“She’s the wife of a friend.” I hesitate a moment before I add, “Iago Reyes.”
“Ahhh.” The frown is gone. Amelia looks intrigued. “Is she the reason he went into the monastery or is she why he came out?”
I can’t help but chuckle. Poor Iago, he’s strapped himself to a hell of a ride. But then if he wanted a vanilla life, he wouldn’t have married Karla.
“Both, I think. They’re a good match.”
“He doesn’t mind--?” She glances again at the provocative statues.
“They’re both artists. He respects her work.” Whereas if I were him, I’d be going nuts.
She looks as though she doesn’t quite believe me but she says only, “She’s remarkably beautiful. Perfect, really.”
I’m listening to her, sort of, but mostly I’m trying to remind myself that I’m here just to reassure her and go. Instead, I hear myself saying, “You’re perfect. In every possible way.”
She stares at me for a long moment before, so softly that I only just make out the words, she asks, “If that’s true, in your eyes at least, then why do you think that you could harm me?”
The sudden rush of adrenaline clenches my muscles and sets my heart pounding. I’m not prepared for this. I have never spoken of it, not to anyone. Hodge knows, Hollis suspects, but that’s it.
Maybe I should have talked with a therapist or somebody but it’s too late for that now. I made the choices that I did. There’s no escaping the results.
The ugly truth stares me in the face. What happened before could happen again. Or worse. Much, much worse. However we may want to fool ourselves, we can’t outrun our essential natures.
Or can we? I have a fair idea of how Amelia was supposed to be, enough to understand how different she is in reality. Perhaps because of where I’m standing I have a sudden image of an artist given a palette of colors but refusing to be restricted by them, instead mixing her own shades and hues to create what she herself envisions.
That may be possible for Amelia to do but she came into the world pure and inviolate, unburdened by anything like the baggage I carry. I swallow hard and for a moment, I have to close my eyes because looking into hers, I see all too clearly the man I don’t believe I can ever be.
I should leave but I can’t. I’m frozen in place, unable to walk away even when I know that what I really need to do is run.
“Please, Ian,” she says softly, “don’t shut me out. Whatever is troubling you so much, at least give me a chance to understand.”
Before I can respond, she comes nearer and rests her hand over my heart. The warmth of her skin, her scent, above all her closeness fill me. The sensation is so gentle, so soothing that a center of calm blossoms from it.
I’m therefore unprepared when she says, “I know what you’re planning and I don’t want you to do it.”
She knows? She doesn’t want? What the fuck?
With as much control as I can manage, I ask, “Do I need to have a serious talk with Gab?”
She looks at me chidingly. “Please, did you really think that I wouldn’t understand what I saw in the garage when we arrived and put it together with what else is happening? You’ve decided to go after the HPF yourself. Given who you are, maybe that would be all right normally. But things aren’t normal, are they? You aren’t.”
“You’re in my head now?” I don’t make any effort to conceal my disdain. It ought to set her back on her heels and make her think twice about trying to get so close. But somehow it doesn’t.
“I know what I saw on the polo field,” she says. “What happened between us in the Rolls did something to you. I don’t understand what that was apart from the fact that it obviously has something to do with your father. But I do know that you need to get past it before you even consider putting your own life and the lives of others at risk.”
I stare at her dumbstruck. This can’t be happening. She can’t possibly have any clue about--
“My father? What the hell--?”
“Your father was a danger to women. He was an abuser but that doesn’t mean that you--”
“Jesus Christ, Amelia, you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about!”
All the shock, fear, and pain I’m feeling at that instant merge into a jagged bolt of red hot anger. She’s stripping me bare, leaving me exposed in a way I’ve never been before and can’t endure. I am beyond furious, so enraged that men I know who would never flinch in combat would have the sense to run like hell from me.
Amelia doesn’t so much as blink. She just tips her chin up, tightens her luscious mouth, and says, “Then explain it to me. Tell me what has you so torn up inside that you’ve become reckless with your own safety and even with the safety of others who depend on you.”
At the realization that she is right, that’s exactly what I’ve done, something snaps inside me. Before I can take a breath, my arm lashes out, my hand closing around her throat.
She gasps but incredibly she makes no effort to resist. Clearly, the woman has far more guts than sense.
I can’t bear the thought of hurting her but I have to make her understand what I really am. And why she should want nothing to do with me.
I step forward, pressing along every inch of her. Her pulse leaps under my fingers. A soft moan escapes her. Staring into eyes so wide and luminous that I could drown in them, I snarl, “You do not want to do this.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Amelia
“You’re in my head now?” Ian makes no effort to conceal his disdain but I refuse to let that affect me. Too much is at stake.
“I know what I saw on the polo field. What happened in the Rolls did something to you. I don’t understand what that was apart from the fact that it obviously has something to do with your father. But I do know that you need to get past it before you even consider putting your own life and the lives of others at risk.”
“My father? What the hell--?”
