by Nora Roberts
“I’ve finished.” She jerked free and jumped out. If it hadn’t been for the blasted heels, she might have made it. But he was out the opposite door and blocking her way before she’d taken three strides. “I have nothing more to say.” Her voice was cold and dismissive. Her chin was high.
“Good. You can just listen. If you won’t quit at the pub—which is just what you should do—you’re going to take some basic precautions. Reliable transportation comes first.”
“Don’t you tell me what I have to do.”
“Shut up.”
She did, but only because she was stunned speechless. She’d never, in all the years she’d known him, seen Ethan like this. In the moonlight she could see that the fury in his eyes hadn’t dimmed a bit. His face was like stone, the shadows flittering over it making it seem harsh, even dangerous.
“We’ll see that you get a car you can trust,” he continued, in that same edgy tone. “And you won’t be closing on your own again. When you finish your shift, I want somebody walking you out to your car and waiting until you lock it and drive off.”
“That’s just ridiculous.”
He stepped forward. Though he didn’t touch her, didn’t lift a hand, she backed up a pace. Her heart began to pound too fast and too loud in her head.
“What’s ridiculous is you thinking you can handle every damn thing by yourself. And I’m tired of it.”
She sputtered, hating herself. “You’re tired of it?”
“Yeah, and it’s going to stop. I can’t do much about your working yourself half to death, but I can do something about the rest. You don’t make arrangements at the pub to see you’re safe, I will. You’re going to stop asking for trouble.”
“Asking for it?” Outrage gushed through her in such a boiling wave, she was surprised that the top of her head didn’t simply blow off. “I wasn’t asking for anything. That bastard wouldn’t take no for an answer, no matter how many times I said it.”
“That’s just what I’m talking about.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a furious whisper. “I handled him, and I would have kept handling him if—”
“How?” There was red around the edges of his vision. He could still see the way she’d been pressed up against the bar, her eyes wide and frightened. Her face had been ghost-pale, her eyes huge and sheened like glass. If he hadn’t come in . . .
And because the thought of what could have been scraped raw at the center of his brain, his already slippery control shattered.
“Just how?” he demanded, in one quick move yanking her hard against him. “Go ahead, show me.”
She twisted, shoved. And her pulse began to race. “Stop it.”
“You think telling him to stop once he’s got your scent’s going to make a difference?” Lemons and fear. “Once he feels the way you fit?” Subtle curves and long lines. “He knew there was no one to stop him, that he could do anything he wanted.”
Everything inside her was in a mindless rush—her heart, her blood, her head. “I wouldn’t—I would have stopped him.”
“Stop me.”
He meant it. A part of him wanted desperately for her to stop him, to do or say something that would hold the wildness in check. But his mouth was on hers, rough and needy, swallowing her gasps, inciting more and reveling in her fast, hard trembles.
When she moaned, when her lips yielded, parted, answered his, he lost his mind.
He dragged her onto the grass, rolled with her, atop her. The thick bolt he’d kept locked on his desires exploded open, and what poured out was reckless greed and primal lust. He ravaged her mouth with the single-minded hunger of a starving wolf.
Swamped with needs so long buried, she arched against him, straining center to center, core to core. Her system stuttered with shocked pleasure, then roared into full raging life. Pumping heat, strangled moans, quivering delights.
This was not the Ethan she knew, or the one she’d dreamed would finally touch her. There was no gentleness, no care, but she gave herself to him, thrilled at the sensation of being swept away.
She wrapped long limbs around him to bind him closer, let her fingers dive into his hair, grip there. And shivered with the dark delight of knowing he was stronger.
He feasted on her mouth, her throat, while he tugged at the low, snug bodice. He was desperate for flesh, the feel of it, the taste of it. Her flesh, her flavor.
Her breast was small and firm, the skin smooth as satin against his wide, hard palm. Her heart jackhammered under it.
