Mine Until Morning

by Jasmine Haynes

  “Why did you really leave?”

  She’d waited too long, given him time to think. “I was tired of fighting.” She turned, crossed the carpet, picked up her shoes.

  “You’re lying.”

  She stood there, her back to him, chill bumps rising on her skin. The heating was still set at sixty-two. She hadn’t turned it up when she came in; neither had he. He’d warmed her so fast, she hadn’t needed it. She knew why she hadn’t told him back then. But why keep on lying about it?

  He hadn’t accepted her when she was seventeen, and despite what she’d let herself believe this past week, he didn’t accept her now. He never would. So what fucking difference did it make if she told him the truth?

  She turned to him. The standing lamp lit his face, and behind him the city was aglow with lights. Maybe she even owed him the truth. He could let go of his guilt. Maybe she could let go of hers.

  “I left because I was pregnant.”

  Not a single muscle twitched on his face nor in his entire body. Every inch of her skin turned icy. She didn’t think about that time except the passing regret that it had been her one and only chance to feel a living being inside her. Though of course she hadn’t felt that way until years later, when she’d realized the chance would never come again. He breathed, a long inhale, an equally long exhale. “We used a condom.”

  “Yes, we did.” She prayed he wouldn’t ask. But there were times in her life when God had left her to her own devices. This was one of them.

  “Then I don’t understand how.”

  He wasn’t a stupid man. He hadn’t been a stupid boy. He’d just been so trusting. “It wasn’t yours.”

  HER FLAT WAS SUDDENLY SO SMALL, THE WALLS CLOSED IN ON HIM. There were certain things that he believed in. They gave him a foundation to stand on. He believed in his daughters, that they loved him as much as he loved 245

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  them. That if ever he had to, he would lay his life down for them. That if he worked hard, life would reward him. That at seventeen, Isabel had loved him and only him.

  If you took away a cornerstone of the foundation, the whole thing crumbled.

  “Who?” His voice croaked. Someone he knew? A friend? One of the guys on the team?

  “Harley.” She didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t change one inflection. He couldn’t think. “Who the hell was Harley?” She said it as if he were supposed to know.

  They stood five feet from each other on opposite ends of the world.

  “My mother’s husband.”

  Everything fell out of the bottom of his world, straight down through the three floors beneath him, and he dropped right into the hole. “You slept with your stepfather?”

  Her blue eyes turned glacial, her gaze covering him with a layer of frost that chilled his bones.

  Then she turned, padded down the hardwood hall, her bare feet not making a sound. Then he heard what he’d said, recognized the accusation.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he whispered to the empty room. His voice echoed, bouncing off the wall right back at him.

  “It makes perfect sense.” Her voice floated down the hallway to him. “I snuck out. To be with you. He caught me climbing back in the window.”

  He couldn’t see her at the end of the darkness, the words quiet, yet they reverberated from one wall to the next to the next.

  “He said I smelled like sex.”

  Royce covered his ears. He heard his own thoughts. Tonight. How much he’d hated the scent yet how it crazed him with lust. Just before he tore her dress and shoved his cock in her mouth.

  He couldn’t remember moving, yet he was at the open door of her bedroom. By her closet, she shrugged out of the ruined dress, kicked it, then pulled on her robe, a thick terry cloth.

  “He raped you after we ...” He couldn’t even finish the thought. It tore a layer of flesh from his bones, exposed his heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She tipped her head and smiled. It was as cold as her eyes. “What would you have done?”

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  “I don’t know. Beat the shit out of him. Taken care of you.”

  She laughed. “Right. You wouldn’t tell your parents about me even before that. So, like, I was supposed to think you’d suddenly say, Hey, Mom and Dad, here’s my white trash girlfriend Isabel who’s pregnant with her stepdaddy’s kid?”

  She chuckled, shook her head. “Give me a break.”

