Stay... Page 5

  For him.

  When the phone rang this time, Jefferson didn’t flinch.

  But Emily stiffened at the sound and pulled away a few inches. After that first, single ring, the phone was once again silent. She backed away a few more inches. She carefully removed her fingers from their clutch on his wide shoulders and tried to wipe her face. But Jefferson stopped her. His hands cradled her head and she felt tears clogging her throat anew at the tortured expression darkening his blue eyes until they were nearly black.

  She closed her eyes, swallowing. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Why did she think she would be able to help him?

  He shushed her so quietly she wasn’t sure he’d actually made a sound. But his hands were lifting her chin, and, help less, she looked up into his hard face. Her eyes fluttered closed when he dropped the lightest of kisses across her lids. She trembled when he softly kissed away the traces of tears still on her cheeks.

  His breath whispered over her brow. Her temples.

  “Sweet Emily,” he murmured.

  The floor seemed to sway beneath her feet and she clutched his arms for support. That deep, aching longing that had been her heart’s constant companion for years nearly overwhelmed her. To be in his arms again.

  A soundless sob rose in her throat and she pulled away from his hands. A strand of her hair caught on the rough bristles blurring his carved jaw and she froze. A single strand of hair. Binding them together, for however brief a moment.

  He slid a finger into her hair, slipping it behind her ear, then pausing to circle the small pearl stud earring. “Sweet, sweet Emily,” he whispered again. His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes. Then he opened them. Watched her. Lowered his head.

  Emily couldn’t move. His lips grazed hers. Lifted. Lowered to sample once more.

  His face blurred in her vision, and she instinctively closed her eyes, lifting toward him when he seemed to retreat.

  “Jefferson,” she whispered his name against his lips. “Let me help you.”

  He pressed his forehead against hers, struggling with the need that thundered in his blood. It wasn’t just a sexual thing. He’d long grown accustomed to the fact that Emily aroused him, like no other being on the face of the planet could arouse him. For just as long he’d been beating down that flame. Knowing that it should never be allowed to freely burn.

  She lifted her cheek, pressing it against his. He felt her tremble against him. Yet he knew she wasn’t weak. She was strong. So strong he could let her take his pain, if only for a little while. That was the need that nearly overwhelmed him. But he didn’t deserve the respite that only she could provide. He didn’t deserve the freedom.

  And he wouldn’t sully her with the filth. It was, perhaps, the only thing in this damned world that he could do for her.

  He clasped her arms gently and set her away. “No.”

  Her mouth opened soundlessly. Shut again. “It’s always the same, isn’t it, Jefferson,” she managed eventually. Her arms crossed protectively across her chest, and he was abruptly reminded of the sweetly defiant teenager she’d once been.

  “What’s the same?”

  She shook her wispy bangs away from her eyes, sending her hair rippling over her shoulders. “You don’t want anybody getting too close. You don’t…want…me…getting too close.” She blinked her eyes away from his, rocking slightly on her heels, cupping her elbows in her palms. Regret curved her soft lips.

  “Em—”

  She looked back at him. There was simply too much emotion between them. The things she’d wanted from him. That he couldn’t…wouldn’t give. She blindly focused on the way his loose cotton shirt draped across his wide chest. “I used to think,” she mused softly, “that you always—” Her lips trembled and she sniffed, dredging the depths for some control. “That you always left because you didn’t care enough about the things you left behind. The people. The ranch.” Her. “Because you cared more about the adventures waiting for you in some godforsaken country.”

  “Em—”

  “Sooner or later you’ll have to stop running, Jefferson.” She blinked rapidly. Enough tears had been shed today. “That’s really what you’ve been doing all along, isn’t it? But one day you’re going to have to stop running. And come home again.”

  His jaw tightened. He could have disagreed with her. Could have denied it. He heard her quick, harsh breath, her delicate features drawn tight with pain.

  “Coward,” she accused softly. Swallowing, she bit her lip and looked away. Another tear slipped down her cheek and crept along her jaw. Spinning on her heel, she walked away.

