A Winter's Rose (9 page)

“But there is something else,” he murmured, lowering his eyes to her mouth. “We've got a problem, Princess.”

Her heart stopped, then started again with a vengeance. “You're mistaken,” she snapped, jerking away from his touch. “Because there is no we. You are arrogant and stubborn and self-important. Whatever happened between us the other night was a mistake. An aberration.”

“Are you saying something happened between us?”

The rose in her cheeks became flame. “No.”

“Then—” he tugged gently on the curl, inching her toward him “—what
are
you saying?”

Bentley searched for something to say, but found nothing. The blood pounded in her head until all she could think of was the mesmerizing blue of his eyes and her overwhelming need to kiss him.

He drew her closer, so close he could feel her breath against his face. “You've got to stop doing this, Bentley.”

“What?” she asked, trying to sound impatient but sounding impossibly aroused instead.

“Getting angry.” He gave in to the urge and buried both hands in her hair. “When you're like this, I can't resist you.”

And he couldn't. Even though he fought against her effect on him, even as he called himself a dozen different kinds of fool, he couldn't resist touching her.

“Try,” she whispered, lifting her face to his.

“I am.” He tightened his fingers. “It's not working.”

She shuddered and capitulated, bringing her hands to his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart beat heavily. She curled her fingers into the nubby knit of his sweater. “I don't want this.”

“Neither do I.” Jackson made a sound of frustration. “I want to make love with you. And I despise myself for the want.”

“And I despise you. I wish I'd never met you.”

“Then go,” he said softly. “Do us both a favor. I won't stop you.”

Bentley told herself to do just that, told herself to get into her car and drive until she reached Houston, told herself to run and never come back. But she wouldn't run. She couldn't.

So she stood breathless and aching, her face lifted to his. “You go,” she whispered, meeting and holding his gaze, challenging him. “
I
won't stop
you.
”

Seconds ticked past; neither moved. The golden light of sunset began to purple; the breeze, which moments before had buffeted them, stilled. Nearby a car door slammed, friends called out greetings, children snickered as they barreled past on skateboards.

“Damn you,” Jackson muttered finally and dragged her mouth to his.

She tasted of anger, of determination. And of something rich, potent and womanly. The last had him diving deeper, wanting and taking more. Consequences seemed a far-off threat, promises made to himself farther still. Now his head was filled with Bentley—the way she fit against him, the way she matched his strength with her own, the way her mouth moved hungrily beneath his.

Jackson deepened the kiss.

Bentley didn't resist. Nor did she surrender meekly. She met the furious pressure of his mouth with her own fury, parting her lips and capturing his tongue, lifting her hands, twining her fingers tightly in his hair.

She wanted this no more than—and as much as—he did. Inwardly she cursed herself for the want, for the lack of self-discipline. She was furious with him for his challenge…angrier still that he aroused her so, and with no more than a kiss.

Jackson murmured her name low in his throat. Hearing it spoken that way, as both prayer and epithet, reminded her of her marriage, and Bentley froze. She was breaking every one of her vows about being with someone who didn't respect her.

And how could she ever respect herself if she did that? How could she move forward?

Bentley fought the desire to melt into Jackson's arms. Fought the desire to offer him everything she had and was. For neither would ever be enough for him—he thought too little of her to cherish the offering.

Pain at the truth of that arced through her. How could she want a man who thought so little of her? And how could she want him so desperately?

Self-recriminations washed over her, and with them despair. “What do you want of me?” she asked, struggling for breath, for control. “What do you expect?”

The expression in his eyes told her everything, and making a sound of pain, she jerked out of his grasp. He expected nothing of her. Wanted nothing of them.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, taking a step away from her, waging his own war with regret, his own struggle for control.

“There was a time,” she said softly, inching her chin up, “that would have been okay. It would have been enough.” She swung her car door open and slipped inside. “It's not anymore. Goodbye, Jackson.”

Chapter Six

J
ackson lifted his gaze from his half packed suitcase to his daughter. She stood at his bedroom door, glowering at him. “Still mad at me, I
see.”

She jutted her chin out. “I don't want to go into your stupid office every day. I don't see why I have to.”

“Try, because I said so.”

She scowled. “It's not fair.”

“On the contrary, it's extremely fair.” He zipped his garment bag. “You got suspended from school, Chloe. You deserve to be punished. Not coddled. Not pampered.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Mom wouldn't do this.”

