Текст книги "Within Temptation"

Автор книги: Tanya Holmes

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Not up for more of his pathetic threats, I wrenched my arm free. “The same applies to you, cousin.”

His lips slid into a spiteful grin. “And here I thought that slap you gave me was a fluke. But maybe you do have a spine.” He feigned a shudder. “Ooooh. Should I be scared?”

“Will you please go sleep it off? Gerard can take you home.”

“I don’t need that insipid fag to drive me anywhere.”

I noted the bags under his eyes. Something more was going on, but I was too emotionally drained to figure it out. “Look,” I said with a heavy sigh, “if you think I’ll stand by while you and Uncle abuse power, you’re mistaken. Trace doesn’t have the money or the influence to fight you. Cholly does, but he refuses to stoop to your level. But as you can see, I have no problem with it. Now get out of my way before you piss me off.”

He didn’t budge, just knocked back another belt, his angry eyes drilling into mine. “Dawson’s dick must really be good.”

I made a fist to keep from clawing his face. Only Mead could drive me to such violence. “I’ll tell you what I told Uncle. Leave Trace and Cholly alone.”

“And if I don’t?”

I flashed an icy smile. “Erica Davies will get a tip. Namely, that the mayor and his cronies are a bunch of bigots.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Cholly’s mother is black and his father is Italian.”

Mead’s blue eyes hardened to ice chips. “I’m not a racist and you know it!”

“But will the voters?” His face boiled a bright shade of red as I added with restrained glee, “I’ll also tell them you’re a serial adulterer, a raging alcoholic, and that you’ve stirred up so much hate, your supporters are terrorizing innocent people—oh, and let’s not forget desecrating an old woman’s grave.”

“You lying, scheming, manipulative little—”

“Yes, growing up Bradford taught me much.” I narrowed my eyes on him. “Call off your dogs or kiss the governor’s mansion goodbye. Cross me on this and I’ll bury you.” I started up the stairs, leaving him with his mouth hanging open. “Now go wait for Gerard. You’re in no condition to drive.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Slip Of The Tongue

TRACE

____________________________

Damn, I’d missed this place.

I leaned back in my chair and scanned the dive from end to end. Twelve years had passed since I’d seen Rascal’s and nothing had changed. Temptation’s premiere hole-in-the-wall was still rowdy as hell and still reeked of cigarettes, grease, and sour beer. The decor looked the same too, from the slew of photos that chronicled the owner’s bush-league boxing career, to the scarred entryway floor that creaked in the winter.

Rascal’s would forever be a haven for outcasts, old rummies, and the socially challenged. The most important rule was to mind your own damn business. That meant you don’t ask questions and you don’t judge. Like Vegas, whatever happened here stayed here. It was the old honor among drunks sort of thing, the perfect hideaway for a man on parole.

I picked at the label on my beer as a toothless old coot with a pink face and matching eyes staggered to the jukebox. The bum mined a quarter from his jeans, dropped the coin into the slot.

Next came the loud, nasal twang of a cowboy whining about the girl that got away. But then, weren’t all these stupid songs about the same thing?

And this one was almost comical. Seemed the ‘girl’ had stabbed the cowboy, shot his dog, slashed his tires, and torched his doublewide. But the pussy-whipped fool still begged her to come back.

My house ain’t the only thang burnin’ for you, he crooned.

What a dumb ass.

“They didn’t have Herradura. Just Cuervo.”

The familiar voice tore into my thoughts. Dressed in a wrinkled tie and a cheap suit, Icky stood over me and set two shots of tequila and two long necks on the table.

“I’ll be right back,” Icky said. “My fries are up.”

I had, to use Shannon’s terminology, offered Icky an ‘olive branch.’ Given yesterday’s events at the graveyard, I figured it was time to clean house.

First up, my beef with my brother-in-law. So far, we’d shared a drink. Trash talked. Cracked jokes. You know, the usual shit guys do to disarm a frenemy, but I was determined to make our truce real.

