Once Touched, Never Forgotten

by Natasha Tate

  She submitted to his careful ministration until the butler left them to their privacy. Her breath hitched when Stephen finished her back and then circled her lounger, beckoning for her to sit back against its striped cushion so he could apply lotion to her chest and throat. “I can do the rest,” she protested.

  “I know you can,” he said with a smile, his blue eyes crinkling as he nudged the sunblock out of her reach and then held up his glistening fingers. “But I was here first.”

  Dressed in a pair of blue and white swimming trunks, he looked like an Irish angel gone bad. The long, powerful sweep of his biceps, broad shoulders, and the stretch of tight, rippled muscles over his abdomen drew her gaze and sent a sharp jolt of love spiking through her heart. “Heaven forbid I bump you out of your spot in the queue,” she said. Only a slight tremble in her voice betrayed her.

  He heard it and, misinterpreting its cause, smiled wickedly. “I knew you’d see reason.” His strong hands resumed their lovely massage of her skin, rubbing sunblock into hidden areas that had never even felt the kiss of the sun.

  “You move those fingers any lower and I’m going to forget all about sunbathing,” she murmured in a breathless attempt to keep things light. Superficial and safe.

  His unrepentant grin deepened, though his fingers abandoned her breasts to make a warm sweep down her shoulders and arms. “Am I supposed to think that’s a bad thing?”

  Her eyes drifted to half mast as his strong hands seduced her away from worries about the future. “I can’t decide,” she hummed. “You did promise me some food.”

  A small huff of laughter filled the air between them. “I’ll give you a respite,” he teased. “For now. At least until we’re done eating.”

  She lolled her head to the side to find him staring at her with amusement in his eyes.

  “Or we could postpone lunch?” he asked hopefully.

  Smiling, she stared back into his beautiful face. “Not a chance. I’m starving.”

  “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he teased as he shifted his attention to the task at hand, his broad palms spreading warmed lotion down her thighs and over her knees. “I’m coming off of a five-year drought and need to make up for lost time.”

  Suspecting he lied simply to flatter her, she slanted him a look from beneath the brim of her hat. “A five-year drought?

  You?”

  “Oh, I did my best to bury your rejection of me in the arms of faceless women, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped.” His eyes remained trained on his hands, his tone as light and teasing as before. “I’m afraid you’ve ruined me for all other women, sweet.”

  A sudden swell of emotion pitched in her stomach. Though she knew Stephen didn’t love her, the thought that he might have missed her as much as she’d missed him filled her with a queer, unnerving dizziness. She had no doubt that he’d try to make their marriage work for Emma’s benefit, but it had never occurred to her that he might want to make it work for her benefit as well.

  When his hands stilled and he lifted his eyes to hers, she realized she’d waited too long to respond. Flustered, she grappled to regain her equilibrium as her cheeks heated with embarrassment.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked, his warm gaze gauging her reaction.

  “I—I don’t even compare to those other women and you know it,” she stammered. “They’re beautiful, they’re wealthy, and they are far more suitable for your world than I could ever hope to be.”

  “You’re beautiful. And, trust me, I’d rather have you in my bed than any one of those rich, spoiled socialites.”

  She blinked, grateful for the shading brim of her hat. “You don’t have to fake it for my benefit,” she said, pushing the words past her dry throat. “You don’t have to pretend I’m the wife you would have chosen had you been given the choice.”

  “I did have a choice. And I chose you.” “Yes, but …” she started to say. “You only chose me because—”

  “I chose you because I wanted you,” he said flatly. “Providing a good mother for my daughter factored into it, yes, but I’d have wanted you whether we had Emma or not.”

  “Why? Why would you want me when you don’t even love me?” she asked, hating herself for asking but unable to stop the words from tumbling from her mouth.

  “Didn’t we already discuss this?” He pushed upright and exhaled noisily. “Love destroys people, Colette. It makes them vulnerable and weak and rash. I want no part of it.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I did. You just refuse to hear my answer. I want you for you, Colette. I want you because you’re smart. You work hard. You’re tough. You’re beautiful. You make me laugh and you make me feel like a better person than I am. And, yes, you’re an incredible lover and an amazing mother to our child. Can’t that be enough?”

  No.

  “I thought you were hungry,” he said, abandoning her and heading toward the table. “And our lunch is getting cold.”

  Three days later, a gentle breeze rode the Mediterranean air, bringing the scent of the sea and lending a welcome coolness to the evening. But Stephen had difficulty appreciating the temperature or the view. As beautiful as the setting was, he couldn’t enjoy it, and it made frustrated anger percolate low in his gut. He felt a pathetic affinity with the sea, sucked by a relentless tide toward a shore he’d been avoiding his whole life.

  What was it about women and their irrational need for love? He’d thought Colette was different, that she’d understand and respect his desire to keep love out of the mix. She belonged to him, he belonged to her, and they’d created a beautiful, amazing daughter together. They pleasured each other’s bodies, laughed together and respected each other. Why couldn’t she just accept it as enough?

  The answer beat within his chest like a death knell.

  Because, you foolish sot, she wants a relationship built on love.

  Love he was incapable of giving her.

