Unguarded (13 page)

“Hey, don't insult Sunny. She's very sensitive.”

“She's in the driveway.”

“Yes, but she has great hearing.”

Rhiannon cracked up—there was nothing like an afternoon with Camille to tickle her funny bone. Silence reigned for the next few minutes as both women concentrated on polishing their toes.

“So, you never really answered me.” Camille finally broke the silence. “How is the graphic novelist?”

“He's doing well. Finishing up his latest novel.”

“Oh, yeah? Have you seen him recently?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Where? What did you guys do? Tell me everything.”

“I don't know, we've done a lot of things.”

Camille's eyes widened. “So you're dating him? Like seriously
dating
him?”

“I don't know how serious it is, but we see each other pretty regularly.”

“How regularly?”

“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

“Oh, come on. Give the old married woman a thrill.”

“You have blue toes and purple hair—I'm not sure how much of a thrill my dating life is compared to that.”

“Rhiannon! Come on. How often do you see him?”

Because she wouldn't mind Camille's take on the situation, Rhiannon relented. “Just about every day.”

“Wait, let me get this straight. You see this man—Hey, what's his name?”

“Shawn.”

“Right. So you see Shawn every day and you don't know if it's serious? I think that's the definition of serious, sweetie.”

“I don't think that's necessarily true. You saw Matt every day for almost two months and then ran away to Rio. How serious was that?”

“Very serious. Why do you think I ran to Rio? I couldn't deal with the way he made me feel. And that little jaunt to Brazil ended up putting both of us through a lot of hell before we got it all straightened out, so learn from my mistakes.”

“I never said I wanted things to be serious between Shawn and me.”

“Yeah, but you never said you didn't, either.” Camille leaped to her feet. “If we're going to talk about men, it definitely calls for chocolate. I'll be right back.”

Camille was as good as her word, returning in under a minute with a box of designer chocolates, which she held out to Rhiannon. She started to pass on them like she always did, but in the end couldn't resist the pretty, milk chocolate heart nestled in the center of the box.

“At least that's one thing being with Shawn has done for me. I've suddenly started shoving anything and everything I can find into my mouth.”

“I've noticed you've put on a few pounds—it looks great on you.”

“Yeah, but suddenly my wardrobe has gotten a bit snug.”

“I'm sorry, did you say shopping?”

Rhiannon looked at her, confused. “No, I said—”

“Are you sure, because I'm fairly certain that's what I heard when you said your clothes were too snug. I'm thinking Barton Creek, here we come.”

“Don't be ridiculous. The baby—”

“Matt's a big boy, he can watch the baby for a few hours. Besides, shopping will give us a chance to talk about Shawn and your seriously not-serious relationship.”

Rhiannon started to protest—it had been a long time since she'd gone shopping just for the sheer pleasure of it. Most days, looking at herself, at her body, in the mirror did nothing but upset her. But Camille looked so pleased with the prospect of an afternoon at the mall that she couldn't bring herself to say no. After all, how bad could it be? She'd try on a few things and then watch as Camille did the rest.

“Okay. But I'm supposed to meet Shawn at his place at seven, so I have to make it home in time to change clothes.”

“Ooh, another date. What a perfect excuse for a new outfit.”

Rhiannon didn't bother protesting, simply gathered her shoes and purse and headed outside to Sunny as Camille went to tell Matt what was up.

T
HREE HOURS LATER,
she was regretting her complacency. Camille had dragged her through half the stores at the mall in search of the perfect date outfit and now they were standing in the middle of a world-famous lingerie store as her sister-in-law grabbed every sexy bra-and-panty set she could get her hands on.

“I don't need new underwear,” Rhiannon protested as Camille ushered her toward a dressing room.

“A woman rarely needs new anything. That doesn't mean she shouldn't indulge herself every once in a while. Besides, you definitely need something more kick-ass than your regular white cotton if you're going to wow him with that red number we picked up.”

Rhiannon had spent the past hour contemplating returning that very same red number, still unsure how Camille had managed to talk her into it. It didn't show much skin, but the whole thing was a heart-stopping scarlet that pretty much screamed “Look at me, look at me.” She might have worked her way around to wearing turquoise polish on her toes, but she wasn't sure she was ready for anything as attention-getting as that outfit.

Still, Camille was having so much fun dressing her that Rhiannon couldn't bring herself to argue. If nothing else, she'd bring the stuff back later and Camille
would never have to be the wiser. “Okay, fine. Pick out a set to go under the red thing and I'll buy it.”

“Don't you want to try it on first?”

The thought of stripping down and looking at herself—and her scars—in the three-way mirror was pretty much Rhiannon's idea of hell, so she had no desire to try anything on. It had been hard enough to get through the endless clothing changes Camille had insisted on at the department stores.

“My bra size hasn't changed since puberty, so I think I'm pretty much safe on that front.”

“Still, I want to see. You'll look so pretty!”

“Not quite.”

