His eyes darkened and his breath grew ragged as she pulled her turtleneck over her head and dropped it to the floor. Left with nothing but her bra and panties, she paused. She stood before him, teasing him with time. She unhooked her bra and tossed it on the bed. She stuck her thumbs into her panties and slowly pulled them off.
She knew he half expected her to get naked and jump under the covers, but she was emboldened by the heightened sense of passion. She could see the effect she was having on him. After a day of waiting for him to contact her, she was back in control.
And she was not ready to hand over the reins. She stood there, staring at him as his breath grew ragged. “What next?” she asked.
He held out his hand. When she took it, he yanked her on the bed, on top of him. Suddenly he was inside her, moving deeper and deeper.
They made love staring into each other’s eyes, not even looking away when tension became unbearable and release necessary.
When he pulled her close to him afterward and tucked her inside the covers, she wrapped her arms around him. “I wish we could stay like this always,” she said.
But Hunter did not answer. Instead, feigning sleep, he removed his arm and turned away from her.
Hours later Cassie was still awake.
Why hadn’t he answered her? Why had he turned away?
She knew the answer without asking. It was as simple as it was undeniable: Hunter did not share her sentiment.
How could she have thought that Hunter was jealous of Oliver? The truth of the matter was that Hunter had been distant from the moment they set foot on the plane to return to Shanville, before he found out about Oliver. Oliver had just been a convenient excuse for him to escape.
She guessed that the real reason for Hunter’s emotional distance was that their relationship had progressed too far too fast. And her coming to his hotel room had not helped matters.
But if he wasn’t interested in her, how could he have made love to her?
Because he was a man. Sex and love were completely different things.
She felt like a fool. Why couldn’t she just play it cool? Why did she have to act so…so desperate?
The truth of the matter was their relationship had been doomed from the night they met, the night they first made love. Her grandmother had warned her that making love changes things between a man and a woman. It was, she had said, the most intimate of connections, a connection that for some women, could never be undone.
Cassie had commended herself on refraining from premarital sex, but as she had admitted to Hunter, the wait had not been difficult. She had not been possessed by the instinctual, overwhelming desire she felt for Hunter.
And now that she had experienced such passion, her life was forever changed. For the rest of her life she would feel a bond with Hunter. And what kind of bond, if any, would he feel for her?
None. She would become another notch on his belt. Just another nameless woman with whom he had shared his bed.
She gingerly pushed the covers away and slipped out of bed. Moving in the dark, she found her clothes and put them back on. She stopped and paused, looking at him. It was time to say goodbye.
But as she turned away, he caught her in an iron grip. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” she said, startled.
“Why?” he asked.
“I just…well, I should be getting back,” she said. Play it cool. “I have to get up early tomorrow and I don’t have my clothes here.”
He let go of her arm and pushed himself up in bed. If she had been expecting a protest, she would’ve been disappointed. “Okay,” he said.
All right, then. They were in agreement. She just needed to pick up her purse and walk out. Before she started crying.
“Wait,” he said. He threw back the covers and turned on the light. “I’ll see you home.”
As he jumped out of bed, she watched his sinewy body tug on his boxers.
“No,” she said quickly. “Go back to sleep. It’s late.”
“Did you drive here?” he asked, ignoring her protest.
“Really,” she said, grabbing her coat. “I’ll just be on my way. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She realized with horror that she sounded as if she was expecting him to call. “Or, um, whenever.”
She opened the door but he was too quick. He shut it with his foot as he put on his coat. “Did you drive?” he repeated.
She gave up. He was too stubborn to be talked out of this. Even though it made no sense, no sense at all.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “What are you going to do? Follow me in your car?”
“My rental’s already been returned. I’ll drop you off and drive your car back. I’ll see that it gets back to you.”
Meaning he was not planning on spending the remainder of the night with her. In fact, he was willing to go to a lot of trouble to ensure that he did not have to sleep with her again.
He had his hand on the door when she touched his arm, stopping him. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m not about to let you go home by yourself in the middle of the night.”
“It’s Shanville. It’s perfectly safe.”
He opened the door. “Let’s go.”
Thirteen
This was not the first time he had seen a date home after making love. He preferred it to spending the whole night together. He found the act of physically sleeping with someone even more intimate than intercourse.
But usually he didn’t end up in this predicament. He rarely invited a woman into his own bed. He liked being able to leave when he wanted to.
It was just one of the ways he had managed to keep things simple. He had avoided heartbreaks by avoiding the pitfalls that encouraged a relationship.
But it was never much of a problem. Typically he was attracted to the very women who would welcome a casual liaison. Women who had little desire for a more permanent relationship. If, for some reason, things changed, he was quick to recognize the signs. Usually when a woman wanted him to meet her family he had one foot out the door already. For he had a simple rule—any mention of family meant he had taken the relationship one step too far. He did not want to meet the mother who “would absolutely love him” or the grandfather who “would never believe his granddaughter was dating a millionaire.” Family only complicated things.
