by Mallory Rush
"I'm sweating already. If this takes longer than a few trips I'll start looking like a prune."
"Not once your skin's anointed." He passed a hand over his eyes, praying when he looked again he'd see nothing but her, that the unwanted garbage had packed up and gone home. Home...
When I've got lots of money I'll buy you and me a brand new home... Whenever you feel sad, just think about that. Promise? Cross my heart, angel.
"Anointed, huh? Then I'll be a prune with zits. Should be a real experience dehydrating then getting my pores clogged with perfumed butter."
She laughed, and he felt the memory subside. Thank God for Rachel. Even now she could make him want to smile. But he didn't. He considered her, and this elixir effect she had on him, at length.
Rachel's laughter trailed off and she began to fidget.
He continued to stare; she fidgeted some more. The staring and the fidgeting had a way of taking his mind off the little monsters. Well, well, Mr. Slick, the wooly bullies seem to be gone for now, but watch where you step 'cause there's some smushed guts laying around. 'Nuff to slip on.
He could feel himself begin to relax while Rachel's discomfort with his perusal gave his jagged state a sense of companionship. And he did like her company under any circumstances.
Deciding to go for the rose at the expense of a few thorn pricks, he chuckled. "Perfumed butter? Don't you mean oiled and prepared for your lover?"
"Whatever, but I suppose getting it slathered on is better than being the one working it in."
"I wouldn't mind working it in."
"Rand!"
"The oil, of course. We could take turns practicing and slide all over each other like a couple of greased pigs oinking their heads off at the county fair."
Rachel's throaty hoot of laughter washed through him. Just what he needed to forget the threat of slippage. He was okay now, his gut emotions were all stuffed safely away.
"I like it when you talk my kind of language. It's a lot more comfortable than that hoity-toity way you can act sometimes."
"Oh, I can get down and dirty when I want to. Comes from having too much practice at eating out of cans."
Her teasing expression softened and he read a hint of the pity he had learned to abhor in leaner days.
Taken off guard, he cringed inside. With no more than her sympathetic look she'd managed to shove his face into the same dark place that her laughter had momentarily banished.
"Are you feeling sorry for me?" he demanded.
"A little. Maybe because you don't feel sorry for yourself."
"Don't do it," he warned. "Laugh with me. Fight with me. Work and possibly even make love with me. But don't ever let me catch you pitying me. I won't have it."
"But there's something inside you, something that's marked you for life. I don't know what it was exactly and I'm positive it wasn't fair. But if pride cometh before a fall then you're very close to the edge."
"You're right, I am close to the edge. One that you'd better back off from. Let it lie, Rachel, because the pride in question sure as hell doesn't need your sympathy."
He turned, determined to cut her short before he could undo the progress he'd made. If he didn't get out fast, he feared he'd slip and come down on her like an avalanche.
Rachel caught his arm and yanked him back with surprising strength. He glared her, silently warning her not to persist.
"Quit running, Rand. I've got to something to say that I think you need to hear." She leveled a stern gaze at him that he admired, even as he cursed her foolhardy courage. "The kind of pride that refuses a sympathetic ear is false pride. Why don't you talk about it for a change? What happened to you, what made you this way. If you got it out of your system—"
"I don't want to listen to—"
"You'd feel a lot better for it. Stop hiding from things you can't change. Your roots are permanent whether you like what they are or not. Share them with me. I know it must be bad, and if I feel sympathy for what you went through, just try to accept it. Accepting compassion won't make you any less of a man. Maybe it could even help you accept yourself."
He felt as though she'd slapped him with her concern, caring in a way he didn't want her to care, trying to make him confront the past by jarring the lid wide open. And she wouldn't let him shut it, looking at him this way, as though she were reaching inside and plundering through the muck to find some hidden treasure. It was a sensation of being rid of the power and prestige he'd earned only to be thrust back into a soup kitchen line.
He wanted to lash out at her for serving up his insides on a hellish platter, compliments of her compassion.
In reflex, as automatic as deflecting a blow, he thrust his hand into her hair and leaned her back against the sink. He hit the handle. Water spilled from the faucet. He cupped it and quickly poured several handfuls onto her chest, wetting the silk until it was transparent and clinging to her breasts.
"What are you doing? Rand! Rand, please, you're scaring me. Please, stop it!"
"We're going to play a game, Rachel. It's a simple game. I get you wet and then I get you hot. You've got beautiful breasts, did you know that? And your nipples look—oh, poor thing, they look so cold the way they're puckering. I think I need to mouth them, warm them a bit for you. It's the least I can do since I'm the one to blame. Just out of compassion, you understand. Because I feel so sorry for you."
"Rand—"
"I'd rather you call me a beast. You called me that before and I'll take it over your pity any day. Again, Rachel, let's hear it. Beast."
"Beast," she sobbed. "Beast!"
In that moment he loved the beast, clung to him, because he was invulnerable and strong in his weakness.
"Much better. How can you pity a beast like me? Do you still want your beast? I hope so, because he does want you. Now let's cut the crap because we both know this is no game."
