Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.
“I felt like a pervert, not just because you were so young, but because you were my friend. So I told myself that I would never do anything, not unless you started it.”
“Fifteen?” she asked and he nodded. “Wow.”
The years they’d wasted were enough to make a guy sick. Amazing. He was a scientist who’d somehow failed to observe his own wife.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said.
She nodded, looking so uncomfortable he was torn between hugging her and pressing her back against the mattress and showing her all the many ways he’d thought about her over the years.
“You weren’t a virgin that night—”
“Did you expect me to be?”
“No! No, I didn’t. But I never heard about any boyfriends or whatever—”
“Was I supposed to call you and tell you I got laid?”
He shook his head. This was stupid. “Never mind, it’s none of my business.”
“You’re right, it’s not.” She was so small curled up against a pile of white pillows. The bruising on the side of her face made her look impossibly tough and fragile at the same time. But that was Mia for him.
And being her husband gave him no right to her sexual history. Her secrets were her own. He looked back down at the chessboard and the mess of black and white pieces.
“Whose turn is it?”
“Bill Winters,” she said and he looked up, slack-jawed. “We got together the night after my high school graduation. I told myself when you left that night that you clearly didn’t feel anything and it was time to get on with my life.”
“By having sex with Bill Winters?” Strange that he was jealous over something that had happened twelve years ago.
“We dated for a while afterward. He was a nice guy and he liked me.”
“I was a nice guy and I liked you!”
Her eyes flashed in anger. “You didn’t let me in on that little secret, Jack. You kept it to yourself.”
He took a deep breath. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…strange, I guess, to think of you with someone else.”
“You weren’t a virgin in Santa Barbara, either, Jack.”
“I felt like one,” he said. He picked up one of her captured pawns, rolling it between his fingers instead of reaching for her.
“Five years of celibacy will do that to a guy, I suppose,” she said, trying to make a joke of something that wasn’t funny.
“You did it to me, Mia. You. You made me feel…different. The sex felt different. Hell, the whole night felt different.”
She nodded, her head bent, and he stared at the curve of her cheek, telling himself that what he wanted to do was a mistake. In fact, the way he felt right now, the combustibility in the air, the only thing that wouldn’t be a mistake would be leaving.
But he wasn’t about to leave.
“I’m sorry we wasted so much time,” he whispered.
“Me, too, Jack,” she breathed.
He pushed the chess set out of the way and leaned down to her. He knew she was hurting and he wasn’t going to force his way into her bed, but he wasn’t leaving without touching her.
He needed this—the physical proof of their connection—and he was pretty damn sure she did, too.
His fingers touched her cheek, a small spark popping between them, and she smiled, awkwardly.
“Let me kiss you,” he said.
“Jack—”
“Just a kiss, Mia.”
She didn’t say anything, her whiskey eyes staring up at him, watching him as he inched forward and pressed his lips to hers. Her eyelids shut on a soft sigh and he melted into her, absorbed by the sweetness and spice of Mia.
He didn’t want to push, was unsure of how far her welcome extended, but when she opened her mouth against his, the tip of her tongue licking at his lips, he wanted to growl in triumph.
Instead, he let her in, let Mia all the way in. He opened himself up and hoped that she would find a home somewhere inside the mess of his life and heart.
Because he needed her. He always had, he’d just been too stupid to know it.
He pulled away from the sweet kiss, even though it was counterintuitive to everything he wanted to be doing.
“You’re hurt,” he said and after a moment she nodded. “Can you sleep?” he asked, and she laughed a little.
“Eventually.” She looked up at him. Her eyes radiant, her face so lovely it actually hurt. “Thanks,” she said. “For the game. It’s been a long time.”
“We’ll play again,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow night my mom and Lucy will be here.”
“And we can’t play chess?”
She stared at him for a long time. “My mom and sister both know this marriage isn’t real, but it hasn’t stopped my mother from hoping—”
“I told you I would stay,” he said in a rush. “We could try to make this real.”
She shook her head, her eyes dry as a bone. “I’ve got no more hope to be lifted, Jack,” she said. “I can’t manage to care anymore. I’ve been left by you too many times to count.”
“I didn’t know,” he said in his defense.
“Would it have been so different if you had?” she asked.
He couldn’t lie to her. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” she said quietly. “I’ve always known everything was second to your work, your…dream. And just because you no longer have that dream doesn’t mean I’m ready to believe I can take its place. I think you’re searching, Jack, and I’m in the right place at the right time.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It feels like it is, Jack. And that’s enough for me. When my family gets here, I’m going to tell them we’re getting a divorce and then…maybe we should just keep our distance.”
Keep our distance.
Funny how he’d managed to do that for years without even trying, and now it seemed impossible.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JACK BOOTED UP his laptop for her and showed her the icon for her calving worksheet. He was so close Mia could smell the sunshine and pine on his skin; the heat of his body bathed the side of her face, her right hand.
