Читать книгу Redemption's Kiss - Ann Christopher - Страница 12

Breathe, Jill. Breathe.

To give herself something to do while she waited for him to talk, she focused on the dog. “What’s his name?”

“Seinfeld.”

The surprise bubbled up out of her mouth in an unstoppable laugh. Seinfeld. That had been their favorite show a million years ago, when dinosaurs were young and they had a marriage that involved love and fun rather than the endless parade of one heartbreak after the other.

Foolish to the bitter end and beyond, she caught his eye for that one second—oh, man, he was grinning, too—and the laughter was crushed by the sweet ache of nostalgia for things that had probably never been as great as she remembered them anyway.

Turning away from Beau and his furry surrogate, she washed her hands. Forget the dog. If she was determined never to touch Beau again, she damn sure shouldn’t be fawning over his stupid dog.

Seinfeld. Yeah. Right. Like that changed anything.

“What is it, Beau?” Drying her hands, she tried, with increasing frustration, to remember what meal she was supposed to be cooking. It was supper, right? This terrible day had dragged on for so long it had to be suppertime by now, didn’t it? “I have work and—”

“This is a great inn.” Taking baby steps, Beau turned in a loose circle to admire the kitchen and what he could see of the hall beyond. “You’ve worked really hard. I’m proud of you.”

Jillian froze, her hand high overhead, reaching for a copper pan from the rack above the range. Chicken. They were supposed to be baking chicken.

But Beau wasn’t finished reaching inside her and twisting her heart, and the unmistakable light of admiration gleaming in his eyes made everything so much worse. And that was before he spoke again.

“I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do when you set your mind to it.”

Jillian gaped at him, too undone to reply. Though this was the kind of thing he used to say all the time during their early years together, a thousand snide remarks came to mind now.

I couldn’t keep you satisfied in bed, could I?

I couldn’t keep you from screwing other women, could I?

I couldn’t keep our family together.

Oh, yes, she wanted to hurl all that ugliness right in his face, but something stopped her. The touch of God on her shoulder, maybe, or a moment’s grace. It could have been the sudden intrusion of Allegra’s smile and Jillian’s unwavering determination to make things work, as much as she possibly could, with her child’s father.

Whatever it was, she couldn’t ignore it.

So she swallowed the nastiness, which felt bitter going down and settled in her belly like a lead cannonball, and said, simply, “Thank you.”

Beau turned those clear hazel eyes on her. “You’re welcome.”

A second was about all she could stand and then she had to look away. Beau waited, saying nothing and kicking her anxiety level even higher.

Why was he here? When would he leave? Desperate for something to do that wouldn’t reveal the relentless shake of her hands, she went to the fridge and pulled out the chicken, which Blanche had put to soak in a bowl of buttermilk.

Chicken…chicken…what’d she do with it now? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. She’d have better luck trying to fillet a bowl of yak brains.

Think, Jill.

She had the pan. She had the chicken. Oh—flour. She needed flour. And then she needed to get a grip. “If that’s all, Beau, I need to—”

On her way to the far cabinet to get a few more ingredients, she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and stopped cold. Underneath the smooth golden tones of his skin, he looked pale and clammy, with a distinct green tinge.

Well, so what?

She tried not to care, but then he gritted his teeth in a discreet cringe and there was no ignoring that.

The man was in pain. Enormous pain. Terrible pain.

“Beau,” she said sharply. God, was that her voice with all that anguish in it? “Sit down. You’re in pain—”

“I’m fine.”

Stubborn idiot. There were times when she was positive mule’s blood ran through his veins.

“—and you probably need your meds.”

Letting his eyes drift closed, as though he could take a quick nap standing up and then commence running a marathon—no problem—he swayed on his feet. “I don’t take any meds.”

He didn’t take—

What?

Screw the chicken. Screw lunch. Aghast, she stalked back to stare him in the eye when she called him what he was—a maniac. She was so furious she really thought she could spit out a nail or two if she put her mind to it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sweeping her arms wide to encompass every crazy thing he’d done this morning and those he’d been working on for years, she screeched and didn’t care how many paying guests heard. “Trying to win the Martyr of the Year award?”

Those eyes flew open, blazing green now with the fervor of a zealot. “I’m no saint.”

She snorted. “I think we’re all clear on that, thanks. Take your meds, Beau—”

“No.”

