A Candle in the Dark (39 page)

Her voice felt forced from her throat. “Why is it so important to you?”

He looked at her. “Isn’t it enough to know that it is?”

Yes, it was enough. The realization was startling, but for some strange, inexplicable reason, Ana wanted to smile. She knew she should be afraid of him, but when she looked at him, watching her with a question on his face and tenderness in his eyes, she felt… fragile, cherished.

It was a completely alien feeling. She didn’t think she’d ever felt this way, or if she had, it was so long ago she couldn’t remember. Ana had a sudden, piercing wish that she had met him when she was young. Before Dr. Reynolds, before her mother’s insanity. Back when she was whole and life had been an open promise.

Before she learned how to protect herself from pain.

But it was too late for that, surely, and it didn’t matter. She hadn’t met him then, but she knew him now and they had somehow, miraculously, become friends.

She couldn’t stand the thought of losing that, and she knew right now he was giving her the choice—and there was no real choice to make. She raised her chin. “What do you want to know?”

The guard left his eyes, he relaxed visibly. “I don’t care. Anything. Tell me anything. What’s your last name?”

“My last name?” Ana leaned forward, drawing her knees up and resting her elbows on them. “I don’t have one.”

“Ana—”

“No, it’s true, I don’t have one.” Ana closed her eyes, remembering her mother’s story. “She always thought he would come for us, you see. She believed it so much she wouldn’t give me any other name. She thought he would give me his.”

“What was his?”

“Simonov.” Ana breathed the name, remembering the time, as a child, when she had called herself that to her friends, sure that any day, any hour, her father would come riding up and bestow the name upon her. In her daydreams, it had been like knighting a warrior.
My beloved daughter, in the sight of God and all those gathered here, I now knight you Anastasia Simonov
… “His name was Gregori Simonov.”

“Ana Simonov.” Cain tried.

Ana opened her eyes and shook her head. “Not Ana. My name—my real name—is Anastasia.”

Cain raised a brow. “A good Russian name.”

“Prettier than just Ana.”

“No.” He grinned. “I’m used to just Ana.”

“You’re easy to please.”

“Always.”

His eyes were dark, glinting with humor, and Ana suddenly found herself staring at him, captivated by his gaze. He was an attractive man, especially when he laughed. The realization sent a tiny thrill into her stomach, a heated shiver up her spine, and Ana blinked and sat back, startled into silence.

“Something wrong?” he asked. He was on his feet in a moment, leaning over, laying his hand against his cheek. “What is it, Ana? Did you feel dizzy?”

She stared up at him, licking her lips. Dizzy, yes, she felt dizzy, and disoriented, and—and strange. All because of his eyes… Ana sat up and pushed the hair off her face. “I’m fine. No, really, I’m fine.”
Or she would be, as soon as he stopped touching her
.

“You feel warm,” he said, backing away, his brow furrowed in concern. “You should sleep. You’re probably just tired.”

“Yes.” Ana put her hand over her eyes, feigning exhaustion. “Yes, that’s it. I’m tired.”

But when he finally left the room, leaving her in dark silence, Ana lay there wide awake, staring at the shadows.

“—Have you ever seen the sky so blue,
Señor
D’Alessandro?”
Doña
Melia sighed, leaning back against the
quincha
wall and staring up at the sky. “I have never seen it so blue.”

“It’s lovely,” Cain replied absently, in Spanish. “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful.” She flashed him a bright smile very much like Jiméne’s. Then she laughed and pointed to the yard. “Look at little Enzo play—ah, such a wonderful boy he is!”

“Mama, you spoil him with talk like that.” Serafina chuckled and looked up from her needlework. “He is a good boy, but he is still a boy, eh? Why, just last week…”

Cain closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun, letting Serafina’s words fade into a meaningless buzz. It felt good to be out here, just sitting, thinking about nothing, dreaming of nothing, hearing Enzo laugh as Amado piggybacked him around the yard and wondering where Jiméne was, and Ana—

His gut tightened, and Cain’s eyes snapped open. Ana. Beautiful, enticing Ana. He didn’t know what to do about her anymore, but he was damned sure he wasn’t going to be able to control himself much longer.