He palmed a breast and was bent on his self-serving mission, the eradication of her hurtful compassion, the assuagement of his never ending lust. He'd almost succeeded in burying Pandora's legacy when he realized she was crying.
He stopped cold. He stared at her, unblinking. And then as if he stepped out of his body, he saw the ugly scene as an onlooker might, with a sense of disbelief.
Is this what he'd become? This monstrosity that passed itself off as human? One that had squelched the man who was capable of heart and depth and deserved this rare woman.
"Heaven help me," he groaned. "What have I done?" Rand's hands were shaking as he traced the path of her tears, black with the kohl streaking down her cheeks. The make-up she'd put on so painstakingly and then anxiously wanted his approval of, was washed away by the proof of her hurt, compliments of the man who owned her and was no prize himself.
No prize, but you've still got your precious pride. Satisfied, Slick? His stupid pride that he wore as protective armor had been penetrated by the strength of her softness, her acceptance. The very things he craved, only to punish her for offering them unconditionally. Money he understood, but something this priceless he had smashed then ground to dust.
"Sweet Jesus." His voice cracked. He turned off the water and lifted her oh so tenderly until she was burrowed, limp and sobbing against his chest. He stroked his hand, the one that had so cruelly turned against her, into her hair and then gently rubbed her bare back. He made a shushing sound, a long shhh, shhh of comfort he hadn't indulged since the day he'd jumped the boxcar. He kissed the tears from her face until she was done crying.
"Angel," he whispered. "Angel."
Rachel latched so hard onto his wrists her fingernails bit into his skin.
"Why did you do it, Rand? If you won't tell me anything else, tell me enough to help me understand."
His neck felt stiff as he jerked out a shake of his head. He didn't want to go back into that dark place, that place that had driven him to this belly scraping low.
"I can't tell you, Rachel. I don't know why."
"You do. Somewhere, somehow, yo
u have to."
For her, he forced himself to peer inside the stash of jumbled treasures and trash. Plowing his way through, he fingered the priceless, smashed down the ugly filth, and emerged with something of value: The truth.
"All right," he said unsteadily. "You're dealing with someone who's gone a hard path and he's afraid of what you're doing to him. Worse, what you can do. It's like waiting for the other shoe to fall and feeling it hit can't be half as bad as fearing the blow."
"But what am I doing? What did I do to deserve this? I don't know what I've done, what—"
"You dug too deep." He pressed his lips to the ruby dot while he grappled with an emotion that tore through his insides like a runaway train derailing its rusty tracks. "You let me know you would have eaten out of the same can as me."
Chapter 15
"More wine, Rachel?"
"No thank you, Rand." Uncertainly, she watched out the corner of her eye as he concentrated on his own glass. The purple sari she had changed into matched the grape of the vintage.
"I could order for White Zinfandel. I know that's your favorite."
"This is fine, really. It's much better than any wine I've ever had before."
"You must have a discerning palate. Some people can't appreciate a fine wine."
Rachel realized he was being generous, that White Zin was about as generic as a wine could get and here he was saying she had the discerning palate they both knew she didn't possess. Normally she would call him on it and laugh at her own lack of high brow culture. Instead they continued their meal in a stilted silence as Rachel forced herself to sample the exotic fare on her plate. Not that she was hungry with her stomach tied up in knots, but she'd been taught that wasting food was sinful when others went without. Now she had cause to wonder just how many meals Rand had missed before.
What had life done to him? How had it twisted him so? Doubtlessly with brutal jabs and blows he'd learned to return with an ugly finesse to survive.
She shivered, wondering if she had the stamina to survive him. The problem was, she was already in so deep her heart was hocked to the limit and he was holding the pawn ticket. Too late to get it back, she saw only one way to emerge intact:
She had to find enough inner strength to get through the emotional landmines he had buried in more places than the government had warheads, and shatter his one-way glass.
"You didn't say much about the house. I'd hoped that you would find it to your liking."
"It's very... opulent," she said tactfully.
"But you don't like it."
"No. No, it's not that. I'm just accustomed to more lived in surroundings."
"You could decorate it however you want." He caught her hand on the elegant table top of white linen. "Jayna could take you to some of the local dealers. Friday's six days away and there's always the chance we could be here awhile. I'd like you to be comfortable whatever the duration."
She stared at the dark fingers grasping hers in what felt like an earnest hope. Or perhaps a silent apology. It would be easy to turn that against him, to spite him for what he'd done; and yet, she sensed he had suffered more than she and the price he was paying was the vulnerability in him now.
Remembering her own survivalist strategy, she decided to take a step forward that hopefully wouldn't explode in her face.
"I'd rather that you go with me instead, Rand. Maybe we could take a day to go to a market and find some things we both like. You know, some knick-knacks, souvenirs." Her smile was hesitant. "We could even buy a few more pillows for me to throw at you."
"Sounds like a plan." He squeezed her hand and she took it as a thank-you. "I'll work it into my schedule."
"When?"
"Soon. I have a lot of business to take care of for the next few days. But maybe you gathered that from the mess in my office."
