In that moment he felt a connection with her unlike anything he'd ever known, something that tugged at a part of him he'd thought had been ripped out and destroyed five years ago. Something he would call his soul if he'd bothered to name it, since soulless was the only word that fit the gaping feeling he'd been left with after that day.
And Casey was looking at him as if she'd been where he was, as if she'd fought to keep her soul … and won.
"Clay?" she whispered.
"You know how it feels, don't you?" The words escaped before he could stop them. She would think he was crazy, they didn't make any sense.
"Yes," she answered, with a certainty that made him want to reach for her, made him want to grab her and run until they found a place where they could both hide, where they could both heal, where they wouldn't have to have anything to do with a world that could inflict such wounds.
Then he was reaching for her. And she let him, moving into his arms with only the token resistance of surprise. He cupped her face in his paint-stained hands, tilting her head back. He gave her a chance to protest, to say no, to pull away. It was all he could manage; the heat of his anger at her intrusion onto that desperate moment had suddenly and completely changed to a different kind of heat. For an instant he wondered if the reason he reacted so strongly when she got too close to things he didn't talk about was because he knew, deep down, that she had the power to not just strike but awaken nerves he'd thought long dead. With others, he simply ignored them and didn't answer; with Casey…
And then all rational thought fled, for instead of protesting, Casey held his gaze, her lips parting as if she were finding the air suddenly as thick as he did.
He had to kiss her again. Had to know if her mouth was truly that sweet, or if his imagination had played tricks on him, playing the taste of her back in his mind until he was convinced it was nectar, ambrosia. Or if it was simpler, if it was merely the response of a body long denied the slightest trace of pleasure.
He had to know. Now.
Yet he went slowly, not just for her sake but for his own; in some part of his whirling mind he knew he might not be ready for the answer he was so desperate for. But it didn't seem to matter; the only thing that did was the lure of her lips, the willingness in her eyes.
His imagination had played tricks on him, but only in understatement. She was sweeter than any memory he'd conjured up since that first kiss. She was honeyed fire, and she was flowing over him, warming him when he'd thought he would be frozen forever. And right now, as she kissed him back, willingly, even eagerly, the knowledge that he couldn't do this, that this was wrong, that he was rushing into territory he'd been banished from wasn't nearly enough to overpower what he was feeling. His body, suddenly reawakened, wasn't listening to his mind, no matter how loudly it screamed in warning.
And even if he could have heeded the alarm bells himself, Casey was making it impossible. She was kissing him with every evidence of eagerness, and if his will hadn't already crumbled, she would have finished the job.
His hands slid down her back, slowly, savoring just the feel of her. He tried to tell himself it had been so long that any warm female body would have made him feel this way, but his gut knew that he wouldn't even be here with any other woman. For five years he'd felt not so much as a flicker of heat in the presence of a woman, no matter how attractive. And now he was awash in it, hot waves of sensation rippling through him, over him, sweeping all his apprehension, all his reservations, away like so much dust.
Casey made a soft murmur of pleasure that rocketed through him with a force far out of proportion to the tiny sound. His body responded swiftly, fiercely, and he almost gasped at the sudden rush.
Her arms slid upward, around his neck. He savored the slight weight, welcomed the signal it gave and pressed her more tightly against him. His skin, even through his clothes, seemed electrified; he could feel her every curve, every soft, feminine inch. He slid his hands down her back to her hips, pulling her closer against flesh that was aching.
She whispered something that sounded like his name, and it sent a new burst of fire flicking along his nerves. Her fingers tangled in his hair, stroked, caressed, and just knowing she was touching him like that, that she wanted to, turned the fire into an inferno. His image of himself as a man cold unto death, beyond feeling, beyond reach, vanished; Clay Yeager was alive. Reluctantly but blazingly alive.
And he could no more stop this than he could single-handedly douse a forest fire.
He moved suddenly, almost involuntarily, desperate to have her even closer. He pressed her up against the house, against the wall he hadn't yet painted. Not that it would have stopped him if the paint had been fresh, not with the need raging through him now.
He deepened the kiss, tasting, probing, wanting. And it was still not enough; he needed more. Wanted more. Had to have more. With every sign that she felt the same burning urgency, his own grew, until he was ready to sink to his knees under the force of it.
His hands were shaking as he moved them up her sides. He shifted slightly, just enough so that he could cup the soft curves of her breasts. The warm female flesh filled his palms, and when she didn't resist but actually pressed herself into his hands, he groaned low and deep in his throat.
He broke the kiss, desperate for air, but hating to lose the contact. Now almost mindless with need, he surrounded her with his arms, his legs, wishing he could absorb her somehow. He enveloped her, thinking that if only he could climb inside her warmth, the ice within him would vanish for good … and that he could live without it. That he could go on, that perhaps there was a reason he was still alive.
She squirmed, and he groaned again at the pressure of her body against his, at the feel of her hands on his chest, pushing…
Agony exploded in his groin.
