Master of Freedom: A Mountain Masters Novella (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 5)

by Cherise Sinclair

  And now…now came the apology she longed for. “Too late, Preston.”

  “Nonsense, darling. I love you; you love me, and—”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “Nope. Doesn’t look to me like she loves you.” The rough voice came from directly behind her, and a powerful hand closed on her shoulder.

  She jumped and looked up and up to meet Atticus’s gray-blue eyes. The relaxed impression from his cowboy hat and denim jacket was contradicted by the danger in his stance. “Sweetheart,” he murmured.

  The feeling of his hard hand on her shoulder made her world tilt sideways.

  He took advantage of her paralysis to plant a firm kiss on her lips.

  Oh. Oh, oh, oh.

  “What…” Preston rose, shock on his face. “Who the hell is this, Ginny?”

  “I’d be the man in her life now,” Atticus said.

  His pissed-off growl wasn’t lost on Gin—and didn’t matter at all. His voice sank into her like a spring shower on a drought-stricken plant.

  “I doubt that seriously. You need to leave.” Preston gave her an earnest look. “Ginny, send him away so we can talk. But don’t worry, honey, I understand what happens to a woman on the rebound.”

  “You don’t know much about women, do you?” Atticus said.

  Preston gave him an annoyed glance. “Ginny, I don’t hold this lapse against you. We’ll still get married as we planned.” Preston curled his hand back around hers. “Yes, I want to marry you even if you had a fling. We’ll call it even and start over.”

  Oh my stars. What kind of messed-up karma was this? “No, we’re not even, and we’re not starting over. We’re done.” She yanked her hand away and realized Atticus was still right behind her. His powerful hand still gripped her shoulder.

  Never let go. Please.

  She closed her eyes. And her reaction to his touch was one more reason she couldn’t be with him.

  “Preston, go home.” She rose, turned her back on him, and gave Atticus a level look. The words this time came much, much harder. She made her tone forceful. “I’m sorry, Atticus. But I do believe we are not together.”

  How could each word feel as if it were drawing blood?

  His cowboy hat shaded his eyes as he studied her thoughtfully. Then he nodded and made a motion toward the door for Preston, deliberately letting his jacket fall open to show off his giant sidearm.

  Men.

  After a second of hesitation, Preston took a few steps. He turned and cast her a hopeful look. “Call me, darling.”

  “No. Never.”

  Hurt filled his eyes.

  Oh. Oh no. No, she couldn’t hurt him. Not him; not anyone. “Oh, honey, I’m not the woman for you. Really I’m not. But you will find one who suits you better. Don’t give up.”

  After a second, he nodded and wove his way through the room and out the door.

  Atticus, after another unreadable gaze, followed—taking her heart with him. When he’d said, “I’d be the man in her life now,” she’d felt only warmth. Happiness.

  But…for heaven’s sake, he wasn’t in her life. They’d split up, hadn’t they? Whatever relationship they’d had was over.

  So why had he said that?

  * * * *

  When she left the diner, she found Atticus leaning against his mud-spattered pickup, which was parked in front of her car. His long legs were extended, his arms crossed over his chest. Under the glow of the streetlight, the black hat shaded his features, increasing the ominous look of his dark beard.

  “Why are you still here?” She wanted to smack herself for the inane question. “In fact, what were you doing in the restaurant right then?”

  “I saw you drive past the station, looking upset. Wanted to make sure you were all right.” He leaned forward, hooked his fingers in her belt, and tugged her between his legs. His hands settled on her hips. “You still look a mite shaken.”

  Why did it feel so good to be the target of his concern?

  “I’m fine. He was my ex-fiancé.”

  “Got that.”

  “It’s long over.”

  “Got that too. But a woman like you cares deeply. Losing someone would be like hauling a tree out by the roots. You’d hurt…for a long time.”

  Her eyes prickled with his quiet understanding. “I did.” She forced a smile. “But I’m all better now.”

  He snorted and drew her into his arms. “Liar.”

