The Cutting Edge (19 page)

“What's wrong with your voice?” he asked again, ignoring her order. Before she could evade him, he'd crossed to stand very close to her, and for the first time she noticed that he held a glass in his hand, a glass of clear, yellowish liquid. He put the glass in her hand, wrapping her fingers around it, and it was so hot that she almost couldn't hold it.

“Hot lemonade,” he said. “Drink it. It'll be good for your throat.”

It felt like heaven to her cold fingers, and because it was a remedy that she'd often been treated with as a child, she raised the glass to her lips and cautiously sipped the hot, tangy mixture of sweet and sour. The taste was a sweet memory on her tongue, and burned on her throat, but it felt good for all of that.

“What's wrong with your voice? Are you sick?”

Why couldn't he just leave her alone? He was going to badger her with the same question over and over until she screamed, or went mad, or both. “No, I'm not sick!” she yelled, but it came out as only a stifled rasp.

“Then what's wrong?”

His persistence ate at her, destroying her control, but then, he was the only man who'd ever been able to make her react in ways she couldn't control. She drew away from him, a fine trembling beginning to shake her body as she stared at him, at the hard, unhandsome face and the stunning blue beauty of his eyes, the same face and eyes that had held her bemused from the first time she'd seen him. She'd loved him, and he'd turned on her. The trembling grew worse, and suddenly she erupted into rage, her face twisting as she hurled the contents of the glass at him. “Damn you! I hate you! I hate you, do you hear?”

The night before, the sound of his voice had shattered the barriers that she'd built around the hurt she felt, and now he'd broken the control she'd had on the seething anger that had been building up inside her. She flew at him, her fists beating at his face, his chest, any part of him that she could reach, screaming wildly in her stifled voice, but the stress on her throat was too much and her voice began to go entirely, until the screams were silent. Tears streamed from her eyes as the hysteria built in her. Brett jerked his head back, protecting his face, but he simply stood there and let her pound at his chest, absorbing the blows and the pain, the rage, his own heart aching at what he'd done to her. When her strength was gone, she sagged weakly against him, and only then did he put his arms around her, stilling her feebly pounding hands.

“Baby, I'd let you throw boiling water at me if it would make you feel better,” he said raggedly, brushing his lips against her hair, her forehead, her temples.
“God, if I could only undo it all!” It was a bitter cry from the depths of his soul.

The feel of his arms around her was so painful that she almost couldn't bear it, yet she didn't feel able to push him away. His shirt and suit jacket were sticky from the lemonade that she'd thrown on him, and it was making her face and hair sticky, too, yet her head lay tiredly on the broad expanse of his chest. The lemonade wouldn't ruin the expensive wool, she thought fuzzily, but she was glad that he'd have the expense of having it cleaned.

The room swung around her in a dizzy arc as he lifted her in his arms and carried her into the kitchen, where he sat her on a chair. He wetted a paper towel and washed the stickiness from her face, then dabbed at her hair. Gently he removed the pins from the knot on top of her head and raked his fingers through her hair, tumbling the dark mass down around her shoulders. Then he poured another glass of lemonade for her, and pressed it into her hand. “Here's the rest of the lemonade. Throw it at me if you want, but it'll do you more good if you drink it.”

Obediently she drank it, too exhausted and empty to do otherwise, watching him as he took off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair, then unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, too. The sight of his naked, powerful torso made the bottom drop out of her stomach. She had curled her fingers in the dark hair that covered his broad chest, had noted that it was several shades darker than the tawny, sun-streaked brown of the hair on his head. The memory of the way his body had felt under her lightly stroking, exploring fingers made her jerk
her eyes away from him to stare blindly at the floor as he washed the lemonade from his chest and shoulders, but she saw in her mind's eye the way the muscles in his arms and back would flex as he moved, his biceps bulging, rippling.

“Come on, finish that,” he said gently, and she jumped, because she hadn't realized he'd moved to her side. He was rubbing a towel over his torso, but his attention was on her. She drank the rest of the lemonade, then handed him the empty glass. He rinsed it out and placed it in the dish drainer to dry, then came back to her and bent down, one arm sliding under her knees and the other going around her back. He lifted her, and Tessa made a hoarse sound of protest.