  Jefferson reeled. Swearing, he slammed his flat palm against a cupboard door. It bounced open violently and jounced shut. He dug his fingers into his temples, reining in the impulse to hit something again. “Dammit,” he whispered. “Dammit!” He wrapped his fingers around the edge of the tile, his head bowed. Still, he couldn’t contain a low growl. He shoved away from the counter and rounded it, his leg tight and most of his foot numb, as he stalked unevenly out of the kitchen. He headed through the great room and ended up slumped on the brick bench in the middle of the soaring atrium.

  The violence drained away, leaving him tired. Weary beyond words. And what did he have to be so angry about, anyway? Emily spoke only the truth.

  He heard a soft footfall. He stopped wiggling his foot. He picked up a leaf that had fallen to the ground and twirled it in his fingers.

  “I’m sorry, Jefferson.” She halted a few feet away. “I had no right to say what I did.”

  “Forget it.”

  Emily watched his fingers outline the delicate edges of the drying leaf. “I can’t forget it.” As soon as she said the words, he dropped the leaf. It landed near the toe of her shoe.

  “Yes.” He looked up at her, his expression closed. “You can.”

  Moth to a flame. That’s what she was. Drawn to his light, no matter how deadly. Over and over again. In a single motion, she crouched at his feet, her hands lightly resting on his knees. “We used to be friends, Jefferson,” she reminded him.

  She bit back a protest when he carefully lifted her hands from his knees. He didn’t even hold her hands, but circled her wrists with his fingers. As if he didn’t even want to touch her. He shook his head, and her heart, already beaten and battered, received a fresh bruise. It was one thing to sense that their friendship was gone. It was another to have him confirm it. “Not family. Not friends.” She was hardly aware that she spoke the thought aloud. “Not even old…”

  “Lovers,” he supplied the word when she couldn’t.

  “No. Not even that.”

  “I don’t mean to hurt you, Emily.” His fingers tightened gently on her wrists. “That’s the last thing I’ve ever wanted.”

  She forced the corners of her mouth upward. “Forget it.”

  “Touché.”

  Somewhere in the depths of the house, the telephone rang again. Jefferson let go of her wrists, and Emily straightened. She smoothed down her dress. Without a backward glance she left him alone.

  Through the open door to his office, Emily saw Tristan hunched at his desk, the phone at his ear. She passed by, retrieving her briefcase and her laptop, which she carried upstairs to her bedroom. She couldn’t allow herself to think. For thought brought a fresh stab of pain. And with each stab of pain, she wanted to turn to the only one who could bring comfort.

  But how could she do that when the source of her greatest comfort was also the source of her greatest pain?

  Chapter Three

  That night found Emily, once again, prowling around downstairs. Her eyes were beginning to sting from this second night of disturbed rest. But each time she’d tried to lay her head down in her own bed, her eyes had refused to shut. Her mind had refused to relax. Eventually, she’d simply given up and headed downstairs. Her restless wandering finally easing when she ended up in the kitchen.

  Nothing like baking in the middle of the night. Opening up the refrigerator, she
took out the carton of eggs and set it on the counter. She added the eggs to the mixture she’d started. Her toe absently tapped the base of the cabinets in time to the music playing softly on the radio. In her present state of mind, she’d be lucky not to eat the whole darn pan of brownies.

  Sighing, she reached for the pan of melted chocolate, which she’d left to cool, and poured it in a slender stream into the batter. Her thoughts drifting, she scraped the edges of the pan with a spatula and began mixing once more.

  She remembered the first time she’d tried her hand at cooking. She’d been nine years old, and she’d misread the recipe. The results had been practically inedible. Squire had turned nearly green when he’d taken his first bite. Tristan had comically started to make gagging motions. Matthew, bless his loving heart, had stoically eaten a small portion, as had Daniel.

  But it was Jefferson who’d taken her aside the next day to help her read the recipe. It was Jefferson who’d stood by in the kitchen when she’d been determined to make that stupid casserole. He’d stood there, answering her questions as best he could. But never interfering. For he had known how important it had been to her to do it on her own. And when she’d presented the casserole again the next night, Squire and the boys had eaten every last bite.

