Heartbreaker (22 page)

He shuddered convulsively, grinding his teeth
to hold back the deep, primal sound rumbling in his chest. He'd gotten so hard,
so fast, that his entire body ached and throbbed. She was sound asleep, her
breath coming in a deep, slow rhythm. His own breath was billowing in and out
of his lungs; sweat was pouring out of him, his muscles shaking like a stallion
scenting a mare ready for mounting. Without taking his eyes from her he began
unbuttoning his shirt. He had to have her; he couldn't wait. She was moist and
vulnerable, warm and female, and…his. He was coming apart just looking at
her, his control shredded, his loins surging wildly.

He left his clothes on the bedroom floor and
bent over her, forcing his hands to gentleness as he turned her onto her back.
She made a small sound that wasn't quite a sigh and adjusted her position, but
didn't awaken. His need was so urgent that he didn't take the time to wake her;
he pulled the shift to her waist, spread her thighs and positioned himself
between them. With his last remnant of control he eased into her, a low, rough
groan bursting from his throat as her hot, moist flesh tightly sheathed him.

She whimpered a little, her body arching in
his hands, and her arms lifted to twine around his neck. "I love
you," she moaned, still more asleep than awake. Her words went through him
like lightning, his body jerking in response. Oh God, he didn't even know if
she said it to him or to some dream, but everything in him shattered. He wanted
to hear the words again, and he wanted her awake, her eyes looking into his
when she said them, so he'd know who was in her mind. Desperately he sank
deeper into her, trying to absorb her body into his so irrevocably that nothing
could separate them.

"Michelle," he whispered in taut
agony, burying his open mouth against her warm throat.

Michelle lifted, arching toward him again as
her mind swam upward out of a sleep so deep it had bordered on unconsciousness.
But even asleep she had known his touch, her body reacting immediately to him,
opening for him, welcoming him. She didn't question his presence; he was there,
and that was all that mattered. A great burst of love so intense that she
almost cried out reduced everything else to insignificance. She was on fire,
her senses reeling, her flesh shivering under the slamming thrusts of his
loins. She felt him deep inside her, touching her, and she screamed into his
mouth like a wild creature as sharp ecstasy detonated her nerves. He locked her
to him with iron-muscled thighs and arms, holding her as she strained madly
beneath him, and the feel of her soft internal shudders milking him sent him
blasting into his own hot, sweet insanity.

He couldn't let her go. Even when it was
over, he couldn't let her go. He began thrusting again, needing even more of
her to satisfy the hunger that went so deep he didn't think it would ever be
satisfied.

She was crying a little, her luminous green
eyes wet as she clung to him. She said his name in a raw, shaking voice. He
hadn't let her slide down to a calm plateau but kept her body tense with
desire. He was slow and tender now, gentling her into ecstasy instead of
hurling her into it, but the culmination was no less shattering.

It was almost dawn before she curled up in
his arms, both of them exhausted. Just before she went to sleep she said in
mild surprise, "You came home early."

His arms tightened around her. "I
couldn't stand another night away from you." It was the bald, frightening
truth. He would have made it back even if he'd had to walk.

No one bothered them the next morning, and
they slept until long after the sun began pouring brightly into the room. Nev
Luther, seeing John's truck parked in its normal location, came to the house to
ask him a question, but Edie dared the foreman to disturb them with such a
fierce expression on her face that he decided the question wasn't important
after all.

John woke shortly after one, disturbed by the
heat of the sunlight streaming directly onto the bed. His temples and mustache
were already damp with sweat, and he badly needed a cool shower to drive away
the sluggishness of heat and exhaustion. He left the bed quietly, taking care
not to wake Michelle, though a purely male smile touched his hard lips as he
saw her shift lying in the middle of the floor. He didn't even remember pulling
it off her, much less throwing it. Nothing had mattered but loving her.

