surgeon because he doesn’t like looking at it,” she continued. “I think he doesn’t like being reminded of the war.”
Liam couldn’t help himself. He touched the side of her face, tracing the crescent shape of her scar with his thumb. “It’s not ugly,” he said. “But when I see it, my knees feel weak, because I can’t help but think how close you came to being killed.”
“So it does bother you.”
He lifted her chin so she was forced to meet his gaze. “Do
my
scars bother you?”
To his surprise, tears once again filled her eyes, and she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “More than you can possibly know.”
She touched him then, turning his shoulder so that she could see his back. He knew it didn’t look pretty. It was covered with a latticework of fading scars, handiwork of many lashings from a lifetime ago.
He pulled away from her. “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure I wear a shirt from now on.”
“No,” she said. “That won’t make them go away. It’ll only
hide
them. You don’t really think that just because something is covered up, I’ll forget that it’s there?”
The tears in her eyes overflowed, spilling down onto her cheeks.
When her father and her brother died—that was the last time Liam had seen Marisala cry.
She tried to stop, tried to push her tears away, but she couldn’t.
And in the same way, Liam couldn’t keep himself from reaching for her.
She fell into his arms as if he were her safe harbor. She clung to him, her arms tightly around his neck, her face buried against his throat.
And Liam knew that coming here to Boston was much more difficult for Marisala than she had let on.
He knew that the war had killed the innocent young girl both he and Santiago remembered. Despite Santiago’s wishes, there was nothing any of them could do to get that little girl back.
And Liam knew that whatever he did—whether he rejected Marisala for the sake of their friendship or he gave in to this burning need to make love to her—it didn’t matter.
Whatever he did, it would only make her feel worse.
He could only hope that, in the long run, keeping his distance would hurt her less.
SEVEN
M ARISALA LOOKED OUT of the window as Liam slipped the car into a parking spot. As usual, one had magically opened up for him as he pulled onto the busy downtown street. He was inordinately lucky, but only when it came to finding places to park. The rest of his life wasn’t quite as charmed.
She’d woken up in the night again to the sound of him caught in a nightmare. She almost went into his room, but then his light went on. From her doorway, she could see him through the crack in his slightly open door. As she watched he rushed toward her and flung the door open wide.
She swiftly and silently moved back into the shadows of her room as, breathing hard, Liam flung himself at the light switch in the hall. The light came on, glaring and bright, but even that didn’t seem to be enough for him. As she continued to watch he went downstairs, dressed only in his boxer shorts, and turned on every lamp in the house—with the exception of the ones in her room and in Hector and Inez’s.
When she saw Liam this morning, it was obvious that he’d been up for the rest of the night.
He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a week—not since that morning she’d first gone to her classes and he’d slept until nearly noon. Maybe it was time to call Ricardo Montoya again. But the last time they’d talked, her old friend had pointed out that he couldn’t
force
Liam to talk to him.
And God only knew
she
couldn’t force Liam to talk to
her
.
He hadn’t even told her where they were going this morning until she was in the car.
Of course, he’d been right about one thing—if he
had
told her where they were going, she probably wouldn’t have gotten into the car. Because they were going shopping. He was taking her shopping for clothes.
Marisala climbed out of the car as Liam put coins in the
Liam couldn’t help himself. He touched the side of her face, tracing the crescent shape of her scar with his thumb. “It’s not ugly,” he said. “But when I see it, my knees feel weak, because I can’t help but think how close you came to being killed.”
“So it does bother you.”
He lifted her chin so she was forced to meet his gaze. “Do
my
scars bother you?”
To his surprise, tears once again filled her eyes, and she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “More than you can possibly know.”
She touched him then, turning his shoulder so that she could see his back. He knew it didn’t look pretty. It was covered with a latticework of fading scars, handiwork of many lashings from a lifetime ago.
He pulled away from her. “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure I wear a shirt from now on.”
“No,” she said. “That won’t make them go away. It’ll only
hide
them. You don’t really think that just because something is covered up, I’ll forget that it’s there?”
The tears in her eyes overflowed, spilling down onto her cheeks.
When her father and her brother died—that was the last time Liam had seen Marisala cry.
She tried to stop, tried to push her tears away, but she couldn’t.
And in the same way, Liam couldn’t keep himself from reaching for her.
She fell into his arms as if he were her safe harbor. She clung to him, her arms tightly around his neck, her face buried against his throat.
And Liam knew that coming here to Boston was much more difficult for Marisala than she had let on.
He knew that the war had killed the innocent young girl both he and Santiago remembered. Despite Santiago’s wishes, there was nothing any of them could do to get that little girl back.
And Liam knew that whatever he did—whether he rejected Marisala for the sake of their friendship or he gave in to this burning need to make love to her—it didn’t matter.
Whatever he did, it would only make her feel worse.
He could only hope that, in the long run, keeping his distance would hurt her less.
SEVEN
M ARISALA LOOKED OUT of the window as Liam slipped the car into a parking spot. As usual, one had magically opened up for him as he pulled onto the busy downtown street. He was inordinately lucky, but only when it came to finding places to park. The rest of his life wasn’t quite as charmed.
She’d woken up in the night again to the sound of him caught in a nightmare. She almost went into his room, but then his light went on. From her doorway, she could see him through the crack in his slightly open door. As she watched he rushed toward her and flung the door open wide.
She swiftly and silently moved back into the shadows of her room as, breathing hard, Liam flung himself at the light switch in the hall. The light came on, glaring and bright, but even that didn’t seem to be enough for him. As she continued to watch he went downstairs, dressed only in his boxer shorts, and turned on every lamp in the house—with the exception of the ones in her room and in Hector and Inez’s.
When she saw Liam this morning, it was obvious that he’d been up for the rest of the night.
He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a week—not since that morning she’d first gone to her classes and he’d slept until nearly noon. Maybe it was time to call Ricardo Montoya again. But the last time they’d talked, her old friend had pointed out that he couldn’t
force
Liam to talk to him.
And God only knew
she
couldn’t force Liam to talk to
her
.
He hadn’t even told her where they were going this morning until she was in the car.
Of course, he’d been right about one thing—if he
had
told her where they were going, she probably wouldn’t have gotten into the car. Because they were going shopping. He was taking her shopping for clothes.
Marisala climbed out of the car as Liam put coins in the
Similar Books
