Half Moon Hill (25 page)

It was when the song ended, even as another started to play, that she stopped dancing, stepped near him, and said, “We should get out of here.”

Despite himself, he felt a little playful. “Why? Because I’m such a bad dancer or because you’re . . . warm for my form?” He raised his eyebrows teasingly.

And a loud peal of feminine laughter tore from her throat.

But then, letting her eyes fall half shut as she cast a sexy smile, she leaned closer, her breath as soft as silk on his skin as she whispered in his ear, “The second one.”

T
hey didn’t talk much as they drove back toward town, but Duke gently, gingerly ran his fingertips in a circle over the top of Anna’s thigh through her skirt. The sensation almost made it difficult to drive, but she couldn’t bear the idea of asking him to stop.

When they pulled onto the town square and Duke got out to ride his bike back to the house, she felt a little abandoned without him. And she probably drove a little too fast to get home. But she liked knowing the lone headlight behind her was his, and that he was as eager to get there as she was.

“Hey,” she said softly as she got out of the car after pulling into the driveway.

“Hey,” he returned, his voice gravelly with the heat she always felt moving so potently between them.

She’d had such a good time with him tonight—talking, laughing, even dancing—but now she wanted to have a different kind of fun.

Only it wouldn’t be just fun now. And maybe it never
had
been just fun. From the first time they’d touched, she couldn’t help thinking, feeling, that she and Duke shared a real connection. And now, now that she knew she’d fallen in love with him, she just wanted to celebrate that, relish that, in the most intimate way possible.

She loved having his hand at the small of her back as she unlocked the front door. Even just that tiny touch echoed all through her. And she just wasn’t sure when the last time was that she’d felt this happy.
So don’t think too far ahead, and don’t worry about anything—just be in this moment and let it be beautiful.

The first thing she saw when she stepped inside and turned on a light was Erik, sitting on the sofa table in the foyer like a furry black statue. Duke noticed, too, saying, “There’s your fur ball.”

“Meow,” the cat said.

“Hi,” she greeted him softly, then stepped over to pet him.

“You’re not usually so nice to the cat,” Duke observed. “What’s that about?”

Anna bit her lip. Wow, this love thing was having a serious effect on her already. “Maybe I’m just . . . happy.” And after lowering her purse to the table next to the kitty, she turned back toward Duke and let her cheerfulness give way to the full-on passion swirling inside her. All smiles gone now, her voice came out in a mere rasp. “Maybe I want to make you happy, too. David.”

She could see a familiar desire lurking in his gaze as well, even as he cast her a teasing, chiding look. “Don’t call me that, Daisy.”

“Then don’t call me Daisy.”

When he said nothing in reply, but their eyes stayed locked, she said, “Besides, I like David. David suits you.”

He gave a short shake of his head, eyes half shut as they stayed on her. “No it doesn’t,” he said quietly. “David was somebody else. I don’t know that kid anymore.”

She tilted her head, gently but boldly arguing the point. “Your mother thought it suited you. I bet
she
doesn’t call you Duke, does she?”

He hesitated. Then he said, “My mother’s dead.”

Oh Lord, big mistake.
And talk about a mood killer. She’d been trying to make him feel good about himself, see him the way
she
did. Now she wished she could call back the words. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” he told her.

But Anna couldn’t help being shocked. She wasn’t sure why—people died, her own “other mother” had died—but she’d just thought when Lucky had talked about Duke going home to his family that he’d mentioned, in passing, Duke’s mother.

“When did she die?” she heard herself ask.
But shut up, why are you making him dwell on this?
And yet, she just . . . wanted to know things about him. She wanted to understand him.

It took him a moment to answer. “Um . . . about six months ago. Right after I saw her at Christmas. Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. And then she thought about the timing of it. And maybe she should be quiet, or change the subject, or just kiss him or something—but instead she wondered aloud, “Was that before or after the accident?”

His voice stayed quiet. “Before. By just a couple of weeks.”

