Читать книгу Close Proximity - Donna Clayton, Donna Clayton - Страница 13

“I told Michael it was ludicrous. That David just isn’t capable of murder.” Rafe set the box of papers on the dining room table with the others they had carried into the house from Libby’s car. More copies of documents the police had seized from the house and David’s office at Springer.

She sighed wearily. “Well, he hasn’t been charged with O’Connell’s death yet, so let’s not worry about it until it happens.”

Automatically he reached to open a box. Libby stopped him by sliding her hand over his.

The heat of her scorched his skin, and his gaze darted from the creamy flesh of her hand to her face. Time seemed to slow until the seconds only slogged by. She, too, was obviously aware that something stirred between them.

Her lovely eyes blinked, then averted, and she snatched her hand away from his. When her gaze returned to his face, she said, “I thought we should wait…thought we should get something to eat before we dive into this stuff.”

“Sure.” His voice was a mere whisper, rusty and grating, as awareness of the moment—awareness of her—permeated each and every cell of his being, each and every molecule around him, making the temperature of the room rise, the air grow heavy.

And with the keen perception came desire.

Raw and throbbing.

The need roiling in him was astounding, and it had welled up from nowhere. She saw it, he knew. She was experiencing something akin to it. He realized that, too. Could see it just as clearly as if it were tattooed in plain English across her forehead. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do.

On the heels of desire came an awkwardness the likes of which he’d never been subjected to before.

Like a series of storm-churned waves buffeting the Pacific coastline, each emotion hit them, one after the other, fierce and unrelenting. And they stood there, helpless against the onslaught, taking each sensation as it came. Absorbing it. Being filled with it. Taken over by it.

What amazed him was the fact that the extraordinary change, the craving, the unease that swamped the two of them had taken precedence over everything. Even the daunting news that her father may be facing more charges in the very near future.

“I—I’m exhausted,” she told him, turning away her gaze again, refusing or unable to look him in the eye. “And I’m starved. I need a break.”

Her voice sounded weak to him. That could have been caused by the amazing moments they had both just encountered. But he had seen her fatigue, had been aware that she’d had a rough day at the courthouse, that she needed a few minutes to relax. Instantly, he was engulfed with remorse to think that he’d been pushing to get right to the new evidence they had acquired.

“You’re right. Let’s go into the kitchen and get something to eat.”

She looked at him then, and gratitude laced the edges of her smile.

Once they were in the kitchen, he forced her into a chair. “Sit,” he commanded. “What you need is a glass of wine and a few crackers. You can relax while I cook.”

Her brows raised.

“Don’t look so surprised. I can cook. I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time.”

His comment seemed to intrigue her, but he wasn’t willing to expound on the subject at the moment. He poured her a glass of wine, and once she’d pointed to which cabinet housed the crackers, he put a few on a plate for her and set it on the table as well.

“You said you’re starved,” he said, after having scanned the contents of the refrigerator, “so time is of the essence. How about a western omelet and toast? It won’t be gourmet fare, but it’ll fill you up.”

She smiled and Rafe felt as if she’d gifted him with some great award.

“Sounds like heaven to me. Especially if I don’t have to prepare it.”

He diced an onion and some red and green pepper. “So tell me what it was like growing up in this huge house, in this neighborhood. Must have been a great childhood.”

“It probably would have been…”

The up-and-down cutting motion of his wrist slowed when she paused.

“…had I been a normal kid.”

The blade of the knife stopped. He let it rest against the wooden cutting board and turned to look at her. Deep shadows clouded her gaze, and he knew then that the fairy-tale childhood he’d imagined her having must be just that. A fairy tale. He found himself interested to know about her past. More interested than he knew was seemly or safe.

Before he could question her about what she meant, she shook her head. “But I don’t want to talk about me. I’d rather hear about you. What was it like to grow up on a reservation?”

A dark fog swirled around his feet, threatening to rise and swallow him up. His past was the last thing he wanted to talk about. However, he cast another glance over his shoulder and saw that the murkiness he’d witnessed in her eyes a moment before had dissolved.

“I envision lots of freedom. Time spent in the great outdoors. Days filled with games of challenge. Learning to ride bareback, the wind blowing through your hair. Learning to fish and hunt and track.”

His brow was furrowed when he turned to face her. Her eyes were bright and her features were relaxed into an expression that was nothing short of sheer bliss. He tried to chuckle, but there was little humor in the sound he emitted.

“Maybe a hundred years ago.”

Her eyes snapped open.

“Libby, you’re making reservation life sound positively primitive.” He heard the hard edge of his tone, but wasn’t able to do a thing to quell it. “Mokee-kittuun mothers want to raise poised, mannerly, technically savvy children, just like every other mother in the world.”

She swallowed, her spine straightening. “Oh, Rafe, that was so insensitive of me. I’m sorry. It’s just that my own childhood was so…limited. I certainly didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

The feelings he was experiencing surprised him. Normally, stereotypical comments regarding his race made him furious. But he knew she had meant no offense.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “Really.” He went on with the task of preparing their meal, certain that doing so was the best way to let her know all was well.

“Actually,” he continued, “I spent a good many years growing up here in town.” He didn’t want to think about those years. Certainly had no intention of telling her about them. In any detail, that was.

“My nohk-han died when I was three.”

“Nohk-han?”

Libby rolled the word around on her tongue, her lyrical voice giving the word an almost poetic sound, and a thrill shot through Rafe.

“The word means father in Algonquian.”

She smiled. “It’s beautiful.” Then she sobered. “I’m sorry your dad died when you were so young. Do you remember him?”

Pressing his lips together, he shook his head. He wished…oh, how he wished. He’d have settled for whispery images. Blurry pictures of a dark-haired, dark-eyed man. Pride shining in his gaze. Laughter. Love.

But Rafe had none of these things. He had no memory of his father. None whatsoever.

“That’s sad,” Libby said. “So sad.”

Sidestepping the dark pit of depressing emotion, Rafe carried on with his story.

“Onna moved us into town,” he told Libby.

“Onna…” She paused, then queried him with a look. “Onna means mother?”

He nodded. “She took a job as a housekeeper.” Tension gathered in every muscle of his body. He was getting too close to the badness. Too close to the foul memories. But he’d dived into the pool of the past. The challenge now would be to swim across without drowning.

“She ended up marrying the man.” Pain ached in his jaw. “Curtis James adopted me. My onna had two children while she was with him. My half brother, River, and my half sister, Cheyenne.”

Glancing down, Rafe saw that his grip on the knife left his knuckles white. He tried to relax. But it was nearly impossible.