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  The knowledge gave her strength. She willed her heart not to give way on her and she let go of her grip on the shirt. It slipped from her shoulder. Drifted down her back, held in place by his arm and their bodies pressed together at her waist.

  “No,” she said clearly. “I’m not running, Jefferson.” She placed her hands flat on his chest, nudging beneath the edges of his shirt. “I’m not running until we finish what we started when I was nineteen years old.” Her fingers slipped up his chest to his throat. Curved behind his neck. Grasped a handful of silky, thick hair. Tugged. Pulling his head down to hers.

  It wasn’t easy. He resisted. He wasn’t going to kiss her. She knew it. Rising on tiptoe, she pressed her mouth to his. She tasted. She nibbled. She let out all her pent-up feelings for him as she delicately plundered his lips. But he didn’t kiss her back.

  Maddened, frustrated, she lowered her heels. Her hands raced to his shirt and jerked it wide. Then she nearly reeled, and bit down on her tongue to keep from crying at the sight of that gilded chest. The sleek muscle. The narrow strip of white briefs visible where the top buttons of his jeans hung loose. Mindless, she pulled her arms out of the nightshirt and she pressed herself, bare, to his chest.

  “God!” His hands closed convulsively over her shoulders and he thrust her away. Without his arm wrapped around her, the last barrier was gone and her nightshirt drifted to her feet, leaving her clad only in a minuscule scrap of lace that hid nothing from his eyes. His lips parted as if he couldn’t get enough air.

  She’d been lovely at nineteen. All sweet, young, innocence. Now she was older. Still young. Still sweet. But ripe now. A woman. A woman who was still too young for the likes of him.

  Jefferson told himself to turn away. Knowing that the pain he’d cause her by turning away would be far less than if he didn’t. He knew all that. He’d been living with that for years now. His hand reached out, and he ran his fingertips down her shoulder, past the bruises on her arms. He felt the shivers dance to the surface of her silky skin. He placed both his hands on her waist and she didn’t shrink away. She just continued watching him. Her large brown eyes luminous. Unblinking.

  He could hear her breath tumble past her slightly parted lips. The tip of her tongue peeped out and left a glisten of moisture on that sweet, sexy curve.

  Who was teaching who a lesson, he wondered with that minute portion still capable of coherent thought.

  Her mouth formed his name, though she said not a word.

  His jaw tight, he lifted her slight weight. Lifted her right out of the nightshirt pooling about her feet to set her on the counter. Her knees were smooth. Her thighs smoother. His hands, damn them, anyway, lingered without his permission and somehow he found his fingers had slipped down. Nudged apart her legs, so he could stand between them. So he could slip his palms around to the firm curves barely covered with lace.

  He’d misjudged. Badly. He knew it right down in his bones just moments before she placed her warm hands on his chest and lifted those long, sleek legs to his waist. Wrapped around him. Pulled him against that intimate spot where he wanted, so badly, to be. Where he could never allow himself to go.

  Her breath was a little sob that hitched in her throat, and he knew she could feel him through the barriers of denim and lace. For he could feel her. He dragged his hands from the curve of her bottom and reached for the wooden cupboard above her head. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to summon a vision of his father. But Squire’s disapproving expression wouldn’t appear.

  All he could see, eyes open or closed, was Emily. Her long, silky dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks where a flush of color rode high. Her heart beating so rapidly that he could see it shimmering through her creamy skin.

  His eyes opened at the touch of her hand on his face. Her palm lay gently, soothingly, against his cheek. A diamond-bright tear hovered on the tips of her eyelashes. “Please,” she whispered, stroking his stubbled cheek. The tear glided downward.

  She trembled against him. The hand left his cheek, and her knuckles glided down his chest and brushed against his stomach when her fingers closed over the top unfastened button. He sucked in his breath harshly, looking down and wishing he hadn’t. The memory of her lithe fingers tugging apart his half-loose jeans was one which wouldn’t soon leave him.