His legs buckled. He collapsed, a harsh chunk of sound ripping from his throat as his body doubled over, curling in on itself in a desperate and too late attempt to protect itself. His vision faded as pain throbbed through him in waves, the recession between them so slight as to be barely noticeable. All he could hear was an odd, faint buzz. He felt sweat breaking out all over his body, and nausea swamped him, and he thought in some tiny part of his mind that could still function that he didn't have enough air to throw up, and that he would probably strangle if he did.
At last the agony began to recede slightly, enough that he could at least hear. And what he heard were Casey's distressed moans. When his vision cleared, he saw she was crouching beside him, the knee she'd used on him bracing her, her hands pressed to her mouth.
He tried to take in more air, but it was a moment before he had enough to gasp out some words.
"God, Casey…"
Another low moan broke from her. He sucked in another breath and tried again.
"All you … had to do … was say no!"
He heard her take a gulping breath. "The last time I … said no … it didn't work."
She scrambled to her feet, her pale face a study in shock and hideous embarrassment. And then she was gone, running from him as he had run from her last night.
Clay drew his knees up farther, setting his jaw, riding out the gradually easing waves of pain.
And trying not to think about all the things about Casey Scott that had suddenly become clear.
* * *
"Oh, God…" She couldn't believe what she'd done. She'd been willing, more than willing, delighting in the thrill of his kiss, joyous that she could even respond at all.
And then, just when she'd thought them vanquished forever, all the old, ugly memories had crashed in on her. She had felt suddenly trapped. And she had reacted out of pure, terrified instinct, her knee coming up hard and fast, just as they'd taught her in the classes she'd taken in the city. Just as they'd taught her could stop a man instantly.
They'd just never taught her in any detail what it would be like.
Or what to do if she reacted out of her gut-deep fear and attacked an innocent man. A man who'd don
e nothing to deserve it. A man who'd done nothing but reawaken in her feelings she'd been afraid she would never know again.
She moaned, burying her face in her pillow. She'd retreated to her bedroom in shame at what she'd done and sat on her bed, rocking back and forth, wondering how she would ever face Clay again. If he even stayed around for her to face. She wouldn't blame him if he took off without a word.
Assuming, she thought suddenly, that he could move at all.
Dear God, what if she'd hurt him? Really hurt him?
On the thought, a knock came to the door. Shaking, she dropped the pillow she'd been hanging on to.
"Casey."
It came through the door, sounding steady enough. Relief flooded her; she hadn't damaged him irrevocably if he'd managed to get up and walk inside.
It was the last thing she wanted to do, open the door and face him, but she also knew it was the only thing she could do. She'd hurt him, and she had to face the consequences, including the anger he had every right to.
But when it came right down to it, all she could manage was to unlock the door and retreat behind her pillow again.
She didn't say anything, but he'd obviously heard the lock click, because a moment later the door swung open.
"I'm sorry, Clay." It burst from her before he took a step into the room.
"Believe me, so am I," he said wryly.
She looked at him then, in disbelief. But one look at his face—still a little ashen, she realized guiltily—told her it was true. He wasn't angry.
She saw him glance around quickly, at the brass bed, the matching lamp beside it, the books on her table. He'd never been in her room. He'd never been beyond the living room. And these weren't exactly the circumstances under which she'd pictured him here.
And picture him she had, in the long, sultry hours of the night. She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't seem to help it. It had been the only thing powerful enough to distract her from the fact that she was lying awake waiting for the phone to ring, for her tormenter to strike again.
He sat down—gingerly, she noticed with another pang of guilt—on the edge of the bed.
"When did it happen, Casey?"
God, he didn't believe in the niceties, did he? She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Except that I'm really, truly sorry. Are you … hurt?"
"I'll live. Was it when you were in the city?"
"It was unintentional, really."
"Felt pretty intentional," he said. She flushed, almost as embarrassed now as she had been when she'd unmanned him.
"Somebody taught you well," he said.
"I … yes." She'd graduated at the top of the small class. "He was a good teacher, he—"
Her attempt at diversion failed again.
"Where? Why? Talk to me, Casey."
Something about his intensity was beginning to register with her through her own emotional upset.
"Please…"
"You nearly made me a soprano out there. I think you owe me an explanation, don't you?"
Clay clearly wasn't going to drop this. And she supposed he was right; she did owe him at least some kind of explanation. But she couldn't seem to get the words out. She hadn't talked about it in so long, she wasn't sure if she could.
"I … can't," she whispered.
"Let it out, Casey. Otherwise it will eat you alive."
She shivered, tried to stop it, couldn't.
Clay's voice went very low, very soft. "Who was he?"
She crushed the pillow between shaking hands.
"Was it when you were in Chicago?"
She took a deep, shuddering breath. When he reached out to touch her arm, it was all she could do not to pull away. But that he was even willing to get near her after the blow she'd delivered surprised her, and she looked up at his face.
What she saw there took her breath away all over again. Gentle concern, understanding, encouragement and genuine caring—they were all there, along with something else that glowed in the eyes she'd once thought of as dead. How, she didn't know, but he'd suddenly made it easy. Still, she started at the beginning, not the bitter end.