  His masculine mountain scent held a hint of gun oil and leather, and nothing was as comforting. For a moment, maybe two, she nestled against him, soaking up his strength.

  And then she moved back. Her heart couldn’t handle being torn apart again, and this man could do far, far more damage than Preston. “Thanks for the hug.”

  “My pleasure.” He studied her. “Looks like your evening is free now. This would be a good time to talk.” He opened the pickup’s passenger door.

  “Talk? No.”

  Ignoring her protest, he hoisted her up into the seat. “Stay put. Let’s get this done, Virginia.” The angle of his jaw displayed an intimidating sternness.

  Her throat dried up around her protest. Her fingers started doing a wringing thing. Maybe this was good. Surely, she could explain better. She’d hurt him last time, and she’d never have done that for anything. “Where are you taking me?”

  His satisfied smile showed he knew he’d gotten his way. “My place.”

  Once at his house, Atticus didn’t want her to have a chance to change her mind. He pulled her straight into the bedroom. This time, she’d listen and so would he.

  “Hey.” She tugged against his grip. “You can’t—”

  He took her hands between his. “I want to say I’m sorry.”

  Her brows drew together. “For what?”

  “When you told me how you felt that day in the parking lot, I reacted badly.” He still felt the burn of the insult and shook his head. “You’re a counselor. You know how people process events through their own filters, right?”

  Her struggle stopped. “Well, yes. What filter were you using, Atticus?”

  “My stepfather beat my mother.”

  “I remember you said that.”

  “He also ‘used’ her. She slaved to be perfect so he wouldn’t have a reason to hit her.” His mouth twisted. “Of course, violence doesn’t need reasons. But when you said you tried too hard, it felt as if you meant you thought I’d hurt you if you didn’t.”

  Dismay filled her face. “No. Oh, no, honey, I didn’t mean that at all.”

  He brushed her lips with his. “Took a while, but I figured it out. I’m sorry I reacted instead of listening as I should.” Holding her face between his palms, he looked into her unhappy eyes. “Can you forgive me, Gin?”

  “There is absolutely nothing to forgive. This is all related to my problems. You did nothing wrong.”

  This kiss was long and gentle; her lips were as soft as her heart. She hadn’t even thought twice about forgiving him. He sank deeper into the kiss, his tongue stroking hers, before he pulled back. They had issues to resolve first.

  “I want you out of the clothes.” Without letting her protest, he quickly stripped her down, pushing aside her half-hearted attempts to hinder him. Shoes, pants, sweater, shirt. Pretty yellow underwear.

  “We’re not going to…this isn’t the time, Atticus.”

  Her gaze focused on his face as she tried to read his expression. With luck, she wouldn’t be able to.

  In contrast, she was an open book. Dark circles under her eyes told him she hadn’t been sleeping. Her skin had lost its glow. Those changes were on him, he knew. His inability to get his head on straight had meant a rough two weeks for her.

  Him as well. Seeing her in the restaurant with the asshole had strained his control. He’d never felt the full force of jealousy before—or wanted to beat the crap out of another man. But he’d touched her. Had made her unhappy.

  Of course, his softhearted woman had forgiven the basta
rd. Told him to have hope. Gin really was something. He touched her cheek gently.

  The confusion in her gaze, the rigidity of her shoulders, the trembling of her fingers—he figured the mixture of ex-fiancé and unsettled relationship with her new man had put those there.

  He didn’t like knowing he’d have her shaking much harder before the evening was over. Since he finally had an idea of the problem, he’d push ahead, even if they’d both be miserable while he did.

  Oddly enough, even with her naked in front of him, he wasn’t aroused. The heaviness in his gut said this wouldn’t be an easy “session” even though he wouldn’t put her through a complete scene. If they’d been together longer, she might have trusted him to tie her up and dig out the traumatic details of her past. Yet—catch-22—if she had confided her story, she’d be able to trust him for more in-depth scenes.

  Instead, tonight he’d be operating handicapped. But even without bondage, he could demolish some of the barriers to intimacy and truth.

  “Atticus.”

