That Boy From Trash Town (17 page)

But Whitney didn't want cautious moves. She had been waiting for him, starving for him, for most of her life, until now the aching need had taken over completely. She didn't wait for him to remove her clothes. She was out of them, tossing them away without a thought.

When Dean pulled away from her to take off the rest of his clothes, he stood for a moment beside the bed staring at her in awe. The pale body, the midnight hair fanning out on the white pillow, made him catch his breath as her beauty went right to the heart of him.

He had finally allowed his true feelings to surface and the power of them knocked him sideways. How could he have lived so long without this? How could he have managed without knowing what it was like to touch her, to feel her hands on him?

His whole body was shaking as he joined her on the bed, and he whispered incomprehensible words of love in her ear as he lifted her and made them one.

For Whitney, there was no room for fear, no room for pain. As she had always known, their bodies were specifically made for the purpose of loving each other. But she hadn't known that this moment would bring sensations, wilder and more incredibly beautiful than anything that had gone before. How could she know that each movement, each heated caress, would be more deeply felt than the one that went before?

As they moved together, the moonlight streamed across the bed, illuminating naked flesh against naked flesh, hunger matching hunger. And then, together, they let the feelings gather strength. Building and growing until there was nothing in the wide world other than the sweet, fierce sensations. It was around them and in them. It was in their heads and their bodies and their hearts. It bound them forever and finally gave them peace.

* * *

Dean felt the impact of the fury through a dense, black fog, then gradually the fog dissolved and he saw the two people. His stepfather stood before him, a raging giant, towering over everything in the room, one tightly clenched fist raised, his features twisted in violent anger. Dean's mother looked tiny in comparison as she cowered in an armchair with torn upholstery. She was crying. Helplessly. Hopelessly. Fear shook through every inch of her fragile body.

In the next moment Dean was no longer viewing the scene, he was living it. He was inside the man he hated most in the world. And in the torn armchair, Whitney shook and cried. Then he knew he wasn't looking at her through his stepfather's eyes. It was his own eyes. IBs own body. Dean was the despised, raging giant. And he was making Whitney cry. He was hurting her. His dear, sweet Whitney. He was making her tremble with fear.

Please God, he couldn't let it happen. He had to get away from her. He had to run. Run!

He struggled to turn his sluggish giant's body away from her, but finally he was at the door, forcing it open.

Dear sweet heaven, she was there beside him! Holding onto him, pulling him back, trying to make him stay. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. No words to tell her, to make her understand that he had to protect her. He had to keep her safe.

Groans born of frustration and fear burned in his throat, but still there was no sound, and the look in her eyes was kilting him, ripping him up inside.

Whitney...for pity's sake, Whitney! Please, please—

* * *

Whitney turned her head slowly on the pillow and watched Dean sleep. Early morning sunlight had been floating through the curtains for almost an hour, but she didn't want to wake him. She wanted to savor the pleasure of seeing his head on the pillow next to her. It was a little bit of intimacy that was as unexpected as it was thrilling.

Whitney was convinced she hadn't made a mistake last night. Dean loved her. She was sure of it. But something was keeping him from acknowledging that fact, even to himself. Maybe he was afraid of commitment. His mother had gone through two bad marriages, two divorces. It would be no wonder if he was afraid the same thing would happen to him.

She would simply have to show him that he didn't have to be afraid of love. She would wear him down until eventually he had no choice but to marry her and be happy for the rest of his life. Because she could make him happy. She knew she could. She would be a good wife to him. She would give him so much love and happiness, he wouldn't know what hit him. She would make him forget all about the past.

When he muttered in his sleep and moved restlessly, she couldn't stand not touching him for one second. Brushing a kiss across the top of his ear, she said, "You're awake now, aren't you, Dean? I wouldn't be taking advantage of a helpless man if I happened to touch you here—" she moved her hand down his body "—would I?"

His eyes opened abruptly, and for a moment he held himself stiffly, then he released his breath in a sigh and grabbed her, flipping over to pin her with his body.