  Emily reached for the flour-dusted pan and filled it with batter, then slid it neatly into the oven. Returning to the counter, she perched her hip on the edge of the bar stool and slid her finger around the edge of the bowl. The dark chocolate was sticky and sweet and she savored the taste as she licked her finger clean. Then, before she could polish off the rest of the batter clinging to the inside of the glass bowl, she stuck the whole thing in the sink and rinsed it with hot water before shoving it into the dishwasher.

  She absently set the timer on the oven and finished cleaning up the kitchen. There wasn’t much to do. Tristan had been called out on some computer thing before supper and Jefferson had never reappeared. Emily had been torn between relief and despair when she’d sat down alone to the salad she’d prepared for herself.

  In minutes the kitchen was completely restored to its usual pristine state. The dishwasher was humming softly below the low music from the radio, and the first warming scent of baking brownies filled the room. She returned to the bar stool and leaned her elbows on the counter, cupping her chin in her hands. The smoked-glass door of the wall oven threw her reflection back at her.

  She stared. Hard. But in her mind she wasn’t seeing herself. She was seeing the tall, broad shape of a man. His heavy hair was a streaky golden mass that fell, shaggy, past his shoulders. His brows were darker than his hair and straight over his deep blue eyes. His jaw angled sharply to his chin where a long-ago adventure had left a tiny scar marring its otherwise perfection.

  Emily rubbed her eyes wearily. But the sight of Jefferson was engraved in her mind. His broad shoulders. His wide chest, all bronzed and smooth. The corrugated muscles narrowing to—

  She caught herself and blinked. Reaching out, she snatched up an apple-shaped pot holder and went to the oven, needlessly checking on the baking brownies. As soon as she cracked the oven door, a waft of heated chocolate escaped and she carefully shut the oven, tossing the pot holder aside as she turned.

  Seeing him standing in the door, Emily wasn’t sure she hadn’t conjured him up from her imaginings. But her imaginings, no matter how detailed, didn’t speak.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  Emily shrugged, abruptly—painfully—aware of the brevity of the ruffled white nightshirt she wore. Aware of how thin it was.

  Jefferson grimaced and leaning heavily on the cane, crossed to the bar stool. He lowered himself onto the round seat and propped the cane against the counter. “Neither can I,” he admitted. He folded his arms on the bar, much as Emily had done earlier, and his unbuttoned shirt separated several inches.

  She sank her teeth into the inner softness of her lip. “Do you, uh, want something to eat?” Her bare toes curled. “You didn’t come down for supper.”

  She couldn’t read a thing in the dark gaze he ran over her. She managed not to tug on the hem of the shirt, and he looked away, shaking his head. “No, thanks.”

  The low throb of music filled the kitchen. Swallowing, Emily stepped over to the wide pantry and, opening it, reached to the upper shelf for the powdered sugar. A strangled sound startled her, and clutching the package to her chest, she swiveled. “What?”

  Jefferson had risen and, moving faster than she’d thought him capable, now stood beside her. His eyes burned as he lifted her arm above her head. The loose ruffles serving as a sleeve fell back to her shoulder.

  Emily, confused, tried to pull away, but his hand gently detained her.

  Jefferson took the package of sugar and placed it on the counter. He let her lower her arm, only to shove up the fabric at her other arm. “How?”

  “What?”

  His lips tightened, his teeth baring for a moment. White. Clenched. His hand flashed out and suddenly the button holding the loose shirt at the neck was unfastened and the fabric slid off her shoulders.

  She gasped and grabbed at the fabric before it fell away. Color stained her cheeks. “What are you doing!”

  He tugged on the fabric, pulling it well below her shoulders and she backed away, only to be brought up short by the cool surface of the refrigerator door. Soundlessly he smoothed her hair back from her face and, looking down, she realized what disturbed him so.

  Angry blackish bruises circled her upper arms. Bruises in the perfect shape of a hand. A hand that he was even now carefully fitting around her arm, matching up exactly the dark marks marring her pale skin.

