Only that was apparently a lie. She didn’t love him above all else. She’d put herself first.
Reese dropped his hands and took a step away from her. And it hit her then that this was it. There would be no more words, no more explanations, or entreaties. He’d literally opened himself up and laid himself bare for her—something she knew he’d never done for anyone else—and she’d tossed it back in his face. For what?
For what?
He was walking out of her life, and she knew she’d never see him, hear him, taste him, have him … Nothing. Not ever. For all eternity.
And she knew with a certainty so absolute, it rocked her violently. This was a mistake she’d regret every second, every hour, every month, every year … until the moment she drew her last breath.
He walked away.
What had she done?
“Reese.”
To her eternal joy and shame, he stopped. And she knew it was already more than she deserved.
“I’m like you,” she whispered hoarsely. “A survivor.”
He didn’t turn around. “I’m sure you’ll bloody well survive this, too, then.” His voice was rougher, deeper than she’d ever heard it.
“No. I won’t.”
He shifted his weight, then looked at her. “Well then,” he whispered, his voice so depleted of emotion, it fairly vibrated with the absence of it. “I suppose that makes two of us.”
Jillian took a tentative step toward him. “You really meant it, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. I’ve never lied to you.” Frustration edged into his evenly spoken words, and she was amazed at his self-control.
Suddenly her throat closed and she felt panic claw at her as she realized how much she had riding on her next words. Only everything. Her whole life. Was this how he’d felt when he’d opened up to her moments ago? Did she have even half his courage?
“I meant what I said too.” The words were forced out on a choked whisper. “About wanting you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“You have a damn funny way of showing it.”
“I’m scared, Reese.” That was so painful to admit.
“And you think I’m not?”
“I don’t know. I know you have more courage than I could ever hope to have.”
“You have courage, Jillian.”
Her heart pounded painfully hard at the sound of her name on his lips.
“I’m selfish, Reese. I want it all, just for me. I thought Thomas loved me, and he left me for a nice fat check from my mother. And then there was Richard. I thought he understood, that he needed me. Then I found out he only needed the trust fund I was going to get.”
“I don’t want your damn money, Jillian.”
“I know that. Have always known it.” She turned pleading eyes to his. “It’s not about money. It’s never really been about money. That’s my mother’s game, not mine. It’s about not trusting myself to believe that I can be enough to hold anyone … to hold you. The survival instincts have crippled me, Reese, until I’m afraid to ever reach for anything risky again. That way I’m sure not to lose.”
He turned to face her, and her heart caught in her throat. Dear God she loved this man.
“What are you telling me, Jillian?”
It was now or never. Jillian closed the gap between them.
“I’m telling you I’m a stupid fool. I’m telling you how sorry I am that I hurt you. It is the very last thing I ever wanted to do.”
Reese stiffened and stepped back. Jillian felt a draft creep into her heart at the cold expression that crossed his face. She was going to lose him.
“Apology accepted.” He began to turn, but she grabbed his arm, yanking as hard as she could. Caught off guard he spun on his heel and stumbled into her.
Jillian steadied him by grasping his shoulders, then lifted her hands to his head and pulled it down to hers.
She kissed him hard. Her heart, her life, her soul, everything was in that kiss. He tensed, accepting the fierce pressure of her mouth on his.
But he didn’t respond.
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes as she gentled the kiss, turning it from a declaration to a good-bye. Finally she dropped her hands and he lifted his head.
She looked up at him. “I don’t know what else to say. How else to apologize for what I did.” The tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “Being scared was no excuse. I was wrong.”
His expression darkened. “Bloody hell, I heard you the first time. Now can I go?”
She was handling this so badly. He wasn’t hearing what she was saying. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Reese. I don’t want you to go. I never wanted you to go.”
It took a second, then his expression changed to one of wariness. “What exactly are you saying? Spell it out.”
“I’m saying that if you still want me, take me. I love you, Reese. Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me. And I swear I will never, ever, turn you away.”
“Say that again,” he commanded, his expression still fierce.