“Shhh,” he soothed. “Don't try to talk; you'll only hurt your throat. You're exhausted, and you need to sleep. I'm just going to put you to bed. When you wake up, you'll feel better, and then we'll talk.”

He carried her into the bedroom, and panic made her twist in his arms, but all her strength was gone, and he undressed her as easily as he would have a fractious child. When she was naked, he placed her between the cool sheets, then crossed to the window and pulled the shade down, shutting out the bright California sun. She lay frozen, unwilling to get up while he was there, exposing herself to him again, and equally unwilling to lie in that bed. He removed his shoes and socks, then undid his pants and dropped them.

Tessa struggled upright, a silent protest on her lips. “No, don't try to talk,” he said sternly, stepping out of his briefs and coming to her totally, gloriously naked. He got into bed with her and forced her back against
the pillows. “Just sleep, baby. I'm going to hold you, that's all. I said no talking,” he repeated as she tried again to say something. “You've strained your throat, and you're going to have to let it rest.” He drew her against him, his nakedness searing her like a furnace, the warmth enveloping her and sinking into her. His arms were living bonds, wrapped around her, and the hollow of his shoulder made a resting place for her head. The urgent thrust of his masculinity made her struggle weakly for a moment, but he made no sexual advances to her, merely held her, and she was so tired that her brief struggles ceased.

“Go to sleep, darling,” he whispered, and she did.

Hours later, she woke to total darkness and an urgent need for the bathroom. She fought out of the grasp of his arms and the tangle of the sheets to stumble, still half-asleep, to the bathroom. When she came out he was leaning against the wall in the hallway, waiting. Without a word he took her back to bed and once again settled her in his arms. Tessa burrowed her face against the warm strength of his neck, inhaling the unforgotten, faintly musky scent of his skin, and fell deeply asleep again, the long periods of unconsciousness just what she needed for both body and spirit.

When she woke again, she was alone in the bed, and an inborn sensitivity to the sun and the passage of time told her that it was late in the afternoon, which meant that she'd slept more than twenty-four hours, at least. She felt dopey from sleep, yet stronger than she had in what seemed like an eternity. Was Brett still in the apartment? Oddly, she wasn't alarmed by the possibility that he might be. Well rested, she was capable of
facing him now. Getting out of bed, she wrapped herself in a robe, then gathered her clothes and went to the bathroom. A shower was the most urgent thing on her agenda, and she took a long one, letting the briskly cool water finish washing away the cobwebs in her mind.

The little grooming rituals of brushing her teeth and combing her hair were soothing, and made her feel even better than she had before. Finding Brett waiting patiently outside the bathroom door made her entire body quiver in reaction, but the panic was gone now.

“Breakfast is ready,” he announced, then smiled faintly, but the smile wasn't reflected in his eyes. “I guess it's still breakfast, even though it is almost four in the afternoon. I figured you had to like oatmeal, otherwise you wouldn't have bought it, and that'll be easiest on your throat. How is your throat? Can you talk?”

“Yes,” she said, a little embarrassed at her froglike croak.

His hard, warm hand went to her wrist, and before she could draw away he had bent down and kissed her mouth briefly. “Don't worry, your voice will come back,” he comforted, gently urging her toward the kitchen with the pressure of his hand.

She was so rattled by the touch of his mouth on hers that her hands were shaking as she ate her hot oatmeal, which he must have prepared as soon as he heard her stirring. Why had he kissed her? For that matter, why had he bothered to spend the night with her? Certainly not because of love, she thought tiredly. Guilt, probably. Well, that was his cross to bear, because she had her own problems, not the least of which was getting over him. If she ever could. If she'd ever see another
day when she didn't think about him, ever wake up in the morning and not wish that he was beside her. Somehow, she just didn't think that day would ever come.

He was wearing different clothes, she noticed, khaki pants and a pullover white cotton shirt that fit loosely, with the sleeves rolled up over his brawny forearms. “When did you go back to the hotel?” she asked hoarsely, indicating the clothes.