He stood under the shower, feeling utterly
sated but somehow uneasy. He kept remembering the sound of her voice when she
said "I love you" and it was driving him crazy. Had she been
dreaming, or had she known it was him? She'd never said it before, and she
hadn't said it again. The uncertainty knifed at him. It had felt so right, but
then, they had always fitted together in bed so perfectly that his memories of
other women were destroyed. Out of bed… There was always that small
distance he couldn't bridge, that part of herself that she wouldn't let him know.
Did she love someone else? Was it one of her old crowd? A tanned, sophisticated
jet-setter who was out of her reach now that she didn't have money? The thought
tormented him, because he knew it was possible to love someone even when they
were far away and years passed between meetings. He knew, because he'd loved
Michelle that way.

His face was drawn as he cut the water off
with a savage movement.
Love
. God, he'd loved her for years, and lied
to himself about it by burying it under hostility, then labeling it as lust,
want, need, anything to keep from admitting he was as vulnerable as a naked
baby when it came to her. He was hard as nails, a sexual outlaw who casually
used and left women, but he'd only prowled from woman to woman so restlessly
because none of them had been able to satisfy his hunger. None of them had been
the one woman he wanted, the one woman he loved. Now he had her physically, but
not mentally, not emotionally, and he was scared spitless. His hands were
trembling as he rubbed a towel over his body. Somehow he had to make her love
him. He'd use any means necessary to keep her with him, loving her and taking
care of her until no one existed in her mind except him, and every part of her
became his to cherish.

Would she run if he told her he loved her? If
he said the words, would she be uncomfortable around him? He remembered how
he'd felt whenever some woman had tried to cling to him, whimpering that she
loved him, begging him to stay. He'd felt embarrassment, impatience, pity.
Pity! He couldn't take it if Michelle pitied him.

He'd never felt uncertain before. He was
arrogant, impatient, determined, and he was used to men jumping when he barked
out an order. It was unsettling to discover that he couldn't control either his
emotions or Michelle's. He'd read before that love made strong men weak, but he
hadn't understood it until now. Weak? Hell, he was terrified!

Naked, he returned to the bedroom and pulled
on underwear and jeans. She was a magnet, drawing his eyes to her time and
again. Lord, she was something to look at, with that pale gold hair gleaming in
the bright sunlight, her bare flesh glowing. She lay on her stomach with her
arms under the pillow, giving him a view of her supple back, firmly rounded
buttocks and long, sleek legs. He admired her graceful lines and feminine
curves, the need growing in him to touch her. Was she going to sleep all day?

He crossed to the bed and sat down on the
side, stroking his hand over her bare shoulder. "Wake up, lazybones. It's
almost two o'clock."

She yawned, snuggling deeper into the pillow.
"So?" Her mouth curved into a smile as she refused to open her eyes.

He chuckled. "So get up. I can't even
get dressed when you're lying here like this. My attention keeps
wander—" He broke off, frowning at the small white scar marring the
satiny shoulder under his fingers. She was lying naked under the bright rays of
the afternoon sun, or he might not have noticed. Then he saw another one, and
he touched it, too. His gaze moved, finding more of them marring the perfection
of her skin. They were all down her back, even on her bottom and the backs of
her upper thighs. His fingers touched all of them, moving slowly from scar to
scar. She was rigid under his hands, not moving or looking at him, not even
breathing.

Stunned, he tried to think of what could have
made those small, crescent-shaped marks. Accidental cuts, by broken glass for
instance, wouldn't all have been the same size and shape. The cuts hadn't been
deep; the scarring was too faint, with no raised ridges. That was why he hadn't
felt them, though he'd touched every inch of her body. But if they weren't
accidental, that meant they had to be deliberate.

His indrawn breath hissed roughly through his
teeth. He swore, his voice so quiet and controlled that the explicitly obscene
words shattered the air more effectively than if he'd roared. Then he rolled
her over, his hands hard on her shoulders, and said only three words. "Who
did it?"