Only . . . Anna felt confused the more she thought about this. “But Lucky never mentioned . . .” She stopped, shook her head lightly. “He never said anything about you going to a funeral.” It just seemed odd that she wouldn’t have heard about it given that her brother and Duke had kept in close touch up until these past few months.

Duke wasn’t sure how much to say, or how much he
wanted
to say. There was something easy about talking to Anna, even easy about being open with her—but this was one more thing he didn’t want to think about, one more thing he shoved away whenever it came to mind. And he wasn’t even sure how they’d gotten from the subject of her cat to his mother in just a few short seconds of conversation, but he wasn’t prepared for this. He would probably
never
be prepared for this.

A big part of him just wanted to turn around and walk away. Wanted to get back on his bike and ride through the night. Wanted to go stalking back through the woods in the dark to the cabin. Every instinct urged him to run, shut it down, get away from it. It seemed like the only way to . . . stay safe. From . . . something. From . . . the truth about his life, he guessed.

And yet . . . they’d had such a nice night. He’d felt so good inside—almost normal. He’d danced, for God’s sake—a definite first for him. And they’d been just about to go to bed together, and underneath it all, he still ached with desire.

What it came down to mostly was that . . . he owed her more. Than to run. Running was easy. But it would be the wrong thing to do. Because he cared about her. And maybe . . . maybe this meant he’d started caring about her even more than he knew, but whatever the reason, he just couldn’t quite make himself walk out on her right now.

So instead he forced himself to tell her. About what she’d asked, about his mother’s funeral. “I didn’t go,” he said, his own voice sounding hollow to him, like something coming from far away. And then came the worst part, the reason why. “They . . . no one let me know. That she died.”

It was hard to look at her after that—hell, it was hard to just be here, still in her house, his feet on her polished hardwood floor, everything around him seeming . . . too good, too nice, for him. But he forced himself to keep his eyes on her, as much as possible, watching as she blinked, still clearly confused, not quite getting it. “I don’t understand.”

He worked to swallow back the large lump that had risen in his throat, aware of the sheen of sweat gathering on his skin despite the pleasant night air wafting through the screen door and open windows. There was nothing left to do but say it. “They just . . . didn’t bother telling me. I . . . only found out when I went home, after the accident.”

He couldn’t quite focus on her anymore—he couldn’t focus on anything—but he was vaguely aware of her shaking her head some more, obviously still confused. “Why wouldn’t they  . . . ?”

Duke looked away then, toward the nearest window, curtains blowing around it from the breeze, thinking of the woods, feeling the trees almost calling to him, reaching out to him. He should be there right now, blending into them, being invisible, like he’d grown accustomed to. But all he could really see in his mind was his father’s craggy, unsmiling face. And because the only other choice remained to run away, he swung his gaze back to her and spewed out, “My dad always hated me and I always knew it. It’s why I left.” And then he slowed down a little, spoke more quietly, trying to stay calm, not scare her. “My granddad died when I was sixteen and he . . . he’d kept things sane for me. But after that, working with my dad and his brothers in their construction business . . . wasn’t good. And the work was all I had, all I knew how to do.”

He stopped then, trying to think how to go on, how to explain a lifetime of trouble in the shortest possible way.

“My mom . . . was hurt by the things I did, the bad stuff I got into after I left home. But when I got out of that, when I cleaned up my life, she took me back. Into
her
life. They all did . . . my dad, my sister, my uncles.”

His eyes had dropped at some point—he realized he was staring at their feet: his work boots, her dressy flip-flops woven of red and brown leather and matching the red paint on her toenails. He struggled to make himself keep talking. “That’s what I thought anyway,” he told her. “But when I went back to the farm a few months ago and found out she’d died and that they hadn’t even fucking let me know—”

He stopped then, realized his hands had clenched into fists and that his eyes felt wet—he shut them tight for a minute, willing that part away.
You’re almost there, almost done—just get the last part out and then it’ll be over.
“When I went back after the accident, my father told me he didn’t want anything to do with me. Said I was a piece of shit who’d never been any good to anybody and never would be.”