“I didn’t want you to go. But I knew I wouldn’t survive loving you and losing you later on. Better to lose you now.”
“You will never lose me, Jillian.” He kissed her so hard, it hurt. And the pain was a wonderful benediction. “You may wish you could, but your fate is sealed.”
“Thank God,” she said fervently through her sniffles. Then laughed helplessly when he smiled and the sniffles turned to great gulping sobs.
He pulled her tight against his chest, holding her head against his heartbeat.
“I’m sorry … I can’t seem … to stop …” She took a shuddering breath. “It’s just I’m so—”
Reese tilted her face up to his. Two tears tracked down his face. “I know, mite. I know.”
She laughed and cried and hugged him again. “What a pair of no-hopers we are, huh?”
“Jillian?” His voice was sweetly hoarse.
“Mmmm?” She nuzzled more deeply into his embrace, sighing happily when he tightened his arms around her.
“You told me once. Tell me again.” He leaned down and pressed his damp lips to her ear. “I need to hear you tell me again.”
She smiled and looked up into his face. “I love you, Reese Braedon. For better, for worse. For always.”
Pain filled his eyes along with renewed brightness.
“What’s wrong? Reese?”
“I see what you mean. It is scary. Trusting that love, I mean. But I do. I do.”
“I know. After being alone inside for so long it’s hard to let someone else in. To really believe they’ll stay no matter what.”
“You’re inside me, Jillian. Always. I feel connected to you in a way I don’t even understand. And I don’t care. You’re part of me. The best part. Don’t leave. Just don’t ever leave.”
She hugged him, then when that wasn’t enough, she pulled his head back down and kissed him again. Only this time it wasn’t one-sided.
Reese backed her up against the counter, then lifted her to sit on top of it. Her shirt was half off, her mind half gone, when she whispered, “Tell me, Reese. Tell me.”
He bared one breast and took his sweet, torturous time kissing it, then slowly bared the other and gave it the same mind-bending attention. Then he wound slow, hot, wet kisses along her collar and up her neck until she’d forgotten what she’d asked him.
Until he got to the soft tender spot just below her ear.
“I love you, Jillian. For better, for worse. For always.” He pulled her earlobe into his mouth and sucked on it. She gasped. He smiled.
“This,” he whispered as he pulled her legs around his waist. He moved his hips against her. “Does it hurt, mite?”
“Worse,” she panted.
“Then let me make it better.”
“Always?”
Clothes were hastily readjusted, and Reese grabbed her hips and lifted her. Slowly, exquisitely, he pulled her onto him. And when he was deeply inside of
her, he smiled and whispered, “You know it, mite. You know it.”
THE EDITOR’S CORNER
Welcome to Loveswept!
We’re delighted to offer you another sizzling e-original next month: From rising romance star Sharon Cullen comes a tale of the fiery passion between a noble naval officer and a female pirate that’s as tempestuous and as unpredictable as the sea. THE NOTORIOUS LADY ANNE is Sharon Cullen’s first historical novel and her debut with Loveswept. Sensual and enticing, this is a book you won’t want to miss.
Also upcoming: Patricia Olney’s irresistible JADE’S GAMBLE, Linda Cajio’s sinfully sexy STRICTLY BUSINESS, and three blazing hot books from Sandra Chastain: A DREAM TO CLING TO, LOVE AND A BLUE-EYED COWBOY, and MAC’S ANGELS: MIDNIGHT FANTASY.
If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: March brings Ruthie Knox’s scorching ALONG CAME TROUBLE, and some classic you’ll want to read: Patricia Olney’s moving and funny STILL MR. AND MRS., Juliana Garnett’s compelling and sensual THE BARON, Jean Stone’s exceptional and heartwarming FIRST LOVES, Linda Cajio’s extraordinary UNFORGETTABLE, and beloved author Iris Johansen’s brilliant AN UNEXPECTED SONG. In April, we’re excited about Megan Frampton’s emotional and powerfully erotic tale HERO OF MY HEART, Karen Leabo’s electric HELL ON WHEELS, Linda Cajio’s stirring novels, HE’S SO SHY and DESPERATE MEASURES, and Sandra Chastain’s spellbinding books, NIGHT DREAMS and PENTHOUSE SUITE. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…
Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …
Read on for an excerpt from Juliet Rosetti’s
Escape Diaries
The Escape Diaries:
A Guide to Breaking Out of Prison
Escape tip #1:
Be prepared.