“The cemetery called this morning,” Icky told me when he came back. He plopped onto his chair, set a hot basket of fries on the table, and dug in.

I tossed back a shot. “And?”

“They’re replacing the headstone for free, but Bev’s been crying nonstop.” Icky dabbed a fry in catsup. “Guess it finally hit her that Dottie’s gone.”

“I’m glad you were there for her.”

Icky paused mid-chew. He looked surprised.

White noise filled the void: sounds of liquor pouring, drunken laughter, and clinking ice cubes. Voices rose. A trio of rummies sang out of tune. One of the barmaids dumped a beer on a guy who’d squeezed her ass. Damn if she didn’t look like Shannon. Same height. Same hair color. Breasts were smaller though.

Shit.

I’d thought of nothing else since she’d run out on me last night; had to stop myself from calling her at least twice today. Hell, would she even show up tonight? One part of me worried I’d taken things too far, while the other—more vocal part—didn’t think I’d gone far enough.

“Can I be straight with you?” Icky asked, dragging me back to the present.

I hitched a shoulder. “You got the floor.”

Icky drummed his thumbs on the table while he chewed. “I just wanted to say that the stuff I pulled at the plaza—it was wrong.” He hunched closer. “We’re never going to be boys again. I think we both know that.”

“Icky—”

“No, hear me out.” Perspiration dotted his upper lip. “But I’m willing to pretend for Bev’s sake.”

I scooted forward. “My sister’s made her choice and I accept it. If getting along with you makes her life easier, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Icky stared back at me. “You’re serious?”

There were shadows in his pale green eyes. Sweaty half-circles stained his underarms. His shirt collar had a centimeter or two of dampness as well. The boy had always had a nervous energy about him…when he was strung out.

It’s none of your business. Let it go. “This thing with Mama got me thinking about a lot of stuff,” I told him. “You and me, we’re kin now. Let’s just lay all the bullshit aside.”

A temporary peace settled over us after that. We chatted some more, even laughed a few times. But an hour and several thousand hollow words later, Icky’s watch—a Rolex—beeped.

A Rolex.

Yep, gonna have to let that one go as well, Tracemore.

Icky flicked a glance at his watch. “Damn. It’s three o’clock already.” He stood, fished a twenty from his pocket, and tossed it on the table. “Man, I’m sorry.” He threw his suit jacket over an arm. “I’ve got to meet somebody.” He turned to leave, then rounded. “Wish you’d been there for Thanksgiving. Bev outdid herself. Maybe you could come for Sunday dinner?”

“Ah, yeah. Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”

I watched Icky leave, wanting to believe we could be one big happy family, but my gut said otherwise.

TRACE

____________________________

“I wake up. You’re gone. I call. You hang up. What’s going on, Amber?”

Longneck in hand, I leaned a hip against my kitchen counter and wedged the receiver between my shoulder and jaw. On a lark, I’d dialed Amber’s number, hoping to catch her in a better mood, but I’d had her on the phone two minutes already and she’d been anything but cooperative.

“You knew I had to get back to work eventually,” she said. “Payroll was due and we’ve got a ton of events this month.”

“So you just up and leave without saying goodbye?”

“I had my reasons.”

“Which are?”

“You. Me.” She paused. “Our sex life. Need I go on?”

Just as I’d suspected. This was about the robot thing. “How do a couple off nights justify your disappearing act?”

“Trust me. You don’t want to go there.”

“Damn it, will you just tell me?”

A long stretch of dead air followed before she said, “You talk in your sleep.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Some people mumble, but you—you talk.” She paused again, for dramatic effect, no doubt. “The morning I left, you were tossing and turning. It was about 5 a.m. so I thought you were having another nightmare. That’s when they usually happen. But this time I couldn’t wake you. So I turned the light on.”

I washed down a swallow of beer. “Is there a punch line?”

“You were smiling.”

“Since when is that a bad thing?”