“You got it?” he asked, not exactly cold, but not the Jack who’d played chess with her last night.
Don’t you dare feel bad, she told herself. Don’t you dare. That man hurt you more times than you can count and the second you decide to protect yourself for once, you feel bad?
Don’t be such a girl, Mia.
“I think I can manage.”
“You have your notebooks?” he asked, stepping away from the bed. He wore his old cowboy hat, the brown one with the black band. He said he’d found it in the barn this morning, surprised that it was still kicking around.
She’d just nodded, as if she hadn’t hidden it there almost the minute he’d left for college. Worn it when missing him had been so powerful she couldn’t stand herself.
Wearing the hat changed Jack McKibbon, mutated his mild-mannered scientist persona into something more primal and earthy. He looked sharp and focused.
Painfully hot.
“Chris is bringing them to me,” she said.
“Call my cell if you need anything,” he said. “I’m heading over to the Stones’.”
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Jeremiah had a question about the alfalfa irrigation system. Told him I’d take a look at it.”
“Look at you,” she said with a smile, and then hated herself for smiling. “You just can’t resist a water problem.”
“Well.” Jack’s smile sliced through the shadows under his hat. “Jeremiah’s less likely to bomb me, so I figured I’d do what I can.”
He walked out, leaving behind currents and eddies that teased and tugged at her, pulling and pushing her off balance. And she could only sit there, aching and battered, and wish he’d never come back to this ranch.
&nbs
p; Chris knocked on her door a few minutes later.
“Come on in,” she said and the old cowboy took a tiny step into the room, looking highly uncomfortable to be there.
She grinned at her friend. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Christ, Mia,” he said, unable to look at her. “You’re in your pajamas.”
“Which happens to be an old flannel shirt. It’s not like I’m here naked.”
“Still,” he said, taking another step into the room. “It’s not right. Here.” He handed her the three notebooks she’d filled with calving information and notes.
“Thanks.” She took the notebooks and Chris high-tailed it to the door. “Wait.”
He groaned, but turned to face her. “How is Jack working out?” she asked.
Chris frowned. “Jack? Fine. He’s got the boys clearing the fire road so we can move the herd.”
That was surprising. “He’s not trying to boss you, is he?”
Chris’s smile was brief. “Well, he is the boss and frankly, so far, I agree with everything he’s wanted to do.” He shrugged. “It’s his ranch.”
“Yeah, which he hates.”
Chris sighed. “Can I please go?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving him out of the room. “Be free.”
Chris left and now it was just her and Jack’s laptop. She searched for the shortcut icon on the desktop and got sidetracked by a document entitled I Take Full Responsibility.
Without a second thought, or really without giving herself a chance to have a second thought, she clicked on the document.
I take full responsibility for the mistakes that were made by the team on our return trip to El Fasher. The death of Oliver Jenkins and the destruction of the pump and drill might have been prevented had I informed the team of the errors on the new set of maps. I knew the permanent compound was being built too far from the new pump site and that should there be an attack, we wouldn’t be able to get to safety in time.
I was aware of the problems the night of the university cocktail party in Santa Barbara and didn’t notify anyone due to my absorption in my personal problems. With my heartfelt apology I tender my resignation to the university.
Mia stared dumbfounded at the screen on her lap. Was he insane? she wondered. Jack was going to take responsibility for a militia bombing?
Did he have a God complex, or what?
She remembered that night a few weeks ago when she’d fallen asleep in the chair in the living room. He’d said, yelled really, it was all his fault and she’d forgotten about it.
But he’d been serious. He blamed himself for Oliver’s death.
“Oh, Jack.” She leaned back against the pillows. Picking him out of her life, like splinters out of her skin, would be so much easier if she didn’t care so damn much.
That he carried around this unjustified load swamped her with sympathy, with unwanted affection, because it was so totally like him to take on that responsibility. The too-big responsibility, the unreasonable and unnecessary responsibility, was Jack’s specialty.
Marrying his best friend so she could stay on the ranch she loved. Bringing water to a nation dying of thirst. Taking responsibility for a senseless, mindless act of terrorism, because he felt like the blame needed to be put somewhere.
His mother had done that, put the weight of the world on his shoulders.
And you are not the woman to make it right, she told herself. You are not the wife he wants, not really.
Taking her own advice to heart, she closed the file and opened up her program and began inputting the calving data. But she couldn’t focus. Jack had written that he’d known the about the map problem that night in Santa Barbara and claimed to have forgotten about it because of “personal issues”… Was she the personal issue?
He’d called and emailed relentlessly for weeks after they’d made love. And she’d dodged every call.
Oh, her stomach twisted between curiosity and sick, terrible dread.
MIA WAS IN HIS ROOM. In his bed, actually. Which would be wonderful if he and Mia were a normal married couple. But they weren’t. They were keeping their distance and now she was in his bed, making the sheets smell like her.
