger out of her voice. God, why didn’t Phillip go away?
“Hmm.” He tipped the cup to his mouth once more, and after a lengthy beat, mused, “I don’t understand why your mother insisted on inviting him.”
Sloane gaped at her father, unable to close her lips that had parted in shock. “Mother said you wanted him here.”