  He drew back, as if the contact burned. “I did this.” He backed away, his hands raking through his hair.

  The lingering soreness of her upper arms was nothing compared to the stark expression in his eyes. She reached for him and he seemed to scramble backward, warding her off with an outstretched hand.

  “Don’t,” he growled. Begged. He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear the sight. But his eyes kept swiveling back to her, his long lashes not quite guarding his horror.

  “It was my fault,” Emily told him softly. “I shouldn’t have disturbed your sleep last night.” She took a step toward him. “I only meant to cover you.” Another step. “You were having a bad dream.”

  “Nightmare,” he corrected dully. “One huge, long, unending, goddamned nightmare.”

  She stepped forward an inch more and caught his hand in hers.

  “Why, Jefferson? Why the nightmares?” She couldn’t help the question. She wanted to know why he’d muttered “You’re dead” in his sleep. Even though she knew he wouldn’t say.

  “I frightened you,” he said, grimacing. “Marked you.”

  “You would not have hurt me.” She clasped his hand close and dropped a kiss on his whitened knuckles. “No matter what your nightmare.”

  “You’re foolish,” he ground out.

  “No.” It was imperative that she get through to him. On this, if nothing else. Her heart beat unsteadily. “You listen to me, Jefferson Clay. I know that you would not have hurt me. And yes,” she said, keeping a grip on his hand when he would have turned away. “I was frightened last night. But frightened for you. For whatever hell that you’ve been through. I was not frightened of you.”

  “Then you truly are a fool,” he pronounced, bending over her. “If you had two ounces of sense in that beautiful head of yours, you’d be heading for the hills, instead of sticking around me.”

  “I won’t run away from you, Jefferson,” she said deliberately. “Running isn’t my style.”

  Twin embers seemed to burn deep in his eyes. “It should be,” he warned her.

  The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The hand clasped in hers suddenly wasn’t tugging away. It was nudging forward. Her mouth ran dry.

  “You should be running fast and furious, Em.”

  She swallowed and shook her head. His palm had flattened ag
ainst her collarbone, his fingertips resting on the mad pulse beating in her neck. “I’m not a child, Jefferson,” she whispered. “I can take whatever you dish out.”

  “Can you?” His fingers grazed across her skin to her shoulder. With the flick of a finger, the loosened collar fell off her shoulder. “I wonder.”

  Emily shook her bangs out of her eyes then stood, unmoving as his heavy-lidded eyes studied her bare shoulder. The ruffled fabric was halted by her bent elbow, preventing it from completely baring her breast to his eyes.

  His hand moved to her other shoulder, to nudge away the fabric there also, she thought. But instead, he adjusted the collar upward, securely over her shoulder. His fingers drifted across the wide ruffle running down the neckline to the valley between her breasts. Up again his hand went, this time pulling the fabric taut. The heel of his palm brushed against the dark shadow of her nipple clearly outlined against the thin white cotton.

  Emily’s breath stopped. Her eyelids flickered, but she didn’t lower her gaze when he pinned her with his.

  “Ready to run yet, Emily?” His hand brushed over that tight peak once again.

  “No.” Her voice was steady, though her heart was not.

  He bent his head suddenly and his lips burned her neck where it curved into her shoulder.

  Her legs weren’t steady when he ran his lips up her neck to her ear. His breath wasn’t quite steady, either. “Now?”

  She swallowed. Moistened her lips. “No.”

  His head hovered next to hers, and his breath was warm across her skin. She jumped a little when his teeth scraped gently over her collarbone, and her head fell back, weak, as his head passed beneath her chin. She didn’t sway, however. Not until he captured her pebbled nipple in his mouth, wetting the light fabric.

  And then her knees did buckle. He was there, though, one long arm sliding around her waist, holding her up, her back arched. An offering to him.

  “Now?”

  If it had begun as a game to him, then he was surely caught. Just as she was. He held her so closely she could feel the unsteady beat of his heart. Could feel his arousal pressed against her.