The look on his face--taut with shock and smoldering rage--should make me tremble. And I do, inwardly.
Outwardly, I lift my chin, look him straight in the eye, and say what I know beyond any doubt to be true. “Your father was a danger to women. He was an abuser but that doesn’t mean that you--”
“Jesus Christ, Amelia, you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about!”
He stares at me as though I am some species of creature he has never encountered before. And perhaps that is the case. He and Susannah may have disagreed from time to time but the beautiful, serene woman in the portrait would never have challenged him as I am doing.
If my guess is right, all his relationships have been similar--contained, controlled, safe. Deliberately chosen not to arouse whatever he believes is in him and is so determined to repress. Until now.
“Then explain it to me,” I say. “Tell me what has you so worked up inside that you’ve become reckless with your own safety and even with the safety of others who depend on you.”
Darkness stirs behind his eyes. Before I can take a breath, his arm lashes out, his hand closing around my throat. A bolt of primal fear whips through me until I realize that he is not applying any pressure. However angry he is, he is still in control of himself.
In a sudden flash of clarity, I understand what he is doing. He wants me to be afraid of him so that I will finally be convinced to see him as he sees himself.
When I refuse to so much as flinch, Ian takes a step forward. His hard body presses all along mine. I feel him in my nipples, the arch of my hips, the cleft between my thighs. Feel him, too, in the memories of all we have shared. The mouth that has so sweetly tormented me curls in a snarl.
Everything about him declares that if I had a fragment of sense, I would get as far away from him as possible.
“You do not want to do this,” he says.
For the first time ever, I feel a stirring of appreciation for all the long years of helplessness floating intermittently conscious in the gestation tank. As agonizing as t
hey were, they taught me patience. And endurance.
And courage.
Ignoring the fluttering in my stomach, I put my hand very lightly over his where he is holding me. At the same time, I take a step back.
He frowns, clearly confused by my response and takes another step forward, allowing no separation between us.
Without letting go of him, I step backward again.
Though he has yet to realize it, we are engaged in a pas de deux in which I appear to retreat before his strength and will when all I am really doing is drawing him to me.
I smile.
Behind his eyes, I see a flicker of doubt. He doesn’t understand what is happening or how to deal with it. I have the advantage… for the moment.
Another step followed quickly by a couru, small, swift steps easily matched by his own until we come to rest with my back against the wall of glass at the far end of the gallery. Its coolness makes me all the more aware of the heat rising in me. My pulse is racing. Under my skin, the muscles in my belly clench.
Ian’s eyes, wolf-like with a hard amber sheen, glitter as they stare into mine. I wonder how much he can sense of my arousal. How much he knows of how desperately I want him.
I take a breath, reaching deep for what little semblance of composure I can muster while confronted by my own melting desire for him, the hunger only he can satisfy.
Quietly, I say, “You have no reason to risk your own life and those of others for my sake. How can you expect me to let you do that? What sort of person would that make me?”
I’m hoping that he will actually think about what I’ve said but only one word seems to get through.
“Let?” he repeats, sounding incredulous. “You think that I need your permission?”
His response is beyond frustrating. Never mind that this is about my life and my safety. Heaven forbid that I should have any control over what happens.
I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice. “You’re doing this for my sake. That should give me some say at least.”
He frowns as though I’m speaking a language he doesn’t know. No, not just that. One he has never heard before.
I try to help him understand. “You have people working for you, Gab and others. You must listen to them at some point, at least consider their views.”
“They have skills and experience earned in the field. You don’t.”
As though to take the sting from his words, his thumb strokes over the pulse beating in my throat. His gaze shifts to my mouth. His own softens even as his breath quickens. I can see the change in him as the desire that springs so readily, even inevitably between us begins to edge out anger.
His voice drops a notch, becoming as caressing as his touch. Huskily, he says, “I’ll take care of this, baby. You don’t need to concern yourself.”
Yearning pools deep in my belly. His words are as seductive as his touch. I want so much to just let go, accept it all, accept him on any terms I have to. But I can’t, I won’t, not if I hope to retain any sense of my own self, the person I am becoming. I have to be stronger than that.
“Don’t I, Ian? Fear doesn’t go away just because you shove it down into some dark place deep inside you and pretend that it doesn’t exist. That only makes it more powerful. When you least expect it, it can rear up and tear you apart. The only way to prevent that is to drag it into the light of day and confront it.”
Too late, I realize what I am saying. If he asks how I can know any such thing…
I shrug, trying to minimize the damage. “Or so it seems to me.”
Please let him think that this is a legacy from Susannah who had to cope with the specter of illness, not the result of my own nightmares of the gestation chamber and the clawing fear that I will somehow find myself back in it. I can’t bear the thought of going into that with him now, not under these circumstances when it will only detract from what I must make him understand.
His frown is back. All too perceptively, he asks, “What are you afraid of?”
I answer without hesitation, from the heart, relieved just to get the words out and praying that he will understand them.