  He was dressed; she was naked, reinforcing the dynamic. “Shhh, little counselor. Although I love having my hands on you, sex isn’t happening tonight.” Remembering her guilt earlier, he pressed the remorse button. “But I really think you owe me a bit of a talk, don’t you?”

  Her forest-green eyes were unhappy, but she wouldn’t back away. She had more strength than she gave herself credit for—and she’d far rather hurt herself than someone else. “All right. But after, you’ll take me back to my car.”

  “I will.” He stroked her soft cheek. “There’s a terrycloth bathrobe in the closet. Put it on and wait on the back deck.”

  “I…”

  “Shhh.” When she didn’t move, he nudged her forward.

  Her obedience showed in her silence. As he walked out of the room, he heard the closet door open.

  After pulling out a couple of glasses and a bottle of whiskey—and a hair tie—he went outside.

  Dark had fallen completely and a breeze carried a hint of snow from the snow-topped mountains. Gin stood in the center of the cedar deck. The bathrobe sleeves hung over her hands so far she looked like a child playing dress-up. Damn, she was cute.

  He set the tray on the deck and uncovered the hot tub. Steam rose into the night air.

  “You have a lovely place.” She motioned to the lantern-shaped solar lights edging the wide cedar deck. “But, I don’t think—”

  “Exactly.” He pulled her robe off. Gathering her hair up, he fastened it on top of her head with a scrunchie. “Tonight, you’re too tired to think. You simply do what I tell you to do.”

  “What?” Her back went straight.

  Enjoying the stunned reaction of an independent woman, he kissed her nose. “Hop in.”

  Despite her exasperated expression, she didn’t argue further. The sag of her shoulders and her pale drawn face showed the altercation with her ex had used up her fight-back stores.

  The hot tub was level with the surface of the deck. Bending, she sampled the water with a toe, and her hiss made him chuckle.

  He kept the temperature toasty, and she had beautifully delicate skin. “Go in as slow as you want as long as you get there eventually.”

  And there was her spunk. Her chin came up. “Why did I have the misconception that you were a gentleman?”

  Difficult to get offended by an insult delivered in her melting southern drawl. “I’ve got no idea, baby. Maybe because when the gentleman meets the Dom, the Dom wins?”

  At his level stare, her gaze fell.

  As she worked her way in, he stripped, flipped on the jets, and stepped into the heat. As bubbles hissed on the water’s surface, he poured drinks.

  Gin took her time getting in. When she finally settled and leaned back on the side, he handed her a glass. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  Her low hum agreed, despite her snippy, “If a person likes feeling like a roast in a crock pot.”

  With his right arm on the side, he could play with the silky tendrils on her nape. As he enjoyed his whiskey, he let the heat work on his—and she was damn well his—submissive.

  The bourbon wasn’t Jack Daniels. She swirled the amber liquid and sampled again. The taste of caramel and brown sugar, full and balanced, ended with a hint of leather. The alcohol was warm, so very warm on the tongue and going down. Far too soon, she realized she’d finished.

  “Like it?” His penetrating gaze was on her as he refilled her drink. He was studying her, as he was wont to do.

  “It’s not Jack Daniels.” Despite the sense of disloyalty, she gave him the truth. “It’s quite wonderful, actually. What is it?”

  “Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve. Still southern-made, li’l magnolia.” He leaned back, arms outstretched along the edge. The soft glow of the lights shadowed the strong muscular planes of his chest. On his right deltoid, a “Semper fi” tattoo spanned a colorful eagle, globe, and anchor. She ran a finger over it. “You were a Marine?”

  “Yep.”

  His other arm had a butt-ugly bulldog with a Marine Corps cap and a cigar between its teeth. So ferocious. “He’s rather adorable, isn’t he?”

  Atticus looked affronted. “He’s not adorable.”

  Yes, he was, but oops. Tough guys were awfully endearing when defending their sacred masculinity. Unable to resist, she ran her free hand down his chest, slowing at several jagged, raised scars over his ribs. “What are these from?”