Anna’s skin crawled with horror as she stood before him listening, all the blood draining from her face. To know any father would ever say this to a son who needed him. To know Duke had heard this when he’d been in such a bad place. To think he’d gone home to his mother only to find out she wasn’t there anymore—and to be kicked in the teeth with such coldness. Oh God. She’d thought she’d understood what he’d been through, what he was dealing with. But this . . . this, it turned out, had to be his deepest wound of all—and he’d been hiding it still, from her, from Lucky.

“That’s when I came here. To the woods,” he went on, sounding calmer now, but also maybe . . . sadder. “I guess, added to everything else, finding out he thought I was worthless just made it . . . hard to go on. And easy to stay someplace that felt . . . safe.”

Anna was overcome with the need to fix this somehow. If only she could, if only she had that power. She knew she didn’t—but she still had to try. She peered up at him and spoke from the bottom of her heart. “You have to know how wrong he was, Duke—you have to.”

She watched the man she loved as he stood there clearly trying to get hold of himself. He took a deep breath, eyes downcast, blinking—until he found whatever it took to meet her gaze once more. He looked so tired that she just wanted to hug him. “Sometimes I do,” he said, “but other times, Anna . . .”

And in that moment Anna wasn’t sure such outrage had ever gripped her body. She could barely breathe beneath the weight of his sorrow and thought she’d never been more livid at another human being than she felt toward Duke’s father right now. Even her “other mother,” when she’d learned the truth. A crime committed in love just wasn’t as ugly as one committed in hate. Her anger spilled over as she said, “You listen to me, Duke Dawson. You
are
good. You’re plenty good!”

She stopped then, took a breath, felt something softer welling inside her then. “You’re good . . . to me. David. You’re . . . the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. In fact, I think you’re incredible.”

She watched as Duke’s eyes filled with disbelief, maybe doubt, maybe wonder—she couldn’t tell. And she didn’t want any confusion about what she felt, about how she saw him. So she followed the stark, desperate urge to lift her hands to his cheeks and kiss him with all the love and need inside her.

“Please,” she heard herself murmur against his mouth between kisses. “
Please
.” At some point, Duke’s arms had closed around her, at once quenching and fueling her intense thirst for him.

When the kissing stopped, he whispered, “Please what, Anna?”

And it was only then that she realized she’d said it loud enough to be heard. The word had seeped from her lips unbidden, and the truth was—she didn’t even know what she’d been asking him for.
Please let me love you. Please let me be there for you. Please be there for me.

And then—oh! She understood.

She was asking him for . . . everything.

But you can’t tell him that. You can’t put it into those kinds of words when he’s shaken up, vulnerable.
And maybe the words didn’t need to be said anyway. Maybe she could just show him.

So instead she said, “Please . . . take me. I need you inside me right now more than I think I’ve ever needed anything in my life.”

Oh God, those were pretty freaking intense words, too—which had come out sounding a lot less controlled than she’d planned. But they were just as true, she realized, as the other thoughts in her head. And they were out there now—she couldn’t take them back. So she looked longingly up into his warm gray eyes and, one more time, said, “Please.”

“Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not even admit to themselves.”

Gaston Leroux,
The Phantom of the Opera

Fifteen

A
fter that, things turned urgent, fast. He worked at the hook and zipper on her skirt—she struggled to get his blue jeans open. Both rushed to yank their shirts off over their heads, and Duke’s gaze dropped briefly, wildly, to her red bra, before he reached for the straps, looping his thumbs inside, shoving them from her shoulders. She pushed his jeans down as he grabbed on to her undone skirt, tugging it and her panties to her thighs.

When finally they were naked, she reached for him again—but he clamped on to her shoulders, turned her around, and propelled her toward the staircase. She thought he wanted to go upstairs, to her bed—and though she personally didn’t want to wait even that long, she also wasn’t in the mood to argue, so she started up them.