“You were also hard.”

I rolled my eyes. “For cryin’ out loud. I can’t help what my cock does when I’m asleep.”

“Your dick isn’t the problem. It’s your mind.” Silence echoed for a few tense seconds until she dropped a bombshell. “Trace, you whispered ‘Shannon.’ Then you came.”

Speechless, I sagged against the wall and clumsily set the beer on the counter. Felt like she’d hit me with a knockout punch. An eternity inched by before either of us spoke.

“Look.” Her voice gentled. “I know we have a no strings thing. I’m the one who set the rules up that way. But no woman, no matter how open-minded, could deal with something like this. You’ve got feelings for her. Admit it.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. I’d been wrestling with these ‘feelings’ for weeks and hadn’t a clue what do with them. Shannon was engaged. End of story.

She’d made that clear when she stood me up four days ago. Didn’t even bother to call with an excuse, or at the very least, an apology. And every call I’d made to her cell phone went straight to voice mail. I’d left at least three messages—five if you counted hang-ups.

Calling her office yielded the same frustrating results. Her‘administrative assistant’ Beatrice always answered, claiming Shannon was in a meeting. Or that she’d just stepped out. One time I’d even heard Shannon whisper, ‘Tell him I’m not here.’

I didn’t need a house to fall on me.

“You won’t believe this,” Amber continued, yanking me away from my wandering thoughts, “but your face gets all weird when we pass her billboards. It’s…a predatory look. Reminds me of the face my ex-husband used to make when he’d take me deer hunting.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, I’m serious. I can even tell when you’re thinking about her. Like you were that night I made dinner. Then there was the time I watched the two of you at Home Depot. In the parking lot. Trace, the way you were looking at her—you never looked at me like that. Not once! And I know the hanky I caught you sniffing was hers!”

“Amber—”

“How can I compete with a woman you won’t even admit you want?”

“Nobody’s asking you to.”

“But that’s how I feel! I can’t help it.”

I stared up at the ceiling, expelled an irritated breath. “Do you want to get past this?”

“I don’t think we can, shug. You haven’t been yourself since you left Gainstown. I thought it was the readjustment. But it’s partly because of her too. It wasn’t a big deal at first, but that wet dream was it for me.”

I rolled the back of my head against the wall. Obviously, our relationship meant more to her than she’d let on. I should’ve known something was up when she went all domestic on me—washing my clothes, cleaning the house, making that big Thanksgiving dinner, and a slew of meals after it. Not to mention how she’d ironed creases into the sleeves of my work shirts. Hell, all those fancy Australian boxer briefs she got me should’ve been a dead giveaway.

Yep. She wanted strings and I didn’t. “I’m sorry, Amber.”

“Don’t be. We had some wonderful times in stir. Great sex. Good conversation. It was exciting and dangerous, sneaking around like we did. But nothing lasts forever, I guess.”

I rubbed my eyes. This was going nowhere. “We need to talk. Face-to-face.”

“No, we don’t,” she said in a quiet voice. “I can’t be a substitute for what you really want. I deserve better, and so do you.” She sniffed. “Listen, I need to go. I’ve got dinner in the oven and…well, you be good, okay?”

The line went dead just as my doorbell rang.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hand To Mouth

SHANNON

____________________________

The house looked gray and ominous, matching its infamous reputation. Bars fortified the windows on the outside, while yellowed newspaper shielded the glass from within. Three of the four shutters were missing. The remaining one barely clung to a nail as the howling wind propelled it to and fro. The only thing missing from this dreadful place was a sign bearing Dante’s:

‘ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.’

Hugging myself against a chill, I paced the battered porch. What was I doing? Hadn’t the incident at the club proved we shouldn’t be alone?

Days later, I could still feel the ghost of Trace’s touch. Just the thought of his hands on my body made my nipples harden. I’d barely slept since that night, and the few hours I’d managed to catch were plagued with erotic visions of him…doing things to me.