He thought about her constantly, dreamed about her at night, woke up drenched in sweat and shaking because he heard her soft breathing across the room. He would lie there, huddled in his hammock, aching and wishing he could wake her up, wishing he could touch her with his fingers and his lips and his tongue.

It had been three days since Ana’s fever had broken, three days since she’d smiled that soft, beguiling smile and told him about her life, and his need for her had grown until it was worse than it had ever been with whiskey. It was all-consuming, burning, inescapable even while he slept. The more he knew about her, the more they talked and laughed together, the more his desire grew, until just the mention of her name drove him almost insane with wanting.

She had lost her wariness. Now it was easy to get her to talk, to share her life with him—at least the part before she’d gone to Rosalie’s Home for Women. He never asked about her life there, didn’t really want to know. Thinking of her there, sharing her favors with paying customers, inflamed him. Cain never knew whether to be angry that she’d given herself to others but not to him or whether to be insanely, possessively jealous. Neither emotion was comfortable. Both made him too aware of just how vulnerable he’d become.

So he decided it was easier not to know about Rosalie’s. At least for now. Later, perhaps, when Ana trusted him more—when he trusted himself more—but not now, when his feelings were still too raw, when he wanted her with an intensity that was painful. Now it was easier to think of her past in terms of her childhood, and of her present with him—though every day, he wondered a little more just what “with him” meant.

“Where is Dolores?” Jiméne walked up, blocking the sun and running a hand over his sweaty face. He frowned at the cane walls irritably. “She has said she would watch Enzo. I need Amado now.”

“I’ll watch him, Jiméne,” Serafina replied absently, not looking up from her sewing. “Take Amado if you must.”

“You are busy watching Mama.” Jiméne pushed at his rolled shirtsleeves. “And it is Dolores who promis—Sweet Maria, look at this!” Jiméne broke into English, staring dumbfounded at the doorway.

“What is it?” Cain asked, twisting to see. The sun slanted into his eyes, and he tented his hand over his face.

He froze.

His heart stopped in his chest, Cain’s throat constricted painfully. Ana stood in the doorway—but an Ana he had never seen before. She was dressed in a brightly patterned red chemise, the familiar native dress he’d seen on Panamanian women all through the isthmus.

But it had never looked like this. The dress was loose, hanging straight from a short-sleeved shoulder, but it clung to Ana’s delicate curves provocatively. When she turned, he saw the fringe trimming the plunging back. Fringe that shivered when she moved. Fringe that swayed and shook and caught in the fat braid hanging between her shoulder blades.

Cain swallowed. His whole body felt hot. It took every ounce of strength he had to keep from jumping to his feet and dragging her off into the jungle. The strength of his passion for her amazed him. “Ana,” he croaked. “Where did you get that?”

“Do you like it?” She smiled, turning toward him. “Dolores lent it to me. I couldn’t stand the thought of putting the wool on again.”

“You—you are beautiful,
cariña
,” Jiméne stammered.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Dolores gushed in Spanish. “She looks wonderful in this dress, yes?”

Ana looked questioningly at Dolores.

“She said you look wonderful,” Cain translated softly. “And she’s right,
querida
, you do.”

Was it his imagination, or did she seem disconcerted by his words? She turned her head and looked down at the ground. Nervously, Cain thought, even demurely. He dismissed the idea abruptly. He’d seen Ana be many things, but never demure. After all, she was hardly a virginal debutante.

She took a deep breath. “I was tired of being in bed. I wanted to visit with everyone.”

Beside her, Dolores smiled widely. “She wants to take a walk,” she said in Spanish. She winked broadly at Cain. “But she is weak, yet, Doctor. She could use a companion.”

He threw Dolores a glance of mock disgust, and then looked at Ana. “Dolores says you’d like to go for a walk.”

“Yes—well, I—maybe not.” She smiled weakly, motioning to the bench beside
Doña
Melia. “Perhaps I’ll just sit here, with the rest of you.”

“You should go,
cariña
,” Jiméne advised. “Amado and I must join Juan in the field, and Mama will go in shortly. A walk would do you good, I think.”

“Then, Dolores—” Ana motioned with her fingers, pantomiming a walk. “Would you go with me?”

