too personal. Too intimate. Man, he was so screwed up. “Go to sleep,” he said gruffly and turned to leave.
“Don’t go.” Her voice was on that fine edge between fear and barely there control.
“Hope, I can’t…” The thought of sleeping beside her had sweat popping out on his brow.
“Just sit with me until I fall asleep. Please.”
The whispered please was his downfall. Who was he kidding? Hope Stewart was his downfall. He glanced around the room until he found a straight-back chair that belonged to a fussy desk. He grabbed it and positioned it beside the bed.
As she’d done the other night, Hope reached for his hand and only relaxed when he took it. She closed her eyes and after a few moments gave in to the exhaustion dogging her. Her hand relaxed inside his and with some relief, he pulled free, put the chair back and stood at the side of the bed staring down at her. His own fatigue had his eyes drooping, yet he knew he wouldn’t sleep until he assured himself she was resting easy.
No dreams seemed to haunt her. Her chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm. Yet he couldn’t leave without… Without what? He needed to do something. It was as if this force were keeping him there until he touched her one last time.
He could have touched her hand. That was safe. That was harmless. But he didn’t. He pushed his boundaries, blocked the panic that reared up and leaned over, touching his lips to her forehead. For a moment, he closed his eyes and just felt her smooth skin against his lips, the warmth of her body and the clean scent of the soap he used and which she now smelled of. For a moment, he enjoyed the feel of touching another human being. Of touching a woman.
Until, inside him, the panic won and he had to pull away. But he took with him a gift. A gift he would take out and cherish when the dark winter nights in his lonesome cabin got to be too much. When he wanted to remember what could have been, instead of what was.
Chapter Nine
Sleep wasn’t going to come to him this night. He didn’t even try. Instead, John went downstairs and flipped on the gas fireplace, scowling at the modern convenience. He was a firm believer in splitting your own logs, the reward being the smell and comfort of a crackling fire. He settled into a leather chair and stared at the flames, turning what little he knew over in his head.
A man killed, yet no body. A prison escapee who had a link to the missing dead man. No evidence of foul play. No sign of foul deeds. A woman with a faulty memory.
Absently rubbing his aching thigh, he once again tried to put the pieces together. But instead his brain chose to think of the fire shooting from Hope’s eyes as they left Daniel Webster’s house. Damn but that spurt of life inside her had done something to him. Didn’t matter that he was the target of her anger, he’d been fascinated. Until he listened to what she was saying.
Hell, he knew he was scared. No big secret there. But when she oh-so kindly told him what he was scared of, he’d about run off the road. His feelings? Impossible. He didn’t have any feelings. Hadn’t felt anything worthwhile since Peru. So to be afraid of something he didn’t even feel—well, that was just ridiculous.
Your problem is you have too many feelings and you don’t know what to do with them, so you shove them behind that granite wall you’ve erected around your heart.
That granite wall gave a loud crack, bits and pieces of it falling away, revealing what lay beneath. No, Hope Stewart had been wrong. There was no heart behind that wall. Nothing but a black hole where a heart once beat strong and sure. Before Peru. Before Angelina.
Suddenly restless, he stood, needing to do something to keep his mind occupied and away from things that would haunt him. He snapped off the fake fireplace and trudged up the steps. His leg only whimpered a time or two, the aspirin having done its job. As he passed Hope’s room, he paused and placed his fingers
“Don’t go.” Her voice was on that fine edge between fear and barely there control.
“Hope, I can’t…” The thought of sleeping beside her had sweat popping out on his brow.
“Just sit with me until I fall asleep. Please.”
The whispered please was his downfall. Who was he kidding? Hope Stewart was his downfall. He glanced around the room until he found a straight-back chair that belonged to a fussy desk. He grabbed it and positioned it beside the bed.
As she’d done the other night, Hope reached for his hand and only relaxed when he took it. She closed her eyes and after a few moments gave in to the exhaustion dogging her. Her hand relaxed inside his and with some relief, he pulled free, put the chair back and stood at the side of the bed staring down at her. His own fatigue had his eyes drooping, yet he knew he wouldn’t sleep until he assured himself she was resting easy.
No dreams seemed to haunt her. Her chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm. Yet he couldn’t leave without… Without what? He needed to do something. It was as if this force were keeping him there until he touched her one last time.
He could have touched her hand. That was safe. That was harmless. But he didn’t. He pushed his boundaries, blocked the panic that reared up and leaned over, touching his lips to her forehead. For a moment, he closed his eyes and just felt her smooth skin against his lips, the warmth of her body and the clean scent of the soap he used and which she now smelled of. For a moment, he enjoyed the feel of touching another human being. Of touching a woman.
Until, inside him, the panic won and he had to pull away. But he took with him a gift. A gift he would take out and cherish when the dark winter nights in his lonesome cabin got to be too much. When he wanted to remember what could have been, instead of what was.
Chapter Nine
Sleep wasn’t going to come to him this night. He didn’t even try. Instead, John went downstairs and flipped on the gas fireplace, scowling at the modern convenience. He was a firm believer in splitting your own logs, the reward being the smell and comfort of a crackling fire. He settled into a leather chair and stared at the flames, turning what little he knew over in his head.
A man killed, yet no body. A prison escapee who had a link to the missing dead man. No evidence of foul play. No sign of foul deeds. A woman with a faulty memory.
Absently rubbing his aching thigh, he once again tried to put the pieces together. But instead his brain chose to think of the fire shooting from Hope’s eyes as they left Daniel Webster’s house. Damn but that spurt of life inside her had done something to him. Didn’t matter that he was the target of her anger, he’d been fascinated. Until he listened to what she was saying.
Hell, he knew he was scared. No big secret there. But when she oh-so kindly told him what he was scared of, he’d about run off the road. His feelings? Impossible. He didn’t have any feelings. Hadn’t felt anything worthwhile since Peru. So to be afraid of something he didn’t even feel—well, that was just ridiculous.
Your problem is you have too many feelings and you don’t know what to do with them, so you shove them behind that granite wall you’ve erected around your heart.
That granite wall gave a loud crack, bits and pieces of it falling away, revealing what lay beneath. No, Hope Stewart had been wrong. There was no heart behind that wall. Nothing but a black hole where a heart once beat strong and sure. Before Peru. Before Angelina.
Suddenly restless, he stood, needing to do something to keep his mind occupied and away from things that would haunt him. He snapped off the fake fireplace and trudged up the steps. His leg only whimpered a time or two, the aspirin having done its job. As he passed Hope’s room, he paused and placed his fingers
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