He always tried to be honest. He never promised a connection, a special relationship. Until now. And look what he had done. He had almost made a mistake. Or had he?
Cassie had claimed that she no longer felt anything for Oliver. That her need for the mill, her need for him, was not based on revenge.
But he was having a difficult time believing her. Not that he didn’t want to. After all, he had hoped things might be different with Cassie. He wanted them to get to know each other. His usual rules regarding relationships and commitment had not applied.
He had made an exception and it had almost cost him.
As they walked outside, they were hit with a blast of cold air. The wind had died down and the night was eerily silent. Their footsteps echoed through the deserted parking lot as they made their way toward an old green Ford LTD.
“This is it,” Cassie said, nodding toward the car. “The official grandparent mobile. Complete with a box of tissues in the back window.”
“I’ll drive,” he said.
Cassie tossed him the keys. He caught them in his gloved hand and unlocked the door. Once they were settled, Hunter turned the ignition and…nothing.
She said, “Sometimes you have to turn it a couple of times. I think it might need a checkup.”
Finally the engine roared to life. As usual, the car began to rattle and shake.
“I’m not an expert on cars,” Hunter said, “but I think this one definitely needs some engine work.”
She said, “The nearest car repair is a half hour away. And it’s expensive.”
“I’ll take care of it for you.”
“No,” she said, mortifie
d. Why had she said the part about it being expensive? And why, when it was obvious he wanted nothing more to do with her, would he volunteer to fix her car? “I don’t want you to take care of it for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she said. “I can take care of it myself.”
They drove for a while. A heavy, awkward silence filled the car. Cassie was overwhelmed by a feeling of loss. How had this happened? How could they be so intimate yet so distant?
He pulled into the driveway and stopped. Once again it was time for goodbye. “Thank you,” she said.
It was her eyes. They looked almost luminous in the moonlight. Open and trusting…and hurt. He could not go back to the hotel. Not without her.
He turned off the car and offered her the keys. “Aren’t you leaving?” she asked.
“That’s up to you.”
“Hunter, I don’t want you to stay because you feel pressured or something.”
“Pressured?”
“I know you’re trying to be honorable, but I didn’t intend for this to be an all-nighter.”
Had he misread her? Had his narcissistic mind been so busy focusing on his own reticence that he hadn’t noticed that perhaps she wanted nothing more from him? Perhaps Willa had been wrong. Perhaps Cassie was not looking for revenge. Perhaps she was looking for some fun, a connection with another man. Perhaps loneliness had been her only motivation. “You were looking for sex?”
He could see her recoil at his harsh words. Right away, he cursed himself for insulting her. What was wrong with him? “I’m sorry. I just meant—”
“Is that what you’re looking for?” she interrupted. “Sex?”
Something about the way she said it melted his heart. “No,” he said. He pushed a tendril of hair away from her face. “No,” he repeated, even more adamantly.
She glanced away.
He knew then why Cassie had insisted on going home. She had wanted to leave the warm comfort of his hotel room simply because she felt it was what he wanted.
He had heard her, of course, when she’d said she wished they could remain in each other’s arms. But as much as he longed for the very same thing, he had been unable to respond. The news about Oliver had thrown him. He wanted to believe that Cassie was not using him, but he couldn’t ignore the facts. Still, he didn’t like to think that he’d somehow made Cassie uncomfortable. “Je suis desolé,” he murmured.
“What does that mean?”
He suddenly realized he had spoken to her in French. As a child he would lapse into French in moments of duress, usually when speaking to his grandmother. “It means I’m sorry.”
She hesitated, allowing his words to sink in. Finally she said, “What did you say to me that day on the cliff?”
He said, “Tu es la femme la plus belle que j’ai jamais vu. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
“I had a feeling it didn’t have to do with the weather.” She smiled. “Thank you.” She blushed slightly and glanced out the window. He had made her nervous. She tapped her hands against her knees and said, “Did you know the founder of the mill was French? William Demion?”
Hunter shook his head.
“He emigrated from France in the early nineteen hundreds. He headed toward Shanville because he’d heard that there was plenty of work mining slate. But when he arrived, he saw a truckload of looms headed for the dump and offered the driver ten dollars for the lot.”
“I take it he never mined slate.”
She shook her head. “The driver of the truck turned out to be the weaver. He hired him, and Demion Mills was born.”
He glanced away. He did not want to discuss Demion Mills. Nor did he want to discuss her ex-fiancé’s ancestor.
“Do you feel like going for a walk?” she asked.
“A walk? It’s almost midnight.”
“There’s something I want to show you.”