“You know, the scars really aren't—”

“It's fine,” she interrupted. “Really.
I'm
fine.” Before Camille could say anything else, Rhiannon grabbed the red bra-and-panty set and headed for the front counter. By that time she was so desperate to get out of the store that she didn't argue when Camille added three more sets—black, purple and turquoise—to her pile.

They were in the car headed home, her sister-in-law's trunk loaded down with an astounding number of packages, most of them Rhiannon's—before Camille tried to return to the subject of the fancy underwear—and her scars.

“You know, Rhiannon, the scars aren't nearly as bad as you think they are.”

“I see them every day, Camille. I know exactly how bad they are.”

“Yeah, but—” Camille took a deep breath, kept her eyes on the road and Rhiannon could tell she was struggling with what she wanted to say—or at least how she wanted to say it. Finally, when the silence between
them had gotten uncomfortable, she said, “I think you might be seeing them through the filter of how you got them. Do you know what I mean?”

“No, I don't. And I have no desire to talk about this.”

“I know you don't. That's why I've left you alone about it for so long. But, Rhiannon, the way you see yourself isn't just unhealthy. It's completely untrue.”

“Really? Are the scars just a figment of my imagination?” They were stopped at a red light, so she deliberately pushed the sleeves of her sweater up to give Camille a good view of the thick bands of scar tissue that surrounded her wrists.

Camille didn't flinch, didn't apologize, didn't pretend not to look. She simply stared at the scars for a minute, then said, “So what?”

Nothing could have crushed Rhiannon more, nor made her angrier. “Yeah, it's easy for you to say when it's not your body. I lived through this, Camille. I felt the pain every day for months after it happened.”

“I know you did, that's what I'm trying to say. To you, those aren't just scars—they're symbols of everything that bastard did to you. Every time you see them, you don't see the thin, white lines that exist. You see your own pain and humiliation.”

“Exactly! Do you think I want the whole world to see them, to know what he did to me? To know what I let him do to me?”

“Let him do? He tied you up and nearly killed you, Rhiannon. You didn't
let
him do anything to you.”

“You know what I mean.” She turned and looked out the side window, praying for the ride to be over. “I
do
know what you mean, and that's the problem.
You've been blaming yourself for what happened to you, blaming yourself for the failure of your marriage—”

“No—”

“Yes!” Camille sighed. “I love you, Rhiannon. I really do—I think of you as the sister I never had. Which is why it's so hard to sit by and watch you beat yourself up over something that is such a small part of who you are.

“Those scars don't define you. They don't make you any less beautiful or less talented or less intelligent. They just make you feel bad and I can't stand to watch it anymore. We spent all day trying on clothes that cover you from head to toe and I don't understand why. You're a beautiful, vibrant woman with an incredible body. Why should you hide it because some monster hurt you?”

“So you think I should wear a string bikini, so everyone can see what he did?”

“If you want to wear a bikini, why shouldn't you wear one?”

“I don't want to wear one—that's the point.”

“I know that. But I also know you don't want to bury yourself in jeans and sweaters for the rest of your life, either. I saw the way you looked at those cute little sundresses and that fabulous purple halter top. But you wouldn't go near them, let alone actually try them on. I think that's a shame, especially since they would look terrific on you.”

Rhiannon didn't say anything,
couldn't
say anything. If she opened her mouth, she was terrified that she would start screaming and never stop.

But Camille was on a roll—or maybe she figured she'd get everything out now so they never had to talk
about this again. Because instead of changing the subject, the next time she opened her mouth, it was to ask, “What does Shawn say about your scars?”

Rhiannon shook her head, as she still didn't trust her voice.

Camille glanced at her quickly before turning her attention back to the road. “He hasn't said anything at all?”

“He hasn't seen them.”

“He hasn't seen
any
of them?”

Rhiannon glanced at the highway signs, trying to figure out how long until they made it back to Matt and Camille's so she could escape. She didn't want to talk about this, didn't want Camille to see how insecure she was over her feelings about Shawn.

But she couldn't keep quiet, either. Now that someone was talking to her—really talking to her about the subject instead of tiptoeing around it—she was like a deer in the headlights. She couldn't bring herself to step away.

Clearing her throat, she murmured, “He saw the ones on my arms but that was on our first date and he's never mentioned them.”

“I'm sorry, you've been dating this hot, younger guy for almost a month and you haven't slept with him?”

Rhiannon blushed. “It's not that simple.”

“I've dated a lot of guys in my life. I'm sure I can keep up.” She paused. “Are you worried about letting him see you? Or is it that you're worried about just being with him? I mean, I can't even imagine how difficult it would be—”

“He turned me down.”

“What?” Camille nearly rear-ended the car in front of her. “He didn't want to…”

“I don't know. I mean, he seems to want to. And I think I want to, but the one time I invited him in, he told me he didn't think I was ready yet.”

“
Were
you ready?”

