Читать книгу You, And No Other - Lynda Sandoval - Страница 9

Jonas addressed the assemblage much more quickly than Hennessy had introduced him, or at least it felt that way. He fake smiled his way through a ceremonial groundbreaking, mostly for the media, then made himself and the architect who’d designed the new wing available for one-on-one questions during a meet-and-greet reception.

That part only took about an hour, but by the end, he was emotionally drained and ready to retreat to his hotel room in nearby Crested Butte. The whole day had been … weird. A letdown. Not at all what he’d expected. The glow of smug satisfaction he’d anticipated over the years simply hadn’t materialized.

Confused and lost, he said his requisite goodbyes as swiftly as possible, then made his way down the ramp to where the limo waited in the underground garage. His handmade Italian leather shoes echoed on the pavement in the cavernous and largely empty concrete structure. He loosened his tie as he walked, then said to hell with it and whipped the thing off altogether.

After inhaling deeply, he blew out a long breath, ran his hands through his hair—and that’s when he saw her.

Cagney. Standing next to his limo.

He stopped dead as—much to his surprise—a wave of uncertainty assailed him.

His Cagney, all grown-up and more beautiful than ever, stood right within reach. Her hair was pulled back, but wisps of it danced around her face. She fiddled her fingers together, finally settling on crossing her arms—just like she’d always done when she was nervous around him. Was she nervous? When he didn’t move, she offered him a brave, small smile. Happy? Anxious?

Everything inside him twisted and tightened. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He was supposed to hate her.

Her lips looked the same. Did they taste the same? And her thick, blond hair … would it still feel like mink against his palms?

“Hi,” she said, her tone choked off.

His well-honed composure crumbled, and all he wanted in that split second was her. Some uncontrollable insanity urged him to toss his vengeful plans out the window, then wrap her in his arms and whisper that everything was okay. They were adults now, and Chief Bishop no longer had a say in their choices. That evil SOB didn’t even have to be a part of their lives if they didn’t want him to be.

Drunk on impulse and long-dead romantic dreams, he took two steps forward before he noticed her outfit: a Troublesome Gulch Police uniform. It stunned him like an uppercut from out of nowhere. So much for excising Chief from their lives.

Oh, yeah. They didn’t have a life together.

Remember? Never had, never would.

Ugly reality settled over him like armor, which was exactly what he needed to survive this unexpected encounter. He cleared his throat, hardened his heart. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” she said, easily.

He didn’t want to hear the unspoken, and you don’t, but the implication ribboned through his brain unbidden. He raised one eyebrow and huffed. “Well, you have my sympathies in that respect.”

Her smile faded into a look of confusion, which quickly transformed into something far more invasive and insightful. She cocked her head to the side, studying him with those laser-blue eyes that had always been able to see into his soul.

Good thing he’d developed a nearly impenetrable emotional shell over the years. Still, his breathing shallowed. “What?”

“Nice speech out there.”

He didn’t need her approval. “What do you want, Cagney?”

“At this point? A simple answer to a simple question.”

He exhaled with impatience. “Make it fast. I have meetings,” he lied.

“Oh, I will.” She paused until he looked at her. “If you hate Troublesome Gulch so much, then why did you bring your zillions here, to our hospital? And an art therapy wing, of all things.” Her tone was soft, unassuming. Her words were not. “It’s pretty puzzling.”

She knew him.

She’d always known him.

He didn’t have to put up with this. After a moment’s hesitation, he shouldered gently past her and opened the limo’s back door.

“Don’t you have a driver to do that kind of thing for you?”

He threw his tie inside the plush vehicle, then shrugged out of his jacket and did the same with it. He turned to face her, disconcerted by how close she stood. He could smell the unique perfume of her skin, etched into his memory. Pine and wildflowers and woman. “I don’t believe in making people wait on me just because I earn more money than they do. I’m perfectly capable of opening my own door.”

“Fair enough.” She shrugged. “But then, why the limo? Isn’t that sort of service the whole point?”

Valid question. Damn it. He silently castigated himself, then muttered, “Seemed fitting under the circumstances.”

“Ah, the circumstances.” Another pointed pause. “You haven’t answered my first question. Why here? Why this particular donation?”

Revenge was the honest answer. An eye for an eye. Paybacks. He wanted to hurt her like she’d hurt him. Worse. Of course, he couldn’t come right out and say that.

He dragged his gaze over the length of her body, ending at her face. “Maybe I thought you’d followed your dreams, though by the look of your work attire, I’m obviously mistaken.”

Her cheeks reddened as though he’d slapped her.

A surge of remorse bolted through him.

Then again, why should it? After the way she’d destroyed him, he shouldn’t feel bad about anything he said to her.