Dolores smiled and plopped down on the bench. “Doctor, would you tell her please that I must watch Enzo, as I promised?”

“It is about time,” Jiméne grumbled.

Dolores crossed her arms over her chest and looked imperiously at Cain. “Please,
amigo
.”

“Dolores has to watch Enzo.” Cain translated. He got to his feet and held out his hand to Ana. “Will I do?”

He could have sworn he saw nervousness cross her eyes again, and Cain wondered why. But before he could be sure, it was gone, and she smiled politely.

“Of course,” she said, putting her hand in his.

“Do not go far,” Jiméne teased in Spanish. “Just to the jungle and back!”

“We will be watching you, Doctor,” Dolores joined in. “I will come running if I see any improper behavior.”

Cain glanced over his shoulder and winked. “Why? Did you want to watch, Dolores?”

“Ah, such a rogue you are!” Dolores laughed.

He turned back to Ana, who was frowning thoughtfully.

“What was all that?” she asked.

“Dolores told us to be careful of snakes,” Cain replied easily. “I told her we would. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She withdrew her hand from his and started off, walking a few steps ahead of him. “Let’s go.”

There it was, that nervousness again. Cain watched her curiously for a moment, disturbed and not knowing why. She was different somehow, strangely quiet and thoughtful. He wondered if maybe it was the aftereffects of the illness, then discounted the thought.
Doña
Melia was fine. Tired but fine. No, he doubted illness could be the problem—

He looked up from his musings to see that Ana hadn’t paused to wait for him. She was already at a copse of palms across the yard. Quickly he ran to catch up with her, stumbling when she stopped short suddenly and turned to him.

“I would like to do something for Jiméne’s family,” she said. “They’ve all been so kind.”

“They don’t expect anything,” he said.

“Oh, I know they don’t.” Ana stopped. The sunlight filtering through the leaves dappled her skin, highlighted her hair. She looked up at him. “But I feel I owe them anyway. Haven’t you ever wanted to do something just because it felt right?”

Cain’s heart caught in his throat.
Yes. Oh, yes
. “What would you do?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I don’t have any talents to speak of—” A shadow crossed her face, and she frowned slightly. Then she forced a smile. “But there must be something I could do to thank them for what they’ve done. And you. I’d like to thank you too.”

He couldn’t breathe suddenly. “No, I—”

She looked away, staring into the trees. “I wish I could cook, or make something.” She laughed shortly. “The piano player at Rose’s used to write songs for people he liked. I wish he were here now because, God knows, I can’t write music.”

“Ana—”

“What do you think?” She turned her gaze back to him, her brow was furrowed. “You understand them. What would you like if you were them?”

I’d like to touch you, kiss you .
. . Cain closed his eyes briefly, pushing away the thought, and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to tell her that he thought they needed nothing except her thank-you, but suddenly he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say it because she was staring at him with rapt attention, the sun shining on her hair and shadowing her face, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. And because of that he forgot everything. “Christ,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful.”

He heard her quick intake of breath, saw her golden eyes, wide and startled as if he’d just said something shocking, and he was surprised to see the slight flush on her cheeks.

The sight of her that way—startled, embarrassed, aware—went straight to his heart, pulsed through him. He saw her nose, slightly reddened from the sun, and the strange, disconcerting shyness in her eyes, and the soft curve of her small breasts beneath the loose collar of the native chemise.

He saw it all, and his mouth went dry, the heat coiled in his loins. The way she was looking at him now—was that desire in her eyes?—Christ, it made him want to bury himself in her, to touch and smell and taste her. The pain of desire shot through him more intensely than ever, and Cain took a deep, ragged breath.

The sound was rough and startling, cutting through the charged silence like a shout. Ana stepped back convulsively, nearly tripping over a root, grabbing on to the trunk for balance. Her braid flopped over her shoulder, smacking against her breast, and she twisted around, startled. He saw the moment she realized it was only her braid—and not his hand—that touched her. Her shoulders relaxed, and she looked away.

When she glanced at him again, there was a slight, self-conscious smile on her face, and challenge in her eyes, and Cain knew he’d lost whatever moment there was. He had surprised her—something that didn’t happen often, he knew—but now she was in control. Now it was as if those few charged minutes had never existed.