  Her fingertip scalded him as it traced the edge of elastic. “Please,” she whispered again. This time leaning forward, obscuring his downward vision with the silky crown of her head as she pressed her lips to his chest.

  Her hand, unseen now, but felt to his very soul, moved. Lightly covered him. Shaped his length through the worn denim. The pain was more than physical. His eyes burned. But he had to do it. He closed his hands over her silky shoulders and gently, inexorably, pushed her away.

  He took a step backward, and her legs loosened, seeming to fall away from his waist in slow motion.

  Her eyes had the expression of a doe he’d once had in his sights. Soft. Sadly accepting. He found himself wondering if Emily’s eyes ever smiled anymore. The way they had years ago. Before.

  And knew himself damned for all eternity that he was the cause of all this.

  But she wasn’t so accepting after all, it seemed. “Why?” Her head was bent, her expression hidden. “Why do you pull back, Jefferson?” Her hands clasped the counter on either side of her hips. “Do you really not…want…me?” With a little shake, her hair rippled out of her eyes and she looked up at him. Her lips stretched in a macabre imitation of a smile. “Is the notion so distasteful?”

  Jefferson swore. “Dammit, Emily—”

  “No, really. I, uh, I want to know. Obviously you’re not, um—” she staved him off with a raised hand “—unaffected by me.” she enunciated carefully, even while her eyes grew red rimmed. “I might be stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid.”

  She chuckled humorlessly at that. She blinked rapidly and stared off to the side, sniffed and abruptly dropped from the counter.

  Jefferson felt like he’d been gut kicked. Her rose-tipped breasts swayed gently with the impact. He couldn’t have moved if his life had depended on it.

  She leaned over and picked up the nightshirt. He supposed she felt more secure by presenting him with the long curve of her back as she pulled it over her head. He could have told her that the vision of her smooth, taut skin, narrowing into a tiny waist then flaring out gently was as disturbing to him as the front side. The white fabric settled about her thighs, hiding that glorious expanse of creamy skin as she turned back.

  “What do I do that makes you turn away from me?” Her fingers toyed with the pot holder sitting on the counter, and she shot him a defiant glance. “If you’d just tell me, then maybe I won’t make the same mistake with someone else.”

  His teeth clenched. “The CPA, you mean?”

  Her eyebrows contracted. “Who? Oh.” Her expression smoothed out. “Perhaps.”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Why not, Jefferson?” She seemed to be as pained with the words that she spoke as he was by hearing them. “Why shouldn’t I think about it? You all but made love to me before. That time when you visited me at school. You had an excuse then when you stopped. That I was barely nineteen. And that claptrap about us being family and all. Well, I’m twenty-six now. We still don’t have a drop of common blood running in our veins, and you still turn me away. Why shouldn’t I find a man who won’t turn me away?” The pot holder crumpled in her fist. “Why should I go through my life waiting for something you’ll never share?”

  The oven timer went off. For a long moment she stared at him while the annoying buzz went on. And on.

  She went over to the oven. Shut off the buzzer. Pulled out the pan and set it on the square wooden chopping block.

  Finally, she carefully hung the pot holder on a hook beside the oven and turned back to him. When she looked at him this time, there were no tears in her eyes. “You want to know the ultimate iron
y, Jefferson? I want somebody in my life. I want my own home. My own family.” She touched her temple. “I have a picture in my head, you know?” She dropped her hand. “Me, sitting at the breakfast table. One child working on his homework at the last minute. One trying to stuff cereal in her little face, but managing to spread more of it on the floor.”

  Her expression was soft. Dreamy. Jefferson found himself picturing exactly what her words conjured. A boy with her brown hair. The baby girl with blon—

  “And at the other end of the table,” her voice went on, “should be my husband. My lover. My…my…soul mate. But he’s not there. I can’t picture him.” She frowned faintly. “I wish I could picture him, Jefferson. I wish I could find a man who wouldn’t turn me away. Who would share his life with me. Who’d be the father of my children.” She seemed to rouse herself then and abruptly turned off the oven. “You’ve never even taken me, Jefferson. But you’ve taken away all the rest. Because I can’t bear to share myself with any other man but you. And the one person you refuse to share yourself with…is me.”