Jack had enough problems sleeping without being haunted by Mia-scented sheets.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said, tossing his hat onto his desk. It skidded across the bare surface and fell into her lap.
“I am,” she said, tucking the hat on her head, tipping it over one eye. “Note my reclining position.”
Oh, he’d noted it. She looked like some kind of lewd cowboy fantasy in that hat.
He’d had a busy day. Stone’s alfalfa field irrigation system was pretty much shot. And when Jack had stopped by to help the guys clear the fire road, his father had been there in the middle of things, like the man he’d been. He’d been leaning against the truck, his hat down low over his eyes and for a second Jack’d had a good memory of this place. A decent one, of the two of them clearing that road when he was a kid.
And he stood there on that road with the past he’d thought was dead coming back to life around him. But different somehow. Changed.
Mia wasn’t the girl he knew her to be.
He couldn’t cast his father as the villain. Not entirely.
And Jack felt himself changing along with his memories.
So now he smelled like smoke and fire, and he was confused.
And having Mia here wasn’t helping. Trying not to look at her only seemed to make him more aware of her; her black curls were stark and erotic against the snowy-white pillow case. The flannel shirt she slept in wasn’t buttoned all the way up and he saw far too much of her throat, the elegant rail of her collarbone, the mysterious valley between her breasts.
She wore a pair of boxer shorts, and her long caramel-colored legs were stretched out over his unmade bed, her thin ankles crossed. Her toes naked and practically taunting him.
He wanted to eat her, lick her. Spread himself on top of her like butter and melt right into her skin.
“Why aren’t you in that reclining position in your room?” he snapped, yanking his filthy T-shirt over his head and firing it into the corner with the rest of his filthy T-shirts.
“Because I want to talk to you,” she said. He noticed, because he noticed everything about her, that she went a little wide-eyed at the sight of his chest. Good.
He undid the top button on his jeans, ready to make her eyes pop right out of her head.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked.
“I need to take a shower,” he said as the other button slid free.
“Can you keep your clothes on while I talk to you?”
“I suppose it depends on what you’re saying.” He grinned at her blush. Damn it, but his mood was improving. Mia Alatore blushing was about the strangest thing he’d ever seen, like seeing a dog in pants, but it was pretty, too.
“I want to talk to you about the bombing.”
He unfastened the rest of the buttons all at once. “Sorry,” he said, pushing the pants down his legs, “not interested.”
“Stop!” she cried, all but shielding her eyes. “Stop, please, Jack, I just want to talk.”
She was taking quick glances at him in his underwear and then looking away for a second, before her eyes would come wandering back.
“Well, I don’t,” he said. “Not about Africa.”
He tucked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers as if he was about to pull them down and Mia’s eyes lurched up to his.
“I read your statement to the university,” she blurted.
That gave him pause. “Snooping around?”
She nodded, not even embarrassed.
“How can you believe that the bombing was your fault?” she asked.
“I don’t believe the bombing is my fault,” he said. “I believe the fact that Oliver is dead and Devon and I were hurt is my fault.”
“You didn’t make the decision to build the compound so f
ar from the pump site.”
“No, but I sure as hell didn’t correct it, though, did I?”
“And neither did anyone else, Jack. And would it have mattered if you did?” she asked. “The place was bombed down to nothing. Was the compound even left standing?”
He nodded, feeling bile rise in his throat, wishing he’d kept his clothes on. “The storage area was ruined, but the living quarters were practically untouched. If we’d been able to get inside when we heard the planes coming, Oliver would be alive.”
“Oh, Jack.” She sighed, and he knew she understood. His guilt wasn’t for nothing. There were ramifications for mistakes that he’d made.
And sure, Oliver and Devon might have noticed the problem with the build site and chimed in, but no one else had until it was too late. And by then they’d just decided to do the best they could.
“But what if you weren’t able to get inside?” she asked.
He stared at her. “I’m not following.”
“You can’t second-guess everything. It’s a war over there, Jack. You could have told someone about the problems with the map, but maybe that would have created another problem. Perhaps, if the compound had been placed correctly, it would have been leveled. Maybe you’d be dead instead of Oliver. Maybe all of you would be dead.”
Jack turned around, tired of this conversation. His towel hung over the doorknob to his closet and he grabbed it, throwing it over his shoulder. “I’m done talking about this,” he said and left her in his bed to go take a shower.
He’d just stepped under the hot spray when the curtain was jerked aside.
“Jesus, Mia,” he snapped, yanking part of it back to cover his crotch. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to talk some sense into that thick head of yours. This is not your fault. You don’t need to take responsibility for every bad thing that happens.”
“Go lie down—”
“No!” she snapped. Mist sprayed her face and hair. The front of her shirt got damp, outlining the full slope of her breasts, the soft point of her nipple His anger toward her turned into something else, something dark and desperate.
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