by Vicki Hinze
It wasn’t fair. Or just. But what in life was either? She flopped onto her back with the grace of a beached fish. “We’ve got to find a way out of here.”
“We’ve got a way out. All we have to do is to talk, remember?”
She couldn’t get situated. No matter what position she tried, she ended up fidgeting.
“Come here, Bess.” John stretched out an arm and curled her to him.
She shouldn’t do it, but she was exhausted. What harm could a little snuggle do anyway? She scooted closer on the plump comforter and cuddled to him.
“Better?” His warm breath fanned her neck.
Heaven. “Better.” She sighed and closed her eyes, wishing that were anything but the truth. What should she do with her hands? Before, she’d have draped her left one over his chest, let it meander over the hard ridge of muscles and bones arid warm skin that reminded her of steel sheathed in velvet. But she couldn’t do that now. “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She tilted her neck. His eyes were closed and he still looked relaxed. Considering their circumstances with Tony, how could John be comfortable? And didn’t being in bed with her and holding her in his arms have any effect on the man?
Best steer away from those kinds of thoughts. “Tony asked me a question I couldn’t answer. It got me to wondering, and I thought maybe I’d ask you—not that the answer makes any difference now.” She sounded like a rationalizing idiot in denial.
John rubbed little circles on her shoulder. “If it doesn’t make any difference, then why wonder about it?”
She half-shrugged. “I’m curious.” Her right hand captured beneath her pillow, she figured the only way she could not touch him with the left one would be to stuff it under her side. That didn’t work. Felt as if her arm was ripping from its socket. She frowned into the dim light. Now what? She couldn’t hold her arm midair for however long they lay here.
Good grief. What difference did it make? It was just a touch—and there certainly didn’t have to be anything sexual in it. His chest was just a comfortable place to rest her hand; no less, but certainly no more. And he didn’t appear to hold qualm one about touching her. Those little circles on her shoulder felt delicious. So why should she feel uncomfortable at touching him?
Giving in, she lowered her hand to his hair-roughened chest, over his heart. Bare skin? Lord help her, the robe gaped. Her stomach surged to her throat and her heart knocked against her ribs. Why, oh why, couldn’t his clothes be dry and he be in them?
“If I answer your question, then will you let me have my nap?”
“Yes.” His grumpy tone hadn’t fooled her. He just didn’t want to be asked questions he might not want to answer. “Back when we were together, why did you put Elise’s needs before mine?”
“I didn’t.” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“You did.” She forced the bitterness from her voice and rubbed a tiny square on his chest to apologize. “You left me alone over Christmas, Jonathan.”
He tilted up her face with a thumb under her chin. If it hadn’t been too dark, they’d have seen eye to eye. “I never put Elise’s needs before yours. Never. Your desires, maybe, but never your needs. And that Christmas was about Dixie as much as it was about Elise. And about me.”
What did that mean?
He paused a long moment, then dropped his voice. “You don’t understand, do you?”
Bess grunted, “Uh-uh.” She didn’t dare to risk words for fear he’d stop explaining.
“You’re strong and capable, Bess. One of the most independent women I’ve ever known. If you want something done, you do it or you have it done. I wasn’t worried about you being able to take care of yourself. You were safe and at home. Fine. And whatever might come up, I trusted you to handle it. You always had. But Elise was in a panic. All in the world she had was Dixie. Can’t you imagine a mother’s fear at not knowing if her daughter is dead or alive? Elise was falling apart at the seams, Doc. And then there was Dixie.” He let his hand sweep down the length of Bess’s hair. “She was just a kid. A scared kid who wasn’t safe at home but held captive. A kid in the hands of kidnapers who could have been doing only God knew what to her.”
Bess started to remind him that Dixie might well have been in the arms of her fiancé but knowing now that before he’d taken those comments as a lack of faith in his judgment, she held her tongue. “In other words, Elise and Dixie needed you, and I didn’t. Is that what you thought?”