  She pressed her lips together, and he knew the effort it took her to maintain her control. He knew the effort it took him. To not reach for her. To not take her to him and make her his. To let her turn and walk away. From him.

  Emily was shaking so badly that her legs wouldn’t even carry her up all the stairs. Several steps shy of the top, she sank down, her forehead pressed against the carved wooden rail. She had no idea how long she sat there. All she knew was that she never saw Jefferson come out of the kitchen. And eventually, when her feet had grown cold and her legs gone stiff, she heard the front door open and close. Then Tristan was there, trudging up the stairs.

  Midway up, he stopped, peering at her in the dark. He seemed to sigh and then he was carefully stepping past her, lifting his briefcase and the padded holder containing his notebook computer over her head. In minutes he returned and stood a few steps lower than the one where she still sat.

  “Come on,” he said softly.

  “Why does it have to be him, Tristan?”

  He lifted his shoulders. Understanding everything without needing the words. “Just is.”

  He stood over her silently, then sighed again and reached down. “Come on,” he said, and lifted her into his arms.

  Emily’s head lolled against Tristan’s shoulder as he carried her up the rest of the stairs. “I wish it was you instead,” she murmured.

  He seemed to find that amusing. “No, you don’t.”

  “It’d be so much easier.”

  “No.” He shouldered his way into her bedroom. Holding her in one arm, he straightened her blankets slightly and then lowered her to the mattress.

  Emily clutched at him when he would have straightened and moved away. “What is it with us, Tristan? You go through women like there’s no tomorrow and—”

  “I don’t ‘go through women,’” he objected. He tucked the covers beneath her chin. “And you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t give up on him just yet, squirt.”

  “I don’t know that I have a choice. He won’t give an inch, Tristan. Not where I’m concerned.”

  “It’ll be different this time.”

  “How do you know?” Emily pushed up on her elbow. “If I could just believe there was a possibility…oh, who am I kidding?” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. Jefferson isn’t about to let me into his life. Not that way. And even if he remotely considered it, he’d be haring off on some adventure before we’d even have a chance.”

  “I have a feeling he’s tiring of his traveling days,” Tristan murmured. “Just hang in there.”

  Emily brushed the hair out of her eyes. “He didn’t even know I was living here, Tris. I have to be realistic.”

  “Since when is love realistic?” He flicked the tip of her nose with a light finger. “Get some sleep.”

  Emily lay back on the pillows and watched Tristan leave the room, closing the door softly behind him. “Realistic,” she murmured, staring into the dark. It was a lofty goal. And one she could never hope to attain. Rolling onto her side, she punched the pillow into shape and closed her eyes.

  Jefferson lifted his head, hearing a door close along the hall. He dropped the corner of the soft blue blanket he’d been holding onto the seat of the chair. Silently, he lifted his duffel from the dresser and placed it on the bed. The zipper sounded loud when he opened the bag. He eyed the single pair of jeans sitting in the bottom of the bag. The weight of the footfalls heading closer warned him of Tristan’s approach.

  “Are you unpacking? Or packing?” Tristan said quietly from the doorway.

  “Wish I knew,” Jefferson muttered to himself. He reached for the clothing that he’d worn the day before and rolled them into a ball. “Packing,” he said, and stuffed the bundle into the duffel.

  “Why?”

  Jefferson snorted. “Why not?”

  Tristan sighed and moved over to the bed. He dropped down onto it and circled his head wearily. “Don’t be an ass, Jefferson. Cutting out now isn’t going to make it go away.”

  Jefferson hesitated, but continued gathering his meager possessions to place in the duffel. “Stay out of this.”

  “You brought me into it when you came here,” Tristan countered.

  “I came to see you.”

