by Joan Hohl
His vow of love for her sank to Karla’s soul; his cry of self-condemnation speared to the heart of her compassion. She leaned back to stare into his face. “No better?” she repeated, confused. “Jared, I don’t understand.”
“I know.” He released her and sat straight. A faint, bitter smile curved his mouth. “That night when you were ...” He paused and his smile turned wry. “Should I say you were wary, if not really afraid of me?”
Karla’s smile was as wry as his; she still wasn’t about to admit to being more afraid of her own feelings than of him. “What about that night?”
Jared’s smile faded. “At some point between that morning and that night, you heard the local gossip about me, all the gory details about how cruelly and ruthlessly I had treated my father... didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Karla swallowed, then blurted out, “I was also told that you were ruthless in your use of women.”
His spine stiffened. “That’s not true.” His voice was strong and held the solid ring of sincerity. “I admit to being harsh with my father, but I have never misused any woman. And I’m certain that, if asked, every woman I was ever involved with would tell you the same. The affairs were always conducted on equal terms, to mutual satisfaction.”
Karla suppressed a shiver. “It sounds very businesslike and impersonal,” she said, unable to suppress her vivid memories of the intensely personal, yet warmly friendly, relationship they’d shared the previous week.
“I scrupulously kept my alliances impersonal,” he replied, “in self-defense. You see, Karla, I was rigid in my determination never to enslave myself to a woman by falling in love with her, the way my mother allowed her love to chain her to my father.”
His father! Karla suddenly understood that the key to Jared’s character had to do with his relationship with his father. And with sudden clarity she could see his vulnerability. “Do you hate your father that much?” she asked softly.
Jared sighed, “If any man deserved to be hated, he did.”
“What did he do to earn your hatred?” she asked, knowing intuitively that he did not hate lightly or easily.
“It’s a long story and not a very pretty one,” Jared said wearily.
“I’m not in a hurry to go anywhere.” Karla tried a tentative smile, and felt heartened when he smiled back at her.
“All right,” he relented. “I’ll condense it, give you the salient points.” He narrowed his eyes, whether against the long rays of the setting sun or in concentration, she had no way of knowing; Karla only knew that the warmth was leaving the day, but slowly creeping back into her body.
“Like many of his contemporaries, my father grew to manhood disliking Indians, and so, as you can imagine, her was torn with inner conflict when he fell in love with my mother, the daughter of a man he sneeringly referred to as ‘the half-breed’ and who just happened to be the best cattleman his father had ever employed. But, indulged by a wealthy father, and accustomed to having what he wanted, my father married my mother, then proceeded to make life damned near impossible for her. Her father lived on the ranch in a trailer parked in the tiny section of land my father’s father deeded over to him before he died. That transaction only deepened my father’s hate. When he was at home, he forbade my mother to visit her father. Fortunately, he was away on business a lot.
“I adored both my mother and my grandfather, and my father knew it, which didn’t exactly endear me to him.” Jared shrugged. “Hell, I had two strikes against me with him from the day I was born, simply because I was the spitting image of my grandfather”—he sliced a dry smile at her—”as you noticed the first time we met at the gallery.”
The large painting flashed into Karla’s mind. She smiled and nodded.
“My father made life a living hell for my mother, my grandfather, and me,” Jared continued grimly. “When I got old enough to take care of her, I urged my mother to leave him to his hate and bitterness. She refused. When I asked why, she explained very simply that she loved him. She was such a beautiful, gentle woman, and yet she stayed with him, accepting all the hell he dished out to her, simply because she loved him.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I didn’t share her feelings, but I continued to live at home to protect her. The day she was buried I walked away from his house and his hate.”
“Then your father suffered a stroke,” she said softly, “and you refused to go see him.”
The wry smile reappeared. “And earned a reputation for being ruthless. That was a few years ago. The reputation has grown with each passing year and with every crisis I’ve ignored.”
Karla frowned. “Yet this time when he called for you, you went to him. Why?”
Jared’s expression sent hope soaring through her veins. “Because of you ... and something you said.”
“You went because of me!” she exclaimed. “But Jared, I didn’t say a word! You didn’t ask for my opinion.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t have to say anything. You were there, sharing my bed, laughing with me, healing me.”
“Oh, Jared.” Karla could say no more for the emotional tears clogging her throat.
“It was touch and go for a long time there at the hospital, Karla.” His expression looked haunted. “He didn’t recognize me when I arrived, and I sat beside him waiting ... waiting. I hadn’t the vaguest idea what I’d say to him if he did recognize me, but”—he drew a rough breath— “sometime during the night he had an attack or something. I had to leave the room while the doctors worked on him. They took him to intensive care. I stood at the window, watching him fight for his life, remembering what you had said about consent. And I was forced to realize that my mother had a choice. He loved her obsessively, and hated her because of it. But he could never have used her without her consent. When the doctors left his room, they looked at me in confused wonder; that old man had confounded them again by surviving yet another crisis. He was lucid and knew me. I made my peace with him, Karla. I’ll never like him, but I no longer hate him. I guess that’s something.”
“No, Jared,” she corrected softly, “that’s a great deal.”
He was quiet for a while. Then, raising his hand, he touched her hair. “I like your hair down the way you’ve been wearing it... Did I tell you?”
“Yes.” Karla’s heart melted. “Every time we made love.”
His hand went still; his voice went low, and held an unfamiliar uncertain tone. “I was pretty rough with you this morning. I have no excuse, except that I needed you so badly, I lost control, and that has never happened to me before.”
She reached out to stroke the tension from his face. “I understand.”
“But I used you!”
She arched her eyebrows.
Jared laughed. “With your consent?”
She laughed with him. “Of course.”
His eyes began to glitter in the way that never failed to excite her. Then he drew her into his embrace. “Are you still in lust with me, Karla?” he asked in a rough-edged whisper.
“No.”
Jared’s body grew taut, and he shifted around until she was flat on her back and he was arching over her. “No?” he repeated in a growled demand. “How can you say that after the way we made love this morning? Dammit, Karla. Answer me!”
“Are you still in love with me?” she answered with a demand of her own.
“Yes! I love you!” he growled. “Now, tell me, why aren’t you still in lust with me?”
Karla’s smile was serene. “Because I’m in love with you ... and lust and love are two entirely different things.”
Jared’s laughter began as a low rumble that quickly built into a joyous roar. “You know, you’re right. I guess I have been in lust before, and there’s no comparison. Lust isn’t bad,” he conceded, swooping down to kiss her fiercely. “But love’s a lot better.”
“I know.”
And there, lying in the last golden rays of sunshine, they proceeded to prove their point.
And as her weddin
g gift to him, Karla gave Jared the portrait of his grandfather.
About the Author
With many millions of her romances in print, Joan Hohl/Amii Lorin is an author romance readers can't seem to get enough of. She has received numerous awards for her work, including the Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion...the equivalency of the current Romance Writers of America Rita award.
When Joan sold her first book her editor asked her for a penname. It didn't take long for her to come up with Amii Lorin. Some years later, Joan began writing under her own name, but she has always preferred Amii Lorin. And now, through Belgrave House, Joan's preference is realized.
Joan lives in South East Pennsylvania with her husband of 57 years. She has two beautiful daughters, Lori and Amy...which explains her attachment to the name. There are two wonderful grandchildren and two adorable young great grandsons. She dotes on them all.
Publishing Information
Copyright © 1989 by Amii Loren
Originally published by Berkeley
Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.