Actually I wasn’t prepared at all. I just wanted to go to bed. I was tired and cranky, sweat was puddling between my boobs, and my armpits smelled like sprouting onions. Deodorant cost one ninety-five at the prison canteen, well beyond the means of someone who earned ten cents an hour. Given a choice between M&Ms or Mennen, I’d pick the sweet and live with the stink. Repulsive, yes—but chocolate is what gets you through the day, and no one else smells any better.
If I’d stuck to chocolate, things might have turned out differently. But I had a leftover cough drop from a bout with bronchitis, and when my cellmate, Tina Sanchez, developed a tickly throat, I gave her the cough drop. Just being a pal, right?
Wrong. You’re supposed to return unused medications to the medical director. The staff tracks pharmaceuticals the way the CIA tracks yellow cake in the Middle East. A cellblock officer caught the menthol scent on Tina’s breath and wrote her up for taking a nonprescription drug. Since I was the one who’d dished out the illicit substance, I was written up, too. Along with a bunch of other drug offenders—aspirin pushers, Alka-Seltzer peddlers, and Midol dealers—Tina and I were sentenced to garden detail.
Not exactly the Bataan death march in a suburban peas and petunias plot, but Taycheedah’s gardens are a whole different chunk of real estate. Looking out over them is like gazing at the Great Plains; you wouldn’t be surprised to see buffalo and buzzards roaming around out there.
The first days of September had been sunny and hot, and in the perverse way of growing things, every tomato on six acres had ripened on the same day. Ten thousand of the squishy red things, demanding to be handpicked before thunderstorms swept through and turned them into salsa. We picked. And picked. And picked some more. All morning, all afternoon, and into early evening. When it got to be five o’clock I thought we’d be dismissed for dinner. But no-o. You do the crime, you do the time: that was the warden’s motto. The kitchen staff sent out sandwiches and bottles of water and we ate sitting cross-legged in the dirt. Then we hauled ourselves to our feet and went back to work.
My spine was an archipelago of ache, my skin felt scalded, and my teeth were filmed with bugs. The rank, catnippy odor of tomatoes clung to my clothes. I straightened and stretched at the end of my gazillionth row, rubbing my back and anxiously scanning the sky to the west, which had turned the pus-yellow of a fading bruise. The air was thick enough to stir with a spoon. Crickets chirped storm warnings. Lightning flickered in a raft of distant clouds.
Lightning terrified me. I glanced uneasily at the officer on duty, hoping she’d let the tomatoes go to mush and order us back inside. She didn’t. She just yawned, leaning against a tree, staring glassily into space. Obviously, distant lightning wasn’t high on her list of concerns.
“Did you know that lightning can strike as far as ten miles away?” I said to Tina, who was picking on the opposite side of my row.
“So what?” Tina scoffed. “Your chances of getting hit by lightning are less than winning the Powerball.”
“You’ve got it backward.” The heat was making me cranky. It was Tina’s fault I was on this gulag detail in the first place. “The odds against winning the Powerball are greater than your chances of being struck by lightning.”
“I ain’t never won the lottery and I ain’t never got hit by lightning neither, so that proves my point.”
Tina’s logic made my brain hurt. I opened my mouth to explain her faulty reasoning, which would probably have resulted in Tina’s giving me a mashed tomato facial, but at that moment a siren began to wail. I nearly jumped out of my sweat-streaked skin. Dropping my tomatoes, I clapped my hands over my ears.
“Is that the escape siren?” I asked.
“No, you goober. That’s the tornado siren.”
