by Vicki Hinze
“You’re back.”
He stood statue still and just stared at her.
“Jonathan?” She stepped out from behind the desk and over to him.
Not John but Jonathan. God, but she was beautiful. His heart swelled and his anger at himself doubled. He knew she felt she’d ranked second to Elise and the case. He knew he had only seven days to solve the case and to make Bess realize how much he loved her. He knew, and yet he . . . “You didn’t leave.”
She blinked, clearly wary. “No.”
“Your car isn’t fixed.” There had to be a reason—one that had nothing to do with him—that explained her still being here. Maybe the jail threat. The fine issue still loomed and, if she returned to New Orleans, Judge Branson would incarcerate her. “I thought Jimmy would have it repaired by now and when I didn’t see it in the parking area . . .
“You thought I’d gone.”
He nodded.
“Oh.”
How could one little word hold so many feelings? Disappointment, hurt, sorrow . . .
He was crazy for asking, but he’d go crazy wondering if he didn’t. “Is that the only reason you’re still here?”
“We have an agree—” She paused midsentence and some recognition flickered in her eyes. “No. No, that isn’t the only reason I’m still here.” She held open her arms and smiled. “Welcome home, Jonathan.”
In his mind, he again saw her standing on the front entry landing of their New Orleans home, smiling, arms open and welcoming, and the past and present merged in a poignant blend that had his emotions raw, his heart racing right up his throat, his soul singing a joyful refrain. “You’re not angry.”
“Should I be?” She lowered her arms to her sides.
Yes!” He lowered his voice, and chastised himself for shouting. How could she not be angry? Before, he hadn’t realized, but now, now he knew how she’d feel and yet he had taken off like a rocket, chasing a lead, and had left her behind again anyway. Why hadn’t it even occurred to him to ask if she’d like to go along? “I’m sorry, Bess.”
“Okay.’ She sounded wary, and her lip twitched double-time.
She didn’t understand his apology. He was mucking it up. He clasped her hands in his. They were cool. From the damp spill, he’d figured they’d be warm. Evidently, she’d been here in his room with that mug of milk for quite some time. Looking at the mess she’d made, she had to have been here since he’d left.
And why her making a mess of his case files pleased him when he should be mad as hell, he hadn’t a clue. Maybe because she was still here. Maybe because the mess proved she’d not even thought of leaving him. Maybe because he felt so grateful that he’d not blown their second chance, and he had the opportunity to make this latest infraction up to her.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” He met her gaze. “No, I did. I’m sorry, Bess. Here we had agreed to seven days of marriage—no mention of the divorce, no mention of anything negative, only seven days to be together—and with one phone call on the case, I take off.” He dropped her hands and stepped away. “I shouldn’t have gone.”
“You had to go.”
“I should’ve asked you to come with me.”
“You needed to do this on your own. I know that. This case, well, it’s special to you, and you had to handle this facet of it as you’ve handled the whole thing—with total focus.”
“Would you quit defending me?” He turned his back to her. With the clenching of his fists, his gray-suited shoulders bunched. “I put it first, Bess. Knowing how you felt last time, fool that I am, I did it again.”
She walked over and hugged him from behind. “You’re not a fool, darling. You’re dedicated and concerned.” Her cheek vibrated against his back. “You couldn’t not follow up on this lead any more than you could postpone following the one over Christmas. You still don’t know what happened to Dixie, what might be happening to her. And now that Elise is gone, you feel even more pressure to solve this case and see to it that her daughter is okay.”
“You forgive me.” He didn’t deserve it. But he wanted it. God, how he wanted it. He covered her hands at his waist with his.
She kissed his broad back. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
He spun around then pulled her into his arms, clutching her to him, telling himself not to hug her too tightly or he’d crush her. But warm and giving, she hugged him just as fiercely.
A long minute passed . . . then another . . . then yet another, and still they stood there in the middle of his chaotic room, just holding each other.
“Jonathan,” she patted his back, “sit down. I have a surprise for you.”