“You could’ve asked.” She shrugged. “I’ve always been here. Number’s in the book.”

Right. He struggled for a plausible explanation. “Maybe I did it for you, Cagney. Ever thought of that?” He held both palms up. “My error, since you seem to have taken a different path.”

Seemingly impervious to his icy demeanor, she hiked her chin. “Use your words as weapons all you want, but I don’t believe that.”

He frowned, feeling off-kilter and not liking it one bit. She was so together, so steady. “Don’t believe what?”

She gestured toward the hospital. “That you’d do something like … this art therapy wing … for me.”

His gaze narrowed. “Yeah? Why not? Finally learn to hate me from your old man?”

She paused again, but he could see the slight tremor of her hands. “If anyone has learned hate and anger, it’s obviously you.”

It pained him that he couldn’t deny it. He looked away.

“I don’t believe you’d do something this … huge … for me because you never even talked to me again, never let me explain what happened,” she said in a level tone.

“Which is what you wanted.”

“No, it wasn’t.” She spread her arms, the first show of frustration pinking her cheeks. “You actually switched colleges, Jonas. After everything you and I had gone through to get there together. You declined your hard-earned financial aid package and disappeared. Never told a soul where you’d gone. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but clearly it was what you wanted.”

A boost of anger emboldened him. Now he was to blame? Frowning, he leaned closer and lowered his tone. “Why would I stay in touch after what happened? Go through with our so-called plans? Your feelings were abundantly clear.”

To her credit, she held her ground. “They weren’t. You never gave me the chance to discuss my feelings before you hightailed it out of here, forwarding address unknown.” She shook her head. “The going got a little tough, Jonas, and you ran. Without a single word.”

“That’s bull.”

“Why can’t you own up to it?”

Now he was pissed. “I have to go.”

“Going getting tough again?”

“Drop it. I’m not kidding.”

She reached out and grabbed his forearm, not cowed by his obvious anger. “I’m not done.”

“Then finish,” he snapped, pulling away from her grasp.

Those blue eyes of hers went round. “You never visited me in the hospital after the crash on prom night. Not once. Why?”

Jonas held her gaze, but not easily, and he didn’t say a word. Truth was, he hadn’t known. Not right away. He remembered every minute detail of the morning he’d read about the crash, more than two years after it happened. Some kind of exposé in the Sunday paper about teen driving dangers. He remembered gripping the newsprint so tightly that it had torn, and not being able to take a breath until he knew Cagney had survived. And then breaking down … and hating himself for it.

“Fine, don’t answer.” Her eyes shone, but she didn’t waver. “Doesn’t matter anyway, because I know the truth. I lived it. You just flat out vanished when I needed you more than ever. Our love was obviously a lie—”

“No kidding.”

That startled her, but she covered it quickly. “So, you see? It’s only logical. With all that evidence, why would I believe that you’d cater to a decade-old dream of mine now?”

Decade-old, huh? He supposed he should be happy about her dreams going to dust, but strangely, he wasn’t. She was born to be an artist, and artists created. Her abandoning that God-given gift felt like a death, and he’d stomached more than his share of that recently. But she didn’t deserve his compassion. He needed to remember that. “I got all the explanation I needed that night.”

“Explanation from whom? Chief?”

He hesitated, questioning his motivation for the first time ever. “From your actions,” he said, although, admittedly, Chief’s words had a lot to do with it.

“And that was enough for you? Chief? Assumptions? My so-called actions?” she asked, with a small, humorless laugh. “Without ever talking to me again? You said you would love me forever, Jonas.”

“I—” His gut twisted as the ugly night rushed back at him. In his blinding, teenage, lovesick anger, he’d truly never looked at the whole thing from all perspectives. He had loved her, more than life itself. But it hardly mattered now, and he wouldn’t stand here and let her manipulate him into looking like the bad guy. “Talking would’ve been a waste of time—” he took in her uniform and couldn’t hold back the derision “—obviously. Just let it go. It’s over, Cagney. It’s been over.”

“Okay, it’s over. But don’t you think we should talk? Get some closure at least?”

“Closure’s overrated.” Shaking his head in disgust, he got into the limo and tried to shut the door.

She held it open, but her blue eyes had lost some of their hopefulness. “Run away if you have to. But you’re wrong, Jonas. About me, about that night. About so many things, and it just makes me …”

“What?” he asked in a belligerent tone, daring her to say she was angry.

She seemed to consider her words, but finally, she shrugged. “It makes me sad.”

Unexpected. But he had to hold on to his purpose. Now he was in the wrong and she was sad? What about his pain? His own heartbreak? His body flashed over with that familiar, blinding bitterness that had ruled his world for so many years. “Wow, I’m sorry you feel sad, Cagney,” he snapped. “By the way, how was prom with Tad?”