“I didn't. I called Evan, and he brought my clothes over. I didn't want to leave you, even for an hour.”

She sipped her coffee thoughtfully, and it was a moment before she spoke. “I'm all right. I'm not going to do something stupid, if that's what you're thinking.”

“No, that wasn't what I was thinking. I was afraid that you'd wake up while I was gone, and lock me out,” he said simply.

She nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“I couldn't take that chance. Not now.” His voice roughened. “I know I can't make it up to you for what you've been through this past week, but I swear I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying.”

Anger stirred in her. “I don't need your guilt! I told you, I'm all right.”

He drank his own coffee, not responding to her heated statement. “I called your aunt,” he said instead, totally surprising her. “I found her number in your telephone index. By the way, you have it listed under A, instead of S.”

“It's Aunt Silver, not Silver Aunt,” Tessa muttered distractedly. “Why did you call her?”

“I knew she had to be worried about you, and I wanted her to know that it's over with, at least as far
as you're concerned. I still have a thief to catch,” he added grimly.

Again, Tessa was startled. “What do you mean?”

“I know you didn't do it.”

“You do? What about all of that famous evidence?” she rasped, rising to her feet in agitation.

“I was wrong. You didn't do it.”

The steadiness of his gaze had the opposite effect on her; it shook her instead of calming her. She hadn't really thought about the whys and wherefores of it, hadn't wondered about his reason for dropping the charges. She had assumed simply that he felt sorry for her, or perhaps was having an attack of conscience over the fact that he'd seduced her for the purpose of his investigation. To hear him state flatly that he thought she was innocent was almost more than she could take in.

“I don't understand,” she said shakily. “Why should you believe me now, when you didn't before? The evidence hasn't changed, has it? Have you learned something else?”

“No. Nothing new had turned up.” It would take too long to explain his feelings to her, and she wasn't ready to hear about them anyway. He'd lain awake for hours the night before, holding her in his arms while she slept, examining his sudden strong conviction that he'd wrongly accused her. Part of it had been the staggering realization of her unyielding sense of honor, so strong that she wouldn't betray it even to protect herself. But even more, it had been the way she had loved, the open, unreserved way she'd given herself, and her virginity, to him. She was twenty-five, and she'd been engaged twice before. He certainly hadn't expected her to be a
virgin. No one would have. Yet she'd remained a virgin out of a deep sense of self-respect, an inner knowledge that perhaps she wasn't ready yet to commit herself to that sort of intimacy with a man. She hadn't loved her fiancé enough to forgive him his infidelity, and neither had she loved him enough to give him herself.

He felt tension coiling in his gut. Would she love him enough to forgive him? She'd loved him enough to give him the sweetness of her body, but that had been before he'd taken her love and trampled on it. What would he do if she couldn't forgive him?

Tessa stood uncertainly by her chair, the expression on his face making her shy away from the subject. Instead she went back to the previous topic. “What did Aunt Silver say?”

“She cried,” Brett said abruptly. She'd also said some things to him that had scorched the telephone lines, but they were between him and Silver only. He'd deserved most of the things she'd said. It wasn't until she had accused him of using Tessa that he'd brought her up short. Silver, at least, now knew exactly what his intentions were concerning Tessa. Convincing Tessa, however, was something else, and he knew he'd have to be patient. Only time would heal the wound he'd dealt her. She wouldn't even listen to him right now if he tried to tell her that he loved her.

“Is she…is she coming back this weekend?”

“No. There's no need for it.”

Her head drooped on her slender neck. “Then I think I'll go home.” Even as hoarse as her voice was, there was poignancy in the way she said “home.” She longed for the peace and splendor of the mountains, bursting
with the fresh green miracle of spring. She could go hiking, touring the park as she had done every year until she'd moved to California, letting the solitude ease her bruised spirit. There was certainly nothing left for her here. She'd left Tennessee in an effort to get over Andrew, and she'd succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Andrew was nothing but a vague memory now, forever burned out of her heart by the fires Brett had ignited. She wanted to go home.