Rachel thought of the high-tech apparatus, the whirring computer with data and staggering numbers on the screen, the neat stacks of paper and print-out sheets piled high. There was a clinical starkness to it that she hadn't liked, the only indication of warmth being the faded snapshot of two youngsters hugging within the protection of a gilded frame that sat prominently on his massive desk.
It seemed typical of him, this picture, out of synch with the tools of his trade which allowed him to pay mega-bucks to buy a woman. A woman that, he'd said, he would have given any amount for, case or no case.
Maybe it was a good time to try out Jayna's sage advice, see if she couldn't influence his decision.
"I'd like to go tomorrow."
"Why tomorrow?"
She took a deep breath and leaped over the foxhole. "Because I want you to give up working in your office so you can spend time with me. It goes back to what you said about my feminine ego being pricked. I hate to admit it but you were right. This way I can tell myself your priorities suit me, even if nothing else you say or do makes any sense yet."
Rand chuckled. "You're a pistol, lady. The first day I met you should have warned me you always end up on the other side of the trigger." He scooted his chair out and patted his lap. When she didn't move, he said quietly, "Please, Rachel. I just want to—well, to hold you while we talk."
Risky. Damn risky when he could easily yank the ground from beneath her feet and bring her to her knees. The emotional bludgeoning she'd endured in a single day had bled her dry and though she'd survived, barely, Rachel wasn't sure she could manage a repeat performance.
"Do it? Please, angel. For me."
In his own way, she realized, he was reaching out to her. She could refuse and remain safe, but with that came the very distance she longed to bridge. Drawing a steadying breath, she complied, but managed not to drape her arms about his neck.
"Okay, I'm sitting. Now how about making that date for tomorrow?"
"Done. Now how about me telling you something a lot more important?" He cleared his throat and she felt the tightening of his hold. "I'm sorry, Rachel, deeply sorry for what I did to you tonight. Apologies are hell for me. If it tells you anything, I've been rehearsing this one all through dinner."
His guard was lowered; she tested the chink in his metal.
"I could make this difficult for you."
"Indeed, I've left myself wide open for a quick jab, if not a devastating blow. You could even go for the jugular and I wouldn't blame you. You've got every reason to wash your hands of me after this. But I'm asking you, please don't."
She searched his eyes and saw his honesty, his anxiety. She was moved to the compassion he'd refused earlier. She wouldn't speak it, though something told her he wouldn't spurn the offering this time. Letting actions speak for her, Rachel draped her arms about his neck and tentatively stroked the tense, corded muscles. She thought she heard a relieved sigh just before he laid his head against her breast.
"I can hear your heart beating," he said gruffly.
It beats for you, Rand, she thought. It beats too fast and too sad and with too much hope because you are who you are—the man who can either love me or leave me with nothing but shattered glass.
"It took a licking but it's still ticking," she said around the squeezing sensation inside her chest. His low, throaty chuckle vibrated against her and she felt her heart accelerate with his intimate touch.
"So's mine," he whispered. "It's not too steady or reliable yet, but..."
She urged his face up, compelled to see through what she thought just might be the beginnings of a broken window.
"But what, Rand?"
"Hang tough, Rachel. When a rusty engine gets a jump start, the going's usually rough before all the gears remember how to work." He shifted and she realized there was one piston that was sure as heck in working order. "You look tired. What say we call it a night? You can find out for yourself if I steal the sheets."
Up-oh, she wasn't ready for this. Not yet. Not until she felt sure she wouldn't make a fool out of herself again, not until she was better able to handle whatever lessons Rand might dish out her way. The core.
She had to get to his core because there she'd find protection and heart and him.
"Why don't we have another glass of wine first?" she suggested. "I'd like to talk. Tell me what your favorite pastimes were when you were little."
"Popping tar bubbles with a stick. Racing on my bike. Braiding Sarah's hair." He latched onto the bottle then got up, still holding her in his arms. "Grab the glasses, angel. No? Okay, we can forget them. Drinking straight from the bottle isn't so different from open cans."
His directness surprised a smile out of her. "I believe you're letting your rough edges show, Mr. Slick."
"Goes with the package. Your feminine ego should be flattered that I'm not making my usual effort to cover them up." His stride was decisive as he took the stairs. "I just hope you don't already regret it or end up disappointed when the mystery's exposed for what he is."
When the mystery's exposed. Not if. Could it be that something had been jarred loose from the nightmarish scene of water on silk? Taking the gamble, she dealt him the unvarnished truth.
"I don't think I could possibly be disappointed. But I am afraid there's a price attached. One that's so high it scares me."
"And that is?"
"That you'll take a part of me with you that I'll never get back."
"Works both ways, angel. I'm a little afraid for myself. You've already taken a part of me that I know I'll never get back, and Lord knows I've got too many missing pieces as it is. Maybe that helps? Knowing you have that power over me."
"It does." She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling the strength of muscle, the inner strength his admission built within her.
"Then are you still afraid?" He stood at their bedroom.
"No," she said, willing herself to believe she didn't fear what might await her here.
"Prove it. Open the door," came the soft command. "Open it and give me the chance to put your fears to rest."
Her hand was visibly shaking and the brass slipped in her grip twice before the door yawned open. She gasped, amazed.