"In Chicago I worked at Creative Profiles, a medium-size public relations firm. Started entry level, gofer work mostly, so I wasn't getting rich, but it was fun and exciting and in the city. Just what I wanted. Or thought I did."
His hand tightened on her arm, encouraging her. She wondered where and how he'd developed this reassuring manner. And why. But she knew she had to get this out or she might lose her nerve.
"I worked with … a man. Jon Nesbit. We became … friends. We both started at about the same time, so we naturally spent some time together. He was charming, polished, not like the boys I'd known. I … liked him."
"And you thought he liked you?"
She took a tight little breath and nodded. "It was never, ever anything else. We were friends. Good friends, I thought. But one day … we were both up for a promotion. I got it."
He made the leap faster than she would ever have expected. "And he thought he should have?"
She nodded again, a barely discernible motion, but she knew he would see it. "He went to the boss. Made a scene. Mr. Alien wasn't happy about it and reprimanded him."
"So he was angry, jealous and humiliated. The worst recipe."
How did he know? He seemed to understand so well, even before she told him. It made it … not easy, but at least possible for her to go on.
"He caught me one night when I'd been working late, moving to my new office. We were the only ones still there. He … pushed me into a storeroom…"
She couldn't say it, couldn't get it out. She shivered, helpless to stop it.
"And then forced you? Raped you?"
She didn't think she nodded that time, but she doubted she had to; the answer probably showed on her face.
"What was his rationalization?" he asked.
She blinked, diverted. "What?"
"Besides the promotion. Men like that always have an excuse for what they do. They convince themselves the victim had it coming. They're cowards at heart, so they have to work themselves up to it somehow."
She lowered her gaze to the pillow, which was beginning to look a bit worse for wear. "He said I must have…" She couldn't say what Jon had really said, so she used the milder euphemism instead. "I must have slept with the boss to get the job over him, so I could… I shouldn't mind doing it with him."
"Bastard." He said it with a rough, icy anger that startled her. And warmed her. "Just tell me he went to jail."
Her head came up sharply. For a long moment she looked at him, wondering at his intensity. "Yes. Yes, he did."
"Good," he said. "Good for you. It takes a lot of courage for a woman to press charges. To take it all the way." He held her gaze, and she had the oddest feeling he knew exactly what it had taken.
"I fought him," she said. "Clawed him. He … hit me a few times."
The moment the words were out, she wished she hadn't said them; this was an aspect of the whole ordeal she hated to think about. It was so impossible to explain, the humiliation of having to prove you'd fought, the horrible combination of terror and anger when your word wasn't enough.
"Lots of evidence," he said. "They'd need it, going up against a smooth junior-executive type like that."
She stared at him. "That's exactly what they said."
"And I'll bet his lawyers still tried to say it was consensual."
She felt a sudden chill as he hit yet another nerve dead center. "Jon lied and said we'd been … intimate for months. And that I liked it … rough."
"To explain the marks."
She tried to hide the shudder that went through her, but she knew she'd failed. It was just too much, too ugly, too painful, all the memories she'd managed to keep under wraps for so long.
"The prosecutors showed photos, and they were … not pretty. In the end they believed me. But his lawyers, they were…"
"I can imagine. Rape is the only crime where the
victim is put on trial. Where so many people believe she somehow shares in the culpability."
"They were … decent, the police. And the prosecutors. They tried to explain that too many women used an accusation of rape as a weapon, or because they felt guilty about saying yes. That it makes it harder for the true victims."
"It does happen. It's not fair, but it does."
"It was awful. To have to convince them that I hadn't wanted it, hadn't … asked for it, like Jon said. The D.A. said that if I hadn't fought, hadn't had visible injuries or scratched him so badly, it might have gone differently. That's what made me sicker than anything."
"It shouldn't be that way. None of it should matter. Nothing except that you said no."
His words were gentle, sincere, and she knew he didn't mean them to remind her of what she'd done to him, but her embarrassment returned in an instant.
"Clay, I really am so sorry. It was… I panicked. I don't know why."
"You were feeling cornered. I understand."
She couldn't quite believe he was being so understanding. The sight of him on the ground, curled up in agony, was still too vivid. "But I hurt you. Badly."
"I can't argue that. But I'll live." His mouth quirked. "And by tomorrow I might even be glad about that."
She blushed, furiously.
"Who taught you?" he asked.
"A cop." He blinked, drawing back a little, suddenly oddly wary. "He ran a self-defense class for women," she explained. "Women who'd been … attacked."
"To teach them how not to be victims."
It wasn't a question, and she wondered why he seemed to know so much. "He said it had to be our first instinct, that there would be no time to think about it."
"You learned that part well."
This time there was a light, teasing note in his voice, but she didn't think she was ready to laugh about it yet.
"I needed something to … think about. During the trial."
He studied her for a moment. "When all you really wanted to do was come home?"
She nodded. "I left the afternoon after the conviction came in."
"Didn't stay for sentencing?"
She shook her head. "I knew that whatever it was, it wouldn't be long enough. Not for me. So there was no point. I came here to try and … heal, I guess. And it worked. At least, I thought it had."
CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Page 10