Because it was closer than the desk chair and he was reeling, he chose the bed.
“Close your eyes.” Bess’s eyes shone bright.
Tears? Or mischief? He’d take either. She wasn’t angry. She’d understood. And that’s all that mattered. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, loosened his tie and top shirt button, then dutifully closed his eyes. Bess had gotten him a present. If only he’d solved the case, he’d tell her that the only present he wanted was the only present he’d ever wanted: her.
But he hadn’t solved the case, and until he did, he wasn’t worthy of her.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” Ritz and Bess. God, what a heady mix. Tomorrow, when he called Bryce, he’d also call his broker and buy stock in the company producing it.
“Okay.” Her voice went husky-deep, sexy. “Open your eyes, Jonathan.”
He lifted his lids and took the small, glossy white bag she held out to him. In the folds of crackling tissue paper, he felt something hard . . . something oval . . . then pulled it out of the bag.
A terracotta box with blueberries and vines atop it, just like the one she’d bought for Miss Hattie. His words came back to haunt him. I hate that box. You chose it. So what did this mean? He glanced from it up to Bess.
Her eyes glistened with tears. “It’s a symbol of good faith and our agreement. I’ve chosen you again, Jonathan.”
His heart felt so full it nearly burst. And his eyes stung like fire. She’d chosen him again. Yes, only for seven days. But each day was an unexpected blessing—one he’d never dared to dream of. “Thank you, Doc.”
She gave him a watery smile and drew in a breath that heaved her shoulders. “So, what happened in Portland? Good news?”
He put the box on the desk, then reached for Bess. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now I’ve got something more important to do.”
She went into his arms willingly. “Priorities, right?”
“Definitely.” He nodded, his gaze locked with hers. “When a man’s wife gives him a gift, he should show his immediate appreciation. Don’t you agree?”
She smiled up at him and looped her arms around his neck. “Wholeheartedly—provided he is appreciative.”
“He is.”
“And how is he going to show his wife his appreciation?”
Her heart was thumping as hard as his. “This particular wife is fond of having her feet rubbed,” he said. “So he’ll start there.”
She snuggled closer, breasts to chest. “Start there?” Rearing, she met his gaze. “And where will this particular husband’s appreciation end?”
“That depends on my wife.” What if she refused? She’d agreed to seven days, but without feelings for him that went beyond the magic, could Bess follow through on their settlement proposal? Would she? Did she want even affection from him? And what about Santos? Before John had left for Portland, when they’d been so close to making love, she’d said only she and John had been there. Santos’s ghost hadn’t been between them then. But had that been only the heat of the moment? Had she had second thoughts? Was the man between them now?
Bess rubbed the tip of his chin with her nose. “Why don’t you start and we’ll see where it ends?”
“There’s something I have to do first.” He nuzzled the shell of her ear, then guiding her chin with a
fingertip, he lifted her mouth to his. “I missed you, Bess. God, but I missed you so much.”
A little groan escaped from low in her throat. “I missed you, too.”
Their lips touched and, in a mingle of sighed breaths, touched again. Bess curled her arms around him, working her fingers along the ridge of muscle at his side. Her tongue pressed at the juncture of his lips and he parted them, welcoming her inside. She darted past lips and teeth and found his tongue, rubbed it against hers, swirled and danced and mated. He started to tremble and then to shake, wanting her, having spent the last hours fearing he’d lost her, and now holding her in his arms. More than anything else, he needed to make love with her, to show her all she made him feel, to confirm that this wasn’t a dream but a miracle. She was in his arms. His arms. Loving him. Loving only him.