“Well, yes.” He cocked his head. The satiny pillowslip rustled. “I got a lead, Bess. I had to check it out. Not knowing what was happening to Dixie, I couldn’t ignore it until after the holiday. What kind of investigator would do that? What kind of man would do that? If your husband put something that important on hold, would you respect him?”
“I don’t know.” That honesty wasn’t very flattering. But she’d looked at this from a different perspective for years and weighing these new views would take a little time. She’d thought she’d analyzed to death the dynamics at work in their relationship, but now she had doubts. Had she looked at the big picture and not just her own version of it?
“Be honest with me. And with you.”
“I don’t think I would respect him much,” she finally decided.
John stopped his hand at her nape then worked his fingers up under her hair, against her skin. “What if the lead had panned out? What if I’d stayed home, pretending everything had been fine, ignoring Elise’s feelings and her fear for her daughter and, after Christmas, I’d gotten up to Portland and had found Dixie dead? I’d have to live with wondering if I’d done what I should have done. Wondering if I’d given just a little more, tried just a little harder, been just a little less selfish, I might have been able to save her.”
Steep, steep repercussions. Ones Bess, though ashamed to admit it, never had considered. Close to tears, she kept her eyes squeezed shut. “I understand.” She’d thought he hadn’t cared. Not true. He’d cared a great deal. For the child incapable of caring for herself, and for Bess. He’d trusted her to be capable of caring for herself and of understanding his what-if fears. She hadn’t. And only now did she see how unfair she’d been to him.
His words echoed through her mind: I loved you, woman. What more did you need to understand?
He had loved her. In his way, he really had. But he’d been unfair to her, too. Three days of worry. Three long, fear-ridden days that had seemed to stretch on forever. He thought her strong. Capable. But she wasn’t. So many times, she’d wanted to lean on him. To reach out, to ask his opinion, his advice. But she’d been afraid to do it. What if he’d reacted the way her father had reacted? What if any display of weakness or dependence had repulsed Jonathan?
The truth struck her with the force of a sharp right hook. She’d been unfair, too. Jonathan was Jonathan. He wasn’t, nor would he ever be, like her father or anyone else. All men were not alike—how well she knew it. And how tragic that for all her training and experience she’d failed to see that simple truth in her own situation.
Her grandmother’s words about not being able to see the forest for the trees came to mind. Rubbing her fingertips, Bess mulled on the wrong she’d done. It was too late for it to matter, of course, but still, she’d like to know the truth. Standing outside the forest, no, she’d never see the trees. But if she ventured inside . . .
A few minutes slipped past. Maybe it was time she found out how he’d react.
Finally, she worked up her courage. Her stomach churned and, though chilled, she broke out in a sweat. This was a monumental moment in her life, and she didn’t much care for monumental moments. By far, she preferred smooth personal sailing. “Jonathan?”
“Hmmm?”
Her throat went dry. “I needed you, too.”
His hand, sweeping her hair, stilled.
A long tense moment crept by. Then another. Her nerves stretched taut. Why didn’t he say something—anything to put her out of this misery? “I—I unders
tand why you did what you did now. I should have seen that then, but I didn’t.” She stared at him in the semidarkness, grateful for its shielding cloak. Looking into his beautiful eyes, she’d never have the courage to say what she wanted to say. What rested deep in her heart. “I just wanted you to . . . know.”
“Thank you, Bess.” His voice sounded husky soft, a tremor from cracking.
She had to admit to the rest, too. It was time. Lord, could she do it? She had to try. To at least try. “I’m not always . . . strong, or capable, or self-sufficient. I try, but I don’t always succeed.” Hard. So hard, this. “Sometimes I really needed you too, and I had to struggle to not burden you with my . . . challenges. Troubles. Worries. Concerns. Problems. Fears. I needed you! “I know you admire women who take care of themselves.”
He turned and his minty breath fanned her face. “I admire you. I always have. You needing me wouldn’t have been a burden, Doc. It’d have been a blessing.”