So why was I here?

Because! I needed his help, that’s why. Given the sorry state of my feeble investigation, I’d run out of options. What choice did I have but to come to his house? Briar was out of the question, and we certainly couldn’t meet in public.

Trace ripped the front door open, flooding the porch with light. There he stood, an unsettling combination of heaven and hell poured into a tight black T-shirt and jeans that hung below his narrow hips in a way Auntie would’ve deemed vulgar.

We stared at each other for half an eternity as Ray Charles crooned, “You Don’t Know Me” from somewhere in the house.

“Take a wrong turn?” he asked, ice dancing in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

His jaw worked. “Four days, two hours, and twenty-three minutes of sorry. You get my messages?”

I nodded in shame. “I just…”

“Got scared.”

My breath escaped in a misty cloud. “I should’ve called.”

“You think?” He studied me in angry silence for a time. “Lose the hood.”

“What?”

“The hood.” He nudged his chin. “Take it off.”

He was testing me. His ‘you’re ashamed of me’ look was unmistakable. So I did as he asked. I tugged it down. “Satisfied?”

Trace swung the door all the way open and his arm formed an arch. I studied the man-made entrance with caution, then ducked beneath it and went inside.

He kicked the door shut.

Unbuttoning my coat, I watched him lean against a wall, arms folded. It may have been my imagination, but he seemed to study me with the same lethal aloofness of a cat watching an unsuspecting mouse—right before the pounce.

To steady my frayed nerves, I concentrated on the beautiful living room. He was renovating. I smelled paint, and drop cloth draped the floor in the adjacent dining room, which he’d jammed with tools and supplies.

An ornate brass floor lamp stood attached to an extension cord that snaked down the hall to what I assumed was the kitchen. A cute tabletop Christmas tree, complete with tinsel, golden ornaments, and candy canes was propped on a twenty-five-inch TV. The pine floor had been polished to a high gloss. Beige paint with alabaster molding covered the walls. Stylish brass vent and outlet covers complemented the gilded vintage ceiling fan above them.

I gestured. “You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah. My shrink thought it’d be therapeutic.”

“You do good work.” I tore my eyes from his sullen face. “It’s beautiful.”

“But a far cry from the fancy digs you’re used to.”

It wasn’t said maliciously. In fact, there’d been a ring of humility in his tone that had almost bordered on apologetic.

“My tastes are simplistic,” I said. “I fell in love with a dilapidated Queen Anne Victorian, but I didn’t trust my instincts. I hesitated. Now it’s under contract.” I turned to him and sighed. “Speaking of which, I may have a job for you. The couple buying it needs a good carpenter. Can I give them your number?”

He hitched a shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“When do you think you’ll be finished here?”

“In a few months.” He lifted a brow. “Guess I’ll be needing a real estate agent.”

“Look no further.” I tried to smile, but it felt lame. What had happened at the club and my vanishing act screamed in his eyes. “So, do you have a place picked out or….”

“Naw.” He paused, then in a serious tone added, “I’m leaving Temptation the second my parole year is up. Sooner if I can get a transfer.”

My smile froze. He’s leaving? “Ah, th-that’s understandable. What, with everything that’s happened.”

“Exactly. There’s really nothin’ keeping me from going, is there?” He paused and cocked a brow, then said, “Cholly’s got his own life. Mama and Daddy are gone. Bev’s married, and if Cole ever gets out, I’ve got to find a way to help him—but not here. Not in this town.”

Fearing, dreading, I hesitated before asking, “Will you at least stay in West Virginia?” I cleared my suddenly dry throat. “Or will you move away?”

“What do you think?” He gave the room a fleeting glance. “Three tenants lived here over the past twelve months. When they heard about the suicides, they hauled ass. So selling this shack won’t be easy. Either way, I figure I’ll check out the West Coast. Maybe Washington state.”

It felt like he’d reached across the room and punched me in the stomach.