Her fingertips moved to the buttons of his shirt then popped them loose, one by one. Her free hand shoved at his jacket and he shrugged out of it, refusing to break their kiss, to risk losing the magic. His jacket tumbled from the edge of the bed to the floor and she tugged at the tail of his shirt, pulling it loose from his slacks. He let his hands explore her back, her sides, that taunting part of her from breast to waist. The silk robe slid against her skin and the urge to remove the nuisance aroused an eagerness to feel her skin grazing him, chest to thigh. Fumbling, impatient, he sought the knot in her belt, reveled in the cool night air hitting his now bare chest, the skimming of her gentle hands unsteadily smoothing the fabric, shoving it off his shoulders, of her fingertips gliding down his arms, then unbuttoning his cuffs. He mimicked her moves, heard the muted swish of her robe sliding to the floor, and opened his eyes. She stood before him gloriously naked, as she had so long ago, as he’d mentally seen her so many times since their last time together. He wanted to look at her, to again see the body he’d once known as well as his own, but her hands, running inside the waistband of his slacks, sliding around his middle to his belt buckle, had him mindless and sucking in air that made his stomach concave. He couldn’t break their kiss and lose the magic. Not now. Not . . . now.
God, but he needed her. And the words she’d given him echoed through his mind. I needed you then, and I need you now. Only you, darling. Only you . . .
Bess wanted only him. Lord, how she wanted only him. Hand cupped over zipper and placket, she rubbed the hard length of him. He shuddered, groaned deeply from the back of his throat, and she savored the feel of him, hard and longing, the intimate signs of his hunger for her, signs that sparked, ignited, and set to flame her own passion, and then mercilessly strengthened it. Memories of how wonderful they’d been together whirled in her mind, snatches of images of him loving her, whispering endearments, murmuring loving sighs. Impatient, she shoved past the last of the barriers between them. His slacks dropped down, pooling around his ankles. Chain and keys and coins tinkled and clanged to the floor. His wallet thudded. Her heart raced.
His arms around her, he raised her, toed off his shoes, then stepped away from their pool of clothes. Eyes open, they smiled at each other, teeth to teeth, breasts to chest, his hardness burrowing into her belly, inflaming senses already ablaze. Before she’d not have said a word, not told him the feelings he aroused in her. Now, things were different. Now, she couldn’t not tell him.
She broke their kiss. Cupped his face in her hands, then rubbed tiny circles on his jaw with the pads of her thumbs. “Jonathan, I loved you . . . then. With all my heart. And I want you more right now than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”
His eyes stretched wide. He held her, not moving, not breathing, just staring deeply into her eyes. “I loved you, too, Doc . . . then.”
Then. They’d both been honest, yet protective, self-survival ranking imperative because of the divorce. Now understanding their needs in ways she’d never understood them before, she accepted their instinctive reactions without searching for deeper meanings. Seven days. And then divorce. Seven days, and then never again would she be free to tell him anything, or to ask anything of him. “Tell me you . . . want me, Jonathan. I need to hear you say you want me.”
“I want you, woman. Never doubt it.” He dropped back onto the bed, taking her with him, then rolled over until he was atop her and blazing a slow, deliberate trail of kisses to her throat, her shoulders, her clavicles. Bess reveled in the sensations, knowing that before she got out of his bed, she’d feel his touch on her every inch, sensations she’d draw deep down into her soul and savor the rest of her days.
He worked his way down her body, paying homage, keeping promises, making more, then, urged with hushed whispers and encouraging hands, he settled himself between her thighs. Pausing at her portal, he ground out from between his teeth, “Look at me, Bess. Tell me who’s loving you?”
She opened her eyes and the fierce intensity, the depth of the desire burning in his beloved eyes, captured her heart all over again. She curled her hands, threaded her fingertips through his hair. “You, Jonathan. Only you.”
He entered her in a fluid stroke with a guttural groan that sent shivers of sheer pleasure rippling through her body. She cupped his buttocks, delighting in the swell and hollow of them with his thrusts. Thought ceased. Feeling reigned. And the pleasures of the flesh seeped deeper, rousing the soul, fitting the two as seamlessly together with the heart as their bodies perfectly joined.