Cotton-mouthed, she swallowed, afraid to believe. “That’s what Tony said.”
“I agree with him—on that.” John paused, as if collecting his thoughts, then went on. “I never wanted you to feel you couldn’t talk to me about anything. I felt shut out. Unessential.” He cupped his hand over hers on his chest. “I wanted us to share everything.”
“No, you didn’t. We have to be brutally honest here, Jonathan. You might think you wanted to share everything but you truly only wanted to share some things. The comfortable ones. Otherwise your parents wouldn’t have been—or continue to be—a taboo subject.”
Against her forehead, his jaw went chisel hard. “Sorry, but I can’t talk about them.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t.” He swallowed hard. “I—I want to. I just . . . can’t.”
Disappointment ricocheted through her, rib to rib, heart to soul, and hope of them finally understanding each other, finally making genuine progress and settling their differences, died. Before, she’d shut him out. And he’d shut her out. Now, she was trying—Lord, but was she trying—to be open and honest, and still he shut her out. Just like before. She couldn’t make their relationship—might as well call a spade a spade, their marriage—work alone. He had to do his part, too. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
She turned over onto her side, her back to him, rested her head on his upper arm, then closed her eyes. Burying the anger, disappointment, and bitterness, as she’d buried everything else for most of her life, she stilled.
Nearly asleep, she missed his warmth. They’d come so close to harmony. She hated this emotional distance between them. Hated it. Maybe she could try again. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
She licked at her lips, hoping she didn’t get her head bitten off for her trouble. “I hope your lead calls, Jonathan, and I hope you find Dixie. I really, really do.”
The covers rustled beneath them. He scooted closer, fitting himself to her spoon-fashion and pulling the end of the coverlet up over them. “Bess,” he whispered softly, then placed a kiss to the cove of her neck.
“Hmm?” Lord, but it felt good to be cradled in his arms. Cocoons might not be smart, but they sure were cozy.
“I have a confession to make.”
Had he thought it over and been repulsed by her confessing her weaknesses, after all? She snapped open her eyes and stared at the dim outline of the dresser, her heart nearly careening out of her chest. “Okay.”
“I hate that terracotta berry box you bought for Miss Hattie.”
“What?” Bess tried to rear but was thwarted. Tossing a leg over her thighs and an arm over her midriff, he held her firmly in place. She lay back down, her cheek pressed to his hair-roughened arm. It felt . . . soothing. “Why?” The box? Why would he hate the box? She’d never expected this.
He hesitated a long moment, then answered. “Because you chose it.”
Her heart felt squeezed. “I chose you, too, Jonathan.”
“But that was then.” Sadness rippled through his voice and shimmied into her heart.
“Yes, that was then.” She shifted back, closer, trying to get off her sore hip, and to steal more of his heat.
He let out a little groan. “I’d, um, really appreciate it if you’d be still a minute.”
“Sorry.” His hard body swelled against her, sent heat swirling low in her belly. Statue-still, she stared sightlessly into the shadows, telling herself nine-hundred logical reasons why she shouldn’t turn over and make love with her husband. And she accepted each one of them as valuable and valid, as logical and wise. But one reason refused to balance out on logic’s pro and con scales. The magic.
It was still there.
And, Lord help them both, it was so strong.
Tired of fighting it, she shifted, preparing to turn.
John clasped a firm hand on her hip. “Unless you’ve thought this through and you’re sure, don’t turn over.” His voice low and gravelly, laced with warning. “I mean it, Doc.”
Her head ordered her to be still and not to move a muscle. Making love with him would be foolish. It’d negate their legal separation. They’d have to go through the entire divorce process all over again. This wasn’t a reunion. It was lust with a kick. That hadn’t been enough to hold him before, and she’d just end up losing him all over again. More mourning. More pain. More emptiness and struggling to build a life without him. Did she need that? Want that? No. Only a fool would, and she was no fool.
Or was she?