  And the hell of it was he felt a futile, hopeless urge to try anyway. Catapulted back into the wretched insecurity of his youth, he knew that, no matter how hard he tried, he’d never measure up. The truth ate at him like a cancer. He would never be enough for Colette. He knew it. He was inadequate in some essential way, and it was only a matter of time before Colette figured it out and left him.

  And, even though she hadn’t brought up the topic of love again, things hadn’t returned to normal. She still joined him in his bed as often as he wished, but her walls seemed to have grown thicker. If he didn’t instigate a conversation she was silent as a tomb. She still smiled when he said amusing things, she never denied him her company when he wanted it, and she shared their daughter and her care without reservation. But he could sense her rising discontent. She wasn’t happy, and knowing that she never could be in a marriage with him made him angry, panicked and afraid.

  He didn’t like the feeling at all.

  Irritated, he felt desperation eat away at his gut and simmer in his veins. It wasn’t fair. It made him want to yell or fight or hurl curses at the sky.

  He didn’t, of course. To do so would have been too much like his father, a ruined wreck of a man who hadn’t been able to function without his wife. So instead Stephen stuffed the anger down deep and remained alone at the small, linen-draped table long after their butler had cleared away their final honeymoon supper.

  As far as meals had gone, it had been their most uncomfortable yet. They’d picked at their food in silence, barely looking at each other and ignoring the undercurrents of tension that seemed to mount with each passing day. When Colette had finished and gone in to bathe Emma and tuck her into bed, Stephen hadn’t followed.

  An hour later he heard Colette’s soft gasp behind him as she exited the bathroom after her shower. He’d moved to their suite’s wide, wingback chair, the television remote in his hand and the volume set to low. He knew without turning that she hadn’t expected him to be there, and he knew with the same degre
e of certainty that if he didn’t tell her to stay she’d find some excuse to leave him alone in their room.

  He waited until he heard the telltale click of the door latch signaling her retreat before he cursed beneath his breath and twisted to catch her before she escaped. “Colette?” he called.

  She froze with the door halfway open and then slowly turned to face him, her eyes avoiding his and a pretty blush rising to stain her freckled chest. Scrubbed clean, her skin pink from her shower and her damp hair curling around her neck and darkening the shoulders of her green silk robe, she looked good enough to eat. Except he wanted more than just sex. He wanted her soft and open and happy. With him.

  “Yes?” she asked, her narrow hand still gripping the crystal handle of the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  A silent swallow moved in the long column of her slender neck, and he could see the nervous beat of her pulse beneath her skin. “I thought I’d check on Emma.”

  “She never wakes up once she goes to sleep. You know that.”

  She hesitated, just a fraction of a second, and he watched as her posture stiffened. It felt as if she were girding herself for battle, a battle he’d never wanted to fight in the first place.

  “I’m not going to bite you,” he said, irritation riding his tone.

  She hid her hazel eyes behind a fan of brown lashes. “Did I say you were?”

  “You act like I am, and I’m tired of always feeling like I have to prove myself to you.”

  “You don’t,” she whispered, her lush mouth trembling. “I know who you are and I’m content with that.”

  “Really? You’re content? You’re happy?” he said softly, anger and frustration clawing at his chest. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like you are.”

  Pale as parchment, she said nothing to refute him.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to be happy with what we have instead of asking for more.” “I’m trying.” “Are you?”

  Her throat moved and her gaze darted to the side. “Yes. I thought I could do this. I wanted to. For Emma. But it’s too hard.”

  “This? What exactly is this?” His tone was sharper than he’d intended and she flinched.

  Pressed against the door, she looked ready to bolt. He knew if he reached for her, if he moved toward her at all, she’d be gone. So he forced himself to wait.

  “I think we made a mistake,” she finally said in a low voice. “It’s not working.”

  “Too bad. Leaving me is not an option.”

  Her eyes widened with her distress. “What?”

  “You don’t get to run away this time. Our daughter needs both of us, so even if it’s hard, you’re not leaving.”

  “I’d never leave Emma!”

  “Neither would I. So I guess we’re at an impasse, aren’t we?”

  “But I can’t do this! I can’t live this way!”

  “You can’t live being pampered and adored by a husband who’s trying like hell to make his wife happy?”

  “But you aren’t! Spending money on me and carting me around the world and pleasuring my body won’t make me happy.”

  “Then what will?”

  “A real marriage built on love. I want that. I want a family that loves each other, that shares things even when it hurts. I want what you aren’t willing to give me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because! This isn’t a marriage, Stephen, and I can’t keep pretending that it is. I can’t live as someone else’s obligation.”

  “Damn it, Colette, this has nothing to do with obligation!”

  “Then what is it about, huh? Because it sure isn’t about love. It’s not about closeness or emotional connection.”

  “I told you. It’s about respect. And admiration. And shared goals. It’s about a marriage that will make Emma feel secure.”

  “But you don’t respect me. How could you, when I settle for so little? You don’t love me and you never will. Whether you admit it or not, I know I trapped you into a marriage you never wanted in the first place, and I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay with it.”