“You okay?” He looked worried.

I ran unsteady fingers beneath my throat scarf. “It’s a bit stuffy in here.”

Trace was way ahead of me. He peeled one of the newspaper curtains away and cracked open a window by the sofa. A cool blanket of air blew in. “Better?”

“Much.” I slipped my coat off and tugged the lamb’s wool scarf from my neck.

“How ‘bout a drink?”

God yes, preferably something strong. I draped my things over an armchair. “What do you have?”

He headed for the kitchen. “Beer. Jack Daniels. Herradura.”

“The latter will be fine. With ice.”

He swung a surprised look over his shoulder. “You know what Herradura is?”

I smoothed a hand along my skirt. “Tequila, right?”

“The best.”

He disappeared around the corner and I wilted onto the sofa. Heat ripped through my stomach.

He’s leaving. There it was again. That same cloying reaction.

No, I didn’t want him to go. But why? Well, he was a friend and I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Why wouldn’t I feel sad?

What else?

Nothing else! His leaving was probably a good thing. There’d be no one to harass him or his friends. He’d be able to start over again with a clean slate. Perhaps if I kept telling myself this, I’d believe it.

Trace returned bearing a tray of drinks, including a bottle of Herradura and a Corona long neck. Two of the tray’s four glasses were filled with what looked like tomato juice.

He pushed a shot glass of tequila into my hand and settled in next to me.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “Why are you drinking when you’re still on parole?”

He half-smiled. “Providence. The watchdog they assigned me? We played varsity ball at Temptation High—me, him, and Cholly. Zander stayed in touch with me the whole time I was in stir. I’ve known him since forever, so….”

“He’s lenient.”

Trace snorted. “Yeah. You could say that. Zander gives me a head’s up whenever I’m due for a ‘surprise’ visit or a drug test. I just have to be discreet.”

He tipped the Corona to his lips, and as he drank, his throat worked in slow pulses. Condensation from the bottle dripped onto his neck, glistening along his Adam’s apple. Watching him, I sipped my tequila with care. The golden liquid was smooth on my tongue, but burned its way to my stomach. What I wouldn’t give for a lime.

As if he’d read my mind, Trace handed me one of the glasses with the red liquid. I set the empty shot glass back on the tray.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“You never had sangrita?”

“Sangria?”

“Naw, sangriTa. It means ‘little blood.’”

I examined the concoction warily. “What’s in it?”

He held his at eye level. Light glinted off the glass while he turned it this way and that. “Clamato, OJ, minced tomatoes and cucumber, lime, cilantro…uh…and grenadine and Tabasco sauce.” He nodded at me. “I made it myself.”

I glanced from the drink, to him, then back again before I sipped. Surprisingly, it was quite good. The taste enhanced the earthy tang of the tequila.

He cocked a brow. “You like?”

Nodding, I sipped again. “Mmm.”

His mouth became a flash of straight white teeth, his face, an instantaneous softening of hard features. He poured me another shot. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, why?”

“You were staring.”

The lighthearted moment evaporated, replaced by an awkward hush as thick as the leaden tongue in my mouth. He killed his drink, his movements jerky. I followed suit. This time the liquor didn’t even burn going down.

He examined his empty glass. “Sooooo, you ready to see what I dug up?”

The tension leveled off and I gave an inward sigh of relief. “To be honest, I’ve been on pins and needles.”

Trace grabbed some papers from the end table. “I don’t have internet, so I had to use the library.” He handed me the mini stack. “This is all about memory repression. Check it out.”

I thumbed through the papers. “I did a bit of research a while ago, but I didn’t really find anything substantial.”

“Well, Doc—my shrink—gave me a list of specific references to look up.” He pointed at the page in my hand. “That says memory repression’s linked to trauma. Emotional trauma. The clinical name is dissociative amnesia.” He threaded his fingers behind his head. “Further on you’ll read about a murder case in the nineties. A woman in Redwood City, California testified against her daddy. She’d forgotten all about the child he’d killed until somethin’ triggered the memory.”