“Sure,” he said. After all, he was leaving for France the next day. And as much as he wanted to see Cassie again, would he?
When they stepped outside, she held out her hand. “Come on,” she said.
He followed her through the cold, moonlit night. Scattered remnants of the winter’s hard snow crunched under their feet as they headed toward the woods. The full moon lit the path. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she said. “I mean, just two nights ago we were swimming in the buff. And here we are tromping through the snow.”
As they walked out of the clearing, she paused. They were standing at the top of a hill. “This is my view at the top of the world.”
The town of Shanville was lit below them. They could see the railroad tracks and the factory. He could even see his hotel.
She continued, “I started coming here right after my parents passed away. I figured it was the highest spot around, so it made me closer to heaven.”
He pulled her close. “What happened to them?”
“They were in a car accident when I was five. My grandparents raised me.”
“Did your parents both work at Demion Mills?”
“Yep. They met in college. When they graduated, my mother wanted to move back to Shanville. The mill was the only place they could find work.”
He touched her cheek, as if brushing away an invisible tear. “What college did they go to?”
“Michigan State.” She turned toward him. “I went to the same school myself…until my grandmother got sick.”
“That’s where you studied photography?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed. As much as he hated to admit it, he wanted to ask about Oliver. “It must have been difficult being so far away from Oliver.”
“No,” she said without hesitation. She met his eyes and said, “I guess that should have been a clue that things were not right, but I just assumed it was because we were so secure in our relationship.”
She hesitated and said, “I can’t really explain why Oliver and I stayed together so long. All I can think was that, since I’d known him my whole life, our relationship was all I knew.” She sighed. “But now that I’ve met you, I’m not so sure that I ever loved Oliver. Maybe it was just friendship. I know one thing for certain. I don’t love who he has become. I never thought he could do this.”
“Do this?”
“Destroy the mill. Then sell what was left to someone who…well…” She hesitated.
“Planned to close it down.”
“It’s in his blood, just like the rest of us. He grew up here.”
“I wouldn’t demonize him for his choice, Cassie. From what I can see, turning the mill’s fortunes around at this point is not easy.” What was he doing? Defending her ex-fiancé?
“It was his responsibility,” she said, without hesitation.
Hunter could tell by the tone of her voice that Cassie felt betrayed and angry at Oliver’s decision to sell the mill. But was there more to it than that? Would she still be angry if they were together? If Oliver had not left her for another woman?
She took his hand and held it. They stood there for a while, neither speaking as they stared back over the town. Finally she tugged on his hand and said, “Come on.”
But she did not lead him back to the house. Instead they went down the ravine, walking in the opposite direction.
He knew where Cassie was taking him next. “Are we going to the mill?”
She nodded. “I want to show you something.”
“Do you have a key on you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “We don’t need a key.”
They made their way through the ravine and back up the other side. He followed her down a moonlit path that led to the street. The mill was directly across from them.
Cassie said, “Wait here.”
“I’m not going to let you walk around in the dark by yourself,” he said.
“Why not? I’ve done this a million times. Besides, I don’t want to give away my secret.”
“What secret?” he asked.
She lau
ghed as she led him around the side of the mill to the old cellar entrance. She yanked on the rusty lock.
“Breaking and entering?” he asked.
She smiled as the lock popped open. “Call the police.”
He helped her open the door and followed her down the musty old steps. “Do many people know about your secret entrance?”
“Just me.” She turned on a light. They were in an old, brick-lined basement. They were surrounded by stacks and stacks of old newspapers.
“These belonged to the original owner,” she said, pointing to the papers. “He kept all the papers that had anything to do with the mill. Just piled them up in the basement. No one’s ever moved them.”
He followed her up a flight of rickety stairs that led to the main floor. She flicked on the lights. In front of her was the unofficial photo gallery, a series of framed pictures detailing the mill’s history and its proudest achievements.
Hunter had walked past these pictures many times, but he had never really looked at them.
“That was the official presidential chair used in the Carter administration,” Cassie said. He moved closer for a better look at the picture to which Cassie pointed. Two women stood behind a beautiful chair, smiling proudly.
She continued, “The young woman standing directly behind the chair is my mother. My grandmother is standing to her right. They made that material. Tuscan Vine Demion silk lampas. One thousand dollars a yard.”
The women, like Cassie, had auburn hair and sharp green eyes. They looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. “I see a strong family resemblance.”
She smiled softly. “My grandmother was very proud that day. She had just been promoted to master weaver.”
“Is that difficult to achieve?”
“She studied for ten years, working as an apprentice for minimum wage. She was the first woman to ever achieve such an honor. Until then it had been only men.”
Cassie moved to the next photo. “And this material,” she said, “was used in the coronation gown of Queen Elizabeth.” Like a docent in a museum, she walked him down the wall of pictures, patiently explaining each and every one.
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