  “You didn’t trap me. I trapped you, remember?”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide and haunted. “I can’t be anybody’s burden again, Stephen. I won’t.”

  “You’re not a burden.”

  “Yes. I am.” Hiking her trembling chin, she kept her gaze steady despite its sheen of tears. “You don’t want a real wife. You don’t want a real marriage. And you certainly don’t want me.”

  “Right,” he said, his inability to make her see reason churning in his gut. “I don’t want you because every man in the world is your father. Because no one could possibly want you when he didn’t.”

  The blood drained from her face at that, casting her freckles in sharp relief. “This has nothing to do with my father.”

  “It has everything to do with your father, and you’re too stubborn to see it.” He raked his hands through his hair, frustration and anger coiling through him. “You’re stuck in that same hurting, scared place you were in when you were eight years old and you want me to give you the reassurance and love that he never did. But I’m not your father, Colette. I can’t make up for what he did to you.”

  “I never asked you to,” she whispered.

  “You did. You want love. Love that I can’t give you. And I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, and I’m sorry if that makes you feel like an obligation or a burden when you aren’t. I want to be married to you. I want to build a life with you and raise Emma together. I want things to be easy and happy and uncomplicated. Don’t you?”

  She stared at him, her mouth quivering and her luminous eyes filling with tears.

  “I’m not your father, Colette,” he said quietly. “Stop treating me like I am.”

  A solitary tear trembled and then fell, tracking a silvery trail down her cheek.

  He cupped her nape and leaned to stare into her eyes. “I want you to trust me not to hurt you. Even if I don’t love you, I’ll never hurt you. I promise.”

  “But you already are,” she whispered, moving away from his touch and bracing her shoulders as she lifted her chin. “And the worst part is, you can’t even see it.”

  Clenching his fists, he turned away from her, his chest feeling heavy and tight. “It’s obvious we can’t discuss this now. Come. I’m tired and I want to go to bed. We can talk about this later.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  COLETTE stared at his retreating back, wanting to follow him, to explain, to beg him to hold her and soothe away her fears. But how could he when he didn’t love her? When he never would?

  She blinked, silently holding back the sobs crowding her chest as she watched him shuck his clothing, lift the sheets, and then climb into bed without looking at her. She followed him across the room, removed her robe, and slid in next to him.

  For the first time since coming to the Riviera he turned away from her, presenting his broad back. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t make love to her or wrap his big, warm body around hers.

  And she felt the distance between them like a jagged tear in her heart. She wanted to curl into him, to bury her face against his skin and confess her love for him. She wanted him to wind his strong arms around her, to kiss her, reassure her, and tell her again that he’d never regret marrying her. But what would be the use? They were just empty words, meaningless words he’d feel obligated to say.

  Somehow Colette managed to keep the sobs buried deep, deep inside. Tears seeped silently from the corners of her eyes, down her temples and onto the pillow, but she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t move.

  She didn’t sleep much that night, and their flight to London the next day was tense. Emma distracted her and gave her day purpose. For Emma, she’d feign good spirits. For Emma, she’d pretend everything was fine.

  The next night was a repeat of the night before. Just the setting had
changed. Though they stayed in the Whitfield Grand’s penthouse suite, the same suite she and Stephen had once used for their clandestine lunchtime trysts, it felt as if they were visitors to a museum. Pleasant, cordial and polite, she and Stephen spoke only when conditions demanded it.

  And still he didn’t touch her.

  The following morning, she found a note from him stuck to the bathroom mirror.

  Don’t wait up tonight; I’ll be home late.—S

  A call to the front desk informed Colette as to why Stephen would be home late. Just like every year since its opening, the Whitfield Grand was hosting the Sir Walter Whitfield III’s annual birthday bash. It was scheduled for eight p.m. in the largest ballroom, and everybody who was anybody would be in attendance. While she, Stephen’s wife, the woman he’d instructed not to wait up, hadn’t even been invited.

  An unexpected flash of anger heated her chest. As irrational as it was, she felt betrayed. True, she wasn’t the wife he wanted, and she’d brought a child into the world he’d never intended to have. But for him to keep her from meeting his family, hated or not, spoke volumes about how he really felt about her. The whole time he’d been asking for her trust, claiming to want her for her, he’d been lying to her.

  He, who’d claimed to want a marriage built on mutual respect, was too embarrassed even to introduce her to his family.

  If he’d been honest, if he’d said he married her because she was Emma’s mother and she was great in bed, they’d at least have had realistic expectations of each other. She’d have been able to trust him.

  But, no. He claimed to want her happy. He claimed he’d married her for her. Right.

  He wanted her so much he’d rather hide her away in a hotel suite than publicly claim her as his wife.

  Fine. If that was the way he wanted to play it, she’d play. She’d prove him to be the liar he was and then their marriage could finally be based on truth.

  Stephen arrived late to his grandfather’s party.

  Dressed in the requisite tuxedo, he made a beeline for the bar and ordered a Scotch on the rocks. He didn’t want to see his family, didn’t want to see any of the spoiled blond Whitfields who’d made his life a living hell. He’d only come out of loyalty to his mother’s memory, to remind every damn one of them that he hadn’t forgotten what they’d done.