by Vicki Hinze
Jonathan? John’s skin prickled. His conscience never before had niggled at him using Bess’s name for him. And it never had used anyone else’s voice either. This time, it had done both.
It wasn’t his conscience.
John looked down the long shadowy hallway. Empty. Who owned this man’s voice? Where was he? Had Bess heard—? Wait a minute. John paused to remember and analyze, mentally sifting back to the last time he’d had this odd feeling and heard this stranger’s voice. It had been at the hospital. When Elise was dying. This man, whoever he was, however he was doing this, had helped John then. Had told him to give Elise peace. To let her go, and to tell her he’d be okay without her. A shiver raced up John’s spine and set the roof of his mouth to tingling. How was the man getting into John’s head?
“Miss Hattie was with me at the cafe.”
Reeling, John blinked and looked at Bess. It took him a moment to mentally shift back to the luggage problem. “Miss Hattie was here when I arrived.”
“You’re right.” Bess looked relieved. “She joined me there. She stayed behind because she was expecting a guest. Obviously, you.”
Something strange was going on here. A man talking to John inside his head. Bess’s luggage being packed. He didn’t think for a second Miss Hattie had packed it. She hadn’t even come upstairs to show him the Cove Room. That friend of hers, Jimmy, had given John the nickel tour. But John darn well intended to ask her—just as he intended to find out the identity of this man talking to him. Evidently, whoever he was, the man was trying to help. Someone bent on harm sure doesn’t help a guy get through the death of a loved one as the man had with Elise. But why would he want to help John? “Apparently, Miss Hattie figured you’d run.”
Bess grimaced at him, clearly at ease again now that, in her mind, the mystery had been solved. Should he tell her it hadn’t been? No. She was stressed already. Her lip was twitching double-time. He’d solve it first and then tell her.
“I’m not running, John.” She grabbed the handle of her case, then slung the shoulder strap of the garment bag over her shoulder. “I’m leaving. There’s a difference.”
“Not where we’re concerned.” Silk barked near his ankle, wanting attention. He picked up the dog and scratched her ears.
Bess held out her hands for Silk. When John passed her, Bess flashed him a pleading look. “I don’t want your money.”
“You have no choice, darling.” Damn if she was going to toss yet another guilt trip on him. She’d be self-sufficient or married to him, and that was where the buck stopped.
“I’d rather spend a month in jail.”
The barb hit home. Hard. “Fine. And when you get out and this still isn’t settled, then you can spend another month in jail. I wonder if Sal Ragusa will do remote tapings of your program. Be a shame to lose your job, too. Oh, but I guess WLUV wouldn’t have much use for a jailbird counselor, would it?”
“Sometimes you are a total and complete ass as well as a jerk, John Mystic. Sometimes you’re a vicious jerk. And sometimes—”
“I’m adorable. I know.” He smiled, doing his best to melt the meanness right out of her. “But try to control yourself, hmmm?”
“Not a problem.”
“Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me you’re unaffected at seeing me again? Hell, Bess, you might pull that stunt on your sorry Spaniard, but I know you. It’s always been there between us, and it probably always will be.” Better to acknowledge it and watch its power fizzle than to hold it in and let it gnaw at him.
“It—what? The only thing between us is a divorce.”
“The magic.”
She screwed up her mouth to say something—scathing, he felt sure—then changed her mind. That damned mask of indifference slipped solidly back into place.
“Stop calling Miguel that. Stop needling me. Just stop everything.” She raked her hands through her hair, squeezed her eyes shut, and hissed in air between her teeth. Quickly, she dropped her hands and sent him-a cool, droll look. “The truth is, for me, the magic is gone. I don’t want you, John. I just don’t. Okay?”
“Uh-huh.” He let his gaze drift down to her pulse throbbing at her throat, to her nubbed nipples straining against her thin blouse, then down to her fisted hands. The lady hadn’t come unglued, true, but she was a far cry from unaffected. Though he knew he risked one wicked backfire, he wanted more. He wanted unglued, snapped, and out of control. Just once. Just . . . once. “Right.”