"If you did that, I might have to retaliate and touch you here." He smoothed one hand across her breast, letting his thumb linger on the nipple. "Or here... or-"

He broke off and groaned when they heard a knock at the front door. Rolling off her, he folded his arms behind his head and sighed deeply. A martyr's sigh.

"Don't forget where you were," she said as she climbed out of bed and pulled on a short robe. "I'll gun down the idiot at the door, then be right back."

Before she left the room, she had to bend over him for one last kiss. Two. Three.

She kissed his cheek. "You have the sexiest cheekbones in creation." And his forehead."The brow of a genius, honest to God." And his chin. "Stubborn ... too stubborn for your own good." And his mouth. "I don't think I can leave these lips. I really don't."

Shaking with laughter, he pulled her down on top of him. He was giving her a sample of Ins irresistible lips when they heard the knock again.

Dean stood up with her in his arms, then set her on her feet. "Get rid of them," he ordered as he ran a hand over her buttocks. "Get rid of them fast."

On her way to the front door, she straightened her robe and pushed her fingers through her hair. If a salesman was at her front door, he would be on the receiving end of the fastest turndown in history.

But it wasn't a salesman. It was her father.

"Lloyd," she said in surprise as she tried to gather her thoughts. "I thought you had some kind of inventory thing you were supposed to take care of today."

"It was canceled. I just wanted to—" Looking beyond her, he broke off and smiled. "Good morning, Dean."

Whitney glanced around and saw Dean standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Although he had pulled on his jeans, even the slowest observer would have known that he had just gotten out of bed. And Whitney's father was definitely not slow.

"Lloyd," Dean said politely.

Her father was still smiling. "I'll come back later," he said, turning away.

Whitney grabbed his arm and pulled him into the apartment. "No you won't. You're going to stay and have breakfast with us. Dean was just saying how hungry he is. Weren't you saying that, Dean?"

"My very words." He walked farther into the living room. "Join us for breakfast, Lloyd. I promise I won't let her anywhere near a skillet."

She made a small huffing noise. "Are you implying—I'll have you know I scramble a mean egg."

"Mean is right. When she gets through with them, those suckers are tough enough to fight back," Dean said as he pushed open the door to the kitchen. ' 'Stop sulking, Mary. If you behave yourself, we'll let you make the toast.

* * *

A short while later Whitney was sitting on the kitchen counter as she scraped the black parts off the last piece of toast.

"Is it my fault the stupid toaster is defective? You helped me pick it out, Lloyd." She put the toast on the plate with the rest and hopped down. "Besides, I've heard that carbon is good for the digestion."

Both men made rude noises, but they ate the toast anyway. And Whitney had to admit that Dean made a good breakfast. Maybe he would teach her.

Having breakfast with the two men she loved was destined to become one of those bright spots in life that one looks back on with an automatic smile: Dean and Lloyd arguing about baseball and jazz; Dean and Whitney fighting over the last of the strawberry jam; Lloyd popping Whitney's hand with his fork when she tried to take more than her share of the bacon.

When it was over—Lloyd insisted on staying to help with the dishes—Whitney hated to see her father leave. She knew he was trying to give them their privacy, and she wanted to tell him that he wasn't intruding. He was her father and therefore a part of their life. But she didn't say anything.

When the front door closed behind him, Whitney turned to Dean. "I've got to do it. I've got to tell him. He likes me now. Don't you think he likes me now? Don't you think we're real, true friends?"

"He loves you, Whit," Dean said quietly. "And you need to tell him soon. Because the longer you put if off, the harder it's going to be on both of you."

"You're right. You're right. I know you're right. But I need to work out how I'm going to do it. I need to figure out exactly what I'm going to say to him."

He put his arms around her and pulled her close. "Be prepared for some anger, honey. I don't want to scare you, but you need to remember how you reacted when you discovered your mother's deception."

She nodded against his chest, then drew in a slow breath. "I called her a couple of days ago."

"Did you? I'm proud of you."

