Moonlight Man by Judy Griffith Gill Page B

to her had probably hurt and frightened her almost as much as the original abuse had. He told himself he should leave, that it would be best for her if he did. But how could he leave her like that? He had to make it up to her, calm her, get her back to her bed where she would be warm and safe.
    “I just want to ’old you,” he said, stroking her face again. “I want you back in my arms, trusting me.” Trust? The word had a bitter taste in his mouth. Soon, all too soon he would have to tell her about his past, and then she wouldn’t trust him to change her tire! “You thought I left your bed because I was disgusted by what I saw, yes?”
    She nodded, her eyes huge and dark and fathomless.
    “I was, little Sharon, but not with you,” he said tenderly. “Never with you. With the monster who did that to you. Will you come back to me? Will you let me hold you? Will you give me that much trust?”
    After several moments, she moved forward, and he held her loosely, stroking her hair, kissing her eyelids and her cheeks. “I’m going to pick you up now,” he said, giving her plenty of time to object. She rested her cheek against his chest, but for all the trusting gesture, he felt her quivering and lifted her with great care. Carrying her back to the bed, he laid her down on it, drawing the covers up over her.
    Out of the darkness came her faint whisper. “No. Marc, please don’t go.”
    “You want me to stay?”
    “I want you to … hold me.”
    He could see those big eyes looking at him in the light coming through the crack where he hadn’t fully shut the bathroom door. It was wrong, so wrong of him not to tell her, not to give her a decent chance to make an informed choice, but he wanted so badly to hold her, too, that he couldn’t resist the pleading he saw there in her eyes. He slid under the covers and felt her shivering with cold and tension.
    Turning half toward her, making a little hollow in his shoulder for her head, he drew her into his warmth and pulled the covers around them both.
    “Why?” he said. “Why did he do it? It was your husband, wasn’t it?”
    She sighed, and he didn’t think she was going to tell him. But then she said, “Because I got pregnant with Roxy and wouldn’t … do anything about it.”
    “Bastard!” He went rigid with fury, but felt her quiver again and knew he would have to curb any tendency he might have toward violence. Until he’d seen those scars on her back, he had never had such a tendency. It shocked him with its scope and fury. “Why,” he said again more gently, “why would he want you to do a thing like that?”
    “Because he thought it was bad for my career.” And then, as if floodgates had opened, her words spilled out. “He didn’t want me to have Jason either. We just … argued a lot about it until it was too late. I think he sort of liked Jason, at least at first, but when I wanted to stay home with the baby, he was furious. He said he owned me, owned my name, owned my career, and I would do what he said or else.”
    Marc sighed heavily, his hand smoothing satin fabric over the scars he could still see, even though they were covered and her back was turned from him. He knew he would have nightmares about them. How many nightmares was he going to be forced to endure? “Or else … this?”
    “No. No, that started later. I just did what he wanted. He was right. He did own my name, he did own my career.”
    “How did that happen? He was your manager as well as your husband, I take it, but how could he own your name?”
    “I don’t know. He just did. A lawyer confirmed it. Before Ellis was my husband he was my teacher, my mentor. He was older, and I thought very wise, the right one to steer me through the music business.” She frowned. He could feel one of her eyebrows move against his shoulder. “I was twenty-three when we married, and he became my manager. In spite of the fact that I’d been on my own and raising my little sister for five