  This was the woman she’d become. Cold. Brittle. Emotionless. He’d had a hand in it. They’d made love that one glorious time. Then everything had gone to hell. Now he knew why she hadn’t let him touch her again. She was right. Her running away had had nothing to do with him hiding her from his parents. And everything to do with it. Because if he’d acknowledged her publicly, she would have believed in him enough to come to him with the truth about Harley.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She came to him then, put her hand to his cheek. Her touch had always been so warm. Now it was cold. So was her gaze. “Poor Royce. Don’t let it bother you. It was a long time ago, and it wasn’t your fault.”

  “But the baby,” he whispered.

  She tsked. “Lost it.” She raised one brow. “I never even showed. Didn’t need to run away after all.”

  She spoke as if she felt nothing about it. Maybe she no longer did. For her, it had been over for thirty years, whereas for him, it was the here and now. She turned, headed to the bathroom, her robe flying out behind her. “It’s late. I have to take off my makeup.” Stopping, one hand on the jamb, she looked back at him. “It’s probably better if you get a hotel tonight. I’m not up to company.” She disappeared inside her white-tiled bathroom. Then her voice floated out through the doorway. “And you can leave the key on the hall table.”

  HIS DRESS SHOES ECHOED ON THE HARDWOOD LIKE DRUMBEATS. IN the quiet of the night, she heard the front door close, a sound she would have missed in the daytime.

  Isabel stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were alabaster. Her heart was hard. She would never be warm again. Leaning over the claw-foot tub, she turned on the water, running it hot until steam began to rise, clouding the room. She closed the bathroom door. In the cool air, the steam condensed on the mirror until she could no longer see herself.

  She let the robe fall, then stepped into the near-scalding water, her skin 247

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  turning pink like a boiled lobster. She still couldn’t get warm. She curled in on herself, hugging her arms to her belly, her forehead resting on her bent knees. Honestly, she hadn’t thought the whole thing bothered her anymore. She didn’t think it could still hurt like this. Harley had dumped her mom two years after Isabel ran away. It was Melora who’d said she needed to contact her mother, close the circle. By the time she realized Melora was right, her mom was dead. Cirrhosis of the liver. Isabel closed the circle on her own and forgave her mom for marrying an asshole—two assholes if you counted Isabel’s father, who’d run out when she was a toddler. It was a hell of a lot easier to forgive the dead than it was the living. She didn’t mourn the baby, because really, what the hell kind of life would the poor thing have had? Maybe if she’d had prenatal care, a meal at least once a day, it wouldn’t have died, but on the streets, those things were hard to come by if you didn’t have a pimp to take care of you. Melora had found her bleeding in an alley. Now she mourned that she never got another chance.

  Because maybe she would have been a better mother than her own had been. Maybe she would have been like Melora. Especially if she’d had a man like Royce to help her raise the child.

  She cranked off the taps. Her skin pink below the water level, white above, she nevertheless began to feel the heat penetrating. Though she’d hoped, she hadn’t expected Royce would understand. His first question was a horrified You slept with your stepfather? It would have been all those years ago, too.

  She was white trash. Of course she would have sle
pt with her stepfather and had his kid. That was what all the girls in her trailer park did. Everybody knew that.

  What they didn’t know was how she’d locked her door every night after that, praying he couldn’t get in again, and knowing that one day soon he would. The worst was that for a very short time, she thought about telling Royce it was his child, letting him shoulder the responsibility. That was when she’d known she had to get out.

  Sliding beneath the water, she soaked her hair. It was better that he was gone. She’d been fine before. She’d be fine again. She was strong. She loved her life.

  And she would never let a man look at her again like she was dirt. 248

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  12

  HE HADN’T CALLED; SHE’D GOTTEN THROUGH THE WEEKEND ANYWAY. Life was fine. Really, life was good.

  Swear it. Now she just had to get rid of this ache that was like a persistent cough. It attacked when you were least prepared, assailing you until your eyes watered.

  She had other things to take care of.