She whimpered, stunned at the sensation of that rough hand cupping her, kneading her, churning an echoing tug between her legs, where muscles had gone liquid and lax.
And sighed his name.
She might have shot him. The sound of her voice, the hitch of her breath, the shivers on her skin, slapped him back cold and hard.
He rolled away, onto his back, and struggled to find his breath, his sanity. His decency. They were in her front yard, for God’s sake. Her baby was sleeping inside the house. He’d nearly, very nearly done worse than the man in the pub. He’d very nearly betrayed trust, friendship, and vulnerability.
This beast inside of him was precisely the reason he’d sworn never to touch her. Now by loosing it, he’d broken his vow and ruined everything.
“I’m sorry.” A pitiful phrase, he thought, but he didn’t have any other words. “God, Grace, I’m sorry.”
Her blood was still flowing hot, and that wonderful, terrifying need aroused to screaming. She shifted, reached out to touch his face. “Ethan—”
“There’s no excuse,” he said quickly, sitting up so she wasn’t touching him—tempting him. “I lost my temper and I stopped thinking straight.”
“Lost your temper.” She stayed where she was, sprawled on the grass that now seemed too cold, her face lifted to the moon that now shone too bright. “So you were just mad,” she said dully.
“I was mad, but that’s no excuse for hurting you.”
“You didn’t hurt me.” She could still feel his hands on her, the rough, insistent press of them. But the sensation then, the sensation now, wasn’t one of pain.
He thought he could handle it now—looking at her, touching her. She would need it, he imagined. He couldn’t have lived with himself if she was afraid of him. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” As gentle as a doting parent, he tidied her clothes. When she didn’t cringe, he stroked a hand over her tousled hair. “I only want what’s best for you.”
She didn’t cringe, but she did, suddenly and sharply, slap his hand aside. “Don’t treat me like a child. A few minutes ago you were treating me like a woman easy enough.”
There’d been nothing easy about it, he thought grimly. “And I was wrong.”
“Then we were both wrong.” She sat up, brushing briskly at her clothes. “It wasn’t one-sided, Ethan. You know that. I didn’t try to make you stop because I didn’t want you to stop. That was your idea.”
He was baffled, and abruptly nervous. “For Christ’s sake, Grace, we were rolling around in your front yard.”
“That’s not what stopped you.”
With a quiet sigh, she brought her knees up, wrapped her arms around them. The gesture, so purely innocent, contrasted sharply with the tiny skirt and fishnet stockings and made his stomach muscles tie themselves into hot, slippery knots again.
“You’d have stopped anyway, wherever it happened. Maybe because you remembered it was me, but it’s harder for me to think that you don’t want me now. So you’re going to have to tell me you don’t if you want things to go back to the way they were before.”
“They belong back where they were before.”
“That’s not an answer, Ethan. I’m sorry to press you about it, but I think I deserve one.” It was hard, brutal, for her to ask, but the taste of him still lingered on her lips. “If you don’t think about me that way, and this was just temper pushing you to teach me a lesson, then you have to say so
, straight out.”
“It was temper.”
Accepting the fresh bruise to her heart, she nodded. “Well, then, it worked.”
“That doesn’t make it right. What I just did makes me too close to that bastard in the bar tonight.”
“I didn’t want him to touch me.” She drew in a long breath, held it, let it out slowly. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t speak, she thought, but moved back. He might not have shifted an inch, but he’d moved away from her in the way that counted most.
“I’m grateful to you for being there tonight.” She started to rise, but he was on his feet ahead of her, offering a hand. She took it, determined not to embarrass either of them any further. “I was afraid, and I don’t know if I could have handled it on my own. You’re a good friend, Ethan, and I appreciate you wanting to help.”
He slid his hands into his pockets, where they would be safe. “I talked to Dave about another car. He’s got a line on a couple decent used ones.”
Since screaming would accomplish nothing, she had to laugh. “You don’t waste any time. All right, I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow.” She glanced toward the house where the front porch light gleamed. “Do you want to come in? I could put some ice on your knuckles.”