She flinched visibly, looking at him as if she hadn’t a clue who he was anymore. “My God. Tad is dead, Jonas. And so are three of my best friends in the world. I can’t believe you’d throw that in my face.”

He clenched his fists, silently chastising himself. He’d known that, of course. His comment had been knee-jerk, heartless and unwarranted. Damn it. He should apologize—right then and there. He knew it, and yet his throat constricted until he couldn’t say the words.

“Look, I thought we could talk this out, but it’s obvious you’re not willing to listen to any of my explanations about the past. I will say this about the future, though,” Cagney said, softly. “If you donated that hospital wing in some inexplicable attempt to hurt me, you wasted your money.” A wistful half smile lifted the corners of her lips. “And, then again, you didn’t. There are a lot of needy kids in pain—a lot of people who will benefit from what you’re doing here. Sorry if that’s not what you intended.”

He scowled, completely off his game. How in the hell had his revenge plan backfired so monumentally? “You have no idea about my intentions. You might recall, I was one of those needy kids in pain, thanks to this town. To your father, in particular.” And you, he wanted to say. He settled for a snide tone as he added, “But I guess I shouldn’t speak ill of the old bastard now that you play on his team.”

A shadow of shame crossed her expression. Just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by a look of penetrating recognition. “Okay, point taken. I’m a cop and you don’t approve. Take a number, get in line.” She paused. “So, how’s the writing going, Jonas?”

The jab hit home. He struggled for footing on his own slippery rock of pain, his own shame, his own purpose—if he had one anymore. Truth was, he hadn’t written a word in twelve years. Easier to point out her failings than face his own. “Tell me, Cagney, how long did it take him to browbeat you into submission? Into giving up everything you ever wanted for the almighty badge and gun?”

Her gaze went distant. “Stop it.”

He ignored her. “Unless everything we talked and dreamed about was just another elaborate set of Cagney Bishop lies, and you never wanted to be an artist in the first place. Maybe our whole so-called relationship was bull, beginning to end, and you were more your father’s daughter than I realized. What was I, then, other than the town fool?” he asked in a rough tone. “Your little wrong-side-of-the-tracks experiment? Every rich Gulch girl wants to get with a bad boy, right?”

Cagney yanked her hand from the doorjamb as though the metal had shocked her. Her eyes went round, filled with tears. “Oh, my God. I get it now. I can’t believe this.”

“Believe what,” he snapped, hating to see her cry.

“You … hate me,” she whispered, her voice quavering. “I never would’ve imagined it, but you actually hate me.”

The anguish in her tone tore him up. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. The past twelve years zipped through his vision, like the view out of a bus window as he fought to slam on the brakes. He grappled for something familiar to get him through. Anger. Anger always worked, didn’t it?

“Jonas, say it,” she persisted, her voice wavering. “Be a man and say it if it’s true. You hate me. Right?”

Hate implied passion, and passion was way too close to love. Not going there. What he felt for Cagney wasn’t what he expected upon his return, but he didn’t dare examine it too closely. Not in front of her, at least. So, he did the only thing he knew to do anymore: he retreated. “Nope.” He grabbed the door handle and formulated the lie that felt like poison at the back of his throat. “It’s worse than that, Officer Bishop. I just don’t care.”

He slammed the door, desperate to escape, then pressed the speaker button and told his driver, Leon, to hit it.

“You’ve become just like him,” came Cagney’s muffled voice through the closed window, “and you can’t even see it. God, Jonas, how could you have let him win?”

His entire body began to shake, as everything he’d based his adult life on disintegrated before his eyes. He had to get away from the disaster this day—his whole world—had become. Had to get away from Cagney and her excruciatingly clear insights.

Could he have misread the situation all along?

No. Not going there, either.

The engine sprang to life, and Cagney stumbled backward from the limo, wrapping her arms around her middle. He knew she couldn’t see him through the dark window, but she never took those piercing eyes off it anyway. He watched as one tear spilled over and coursed down her soft cheek, and yet she stood in stoic silence, not bothering to wipe it away.

I am not like that bastard, he thought, his jaw tight, head pounding. But it felt like a lie, and that killed him. He pressed his palm to the glass and let the regret for everything they’d lost, everything it was far too late to get back, wash over him. The whole fiasco might be funny if it weren’t so damn tragic.

Twelve years ago, he’d walked blindly into a wellset trap of blame and anger and resentment, and he’d been stuck there ever since. Now he had nothing good left inside him, nor did he have Cagney. And there was no going back.

Wouldn’t Chief Bishop be thrilled?

“I don’t hate you,” Jonas whispered, as the only woman he’d ever loved grew smaller and smaller in the distance. “But it’s way too late to fix that now.”