“Because he’s a wifebeater, Will,” she spat the word. “That kind of sick human doesn’t go after other men who are bigger and stronger. They go after weak females who are dependent on them.”
She started up the beach, but he was right next to her.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
She froze and let out a dry laugh. “Do? I’m not filing charges, if that’s what you mean. I did what I needed to do, Will, fifteen years ago. I left. I gave up the only thing in the whole world that mattered to me and I ran away, put myself through college, and started a life three thousand miles away. It’s too late to do anything else now.”
She kicked some sand as she took off toward her villa, absolutely unable to stand the way he was looking at her. She could never look at Will Palmer again without knowing he was seeing those pictures, her pummeled, helpless body.
Pictures that Charity insisted on taking and using to get Guy to resign from the sheriff’s department and hole up in his house for fear of having those images on the cover of the Mimosa Gazette.
Will was next to her in three steps. “What did you give up?” he asked.
She slowed again, kind of unable to believe he didn’t know. “What do you think?”
He frowned and then everything just fell. His shoulders, his mouth, his heart.
“I gave up you,” she said, confirming what he’d obviously just figured out.
“It was me.” He almost choked on the realization. She could see the moment it dawned and all the pieces of the puzzle fit. “I was the person you sacrificed for love.”
She didn’t have to confirm or deny; the sucker punch contorted his expression.
“You walked away from me, to protect me, when I should have protected…” He closed his eyes, unable even to voice the last word. “Oh, God, Jocelyn.”
This was exactly what she didn’t want. His hate and guilt, his regret and anger, his inability to look at her without feeling inadequate.
“This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“But I never went after you. I was… waiting.” His lip curled in self-loathing as he said the word.
“I didn’t expect you to,” she replied quickly, aching to take that look off his face. “In fact, I was relieved you didn’t. I didn’t want you saddled with Guy Bloom any more than you…” Her voice faded away as she realized what she’d just said. “I guess I failed and you’re saddled with him after all.”
“Like hell I am.”
She drew back, surprised by his vehemence.
“If we can’t get that son of a bitch in jail, then the old-age home is the next best thing.”
“Now you want to put him in a home?”
“Now I want to put him in a grave.”
“Well, I’d prefer you didn’t, since I gave up an awful lot a long time ago to make sure you didn’t commit murder.” She kept on walking, her eye on the villa in the distance. If she could get there, she could survive this. She could get through this moment of hell.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“Away.” She finally turned and looked at him. “I’m going away.”
“Damn it, why? Why do you always do that? You run and you hide and you disappear. You can’t do that again, Jocelyn.”
Oh yes, she could. “That’s how I survived the first eighteen years of my life, Will. I’m not about to change. Even for you.”
His face registered the hit, and while he stood stone still, she made her escape.
And, just like the last time, he let her go.
Chapter 17
Will Palmer, man of fucking inaction. Protected by the very woman he was supposed to protect. Hatred—for himself, for Guy, for the messy cards they’d been dealt—constricted his chest so hard he could barely breathe through the pain.
He could have gone his whole damn life and not have known that because of him, the only woman he’d ever really loved got the crap kicked out of her.
Because of him.
Shoving his hand in his pocket, he pulled out his bandanna and wiped the sweat from his face, starting the trek across the beach to the path.
This time he was not waiting for an invitation. He was not waiting for a goddamn thing ever again. Not this woman, not permission, not a decision, not the truth. Thrumming with focus and raw with emotion, he approached the villa quietly, noticing that the side french doors were closed tight. His heart finally slowing to a steady, if miserable, thump, he walked up to the door, turned the handle, and pushed it open.
“Joss?”
From the back, he heard the soft hiss of water. The shower.
“Joss?” he called, a little louder so he didn’t scare her when he went back there.
She didn’t answer, so he rounded the galley kitchen and poked his head into the bedroom. The bed was made like housekeeping had just left, pillows propped, the mosquito netting neatly pulled back.
Except there was no housekeeping at Casa Blanca yet.
In fact, everything in the room was pristine, like it was when Lacey decorated it to shoot pictures for her first brochures. If he hadn’t heard the shower in the bathroom, he’d swear no one was staying here.
He walked to the bathroom door and put his hand on the brass lever and pushed, half expecting it to be locked but relieved when it opened a few inches.
In spite of the hiss of the shower, he heard her sniff.
She was crying, of course. The thought ripped him.
I bet she cried that night Guy beat her.
On the floor, he saw paper. Pages of it, strewn around like someone had opened a package of loose leaf and used it as confetti. Pushing the door open, he looked toward the curved glass doors that had been such a bitch to install. The water was pouring, but the stall was empty.
“Are you in here, Joss?”
This time, the sniff was accompanied by a shudder, and the sound of paper tearing.
He stepped inside and found her sitting against the wall next to the shower, wearing a bra and panties, the floor littered with handwritten pages, some with just a word or two, some with more.
She didn’t look up from the notebook in front of her.