"Don't be too proud," she said, her voice rueful. "I was barely civil." She gave a short laugh. "Not that Mother noticed. It was like I was away at college or something. She told me everything that was going on in San Antonio. How they missed me at the hospital benefit, things like that. She never once mentioned Daddy. I knew it would be this way. I knew she would pretend it had never happened."

He stroked her hair. "Everyone has his own way of coping. She wouldn't know it was hurting you."

"Do you really think it would make a difference? I mean, if the impossible happened and she actually wondered if her actions would hurt me, would it make a difference to her?"

She pulled out of his arms and walked a couple of steps away from him. "Would you listen to me? When did I turn into a whiner?" She reached out and punched his arm. "And why on earth did you let me?"

It had just occurred to her that Dean had never once complained about his mother's neglect or his stepfather's abuse. Compared to what his parents had put him through, Whitney had led a fairy-tale life, and she was suddenly very much ashamed of herself.

"You weren't whining," he told her. "You have a perfect right to be angry. And talking about it is one way of working out that anger:"

But not Dean's way, she told herself silently. His life was filled with injustices. Injustices that he carried alone.

Whitney would change that. If she had to pry the words out of him with a tire iron, she would make him share all his pain and anger with her. She would make him see that it was all right to give a little bit of it to her.

They spent the rest of the day doing silly things—her idea. Now that she was free to love him, she wanted to give him back some of his missing childhood. She made him take her to Six Flags Over Texas, where they ate pink things on a stick and curly fries. They rode the giant wooden roller coaster and the Cliffhanger and the Runaway Mine Train. They played every game of chance in the arcade and came home tired and hot and happy, with their arms full of cheap stuffed animals.

Dean spent the night with her again, but something about his mood puzzled Whitney. She couldn't figure out what was going on in his mind. He still wanted her—most of the time he could barely keep his hands off her—but there were too many brooding silences between them. It was almost as though he regretted their new relationship.

In the days that followed, Dean's strange mood continued. Each time they made love he seemed to be fighting a silent battle. And each time, when he finally took her to bed, his reaction was explosive and reckless, as though he were throwing good sense to the wind. As though he fought his feelings until they grew too powerful to control.

Dean had always been big on control. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe he resented the fact that his feelings for her were so strong, stronger even than his control.

On Thursday, almost a week after they first made love, Whitney was having lunch in the cafeteria at the factory when she decided she would have to force the issue. Even if she got hurt, she had to get him to talk about what was going on inside him.

After work, as soon as she had taken a shower and changed her clothes, she went straight to his apartment.

"Did you have a good day?" she asked when he let her in. "Is the Sanderson case going all right?"

"Average to the first question and the way I expected to the second," he said dryly as he moved to sit on the couch.

"That's good...that's good." She shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts. "Dean... Dean, I've been doing some thinking."

He raised one dark brow. "Now there's a scary thought."

"You're so funny." She moved to sit on the coffee
table in front of him. "You told me that I was too inexperienced. Well, that's changed. I've had lots of experience. Wonderful, exciting experience."

His features were tight as he studied her face. "Get to the point, Whitney.''

"Well, if the object was to clue me in on sex, I'm clued. You have to admit I wasn't slow in picking it up."

Whitney stared beyond him, avoiding his eyes. She knew she was taking a big chance, but some things were worth taking a chance on. Dean was worth taking a chance on.

"I'm probably ready for a solo flight," she continued. "Well, not solo really, but I think I'm ready to go up without my esteemed instructor. Don't you think so? I mean, now that you know I can do it, you don't have to worry about me anymore. You could probably even move back to San Antonio now and get your practice back in shape."

"You've met someone new?" The words were harsh and there was a white line around his mouth. "Is he good-looking? You're not thinking about that muscle-bound son of a bitch? Because if you are, you can forget it. You heard me, Whitney. You can just—"

She-grasped his face between her hands. "Hush a minute. Did you listen to yourself, Dean? Did you listen to what you were saying? You don't want me to be with another man any more than I want you to be with another woman. Why do you suppose that is? Why do you think it hurts so much to think of either of us with someone else?"