Maybe she was the greatest kind of fool. Her heart still urged her to turn, to grab this chance with both hands and to hold on tight. Love or lust, one night or forever, she wanted him. What difference did the divorce make? The timing of it? It wasn’t as if she intended to remarry. She didn’t want any other man. She wanted this man. With her whole heart.
“And don’t forget Santos.” John’s voice dropped a decibel and went hard. “I can’t hold you in my arms and make love with you, knowing you’re thinking of him. I . . . won’t.”
Jonathan jealous? Of Miguel? And sounding equally bent on convincing himself as on convincing her? Her heart gave a little lurch, and her logic popped in with a discomforting thought her heart agreed she should accept. Whether or not they physically made love didn’t really matter. Not being physical wouldn’t protect her emotions. When John Mystic again exited her life, she again would mourn him. “There’s only you and me here, Jonathan,” she whispered.
He sucked in a deep breath, and his hand on her ribs trembled. “Then come here and let me love you.”
She turned over.
He pulled her to him, aligning their bodies, his hardness pushing against her belly. “It’s powerful stuff, Doc, telling a man you once needed him.”
How she must have hurt him with that. He’d felt as much an outsider in her life as she’d felt in his. To know, yes. Yes. To know you’re not only wanted, but needed. To feel vital and important to another human being. To matter. Powerful feeling. Powerful . . . and humbling.
She slipped her hand under his arm, around his waist to his broad back. “I know we should talk and settle our differences first. We should know what this means to us. Will we be together again just this once, or does this mean more?”
“I don’t know.” He kissed a trail along her jaw. “I only know I want you.”
Oh, God. He wanted her. Wanted her. A trickle of sheer pleasure streaked from the underside of her chin straight down her middle to her core. How many times had she lain in bed and cried because she’d never heard those words? How many times had she imagined him giving her what he now offered? And if she refused now, how many times in the years ahead would she regret it?
Still, one of them had to remain grounded. Consequences would follow. They’d both pay them. “It’ll cause problems with the divorce, Jonathan.”
“Right now, that doesn’t seem important.” He kissed the lobe of her ear, the soft spot behind it, the pulse point throbbing at her throat. “Did you mean it, Doc?�
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Would it be important later? She arched her neck, let her fingertips drift over his back, delighting in the familiar and missed feeling of warm velvet over steel, the flexing of his hard-packed muscle quivering and bunching at her touch. “Did I mean what?”
“That you needed me.”
The fierce hope that she did shimmered in his voice and arrowed straight into her heart. A lump of regret that she hadn’t told him, hadn’t let him see just how much she’d needed him, settled squarely in her throat and she promised herself that, regardless of what tomorrow brought them, tonight John Mystic wouldn’t doubt anything she felt for him. “I needed you then,” she confessed, “and I need you now.”
A groan rumbled down deep in his throat. He rolled her onto her back, then hovered above her. His arms suffered a tremor and his heart pounded against her breasts like a frantic drum. “I needed you then too, Doc.”
Oh, how she wished she could see his eyes! She was a fool to ask, but she had to know. Her heart just had to know. “And . . . now?”
Cupping her face in his hands, he vowed, “I need you now. I . . . need.”
He covered her lips with his in a searing kiss. Breathless, Bess dragged her hand over his shoulder, along its blade, and shoved her silky robe away from his warm skin. She needed, too. To touch him, to love him. To feel the magic.
The phone rang.
Bess snapped her eyes open, but either he hadn’t heard it, or he’d chosen to ignore it. On the third ring, she broke their kiss. “Jonathan, the phone.”
“Forget it,” he murmured against her lips, sliding his hand along her thigh. “They’ll call back.”
He touched a particularly sensitive spot, and she shuddered. “It could be important.”
“Not more important than this. Not to me.”
Her woman’s heart filled and, joyful, she kissed his clavicle to let him know it. “What if it’s the man from Portland?”
John went stiff in her arms. What if it was Keith? “I’d better get it.”