“That is right.”
“Sorry, synapse misfire. I forgot you said you hated me.”
“Not you. Your actions.” She headed toward the door. “If you’re going to throw my words back into my face, at least get them right.”
He had gotten them right, but her surly expression proved she wouldn’t appreciate the reminder and, while he wanted her unglued, he didn’t want her unraveled. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t the heartless bastard Meriam Richards and half of New Orleans had accused him of being. “No problem. Though I don’t typically repeat lies. Or rumors.”
Bess’s jaw dropped open—no doubt to blister his ears—but, without uttering a sound, she snapped it shut, snatched Silk, then shrugged. “I guess that brings this conversation to a close.”
“I guess it does.” He let his gaze slide down her length. “You’ll look great in stripes, darling.”
“Shut up, John. Would you just shut up?”
Bryce had been right. She had changed. But John hadn’t expected this. He kind of liked it. Sassy, saucy. Not a loss of control, but certainly not indifference. A surefooted step in the right direction. Yeah, he liked it a lot. Except . . .
He grimaced. Except it evidenced how much pressure she was under. Bess endured. She survived; took whatever life tossed her on the chin, then went on to pursue her goals. And no matter what happened, she never, never, showed her emotions like this. Definitely riding the edge. And knowing it aroused those husbandly instincts to nurture, to surround, and to protect her. She’d hate that. More likely than not, she’d throw one helluva fit. And that prospect stirred his blood. She’d never let him, or anyone else, see her riled, but he’d imagined it a million times. And when he did, few things could rival Bess. She was magnificent.
She left the room then headed down the stairs, struggling with her heavy luggage.
He followed her. The second time she misstepped and nearly tumbled, he couldn’t bite his tongue anymore. “I’d be happy to help with that.”
“No, thank you.” Giving Miss Hattie’s banister spindles a real workout, Bess bumped and grunted her way down the stairs.
Stubborn. To the bone, stubborn. “Your party.” Even fuming inside, he noted that the farther from the Great White Room they walked, the cooler the house felt. All the warm feelings he’d had on entering it had gone. Now, it was downright chilly and he was edgy as hell—and more certain by the minute Miss Hattie hadn’t packed Bess’s bags. But they were the only three people in the house now. If not him or Bess, and not Miss Hattie, then who?
Good question. One he wanted answered.
By the time John reached the back door leading out to the mud room, he felt like a moving chunk of ice. Bess was walking out on him again. This time, in person. And this time, it hurt every bit as much as it had before.
Outside, they cut across the lawn, rounded the side of the greenhouse, then went on to the little lean-to where guests parked their cars. The sun was shining brightly on her sleek black BMW, but it looked dull, as if the sheen had been stripped from its paint. Curious. When he’d parked beside it earlier, it had gleamed. “Your car could use a good waxing.”
She unlocked the door then tapped a button to pop the lid on the trunk. When it sprang open, she tossed her luggage inside. John frowned. “It’ll rattle like crazy, in there like that.”
He moved over to the trunk and rearranged the cases, snuggling them tightly to the sides of the car and to each other. “That’ll work.”
“Thank you.” Th
e words were stiff enough to walk over to him without benefit of sound waves.
“You’re welcome.” Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn’t they just talk? This whole encounter wasn’t going as planned. And a lot of the responsibility for that was his. He’d stunned her, showing up here without warning, then knocked her for a further loop by throwing the news about jail onto her shoulders.
He slammed the trunk shut, then leaned back against it. “I’m sorry, Bess. We got off on the wrong foot here. Can we start over and discuss this settlement like two rational adults?” That should do it. The doc loved rational discussion.
“There’s nothing to discuss.” She got into her car. “I’m not being testy, Jonathan. I just can’t be flexible on this issue. It’s . . . personal.”
He walked around to her window then leaned down, propping his forearms on the window-frame. Silk watched him intently from the passenger’s seat. Bess had strapped the mop into a safety belt. Cute. “Too personal to discuss with your husband?”