He pulled away and stood up, turning his back on her. "What was that?" he asked, his voice rough. "Some kind of game?''

"No," she denied, moving to stand directly behind him. "I don't play games with you. I wouldn't do that. You know why, Dean? You're too important to me. I'm not afraid to admit how I feel. I love you. I've loved you for as long as I can remember. If anyone was playing games it was you."

When he swung to face her, she knew he was going to deny it.

"Yes," she said before he could speak. "You. You've been pretending that we're having an affair. A casual, disposable thing. And that's not the truth, is it?"

A shudder shook through him. "No, it's not. You're right. What I feel for you is not casual. Not disposable. I love you, Whitney."

With a little squeal of relief, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

He responded immediately, drawing her close to run his hands urgently over her body, then seconds later he pulled back from the kiss. "Whit—"

"What's the matter?" she breathed against his cheeks. "Why did you stop? That was some of my best stuff. Better men than you have crumbled under the weight of that particular kiss." She smiled and shook her head. "I'm lying of course. There is no better man than you." She took his hand from her shoulder and held it against her cheek. "And now that you've admitted you love me, you're perfect."

"I couldn't very well deny it," he said with a strange, choking laugh. "Not after making a fool of myself when I thought you were going to see someone else. I've loved you since you were sixteen years old, but all these years I've been trying to convince myself that it was something else. Desire, respect, admiration, sincere liking. When you combine all those things with the feeling that I'm not quite complete unless you're with me, you get love. All along it was love. Ifs not something I asked for, and it's not something I can deny, either."

A moment after joy began to spread through her like wildfire, the full sum of his words began to penetrate. He had made the admission reluctantly, regretfully, as though he didn't want to love her, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.

She hid her face against his shoulder, unwilling to let him see how much it hurt, knowing that he wasn't as happy about their love as she was.

When she had gained control of her emotions, she pulled back slightly and met his eyes. "You think you could do better?" she asked, one brow raised. "Well, let me clue you in, dumpling. You can't. You won't ever find anyone who could love you better than I can. I've had a lot of practice. After all, I've been doing it all my life. And that's your fault. If you weren't so wonderful, I wouldn't love you to the bottom of my toes. Take away the part of me that loves Dean and there wouldn't be much left. Nothing but an incredibly beautiful shell."

He laughed, pulling her closer. He was holding her so tightly, she could barely breathe. There was an urgent feel to the embrace. A desperate feel.

"What's wrong?" she whispered. "Something's scaring you. Why can't you talk to me about it?"

"Nothing... no really, it's nothing." He smoothed kisses across her forehead. "I was just thinking of something your mother said. She said I was your rebellion."

He moved away from her. "It made sense, Whitney. And don't try to tell me you haven't made it your life's work to tick off the Harcourts. Your apartment, your new job, those things aren't just about getting close to your father. When you came here you didn't just separate yourself from people, from a way of life. You left everything Harcourt behind."

"So?"

"So maybe I'm part of that. An affair with me is certainly something all your relatives would disapprove of."

"Not all of them. Baby thinks you're sexy as hell."

When he didn't respond, she drew in a slow breath, trying to sound calm when she really wanted to scream at him. She had never heard anything so ridiculous.

"Okay.. .okay," she said in irritation. "You may be right about the apartment and the job. I don't know. I haven't thought about it. But even if you're right, it doesn't have anything to do with how I feel about you. I wanted you when I was a good little Harcourt—"

"You were never a good little Harcourt." A hint of a smile was twitching at his lips.

"As I was saying," she said with a quelling look. "I wanted you when I was a Harcourt and now that I'm a full-fledged Grant, I still want you. I still love you. If I found out tomorrow that I'm adopted and am really heir to the British throne, I would still feel the same way. My love for you is not a rebellion. It's a given, a constant, a fact of life."

He jerked her back into his arms and just before his mouth covered hers, she heard him say, "Maybe it's enough. Sweet heaven, let it be enough."