“I thought I was. I don't know. I mean, I was scared but I also wanted to try. It was my fortieth birthday and he'd taken me out for this beautiful, romantic dinner. I was relaxed and happy and I thought, maybe it could work.”

“And he said he didn't think you were ready, despite how you felt?” Camille looked outraged on her behalf.

She couldn't believe she was talking about this—and with her brother's wife, of all people. But she didn't know who else to ask for advice. Logan was her closest friend but somehow she couldn't see laying this problem in his lap. He'd probably have a coronary—and if he didn't, she would.

Deciding to lay everything out and get Camille's honest opinion on the situation, she said, “He could tell I was afraid, I guess, because he said that we would only try when my desire outweighed my fear.”

“Wow. He really said that?”

“Yeah.”

“You know he's a keeper, don't you? When you find a man who cares more about you than he does about himself…”

“I know. That's what I'm afraid of.”

“Why afraid?”

“Well, I mean, when we started this whole thing, we were planning on keeping it casual. With the age
difference and our priorities, it seemed smart. Only, now I'm feeling things that are distinctly uncasual.”

“I can imagine.” Camille reached over and patted her leg. “But I bet he is, too.”

“You can't know that.”

“Sure I can. If he didn't care about you—and the future the two of you could have together—he never would have walked away when you offered to put him out of his misery.”

“I didn't exactly phrase the invitation like that.”

“Maybe not, but the intention was obviously the same. And the fact that he didn't take you up on it, the fact that he wanted to wait until you were less vulnerable, proves that he's a good guy and that he's in this for more than kicks and giggles.”

“Yeah, but what do I do? I mean, I'm still afraid of being with him. Of showing him the scars and facing all his questions. I think that I'll always be afraid, at least until we actually make love.”

“Of course you will—I would think that that's only natural when a woman's been through everything that you have.”

“So how do I convince him that I want to be with him? That I'm not doing it just for him?”

“Oh, sweetie, have you ever come to the right place. Listen up and I'll tell you
exactly
what to do.”

 

R
HIANNON WAS NERVOUS
as she stopped her car at the top of Shawn's driveway. Was she really going to do this? she asked herself as she climbed out of the car and walked toward the front door, her steps faltering and unsure as she tried desperately to talk herself out of—or into—what she was about to do.

Every instinct she had for self-preservation told her to run, told her she was being crazy and stupid and completely presumptuous. But she couldn't stop, not now that she was here. If she did, she knew she'd never work up the nerve to do this again.

And she needed to do it—for herself and for Shawn. They couldn't go on the way they had been for the past couple of weeks, holding hands and kissing when both of them were so hot for each other they were on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

Ever since her fortieth birthday, being with Shawn had been a slow kind of torture—every nerve ending in her body was painfully alive, her hormones zipping around like a frog on speed. For a woman who had spent nearly three years in her own version of a sensory deprivation chamber, the pain—and the pleasure—of her newfound arousal was nearly overwhelming.

Despite what she'd said to Camille, Rhiannon knew Shawn felt the tension, too. Though he never pushed her, never asked her for more than she willingly gave, she knew how hard it was for him to leave at the end of each date.

She wanted more for him, more for herself. More for them, than this half relationship that was bringing her both incredible joy and incredible frustration. She was ready to concentrate on the joy for a while, and to leave the agony behind once and for all.

But could she do it? she wondered as she forced herself to take the last few steps leading up to Shawn's front door. Could she really put the fear aside and make love to him as she so desperately wanted to? She didn't know, but she was going to use their date tonight to find out, one way or the other.

Beneath her sweater, the new purple lace bra Camille had talked her into buying sizzled against her skin, and not for the first time, she wished she'd stuck to her plain old white cotton. She'd put on the fancy underwear, hoping it would give her confidence, but who was she kidding? With the way her body looked, it was absurd to think that showing it off in purple lace was a good idea. She'd be lucky if Shawn didn't run screaming into the night at his first glimpse of her, no matter what Camille said.

God knew, the scars had bothered Richard so much that the few times they'd tried unsuccessfully to make love, he'd insisted that they do it in the dark. He'd said it was because he couldn't concentrate when he looked at the scars, that they reminded him of everything she had suffered, but even then she'd known the truth. He'd been disgusted by the damage done to her body and hadn't been able to look at what his once-attractive wife had become.

Shawn wouldn't do that to her, Rhiannon reassured herself firmly as she rang his doorbell. He was nothing like Richard and she knew he would never hurt her the way her ex-husband had at the end of their marriage.

But did that mean he wouldn't feel like Richard had—repulsed by the mere sight of her—or only that he wouldn't show it? The thought sent a new wave of panic racing through her and it was all she could do to hold herself still and upright on the porch. If she hadn't already rung the stupid doorbell, she probably would have called with some ridiculous excuse.

As this thought occurred to her, the door swung open to reveal a deliciously rumpled Shawn. Dressed in ratty jeans and a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt, with
his feet bare and his too-long hair falling into his eyes, he looked relaxed and comfortable, not to mention sexy as all get out.