Michelle was white, frozen by the look on his
face. He looked deadly, his eyes cold and ferocious. He lifted her by the
shoulders until she was almost nose to nose with him, and he repeated his
question, the words evenly spaced, almost soundless. "Who did it?"

Her lips trembled as she looked helplessly at
him. She couldn't talk about it; she just couldn't "I don't… It's
noth—"

"
Who did it
?" he yelled,
his neck corded with rage.

She closed her eyes, burning tears seeping
from beneath her lids. Despair and shame ate at her, but she knew he wouldn't
let her go until she answered. Her lips were trembling so hard she could barely
talk. "John, please!"

"Who?"

Crumpling, she gave in, turning her face
away. "Roger Beckman. My ex-husband." It was hard to say the words;
she thought they would choke her.

John was swearing again, softly, endlessly.
Michelle struggled briefly as he swept her up and sat down in a chair, holding
her cradled on his lap, but it was a futile effort, so she abandoned it. Just
saying Roger's name had made her feel unclean. She wanted to hide, to scrub
herself over and over to be rid of the taint, but John wouldn't let her go. He
held her naked on his lap, not saying a word after he'd stopped cursing until
he noticed her shivering. The sun was hot, but her skin was cold. He stretched
until he could reach the corner of the sheet, then jerked until it came free of
the bed, and wrapped it around her.

He held her tight and rocked her, his hands
stroking up and down her back. She'd been beaten. The knowledge kept
ricocheting inside his skull, and he shook with a black rage he'd never known
before. If he'd been able to get his hands on that slimy bastard right then,
he'd have killed him with his bare hands and enjoyed every minute of it. He
thought of Michelle cowering in fear and pain, her delicate body shuddering
under the blows, and red mist colored his vision. No wonder she'd asked him not
to hurt her the first time he'd made love to her! After her experience with
men, it was something of a miracle that she'd responded at all.

He crooned to her, his rough cheek pressed
against her sunny hair, his hard arms locked around her. He didn't know what he
said, and neither did she, but the sound of his voice was enough. The
gentleness came through, washing over her and warming her on the inside just as
the heat of his body warmed her cold skin. Even after her shivering stopped he
simply held her, waiting, letting her feel his closeness.

Finally she shifted a little, silently asking
him to let her go. He did, reluctantly, his eyes never leaving her white face
as she walked into the bathroom and shut the door. He started to go into the
bathroom after her, alarmed by her silence and lack of color; his hand was on
the doorknob when he reined himself under control. She needed to be alone right
now. He heard the sound of the shower, and waited with unprecedented patience
until she came out She was still pale, but not as completely colorless as she'd
been. The shower had taken the remaining chill from her skin, and she was
wrapped in the terry-cloth robe she kept hanging on the back of the bathroom
door.

"Are you all right?" he asked
quietly.

"Yes." Her voice was muted.

"We have to talk about it."

"Not now." The look she gave him
was shattered. "I can't. Not now."

"All right, baby. Later."

Later was that night, lying in his arms
again, with the darkness like a shield around them. He'd made love to her, very
gently and for a long time, easing her into rapture. In the lengthening silence
afterward she felt his determination to know all the answers, and though she
dreaded it, in the darkness she felt able to give them to him. When it came
down to it, he didn't even have to ask. She simply started talking.

"He was jealous," she whispered.
"Insane with it. I couldn't talk to a man at a party, no matter how ugly
or happily married; I couldn't smile at a waiter. The smallest things triggered
his rages. At first he'd just scream, accusing me of cheating on him, of loving
someone else, and he'd ask me over and over who it was until I couldn't stand it
anymore. Then he began slapping me. He was always sorry afterward. He'd tell me
how much he loved me, swear he'd never do it again. But of course he did."

John had gone rigid, his muscles shaking with
the rage she felt building in him again. In the darkness she stroked his face,
giving him what comfort she could and never wondering at the illogic of it.