“He had a jaw like a pillow. They’re fine. You need to get to bed.”
“Yeah.” Alone, she thought, to toss and turn. And wish. “I’m going to come by on Saturday for a couple hours. Just to spruce things up before Cam and Anna get home.”
“That’d be nice. We’d appreciate it.”
“Well, good night.” She turned, walked across the grass toward the house.
He waited. He told himself he just wanted to see her safely inside before he left. But he knew it was a lie, that it was cowardice. He’d needed the distance before he could finish asnwering her question.
“Grace?”
She closed her eyes briefly. All she wanted now was to get inside, crawl into bed, and indulge in a good, long cry. She hadn’t let herself have a serious jag in years. But she turned back, made her lips curve. “Yes?”
“I think about you that way.” He saw, even with the distance, the way her eyes widened, darkened, the way her pretty smile slid away so that she only stared. “I don’t want to. I tell myself not to. But I think about you that way. Now go on inside,” he told her gently.
“Ethan—”
“Go on. It’s late.”
She managed to turn the knob, to step inside, shut the door behind her. But she turned quickly to the window to watch him get back in his truck and drive away.
It was late, she thought with a shiver that she recognized as hope. But maybe it wasn’t too late.
SEVEN
“I appreciate you helping me out, Mama.”
“Helping you out?” Carol Monroe tsk-tsked the thought away as she knelt to tie the laces on Aubrey’s pink sneaker. “Taking this cube of sugar home with me for the afternoon is pure pleasure.” She gave Aubrey a chuck under the chin. “We’re going to have us a time, aren’t we, honey?”
Aubrey grinned, knowing her ground. “Toys! We got toys, Gramma. Dollbabies.”
“You bet we do. And I might just have a surprise for you when we get there.”
Aubrey’s eyes grew huge and bright. She sucked in her breath to let out a sharp squeal of delight as she jumped down from the chair to race through the house in her own version of a victory dance.
“Oh, Mama, not another doll. You spoil her.”
“Can’t,” Carol said firmly, giving her knee a push to help herself straighten. “Besides, it’s my privilege as a granny.”
Since Aubrey was occupied running and shouting, Carol took a moment to study her daughter. Not sleeping enough, as usual, she decided, noting the shadows smudged under Grace’s eyes. Not eating enough to feed a bird either, though she’d brought over Grace’s favorite homemade peanut butter cookies to try to put some flesh on her girl’s delicate bones.
A child not yet twenty-three ought to paint her face a little, put some curl in her hair, and go out kicking up her heels a night or two instead of working herself into the ground.
Since Carol had said as much a dozen times or more and had been ignored on the subject a dozen times or more, she tried a different tack. “You got to quit that night work, Gracie. It doesn’t agree with you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good hard work’s necessary for living, and admirable, but a person’s got to mix in some pleasure and fun or they dry right up.”
Because she was weary of hearing the same song, however the notes might vary, Grace turned and scrubbed at her already spotless kitchen counter. “I like working at the pub. It gives me a chance to see people, talk to them.” Even if it was just to ask them if they’d like another round. “The pay’s good.”
“If you’re low on cash—”
“I’m fine.” Grace set her teeth. She’d have suffered the torments of hell before she would admit that her budget was strained to breaking—and that solving her transportation problems was going to mean robbing Peter to pay Paul for the next several months. “The extra money comes in handy, and I’m good at waitressing.”
“I know you are. You could work down at the cafe, have day hours.”
Patiently, Grace rinsed out her dishcloth and hung it over the divider of the double sink to dry. “Mama, you know that isn’t possible. Daddy doesn’t want me working for him.”
“He never said that. Besides, you help out with picking crabs when we’re shorthanded.”
“I help you out,” Grace specified as she turned. “And I’m happy to do it when I can. But we both know I can’t work at the cafe.”