  Like Simon Foster, one of her very special clients, who needed something to dazzle a lady. Simon was an animal in bed. At fifty, he had the stamina of a man fifteen years younger. He was always up for anything she suggested, and she’d never hesitated to ask for his help with a client if she thought he fit the bill. The times she’d seen him in the last few months, he’d reminded her of Royce: the looks, the hair, the body.

  Damn. Everything reminded her of Royce. Even a simple phone call from an old friend.

  She’d never thought Simon, of all men, would succumb to the mythical lure of the one.

  “I’d like to arrange this ASAP,” he said. “The sooner, the better.”

  “Ooh. Desperate to impress, are we, darling?” It boggled her mind.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Then I simply can’t fail you, can I?” She wouldn’t fail him. While always invested in making sure his partner received the ultimate in pleasure, Simon had never been emotionally invested. He was like her, not meant for deep relationships. Royce’s walking out was affirmation of that. All right, she’d suggested he leave. But he didn’t have to do what she told him. God, she sounded like such a bitch. Justifying herself. She hated it.

  “Simon, if she’s the one, I hope this works for you.”

  “She is the one.”

  Isabel held on to the phone long after he’d disconnected. First Walker Randall had met someone, now Simon. Was it contagious? She’d have thought them both immune. Or too old to change their ways. Especially Simon. For God’s sake, Simon was too lusty for one woman. But then, he’d called to have Isabel arrange a third for his little party with the one. Perhaps he hadn’t changed at all. 249

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  Except for that tone in his voice, a gentleness she’d never heard before, and yes, an edge of desperation, too. Whoever the woman was, she was special to him.

  Walker had given up being a courtesan. What would Simon give up for his lady?

  That ache started in Isabel’s chest again.

  What would she give up for Royce?

  Her own hard edges smacked her in the face. When she thought about it, really allowed a little self-examination, she was forced to admit she hadn’t given up a thing for Royce. She’d asked for acceptance, received it in abundance . . . and given nothing in return. Not even honesty. She’d always held things back. Since she hadn’t said she wouldn’t date and he hadn’t asked her not to date, well, then, dating her clients was fine. Yet Royce had done everything she asked, including Noelle. Because she wanted it. Isabel had refused talk of the future, didn’t show enough caring or concern to even ask about his girls, their colleges, majors, hopes, dreams. That bothered her, how she’d cut out such an important part of his life. Then suddenly, when he’d had a little trouble accepting a past that she’d lived with for thirty years, she’d thrown him out. Simon, Walker, and Royce weren’t the ones who couldn’t change for a chance at love and happiness. She was. She was afraid to change. After all these years of thinking she was so strong and self-confident, Isabel had to admit she was a coward. She claimed she wasn’t ready for a deep relationship, but the truth was that it terrified her. After all these years, she was still afraid of getting hurt again.

  The phone was still in her hand. She dialed her travel agent. It was time to go to Royce instead of always making him come to her. It was time to return to the place she’d been running from for thirty years. It was time to go home.

  PROSPERITY WAS LITTLE MORE THAN A DUST SPECK ON A LONG, flat stretch of highway an hour and a half north of Oklahoma City. Thirty years ago, when Isabel left, it had been less than a dust speck. The town square had been spruced up, old-fashioned benches of wood and wrought-iron curlicues, streetlamps with an antique look, planter boxes along the sidewalk, and parking meters. Downtown Prosperity was middle America whitewashed and painted with a bright facade. She’d taken a red-eye flight, and the morning was still early, a 250

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  bit before eight. It was breath-in-the-air cold, but dry, whatever snow they’d had now dirty piles of hardened slush along the highway. A street sweeper ambled down the empty curb, and business owners, bundled up against the wind chill in mufflers, gloves, and hats pulled so low only their eyes were visible, cleaned yesterday’s dirt from the sidewalks. She didn’t recognize the names of the shops or the people. She hadn’t expected to.