  “She thinks you didn’t even know she lived here.”

  “So?”

  “So.” Tristan’s lips tightened. “We both know that’s not true. You knew, and you came, anyway. So don’t try to tell me to butt out. Jesus, Jefferson…she’d die for you!”

  Jefferson viciously shoved another shirt into the bag. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  “Then what the hell are you doing? Why can’t you two just get your act together and be happy for the rest of your lives?”

  “There’s too many reasons to list them all.”

  “That’s a cop-out.”

  Jefferson glared at his younger brother. “She’s off-limits. Okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Have you lost your mind? Why do you think?”

  “So, she was raised with us. Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal.” He ran his hand behind his neck. “A very big deal. And even if it weren’t…”

  “What?”

  “I’m too old for her.” And way too beaten up.

  Tristan just shook his head. “You’re a fool.”

  “Yeah, well, I may be a fool.” Jefferson zipped his bag shut. “But my coming here has only hurt her.”

  “What’s hurting her is knowing that you’re going to leave again.”

  He shook his head, remembering the bruises he’d inflicted. “It’s better this way.”

  Tristan obviously thought differently. He fingered the ragged airline tags hanging from the strap of the duffel. “So, where will you go?”

  Jefferson shrugged. It didn’t matter where he went, and Lord knew the ranch wasn’t an option. His nightmares would follow wherever he went. But at least he couldn’t hurt Emily anymore.

  “What about money?”

  That amused him as much as anything could, just then. “What about it?”

  Tristan shrugged and let the matter drop. “You going to tell her goodbye? Or just let her wake up in the morning to find you’ve left.”

  “You can tell her.” He lifted the bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Don’t pretend that she’ll be shocked I left, Tris. It’s exactly what she expects.”

  His brother nodded. “Don’t worry about the CPA,” he said abruptly.

  Jefferson stopped shy of the door.

  “She’s not seriously interested in him,” Tristan added.

  He didn’t feel relieved. It just added to his mountains of guilt. “Take care of her.”

  Tristan sighed again. Jefferson heard it all the way by the door. “You’re sure about this?”

  Jefferson looked over his shou
lder. “Yes.”

  He watched Tristan nod again and stand. His younger brother ran his long fingers through his blond hair and stretched. Tristan rubbed his chin and looked back at Jefferson through narrowed eyes. “Then I guess the way is finally clear for me.”

  “I’m not in the mood for games, Tris.”

  “Neither am I, Jeff,” Tristan said steadily.

  There was a sick feeling swelling in the pit of Jefferson’s stomach. “You’re not interested in her that way.”

  Tristan cocked his head slightly. “Says who?” His eyebrows rose. “You? You’re not even going to be around by tomorrow. Emily and I do live together.”

  Jefferson’s knuckles whitened. “She’s not interested in you, either, Tris, so just forget it. It’s not working.”

  Tristan’s jaw tightened, and he stepped closer to Jefferson. His voice was very low. “Listen up, Jefferson, and listen good. Em and I aren’t kids anymore. We’ve been sharing this place for a good while now. We’ll be sharing this place after you leave again. She wants a life you’re not going to give her, and I’m tired of watching her wait. When I take her into my bed you can take it to the bank that she won’t be thinking about you. She’ll be thinking about me.” He leaned closer and his voice dropped another notch. “She’ll be thinking about the babies I’m planting in her flat little belly.”

  Jefferson’s duffel hit the floor. “You so much as lay a hand on her and I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Tristan straightened and his lips twisted. “You’re not going to be around to witness anything. But if you leave some sort of address, I’ll be sure you get a wedding invitation.”

  His palms itched. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. If it had been anyone but his brother standing before him, he’d have reduced the man to a pulp. “She’d never share her bed with you, much less marry you,” he drawled. “And we both know it. So drop the act.”

  Tristan smiled humorlessly. “You want her to spend her life as alone and miserable as you are? That’s one hell of a love you’ve got for her.”