“You’re about to put yourself in danger for my sake. I’m afraid that at a crucial moment, you’ll make the wrong choice, the wrong decision and it will be because of me. Because just by existing, I’ve caused you to confront something inside yourself that you wanted to leave buried and it’s tearing you apart.”
This is my ultimate fear and, however misplaced, the source of my guilt where he is concerned. Never mind that I did not choose to come into this world, much less that I would enter it in such an extraordinary way. I am still responsible for the consequences of my own actions, however unintended they may be.
I’m not sure what response I hope for from Ian. Acknowledgement that he can respect what I’m saying even if it doesn’t make complete sense to him? Reassurance that for all the difficulty my presence causes him, he does not totally regret my existence?
Whatever I’m hoping for, I don’t get it. He lets go of my throat but his hand doesn’t leave me. It slides down to cup my breast in a gesture of blatant possessiveness. A finger circles my aureole, only just brushing against the straining nipple. Through my blouse and bra, I feel him as powerfully as if I stood before him naked.
Pressing my lips together, I struggle to hold back a moan.
A faint smile curves his mouth but does not reach his eyes. His emotional detachment sends a chill through me. He touches me again almost clinically, as though he’s standing apart, watching what he can do to me.
“And you think that I should drag all that into the light in order to--what?--exorcise it?” he asks. “So that I’ll be clear-headed enough not to do what I did on the polo field only worse, cause some giant fuck up that gets me or others killed?”
I fight against the wave of arousal building in me and nod. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way but yes.”
“You should be careful what you ask for, Amelia.”
He continues toying with me, pressing just a little harder with each stroke of his finger. My back arches away from the window. Without warning, his other hand slides under my skirt, past the edge of my panties to cup me.
I gasp in shock, thrilling to his touch even as I am dismayed by his presumption. I don’t like that he assumes my compliance. But in all fairness, I’ve yet to give him any reason to doubt it.
“You’re wet,” he observes, almost idly. Two fingers stroke along my slit, parting me. He arches an eyebrow.
“What would it take to make you come right now, Amelia? A few flicks on your clit? Or on that sweet spot in your pussy that you know I always find? Would that be enough?”
I groan again as a wave of mingled hunger and humiliation sweeps through me. Distantly, I realize that I’ve challenged him on too fundamental a level. He’s reacting as I should have known that he would, throwing up every defense in his arsenal even as he moves to regain the upper hand in the most blatant and effective way possible.
Holding my eyes, he keeps up his intimate caress as he says, “I’m going to hunt down the leadership of the HPF. I’m going to take them alive and reduce them to babbling husks of men who will give me every last piece of information that I want and a whole lot more that I don’t. Then I’m going after whoever has been funding them. By the time I’m done, there will be nothing left but a trail of blood and bodies.”
He could be discussing the weather, his tone is that matter-of-fact, without a hint of emotion much less remorse for what he is about to do on my behalf.
Without warning, he thrusts both fingers into me, the tips stroking unerringly against the hidden bundle of nerves where I am most acutely susceptible. My gasp is followed by a moan of pure carnal pleasure. Within seconds, I’m writhing on his hand, tantalizingly close to coming.
“Is that the man whose darkest secrets you want to know?” he asks even as he persists, driving me higher, tighter, making me more frantic for the release only he can give.
His gaze is feral, as though the mask he wears so habitually has slipped and he is finally letting me see the full extent of the raw torment inside him. I have to remind myself that this is Ian, the man I have held in my arms, in my body.
In my heart. I know him. I trust him. But I am also the reason that he’s about to go into harm’s way along with others and I cannot shirk that burden.
The light falling through the glass accentuates the hard planes and angles of his face. I look at Ian and I see him--
In the library when he took my word rather than risk hurting me.
In the music room at the palazzo, urging me to stretch myself beyond Susannah’s legacy and find what appeals to me uniquely.
In the spa, pushing me to discover the strength of my own will and then accepting it without reserve.
At every step from the beginning, he has moved away from his own assumptions and toward encouraging me to be myself. How can I do less for him?
Even if I am about to come unwillingly all over his very talented, relentless fingers.
I draw a ragged breath and only just manage to speak despite what he is doing to me.
“I am not fragile. You think that I am but you’re wrong just as you’re wrong about yourself. Whatever your reasons for fearing that you’ll hurt me, I have the best possible reasons to know that you won’t.”
His eyes flicker with surprise but also with wariness. As though the words are wrenched from him, he asks, “What reasons?”
I say what should be self-evident to him. And perhaps would be if he could see himself as I do rather than through the warped lens of his father’s memory.
“You had every opportunity to harm me at the palazzo. You could have done anything and who would have stopped you?”
My voice catches a little at that brutal truth but I continue. “As you said yourself, I could be killed and no one would be charged with anything other than destruction of property. But no one would have charged you with anything at all no matter what you did. No one would have cared.”
Anew: Book One: Awakened Page 29