Her eyes darkened to sapphire blue, that same shade they’d deepened to whenever they’d made love. A rivulet of desire trickled down his center to his core. She was the only woman who ever had affected him so intensely. And he was losing her all over again.
No. No, that’s how it felt, but it wasn’t true. A man couldn’t lose what he didn’t have. And he didn’t have Bess. Not anymore.
She looked straight ahead, through the windshield and off into the pines. “There was a time when I’d have given anything to talk to you. But you were too busy then, and now it’s too late.”
That she was right tormented him nearly as much as the husky sadness in her voice. He’d never meant to hurt her. He’d loved her. And he should tell her that. But she looked a breath away from tears, and Bess’s tears would cut him to shreds. “I’m sorry, Doc.” Inadequate, but all he had that he could give.
“Me, too.” She put her key in the ignition. “Me, too.”
There was nothing left to say.
His insides ripping apart, he backed away from the car and again heard her condemning words: It’s just a piece of paper and doesn’t mean a thing. But the divorce did mean something. It meant a lot. To him.
Giving him a look laced with regret and hurt, she cranked the engine.
It ground, then died.
She tried again. Then a third time. And then a fourth. When the grind wound down to an intermittent whimper, she accepted the truth and looked at John. “It won’t start.”
The ice encasing John’s heart melted and a bubble of anticipation burst in his chest. A second chance?
A second chance. Don’t blow it.
That man’s voice again. John looked around, but saw no one—not that by now he expected he would. This voice came from inside his head. Strange as it sounded, or would sound to anyone else, if he had any intention of telling anyone else, which he certainly didn’t. Who the man was didn’t matter—not right now. Right now John had a second chance with Bess. A chance he wanted down to his toenails. Whether because of his deathbed promise to Elise, or for himself, John didn’t know. Cowardly, but he didn’t want to know. Not yet. Not until he knew how this chance would pan out.
Not until he knew if it would prove a miracle, or a curse.
Chapter 4
Leap upon a mystic tide . . .
“Bess?” John opened her car door. The hinges creaked. “What’s wrong?”
Did she dare to get out? Could she stand on her own? Her knees felt like cream cheese. “Um, I’m fine.” Tony? Here? Conversing with her in Seascape Inn’s backyard as if he were standing right there between the Carriage House and the lean-to?
“You don’t look fine.” Worry shimmered through John’s voice.
“I said, I’m fine.” Grace. Think grace. And patience. Lord, but she needed to think a lot about both. Her lip twitching, she’d snapped at John like a world-class shrew. Her parents would have been mortified or worse.
It was all John Mystic’s fault. So much on her mind, being this close to him, thinking at all, much less straight, constituted a major undertaking. Why couldn’t he just have called so she’d only have had to deal with his voice? That would have been challenging enough, but, no, she had to deal with all of him.
Outrage kindled a fuse of anger and she glared at him. If he’d had to come, then at least he should’ve gotten slouchy or something—anything to tone down his megawatt appeal. But he hadn’t. And so every time she glimpsed him, she saw him naked, aroused, eager, and loving. If that were all she saw, she could probably fight it. But there was a deep sadness in him that shone in his eyes. She didn’t understand it, and that made it, and unfortunately him, all the more attractive. It jerked hard at her heartstrings and created nearly an irresistible urge to hold him.
Irritated at herself, she slid over the sun-warmed seat, brushed aside his offered hand, then stepped out of the car. “I don’t understand this.” Big understatement there. A lot was happening she didn’t understand. “The car ran great two days ago, and now it won’t start.”
“Pop the hood and I’ll take a look.”
Recovering from the shock of hearing Tony’s message again, from the effect of being near John again, she pulled herself together. “No, but thank you.” She couldn’t owe John Mystic one thing more. Not one thing more—especially not for kindness. He’d stunned her, showing up out-of-the-blue, but she’d recouped now. And she knew what she needed to get through this divorce: Anger.