“What are you doing, Bloomerang?” he asked with every drop of gentleness he could muster.
“I was about to take a shower, but decided to make some lists.”
At any other time, that would have made him smile. But nothing about her pain-ravaged face was amusing. He went in a little farther. “What’s on them?”
She finally looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. “Things to do.”
“What things?”
She stared at him for a second, then, without looking down, she stripped a sheet of paper off the spiral, the tearing sound echoing through the bathroom. “Goals, plans, strategies, tactics, time lines, action items.”
“Of what?”
She just let out a little puff of air. “That’s just the problem. I can’t come up with the right theme, the right word.”
He closed the space and got right next to her, slowly dropping to a catcher’s crouch until they were nearly eye level. “Maybe I can help.”
In response she smoothed her hand over the white page, silent.
His bad knee throbbed, so he relaxed onto the floor next to her, bracing himself on the marble countertop on his way down. He remembered the day he’d set that counter. Never dreamed he’d be in here with Jocelyn nearly naked, making lists while the shower ran.
“How do you come up with this theme?” he asked.
She clutched a pen so tightly her fingers were turning white. “It usually just comes to me. A word or phrase will resonate and then I know what’s troubling me and what I need to fix.”
“With a list?”
“Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.”
He glanced at the pages on the floor, most containing a few crossed-out words. “Maybe you’re trying too hard,” he suggested, reaching to relieve her of the pen before she snapped it in two. “When I was in a s
lump at the plate or made a bunch of errors, it was always because I was trying too hard not to.”
She relaxed enough to let him take the pen. “What did you do?” she asked, her voice a reedy whisper.
“Tried to psych myself into thinking nothing was wrong. Would walk up to the plate and pretend I was batting .450 instead of, you know, .110. Or I’d get behind the plate and just pretend it was practice instead of a play-off game. Stuff like that.”
“Lot of pretending,” she said. “Did you notice that’s what you did both times? Pretend.”
“Worked.”
“It’s stupid to pretend.”
“Not if it gets you out of a slump. Try it on your list: pretend.”
“Okay, let’s see,” she said, loading up for a shot of sarcasm. “I could pretend you never saw those pictures.”
But he had.
“I could pretend you didn’t know that happened.”
But he did.
“I could pretend my childhood was completely normal.”
But it wasn’t.
“I could pretend I don’t care about what you think.”
“Stop right there,” he said, reaching for her. “What I think doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”
She took a slow, ragged breath, searching his eyes, her brows drawing closer and closer together as she fought a sob. “That’s where you’re wrong, Will.”
She lost the battle and choked on a lump in her throat, cringing in embarrassment. “I don’t want you to… know… about that.”
He gripped her, careful not to squeeze, not to break. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything!” Her eyes flashed and filled. “I can’t stand to even look at you now.”
“No, no. Don’t ever say that. Never.”
“I can’t.” A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. “It was better before,” she said, giving in to the sob and letting him pull her closer. “It was better with you not knowing.”
“Maybe it was,” he agreed, stroking her hair. “But it wasn’t right. You and me separating because of Guy was never right. We were just getting started.” He eased her away so he could look into her eyes when he said the rest. “We were just falling in love.”
A soft whimper caught in her throat. “Were we?”
He traced her wet cheek, wiping the tear. “You know we were.”
“I was.”
“Me, too.”
She leaned against his forehead. “He stole that.”
“We let him,” he said, his voice as rough as the nine-inch nail that felt like it was sliding through his breastbone and into his heart. “Jocelyn.” He cupped her chin and held her face steady. “I’m so sorry he hurt you. It was my fault.”
“No, it—”
“Yes, it was.”
“You can’t blame yourself for his violence.”
“I should have taken him that night.” Memories flashed in his mind: the gun, the look on Guy’s face, the gut-deep certainty that he was about to die. And even after Guy left, all he could do was stand there like a complete idiot and stare at his shrine, paralyzed with fear.
While Jocelyn was taking what was meant for him. “I was chickenshit,” he admitted. “Not going after you was chickenshit.”
“He had a gun, so chickenshit was a smart call.”
“Even… after. When I went to school. I knew why you didn’t call me and I… was too scared of… losing everything.” His throat was thick with disgust and regret, the emotions choking him. “And I did lose everything. I lost you.”
She shuddered softly, as if the words electrified her.
He held her face, spreading his hands and then burying his fingers in her hair. “Everything,” he whispered. “You were everything and I didn’t even know it.”
Closing her eyes, she exhaled slow and long, as if she’d held that breath for years.
“But, it’s too late, Will.”
“Is it?” He tried to pull her closer, but she froze and inched back, away from him. “Is it?” he asked again, somehow feeling her slip away emotionally as well as physically.
“Of course it is,” she said brusquely. “But thank you.”
“Thank—for what?”
She gave him a gentle nudge, pushing him completely away, driving him crazy. “That’s exactly what I needed.”
“What is?”