“Why not?” Jillian tried to get a grip on her overactive protective gene, but it was impossible when he was so haggard and yet so proud. She could do a lot of things; he was right about that. She could change the oil in her car, install storm windows and do a darn fine job as a single parent. The one thing she could not do and would never be able to do, not if she lived for another thousand years, was ignore his pain. “For God’s sake, why not?”

“Because it reminds me!”

“Reminds you of what?”

He faltered, his expression filling with so much self-loathing and shame that she was surprised he didn’t grab the nearest chef’s knife and jab himself under the fingernails in punishment.

Opening his mouth, he hesitated again, and when he finally spoke it was with the helpless sincerity and vulnerability of someone unearthing a piece of his soul and exposing it to bright sunlight for the first time ever.

“All the work I have to do on myself.”

Jillian stared at him.

Well, what the hell was she supposed to say to that? That he didn’t have work to do? Or maybe she should emphasize the obvious—that he had so much work to do he really needed to look into overtime and weekend options.

If she was smart, she’d just wish him good luck and tell him to get started on it down the street at his own house and well away from her. Why did he have to wallow in his determined martyrdom right here in her house?

Only, he didn’t look like he was wallowing or seeking pity. He looked like a man stating a simple fact without realizing that the simple fact tore her to shreds.

He had work to do on himself. Fine, Beau. Fine.

“Do all the work you want,” she told him. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me.”

A shadow crossed his face, maybe because he knew she was lying.

“But I don’t intend to watch you kill yourself.” She waved a hand to the heavy oak bench against the wall under the far window. “You can sit down, or you can leave. I’d prefer that you leave, but it’s your choice.”

He didn’t miss a beat, the bastard. “Sit with me, Jill.”

She resisted for a second, hating him.

He waited.

The shallow harshness of his breath finally did her in. They’d sit. He’d gather a little strength. Then he’d leave. Brilliant. She had a plan.

“You have one minute.”

Furious, she marched the few steps to the bench and sat. He followed with painstaking care, planting a foot and then the cane, a foot and then the cane.

A thousand deaths claimed her in those few seconds while she glared off in the other direction and tracked his progress with her heart in her throat, ready to spring up and catch him if he wobbled or fell.

He didn’t, thank God.

Arriving at last, he sat with a poorly stifled groan and stretched out that bad leg, rubbing his thigh. Seinfeld, sensing his discomfort in the unerring way pets do, ambled over and watched, making sure he wasn’t needed. When Beau was settled at last, he rested his chin on Beau’s lap and looked up at him with concern in his dark brown eyes, while Jillian worked hard to hate both man and dog.

“The Celtics called,” Beau said. “They want me to play forward for them. I told them I’d think about it.”

This was not funny. She would not laugh at his jokes, nor would she admire his strength, determination and humility. He would not affect her; she wouldn’t let him.

“Fifty seconds,” she said, not looking at him. “Tick tock.”

“Can I see Allegra today?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause during which he apparently decided to press his luck. “Can I get more time with her every week?”

No. Hell, no. A billion times no. If only she were petty enough to keep a girl from her devoted father. Life would be so much easier that way.

“Yes.”

“Will you come back to me?” What?

Jillian whipped her head around, prepared to blast him to kingdom come, but his wry half smile stopped her and dried the words right out of her mouth.

“Just thought I’d ask. While you’re being so agreeable. It was worth a shot.”

Okay. Game over. She’d tried to be a mature adult, but she had another seventy or eighty years of growing up to do before she’d be ready to deal with his teasing. Time for him to go. Lunging to her feet, she took a step toward the door.

“I think we’re done here—”

To her utter astonishment and horror, he took her hand and, before she could protest or snatch it away, laced their fingers. Too bad her body didn’t know that she’d written him off forever and that it should not, therefore, physically respond to him ever again.

Heat flashed through her, a potent and unnecessary warning that although some things had changed, other things could never change. The scorching touch of his skin still undid her and their hands still fit together like the pieces of Allegra’s giant alphabet puzzle upstairs. Whether she wanted to fit with him or not didn’t matter. She just did.

“I’ve told you.” His low voice was hoarse now, overflowing with emotion. “We’re not done.”

The violent contraction of her heart nearly doubled her over, but she gathered her strength and tried to get free. This man would not do this to her, not in her own damn kitchen.

“No, Beau—”

Keeping her hand, he pressed it to his chest, where she felt the unrelenting pounding that matched what was going on with her own haywire pulse.