  Royce’s manufacturing plant was on the other side of town. She’d looked up the address to find out if it was still where she remembered and called the main number yesterday to be sure he wasn’t traveling this week. Maybe she should have had the courage to actually call him. The route took her past her old street. The trailer park was gone, replaced with small starter homes. Oddly, her belly crimped. She should have been glad she didn’t have to see the dump. Vindicated, as if she’d outlasted it, something. Yet the fact that it was gone was more of a reminder of everything that was gone. Maybe you couldn’t get anything back. Just as she’d thought that first night all those months ago when she’d seen Royce in San Francisco, maybe there were no second chances.

  Isabel curled her fingers around the steering wheel, holding it tight until her knuckles turned white.

  When Royce left her key on the hall table, perhaps that was all there was.

  TRACY, HIS SECRETARY, HELD THE DOOR OF HIS OFFICE CLOSED. “There’s some lady out there who wants to talk to you,” she stage-whispered, which totally negated the whispering.

  Royce pushed his keyboard away and sat back in his chair. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know,” she once again whispered. Tracy had lived in Prosperity all her life, raised a family, and when the kids went off to college ten years ago and never returned, she came to work for him. She wasn’t a Fortune 500 executive admin, but usually she was competent.

  “Did you ask her?”

  Tracy raised her eyebrows to the bottom of her gray bangs. “She won’t give me a last name. Just tell him Isabel would like to see him,” she mimicked. His ears began to buzz with the rush of his blood. She’d come home. For him.

  “Send her in.”

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  Tracy cocked her head as if she expected him to tell her who the woman was. When he didn’t, she opened the door, then swept out a hand indicating entry.

  Isabel wore tight jeans, fur-lined boots, and a thick Scandinavian sweater under a suede jacket long enough to cover her butt.

  “I’ve never seen you in jeans.” It was the most inane greeting, but he was afraid of saying too much in case he actually started to beg. She closed the door. “It’s cold here. Jeans seemed appropriate.”

  Obviously she remembered the ass-numbing winters. “Have a seat.” Tell me what you want. Please.

  After taking the chair opposite, she hugged the suede coat tighter as if he kept his office too cool. “I’ll make this brief.”

  He realized her businesslike manner was n
erves. He’d never seen her nervous, either, not this woman. “I have time.” He glanced at his watch. “No meetings until ten.”

  “Oh.” She rolled her lips, smoothing her lipstick. Then she crossed her legs the opposite direction. “All right. I was wrong. I had a date on Wednesday night, and I shouldn’t have done that. Not after what we’d shared.”

  His fingers tingled with pins and needles as if they’d been asleep.

  “Instead of dealing with the issue, I just accused you of being ashamed of me.”

  “What I said came across that way.”

  She waved a hand at him. “Look, what I do is not your normal run-of-the-mill job. You can’t tell your friends or your family. I understand that.” She leaned forward, put her fingertips on the desk. “But I’m not here to tell you that I’m going to give up Courtesans.”

  A fist closed around his lungs and squeezed all the breath out.

  “But we can make this work. I don’t have to take clients.”

  She didn’t have to sleep with other men. A chip of ice broke off his heart.

  “You claimed you can never be vanilla again.”

  She sat back, wrapping the coat tight again, as if he’d actually caused the chill in the room. “I loved what we did with Noelle and Dax. I’m not saying I don’t want to do stuff like that. But only with you.” Then she shrugged. “But I don’t need it the way I need you.”

  Warmth stole across his skin. He realized he hadn’t been warm since he left 252

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  her, and it had nothing to do with Oklahoma in January. “I need you,” he whispered.

  She dropped her voice, too. “I just can’t stop managing Courtesans. I don’t know how to let that go. Melora saved me.” She swallowed, her eyes moist with emotion. “I told you that I was out on the streets, that she found me. But I didn’t tell you I was hemorrhaging. I knew I’d lost the baby, but it just wouldn’t stop bleeding. Melora, she came to the ugliest, seediest parts of town to find us, girls in trouble, to help us. She took me to the hospital. Then she took me into her home, her life. She made me who I am. And she passed everything on to me.” She held him, her gaze steady. “Someday, I need to pass it on, too.”