I glanced up from the reading material. “What are you saying? That I may have witnessed my mother’s murder?”

“That or somethin’ related to it. Anything’s possible. I mean, this could explain why you don’t remember the whole interrogation Gray gave you. Look on the last page.” He darted a finger. “The child’s name was Eileen. Her daddy raped and murdered her best friend—a little girl named Susan. Both of them were eight-years-old. Eileen saw everything, but get this. She suppressed the memory for twenty years.”

Curiosity and dread gnawed at me. I pointed to a particular paragraph. “It says here that most of her memories had unrelated triggers.”

“Right. Sometimes it was words, or a smell…even a picture. But she wasn’t flooded with facts. Things came in trickles until the pieces fell together.”

“Her father was convicted,” I murmured, still reading.

“Yup. Murder in the first. After a twenty-year lag.”

I lifted my eyes to his in amazement. “They returned a guilty verdict the same day they deliberated.”

“Uh-huh. Her memory was credible enough for the jury.”

My light of hope doused. I tossed the papers aside like they were worthless. “My memories were credible too, remember? A jury believed me and you went to prison.”

“But every case is different. Who knows what you’ve forgotten.” His face sobered. “Ever think about hypnosis?”

I gave my head a decisive shake. “No way.”

“Why? Doc tried it on me once. Didn’t work. But it doesn’t mean it won’t for you.”

“I can’t give that kind of control to a stranger.” I studied him for a long moment. “This is totally off topic, but I’m just curious about something. Are your family and friends the only reason you’re doing this? You know, helping me.”

He took his time responding. “Since we’re veering off the map for a spell, how ‘bout you answer my question first?”

“Which?”

“The one I asked at your office.” His eyes pierced me. “Why’d you freak out when Tori and Dee Dee saw us?”

Not this again. “What the heck does that have to do with—”

“Everything. If we’re gonna dig into Lilith’s murder, I’ve got to know where your head is at.” When I rolled my eyes, he said, “You stand up for me at the hospital with the whole town looking on, but you sneak into the club under cover of darkness. You show up on my doorstep draped in a hood at night—this after avoiding me for four days. And you bust a gasket when folks see us together. Yet you defend me and Cholly in front of your family.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t make sense.”

It made perfect sense to me.

“Of course I stood up for you and Cholly,” I said. “I hate bullies, and as I recall, so do you.”

“I get that, but it still doesn’t add up—especially the Tori and Dee Dee thing. Why’d you lose it when they saw us?”

“I didn’t ‘lose it.’” I licked my lips. “Anyway the situations are completely different. My reaction with them was more discretionary than anything else. Mead, I can handle—”

“Speaking of which, what’s up with that? If I didn’t know better I’d swear you hated each other.”

“I don’t hate anybody. He’s the one with the problem. He hates Mother and I look like her. It’s a simple case of misdirected animosity.” I gestured. “Anyway, back to your original question. My family is very conscientious about public perception, so they’ve got just as much at stake as I do.”

“Uh-huh. Which means your secrets are safe with them.”

I gave a reluctant shrug. “Well, yes. Tori’s the town gossip and Dee Dee is her best friend. So I was concerned.”

“Concerned?”

“Let’s look at the facts.” I scooted forward, ticking them off with my fingers. “(1), you went to prison for my mother’s murder. (2), we’re the talk of the town, (3), we’ve been the subject of two—yes two—sleazy tabloid articles—”

“All that’s true, but—”

“And (4), I publicly humiliated Eddie and his wife. If anyone has a grudge against us, it’s Dee Dee. Who knows what whoppers she’s already embellished? As for the other stuff, I don’t want to give people—strangers—needless ammunition.”

His eyes narrowed. “Newsflash: pulling strings all over town for me and Cholly gives them plenty.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t have a choice. My family forced my hand.”

“So you’ll fight bullies, but being seen with me is out of the question.”