“We have a lot of work to do, Jill, but we can heal our marriage.”

With rising desperation, she yanked on her hand again, ready to part with it if that was what it took to get him to stop touching her. But he let her go and she backed up a step, fueled by her fear.

“The fact that there’s been a divorce means there’s no marriage. You should check that out when you get a free minute. Divorce and marriage—they’re mutually exclusive.”

The sarcasm rolled right off him, deflected by an unholy light in his eyes that looked like determination to the millionth power. “I don’t mean to scare you and I’ll try not to pressure you. But I won’t give up, either. There’s too much between us.”

If only she could deny it. If only she could open her mouth, laugh and say, “Screw you, buddy! I felt nothing when you touched me just now! Nuuuu-thing!”

But the lie wouldn’t come and her hand still tingled from his touch.

So she went on offense, which was the next best thing.

Shrugging, she did her best to look bored and indifferent. “Do what you want. It’s your time to waste. But I’ve moved on. I’m dating someone now.”

The little bit of remaining color leached away from his face, but she gave him high marks for a quick recovery and managing his shock.

“Dating? Who’s the lucky guy?”

Jillian opened her mouth, ready to rub his nose in it, but that was pretty hard when she suddenly couldn’t remember the guy’s name or face.

“None of your business,” she said instead.

Beau absorbed the blow like a man. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Wow. That’s a first. Have you called the people at Guinness?”

A flash of dark humor lit his eyes, but he said nothing.

“I have to get working on lunch, so—buh-bye.”

At last—at last, Lord, glory hallelujah—he pressed himself to his feet, gathered his cane in one hand and Seinfeld’s leash in the other, and headed for the door.

Jillian all but vaulted across the kitchen to open it for him and hold it wide.

Just as he passed through and she was beginning to breathe easier, thinking she’d survived another encounter without a second panic attack so maybe she should go buy a lotto ticket because this was her lucky day, he stopped, right in front of her, close enough that he took up her whole field of vision and threw waves of heat from his body to hers.

Looking down at her, he stared with those remarkable eyes.

Oh, God. There was more. She should’ve known he wouldn’t go quietly.

Please, she wanted to say, don’t, but her voice locked down when he was this near, and she was exposed and entirely at his mercy.

“I see you’re still wearing the locket,” he said gently.

It was the worst kind of blow, hard and punishing, and she absorbed it in every cell in her body. Her hand moved on its own and went to her throat, to the chain of white gold and, at the end of that, to the flat oval that was warm from her body.

She held it. Protected it. And didn’t answer.

They stared at each other. Hitching up her chin, she tried to manage a defiant glare, but it was hard when the sudden sparkle of her tears nearly blinded her.

“I’ll see you later, Jillian.”

Turning away from the infinite understanding in his expression—she didn’t have to see him clearly to know that it was there—she shut the door in his face.

There they were, Beau saw with knee-weakening relief. Finally.

Jillian, who had the stiff march and impassive expression of a soldier in a military drill, and Allegra, the light of his life, bouncing alongside wearing what appeared to be a ballet costume and tiara.

He stepped back from his living room window and tried to regain some chill, but it was hard with Christmas walking down the street toward him, coming early this year. He was paralyzed with hope, if not outright happiness. But he and happy had never been friends for long, so he couldn’t say for sure.

The late-afternoon sun hit their heads just right and threw off flashes of gold. Their hair was exactly the same sandy color, although Allegra had long ringlets that bounced around her shoulders and Jill had one of those short bob-type dos, with curls around her ears. They held hands, his girls, and Allegra had her chubby dimpled face turned up to her mother, chattering like a squirrel.

God, he loved those two.

Moving to the door, he waited for the bell and wished he could breathe.

“Are you ready for your surprise?” Jillian asked.

“What is it? Tell me, tell me, tell me, please—”

“Ring the doorbell and find out,” Jillian told her.

Allegra rang the bell, one of those twenty-second rings just to make sure anyone up in the attic or down in the basement could hear. Even though his heart was in his throat and there was no air anywhere close to his lungs, he laughed and was still laughing when he swung the door open and saw the astonished delight on his daughter’s face.

They stared at each other for one breathless second during which even her curls seemed to quiver with anticipation. A smile began at one corner of her pouty mouth and spread so wide so quickly that he could almost believe he was—or could one day be—a worthwhile human being who deserved this angel’s absolute adoration.