The pressure built, coiled tighter and tighter, and then shattered. Bess reveled in the aftershocks, and opened her eyes, breathless and eager to see John’s expression. Head lolled back, eyes closed, muscles straining, he climaxed, his expression all she had hoped for, and more: enraptured.
If never before, if never again, tonight, Bess had touched the man beneath the flesh.
He collapsed against her chest, his skin moist, his breathing rough and ragged, and kissed her between tremors and shudders. She squeezed him tight, not wanting this closeness, this communion, to end.
Long minutes later, when his breathing returned to normal, he tugged at the covers and jerked them back, sending papers flying. Holding her to him, he rolled onto the sheets, then jerked the bed clear of debris and covered them. Bess smiled against his hair-roughened chest. Even physically satisfied, he didn’t want to let her go.
For seven days.
A tear sprang to her eye, then trickled down her cheek. Seven days.
On his back, he sandwiched her legs between his thighs. “Bess?” he whispered against her forehead.
“Hmmm?” A second tear followed the first.
“For the record, we didn’t just have sex. At least, I didn’t.”
He’d given and wanted reassurance. The tears in her throat melted. “Me, either.” She tilted her face up to his and looked into his eyes. “We made love, Jonathan.”
His eyes went solemn and he lifted a finger to her face, touched it to the skin just under her eye. “Is that why you’re crying? Because you regret it?”
Her chin quivered. “No.” She wanted to say more, but couldn’t. Too many emotions churned close to the surface.
“I need to know why, Doc.”
Need Not want, but need. We all need to be needed. She swallowed hard. “Because it was so beautiful. You touched my heart.”
His eyes went soft and his lip curled into a wondrous smile. “You touched my heart, too.”
Another tear slipped to her cheek and she smiled back. “I’ll be awake for hours.”
He stretched over to turn off the lamp. “You’ll be asleep in under a minute. You always said making love revved you up, but—” John looked down at the angel cradled to his side. Her lashes lay golden against her cheeks. She was asleep.
A poignant tear stealing from his eye, he clicked off the lamp, then settled in, his wife in his arms. A contentment he’d never before known blanketed him. Tomorrow those shadows would be gone from her eyes. Tonight, together, they’d rest.
He burrowed his nose against her neck and inhaled her sweet Ritz. Life just didn’t get any better than this. Bess in his arms, the
scents of their loving filling him . . . He’d touched her heart. John smiled. No, life didn’t get any better than this.
And Tony’s message to Bess again came to John’s mind. Leap upon a mystic tide and have faith the sand will shift and an island will appear.
John snapped open his eyes and stared at the high, sloped ceiling awash in midnight shadows. Shifting sand. His relationship with Bess was shifting. John’s mind slipped into overdrive—and the truth pumped through his veins.
Tony’s message wasn’t merely a message.
It was a map!
Chapter 11
John intended to kiss Bess awake. And he would do it—just as soon as he got his fill of looking at her. In unguarded sleep, she looked angelic. Feeling tender, he fought the urge to touch her face. Last night, she’d loved him. She’d not held back physically, but she hadn’t totally let herself go emotionally. That was asking for the impossible. They only had seven days and, for complete inhibition, a woman like Bess needed a lifetime assured of a man’s love.
He’d give it to her. God, but he’d love to give it to her . . . if only he had the right.
Because he didn’t, he stared at her. At the smooth, clean line of her jaw, the gentle curve at the cove of her neck, the sweep of her lashes resting softly against her cheek. Her lips were parted, and between them he glimpsed her teeth, the tip of her tongue. On her side, she had her knees curled to her chest, one hand slung over her head, the other tucked under her pillow, and her hair was a wreck. The tender hitch in his chest tugged tighter, and he smiled. The woman was beautiful to him in every way.
He probably was as crazy as Selena accused him of being. Pretending for seven days that the divorce didn’t exist. Pretending he and Bess were happily married. Pretending she loved him now as she’d said she’d loved him then. The back of his nose stung and his eyes burned. It might be crazy, but it was also the only way he stood a chance of making it through the rest of his life without her.