Her daughter was as stubborn as two mules pulling in opposite directions, Carol thought. It was what made her her father’s daughter. “You know you could soften him up if you tried.”
“I don’t want to soften him up. He made it plain how he feels about me. Let it be, Mama,” she murmured when she saw her mother preparing to protest. “I don’t want to argue with you, and I don’t want to put you in the position ever again of having to defend one of us against the other. It’s not right.”
Carol threw up her hands. She loved them both, husband and daughter. But she’d be damned if she could understand them. “No one can talk to either of you once you get that look on your face. Don’t know why I waste breath trying.”
Grace smiled. “Me, either.” Grace stepped close, bent down and kissed her mother’s cheek. Carol was six inches shorter than Grace’s five feet eight. “Thanks, Mama.”
Carol softened, as she always did, and combed a hand through her short, curly hair. It had once been as blond by nature as her daughter’s and granddaughter’s. But nature being what it was, she now gave it a quiet boost with Miss Clairol.
Her cheeks were round and rosy, her skin surprisingly smooth, given her love of the sun. But then, she didn’t neglect it. There wasn’t a single night she climbed into bed without carefully applying a layer of Oil of Olay.
Being female wasn’t just an act of fate, in Carol Monroe’s mind. It was a duty. She prided herself that though she was coming uncomfortably close to her forty-fifth birthday, she still managed to resemble the china doll her husband had once called her.
They’d been courting then, and he’d taken some trouble to be poetic.
He usually forgot such things these days.
But he was a good man, she thought. A good provider, a faithful husband, and a fair man in business. His problem, she knew, was a soft heart too easily bruised. Grace had bruised it badly simply by not being the perfect daughter he’d expected her to be.
These thoughts came and went as she helped Grace gather up what Aubrey would need for an afternoon visit. Seemed to her children needed so much more these days. Time was, she would stick Grace on her hip, toss a few diapers into a bag, and off they’d go.
Now her baby was grown, with a baby of her own. Grace was a good mother, Carol thought, smiling a bit as Aubrey and Grace se
lected just which stuffed animal should have the privilege of a visit to Grandma’s. The fact was, Carol had to admit, Grace was better at the job than she had been herself. The girl listened, weighed, considered. And maybe that was best. She herself had simply done, decided, demanded. Grace was so biddable as a child, she’d never thought twice about what unspoken needs had lived inside her.
And the guilt stayed with her because she had known of Grace’s dream to study dance. Instead of taking it seriously, Carol passed it off as childish nonsense. She hadn’t helped her baby there, hadn’t encouraged, hadn’t believed.
The ballet lessons had simply been a natural activity for a girl child as far as Carol had been concerned. If she’d had a son, she’d have seen to it that he played in the Little League. It was . . . just the way things were done, she thought now. Girls had tutus and boys had ball gloves. Why did it have to be more complicated than that?
But Grace had been more complicated, Carol admitted. And she hadn’t seen it. Or hadn’t wanted to see.
When Grace came to her at eighteen and told her she had her summer job money saved, that she wanted to go to New York to study dance, and begged for help with the expenses, she’d told her not to be foolish.
Young girls just out of high school didn’t go haring off to New York City, of all places on God’s Earth, on their own. Dreams of ballerinas were supposed to slide into dreams of brides and wedding gowns.
But Grace had been dead set on following her dream and had gone to her father and asked that the money they’d put aside for her college fund be used to pay tuition to a dance school in New York.
Pete had refused, of course. Maybe he’d been a little harsh about it, but he’d meant it for the best. He was just being sensible, just looking out for his little girl. And Carol had agreed wholeheartedly. At the time.
But then Carol watched as her daughter had worked tirelessly, saved every penny, month after month. She’d been bound and determined to go, and seeing it, Carol had tried to nudge her husband into letting her.
He hadn’t budged, and neither had Grace.
She was barely nineteen when that slick-talking Jack Casey came around. And that was that.