“No. That’s what you’re saying. I’m saying the women caught me off guard. I wasn’t….” I let out a frustrated breath. “I wasn’t prepared to deal with them. I’m human.”

“A fact you keep forgetting. Every day’s not a dress rehearsal,” he told me. “You hit the ground running, and you make mistakes. Everybody does.”

My twenty-six years of conditioning said otherwise. “That’s not me. I’ve never flown by the seat of my pants. I’m a planner. It’s called grace. Control. It’s who I am.”

“Control or bondage?” The words struck a raw nerve. Our eyes met. His were soft and teeming with…pity? “Living on edge 24/7 was enough for me,” he continued. “It’s how I had to operate, but I’ve got dreams, and they don’t include worrying about tongue waggers.”

Now who was the naïve one? “Our past is common knowledge,” I said. “Talk will always lurk somewhere. Why invite it?”

“You said it yourself. It’s not going anywhere.”

“Right, but I’ve built a life here. I’ve got a business to run. Colleagues, family, and friends to deal with.” My gaze fell from his. “And you’ve already said you’re not staying. Why should you care what people think? This is my home and I’ve worked too hard to….”

He inched forward. “To what?”

Heat crept across my face. Anger brimmed. “To get past my mother’s sleazy legacy,” I answered, my mouth tight.

All I’d buried threatened to bubble to the surface. A deep ache hit me with sickening force.

“Shannon?”

My breath caught when he reached for my hand and brushed his thumb across the back of it. Flesh to flesh, my skin burned. The sensation crawled up my arm, to my heart. I snatched my hand away as silence claimed the room.

“If you’re not gonna bring it up, then I will.” He stilled, but a muscle in his jaw trembled. “When we were at the club—”

“Stop it,” I told him. “Nothing happened.”

“Then why’d you disappear for four days?” When I didn’t answer, he lifted a brow. “Well?”

I shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.” His eyes captured mine. “Are you in love with him?”

I sat back, suddenly captivated by the threads in my denim skirt. “That’s a rude question.”

“Yeah, but I’d still like to know.” He draped his arm across the backrest and I felt heat from his fingertips, even though we weren’t touching. “Do y’all plan to have kids?”

My heart became a live coal in my chest. “Another rude question.”

“I don’t give a damn. Answer it anyway.”

I continued staring into my lap. “We haven’t worked it all out. But once we get settled….”

“How long before that happens?”

Jaw tight, I hurled a look at him. “I—don’t—know.”

“Sure you do. A month? Six? A year? Hell, he’s still young and all, but you gotta admit, time’s not on his side—for building a family, I mean. He’s gotta be pushing fifty at least. Am I wrong?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Trace sighed hard. “Will you just answer the damn question? Are you in love with him or not?”

“Of course I love him!”

“No, are you in love?” he pressed. “There’s a difference.”

“How would you know?”

“‘Cause I love my mama. I love Cole, Bev, and Cholly. I also love rock-n-roll, the blues, smooth jazz, and my Harley. But I’m not in love with them.”

My lips thinned. “Have you ever been in love?”

He just looked at me.

“Ever said it to another human being?”

His jaw worked. “Once.”

“Right.” I harrumphed. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

I got up, but he tugged me back down, gently.

“Wait,” he said in a rough whisper.

His mouth fell silent, but his eyes didn’t. They said what his tongue couldn’t say. And when he dragged his thumb along my palm, everything went torpid and blurry.

The room shrank—so did the couch. The stillness between us was as taut as the tightrope I’d have to walk to get out of here. Yes, I had to leave—again—before I said something, did something. Before I could no longer deny what we both knew.

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles one at a time, his smoldering eyes telegraphing a bold promise of something dark and forbidden. Oddly enough, in that instant I realized Darien had never looked at me this way.

“Know what I wish right now?” he said in a raw voice.

I stared back at him helplessly.

“That this hand was your mouth.”