  “Caught some frag in Baghdad,” he said lazily. “Lucky I wasn’t closer.”

  She shivered at the thought and took a gulp of the whiskey. He could have died; she’d never have met him. “Atticus…”

  His arm curved around her, pulling her against him. “The past is over. We’re here and alive. Let’s concentrate on that, yeah?”

  “Yes.” Even as the jets massaged her tense muscles, the alcohol was lighting a small fire inside her. If she kept drinking, she’d end up a puddle of jelly. She turned to set the glass down.

  He poured another shot in it.

  Politeness said she should drink. With no lunch or supper, she could feel the alcohol spinning her thoughts, like a slow motion tilt-a-whirl. She should get out, put her clothes on, and get home. Instead, her mouth took on its own independence. “Why are you doing this, Atticus? Ah thought—” Oh spit, her drawl was thickening.

  “There we go,” he murmured.

  She gave him a confused look, then continued voicing her concern. “I thought we’d…um, broken everything off between us.”

  “Got a few things I need to know first, baby, that’ve bothered me. You said men use you. But, from what I saw, you’re stronger than your ex is. Can you tell me what happened?”

  His fingers kneaded her knotted neck, the jets massaged her taut back, and she felt so, so warm, inside and out.

  “Gin?”

  He’d asked her a question. Her body tried to tense, but all her muscles had turned into overcooked noodles. With an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close enough to rest her cheek against his chest.

  She gave in. “I somehow ended up doing everything—whether he asked or not—and the more I did, the less he helped. The less he listened. The less he listened, the more I worried about our relationship, so I worked harder.”

  Atticus made a sound of encouragement.

  She motioned with her hand, realized it held a glass, and finished the pretty amber liquid. “I was spiraling down, like a whirlpool. I knew if I didn’t do enough, he’d walk away. Leave me because I…”

  “Because you what?” Atticus’s deep rumble compelled an answer, whether she had one or not.

  “Because I wasn’t enough to make him happy.”

  “Preston told you that?”

  “No. He never did.” Up the nearby slope, trees rustled in a pleasant accompaniment to the bubbling water. Tipping her head back, she saw the stars in the black sky had grown from mere pinpoints to wide discs of light.

  A hand closed over hers, drawing her b
ack to earth. “If the bast—if Preston never said that, who did? Who said you weren’t enough to make him happy?”

  “No one.”

  At his grunt of disbelief, she frowned. The glass was plucked from her hand and returned with more liquid. “Who, baby?”

  Even alcohol couldn’t blur that memory. The sharp-edged words had been carved into her heart with a rusty knife. “Daddy.”

  “Ah.” The tone held satisfaction. “He was displeased with you?”

  “With us.” Why, Daddy? How could she possibly explain? She set her palm on Atticus’s broad chest. Beneath the springy hair were his rock-hard pectorals. He was so strong in both body and character. How could a man like this understand weakness? “Mama constantly tried to please him, always cleaning and cooking and soft-spoken.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was a sales rep for an international firm. And he loved it. He’d take a position overseas for months at a time.”

  Atticus’s eyes narrowed. “Leaving you over and over.”

  The memory hurt. “Mama didn’t function well alone. It was like she needed a man to affirm her existence.” Gin chewed on her lip. “Really, she should have had a career or cause to balance her.”

  “Baby.” Atticus’s touch on her cheek brought her attention back. “What happened to your father?”

  She shrugged. “Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore and told Mama she didn’t make him happy. We didn’t make him happy. When the divorce papers came in the mail, Mama fell apart. I think she cried for months.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, I had school—and Mama—to keep me busy.” Definitely Mama. Cooking meals and coaxing her mother to eat, figuring out the bills and prodding her mother into telling her how to write checks, doing the laundry and manipulating her mother to get her to socialize again.

  “So you took on caring for your mother.” His smile was slow and understanding. “When you told me about becoming an adult before my ‘childhood peer group did,’ you knew personally what you were talking about, didn’t you?”

  “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” To escape the subject of her ugly past, she picked up the whiskey bottle and looked for his glass. “Refill?”