The hope died immediately as his hand
resumed its exploration. How could she be so stupid? Shane wasn't a boy
who could be put off with a promise of "later". He was thirty-two years
old and he'd married her for only one reason—to give him a
child. He'd have no patience with her if she pleaded for mercy.
She unclenched her fist and put her hand on the mat of
dark hair that covered his muscular chest. "No, Shane, I'm not afraid
of you." She tried to keep her voice steady. "It's just—well,
I've never done this before."
He kissed the pulse at the base of her throat and
murmured, "I know, sweetheart. I won't hurt you. Try to relax and let
me teach you what a marvelous experience it can be."
She tried. She really wanted to please Shane but the more
aggressive he became the more tense she became until he could no longer
be patient and her nerves snapped and she began to fight. She pounded
him with her fists and cried, "No! No! Leave me alone! I hate you!" and
burst into deep, wrenching sobs.
Shane hesitated, then swore viciously as he rolled off the
bed, snatched up his robe, and slammed out of the room.
Chapter Six
Karen's pillow was wet with tears when she finally fell
asleep from sheer exhaustion shortly before daybreak, but she was awake
again at eight with burning eyes and the heavy sluggish feeling of
despair. She dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom, where
she washed her face and brushed her teeth. It didn't help and the image
that looked back at her from the mirror was drawn and haggard with
white cheeks, pale lips, and red bloodshot eyes ringed with puffy deep
blue shadows.
How could she ever face Shane? She'd driven him from her
bed and now he'd send her away. He was her husband and she loved him,
but he had been right—she was too immature to be his wife,
the mother of his child. She'd taken everything and given nothing. She
hadn't seen him since he stormed out of their room last night, his
patience at an end, his disgust unmistakable.
Karen dressed in a skirt and blouse, one of the outfits
she'd worn to school last year. It didn't matter anymore if she looked
like a little girl— that's what she was—too much of
a baby to grow up and act like a wife. She didn't bother to repair her
tear-ravaged face; there was nothing she could do to it anyway.
The cleaning crew was busy removing all traces of the
wedding and Karen finally found Shane in the den, which had already
been cleaned. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading as she
opened the door and there wasn't a bit of warmth in his face. His icy
glance returned to the paper as she came in and shut the door. He
wasn't going to make this easy for her, but she hadn't expected that he
would.
She walked over and stood in front of the fire that had
been set in the fireplace. She was cold. The damp fog, absent
yesterday, was back, but it was a chill deep inside her that caused her
to shiver. She hadn't been warm since Shane walked away from her.
Shane rustled his paper and she noticed the silver coffee
service on the redwood burl table She poured herself a cup of the
strong black liquid, more to have something to do than because she
wanted it. She noticed Shane's half-empty cup and asked, "Would you
like me to warm your coffee?"
"No." His answer was curt.
She took her cup to the fireplace and sat down on the
raised hearth where Shane had sat the night he agreed to make her his
wife. What could she say to him? How could she possibly make him
understand when she didn't understand herself? She closed her eyes and
took a deep breath as she said, "Shane, I'm sorry."
He was hidden behind the paper and there was no response.
Was he going to shut her out completely? Not even listen?
She drew her knees up under her chin and clasped her hands
around her legs. There was still no sound from Shane and the silence
was unbearable. If only he would yell at her, swear, hit
her—anything but this cold, stony withdrawal.
Maybe if she told him the truth
resumed its exploration. How could she be so stupid? Shane wasn't a boy
who could be put off with a promise of "later". He was thirty-two years
old and he'd married her for only one reason—to give him a
child. He'd have no patience with her if she pleaded for mercy.
She unclenched her fist and put her hand on the mat of
dark hair that covered his muscular chest. "No, Shane, I'm not afraid
of you." She tried to keep her voice steady. "It's just—well,
I've never done this before."
He kissed the pulse at the base of her throat and
murmured, "I know, sweetheart. I won't hurt you. Try to relax and let
me teach you what a marvelous experience it can be."
She tried. She really wanted to please Shane but the more
aggressive he became the more tense she became until he could no longer
be patient and her nerves snapped and she began to fight. She pounded
him with her fists and cried, "No! No! Leave me alone! I hate you!" and
burst into deep, wrenching sobs.
Shane hesitated, then swore viciously as he rolled off the
bed, snatched up his robe, and slammed out of the room.
Chapter Six
Karen's pillow was wet with tears when she finally fell
asleep from sheer exhaustion shortly before daybreak, but she was awake
again at eight with burning eyes and the heavy sluggish feeling of
despair. She dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom, where
she washed her face and brushed her teeth. It didn't help and the image
that looked back at her from the mirror was drawn and haggard with
white cheeks, pale lips, and red bloodshot eyes ringed with puffy deep
blue shadows.
How could she ever face Shane? She'd driven him from her
bed and now he'd send her away. He was her husband and she loved him,
but he had been right—she was too immature to be his wife,
the mother of his child. She'd taken everything and given nothing. She
hadn't seen him since he stormed out of their room last night, his
patience at an end, his disgust unmistakable.
Karen dressed in a skirt and blouse, one of the outfits
she'd worn to school last year. It didn't matter anymore if she looked
like a little girl— that's what she was—too much of
a baby to grow up and act like a wife. She didn't bother to repair her
tear-ravaged face; there was nothing she could do to it anyway.
The cleaning crew was busy removing all traces of the
wedding and Karen finally found Shane in the den, which had already
been cleaned. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading as she
opened the door and there wasn't a bit of warmth in his face. His icy
glance returned to the paper as she came in and shut the door. He
wasn't going to make this easy for her, but she hadn't expected that he
would.
She walked over and stood in front of the fire that had
been set in the fireplace. She was cold. The damp fog, absent
yesterday, was back, but it was a chill deep inside her that caused her
to shiver. She hadn't been warm since Shane walked away from her.
Shane rustled his paper and she noticed the silver coffee
service on the redwood burl table She poured herself a cup of the
strong black liquid, more to have something to do than because she
wanted it. She noticed Shane's half-empty cup and asked, "Would you
like me to warm your coffee?"
"No." His answer was curt.
She took her cup to the fireplace and sat down on the
raised hearth where Shane had sat the night he agreed to make her his
wife. What could she say to him? How could she possibly make him
understand when she didn't understand herself? She closed her eyes and
took a deep breath as she said, "Shane, I'm sorry."
He was hidden behind the paper and there was no response.
Was he going to shut her out completely? Not even listen?
She drew her knees up under her chin and clasped her hands
around her legs. There was still no sound from Shane and the silence
was unbearable. If only he would yell at her, swear, hit
her—anything but this cold, stony withdrawal.
Maybe if she told him the truth
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