Tornado? My stomach did a roller-coaster dip. Tornadoes scared me even worse than lightning. What were you supposed to do? In grade school we’d had to practice tornado drills, crouching under our desks with our arms over our heads and our butts in the air. By the time the drill ended, our classroom smelled like a cauliflower factory.
The guard-snapped out of her heat-induced stupor, blew a whistle, and bellowed, “All right, everybody, form up in a line. We’re returning to the main unit. Inside, you will proceed to your designated—”
A galloping wind drowned out her voice, bowled over the tomato plants, and hurled leaves through the air like green rain. The storm blitzed in faster than anyone could have expected. Thunder shook the ground and a zag of lightning split the sky. The mercury vapor lamps that lit the grounds exploded, plunging us into murky gloom.
Disoriented, I grabbed onto Tina and we bumbled around, tripping over vines, squishing tomato guts underfoot, trying to catch our breaths against the scouring gale. The air sizzled with electricity and my hair stood on end. The wind worked itself into a tantrum and slammed us along, Tina’s long braid whipping against my face until she was whirled one way and I was hurled another. I smacked up against the wall of the greenhouse and stepped in a load of peat moss from an overturned wheelbarrow.
Lightning flashed again, turning the world muddy purple. The purple goop spat hail. Split pea hail at first, that sounded like the first faint pops of microwave popcorn, then fist-sized hail that smashed the greenhouse panes and sent shards of glass geysering into the air. A 747 revved for takeoff inside my skull. My ears popped, my hair tried to yank itself out by the follicles, and what felt like a dozen Dustbusters sucked at my clothes. Tree branches and gutter spouts hurtled through the air, outlined by strobes of lightning. Something enormous somersaulted toward me, growing bigger and bigger, blotting out the sky. I stared in disbelief. It was a house! An enormous house was about to smack down and squash me like the Wicked Witch of the East. When the rescue workers came around searching for bodies, they’d discover my feet sticking out from beneath the foundation.
“She really needed a pedicure,” they would say.
I was five years old when I watched The Wizard of Oz for the first time. My parents were out and my older brothe
rs, who were supposed to be babysitting me, had abandoned me. Alone in the house, I poured myself a glass of Kool-Aid, dribbled my way to the TV, and popped a tape into the VCR. I couldn’t read yet, but the video cover showed a girl in a blue dress, a scarecrow, a lion, and a shiny metal man. I plopped down on the sofa, my legs so short they stuck straight out over the edge of the cushions, and watched, entranced, as a girl named Dorothy balanced along a fence, singing a song about a rainbow.
Then Almira Gulch appeared. Eyes like Raisinettes, chin like an ax blade, mouth like a rat trap. By the time she was pedaling her bike through the twister, cackling insanely and transforming into the Wicked Witch of the East, I was petrified, sobbing, and soaked.
My mother came home, switched off the movie, changed my underpants, and put me to bed. I wasn’t allowed to watch The Wizard of Oz again until I was nine years old, presumably old enough to separate fantasy from reality, but even then I had to squeeze my eyes shut when the winged monkeys flew out of the witch’s castle.
Escape tip #2:
Stone walls do not a prison make,
But electrified razor wire
makes a damn fine substitute.
A spatter of rain in my face woke me. Disoriented, I jerked upright, swiping water out of my eyes. Memory returned in jumbled fragments: lightning, wind, hail, a flying house. Had I actually been in the middle of a tornado?
The eerie purple clouds had vanished as the storm roared off east. The air smelled like Christmas trees and the sky had turned that soft, heavenly blue that precedes dark. Bricks, boards, mangled metal, and glass from the shattered greenhouse lay strewn about, sparkling beneath a layer of rapidly melting hail. And there, just a few feet away, was the thing that had struck me. Not a house falling out of the sky, Mazie, you hysterical tornado-phobe—just an old roof the tornado had snatched off a garage or shed. It was lodged against the prison’s perimeter fence, half in and half out of the grounds, as though it’d tried to escape but had been snagged at the last moment.
Wild Rain Page 17