“The word for my list. I just couldn’t figure out what I was looking to organize and now I know.” She grabbed the notebook, took back the pen, and scratched the word everything on the top of the page as she stood up.
“Everything? What kind of list theme is that?”
“Everything I have to do to get out of here.” She wrote Guy. “Get him moved.” Stuff. “Pack his trash.” House. “Sell his house.” Business. “Get new clients.” She took a few more steps, entirely focused on her list. “Oh and I have to help Lacey find a spa manager, and…” Her voice faded as she walked out the bathroom door.
“Where am I on that list of everything?” he called.
“You’re not.”
Why the fuck not?
“That’s not acceptable.” Will’s hands landed on Jocelyn’s shoulders, his grip far less tender than it had been in the bathroom. He turned her from the closet before she had a chance to grab a sundress so she could sit outside and breathe fresh air.
She didn’t bother to ask what wasn’t acceptable; it was clear by the look on his face, the fire in his eyes, and set of his strong jaw.
“I want to be on that list.”
No, that would never work. Not now that he knew the truth. And she knew Will; he’d make room in his big old heart for Guy. And that history would always be there, haunting them. Or, worse, he’d forgive Guy and expect her to do the same. No. “There’s no room for you on my list.” Or in my orderly, controlled, emotionally safe life.
“Make room.”
“There’s no time for you.”
“Make time.”
“There’s no…” She shook her head. “Please, Will. The same thing that’s always been between us is still between us.”
“Guy? I thought we had a…” He gestured toward the notebook on the bed. “A strategy for him.”
“We?” She almost smiled.
“Everything’s changed, now, Joss. We’re in this together. Everything’s changed.”
“Yes, it has. You know and I… I can’t stand that you know.”
“I can’t stand that I did nothing to stop it. That you ran away so that I could have a life and gave up everything—”
“I didn’t give up everything, Will.” She turned back to the closet, trying to think, digging wildly for control of the chaos in her heart. And failing.
“How did you… how did it all unfold?”
Did he really have to know this? She pushed some hangers, hard, like they were the memories she didn’t want. “Charity and Gloria found me on the street. Charity took me in and respected that I didn’t want to file charges.”
“Why the hell not?”
She closed her eyes and exhaled.
“Because of me,” he assumed, correctly.
“I didn’t want you dragged in as some kind of witness the week you were off to college and your baseball career.”
Behind her, he swore softly. “Then what?”
“Then Charity fixed me up, got all my stuff, got me to college. And she made damn sure my father knew she had proof of what he’d done, and forced him to resign from his job. She used to come by and check on my mother periodically, too, and let me know that everything was okay.”
“So I was replaced by Charity Grambling.”
“Will!” She whirled around, patience gone. “This isn’t about you.”
He held up both hands to stave off her anger. “I know, Joss, I know. But I can’t fucking stand that I let you down like that.” His hands relaxed and came down on her bare shoulders. “I want to make it up to you.”
She lifted her eyes to meet his, kn
owing the pain and regret she saw there mirrored her own. “You have. You took care of Guy.”
He grunted softly. “If I’d have known…”
“You’d have killed him.”
“Then everything worked out like it was supposed to, because he’s alive and I’m… and you’re… and we’re… together.”
She lifted a brow. “Not exactly.”
“I want to be. I want to be with you. I want to—”
He pulled her into him and met her mouth with his, hard and fast and unexpected. His arms tightened and he pressed hard, with no finesse but so, so much emotion.
“Give me a chance, Joss.” He ground the words into her mouth. “Give me a goddamn chance to show you that.”
Her fingers closed on his arms, the power in them emanating through her whole body. Everything in her responded, head to toe, heart to soul. She fought for a moment, her hands fisted, pushing and then pulling.
But she had to stop. Had to.
Couldn’t.
Instead, she opened her mouth and let him in, bowing her back and pressing her body into his, dizzy with the thrill just that much contact gave her. He dragged his hands over her bare back, letting them slide on to her backside, adding pressure and pleasure and pain all at the same time.
She burrowed her fingers into his hair, holding his head, taking, taking, taking the kiss.
But she had to stop. Otherwise, they’d—
With superhuman effort, she finally pulled herself away, the separation actually making her ache.
“Will.” She exhaled. “You are completely controlled by emotions.”
And she shouldn’t be. Couldn’t afford to lose control and trust a man. Even Will. Especially Will.
His lips curved up in a half smile. “Yeah, I am.”
“You can’t live that way.” At least she couldn’t. It was too scary and made her much too vulnerable.
“That’s what you don’t understand, Joss. You can’t live any other way; you can only exist.”
She shuttered her eyes and leaned into him, shaking uncontrollably. Whole-body terror gripped her. “I don’t want to lose control,” she whispered.
“I noticed.” He kissed her cheek, her neck, along the line of her shoulder. She could feel his erection growing, his heart pounding. “But I’m going to do whatever it takes to get on your damn list.”
Barefoot in the Rain Page 18