Okay, so she was tossing grace and patience right out the window, and she was rationalizing. But right now she didn’t give a fig. She’d do what she had to do to get through this and then later, when she didn’t see him, didn’t smell him, or hear his deep-timbre voice, then she’d sort it all out.
I take exception to being ignored, Bess.
Good grief. She couldn’t be expected to deal with both of them at once. Go away, Tony—unless you’re going to tell me the meaning of your mystic tide message. That’s the only thing I’m interested in hearing from you right now.
Would if I could, Doc. But there are things you have to discover for yourself.
“Typical male,” she groused.
John frowned at her from the front of the car. “Well, excuse me for trying to be nice.”
Good grief. She’d spoken aloud. See what you’re getting me into, Tony? More trouble. Would you just go telepath with some other tortured soul? I’m kind of busy losing what’s left of my sanity here and I really don’t need any outside help to see the job done.
He laughed.
“Jerk.” She must have an invisible sign on her forehead only men could see. One that said “Nag Me.”
“What?” John stiffened his spine.
Terrific. A telepathic intruder and a soon-to-be-ex-husband ready to nip at her backside. Just terrific. “Not you, John,” she said. “Tony.” Now why had she admitted that? John would think she’d lost her mind. Well, hell. Maybe she had. Talking telepathy. Lusting after the man she was divorcing for breaking her heart. Odds looked darn good she was in deep mental kimchee here.
You could give him the benefit of doubt.
Hah! Easy for you to say. Not me. No way. Been there, done that, didn’t work, don’t intend to do it again. And I thought I asked you to go nag somebody else.
I like nagging you. You’re naggable—and stubborn. Crimney, cut the guy a little slack.
Fat chance.
But he’s going through a rough time.
Aren’t we all? Her marriage on the skids, her parents peeved to the gills because she was getting a divorce when divorces are so unseemly, her job in mortal jeopardy and, the ultimate insult, her hormones in warp-speed mate-mode, lusting after John Mystic. Oh, yes. Aren’t we all?
This is different.
He broke my heart, damn it. And if I let him, he’ll do it again. She slammed her car door shut. Now would you just go away!
John walked around the car then leaned against the back fender. “Who’s Tony?”
“Tony?” Bess feigned ignorance and the out and out lie had her flushing heat. Boy, she could just see herself trying to explain Tony. “Did I say Tony?” Her emotions were churning too close to the surface; John would see her, inside. She turned away. “I meant Jimmy Goodson. I’d better go call him.”
“Okay, then. Who’s Jimmy Goodson?” John’s voice carried to her.
He was following her back to the house. If there were justice, so much as a speck of it, he’d have gotten slouchy, the arrogant pig. Bess couldn’t stand slouchy men—and he knew it. He’d stayed perfect to deliberately torture her, damn him. And he knew blue was her favorite color for him to wear. Why couldn’t he have worn neon orange or lime green? She hated both those colors. And why, in the name of God, after all that had passed between them, did she still need a barrier for protection against him? “Jimmy showed you around here, remember?”
“Ah, I’d forgotten his name.”
“He’s also Miss Hattie’s mechanic and can fix whatever broke on the car.”
“Okay.” John sounded hurt.
She glanced back at him and nearly cringed. So much pain in those eyes. What had hurt him so deeply it’d put those haunted shadows there? “I really do appreciate your offer to help, but I have to take care of these things myself now.”
“You always have taken care of everything.”
And that bothered him? No, surely she’d misread his remark. John Mystic would never admire a helpless, shrinking violet who couldn’t handle her challenges without running to him to fix everything all the time. He’d be fed up in a week.
He opened the back door, walked inside, shrugged out of his trench coat, then snagged it on a wall peg. Wearing a pale blue shirt and hip-hugging jeans that did wonderful things for his body, and wicked things to her libido, he crossed the mud room, then stepped into the cheerful kitchen.
Ah, I see you still have a thing for him in jeans, too.