Even though he wanted to scream out his frustration at the constant comparisons to Victoria, scream out his fatigue at having to fight Chloe every step of the way, Jackson drew in a careful breath and told himself to keep his cool. It wouldn't do any good to yell at Chloe. She would only resist him more.

He tightened his fingers on the bag's zipper pull. Untangling a relationship that had taken thirteen years to snarl would take a while, he reminded himself. Maybe forever.

The truth of that settled on him like a suffocating weight.

“No,” he said carefully, “she wouldn't. But I'm not your mother. I never will be.”

From below the bell sounded.
Bentley.
He pictured her standing at the door waiting, and a pang of regret rippled over him, a wave of longing. “That'll be Bentley. Could you get it?”

“Fine,” Chloe muttered, turning away from him and starting downstairs. “You're the dictator.”

A moment later he heard Chloe open the door, heard Bentley's voice, her laugh.

Jackson frowned, steeling himself against the way both made him feel—aching and hungry and…alone.

Nonsense.
He shook his head against the last and hoisted his bag to his shoulder. Alone was better. He had enough in his life to contend with; the last thing he needed to add to the mix was a relationship—even if only sexual—with a spoiled debutante.

But all the rationalizations in the world didn't change the fact that the days since their meeting in the parking lot had been hell. They had carefully avoided each other. And when avoiding had been impossible because of physical proximity, they had studiously refused to make eye contact.

But their eyes had met. Once. In hers he had read hurt, anger and stubbornness. And need. She wanted him as much as he did her. In that moment, he'd been overcome by the urge to throw everything he knew to be right and smart to the winds, drag her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

Somewhere they'd crossed the invisible line between awareness and arousal, and now they had to pay for it. Hell, they
were
paying for it. At least he was. Dearly.

The taste of wanting and regret bitter against his tongue, Jackson shook his head and picked up his briefcase. Now wasn't the time to be brooding over his rapidly disintegrating relationship with his daughter or his overwhelming feelings for Bentley. A lot rested on this trip to Washington and on his ability to sway key legislators. So much that the next few days would be grueling.

“You're ready to go.”

Jackson turned slowly toward the doorway. Bentley stood just outside, her expression at once defiant and heartbreakingly vulnerable.
How had he ever thought this woman cold?
She, too, carried bags.

“Yes,” he said, his voice thick. “And you're ready to stay.”

She lifted her chin a notch. “Yes.”

He shifted the weight of his bags, his gaze still locked with hers. “How was your weekend?”

“Fine.” She looked away, then back. “I found an apartment.”

“Good.” She looked tired. Troubled. He tightened his fingers on the garment bag's strap. “Where?”

“The Strand, actually. It's the place above the flower shop on Market Street. In the morning I can smell the flowers.” She colored, and he had the sense that she regretted having told him that.

“I know the shop.” He saw her gaze flick from him to his bed, and his pulse scrambled. He imagined her there, naked and wanting; he imagined him with her. He sucked in a sharp, painful breath. “They have the best flowers on the island.”

“So they told me.” She shifted her travel bag from her right hand to her left. “I went to Houston to get some of my things.”

And it had been awful, he thought, studying her expression. But why? Cursing that he'd wondered, let alone cared, Jackson started toward the door. “Why don't you put your things away, then come down.
I need to talk to Chloe before I go, and I have instructions and a list of emergency numbers for you.”

“Fine.” Bentley moved aside. “But first, could you point me toward my room?”

“This is it.”

“This?” she repeated, unnerved, looking past him once more. “Your bedroom?”

Jackson followed her gaze. And again he pictured her in his big bed—with him. He swallowed hard. “I've only got two—mine and Chloe's. The third is an office with hardly enough room to walk, let alone sleep. I hope this is okay. I've changed the sheets. The pillow's brand new.”

She cleared her throat and forced a smile. “I'm sure it will be…fine. Thank you.”

“I cleaned out a couple of drawers in the bureau for you.”

“Thanks again.”

“Okay…” Jackson started to back down the hall, loath to let her out of his sight and annoyed with himself for it. “When you come down, I'll fill you in.”

Bentley nodded, then ducked quickly into his bedroom, snapping the door shut behind her. Safely inside, she dropped her bags and leaned against the door, squeezing her eyes shut. She'd expected that seeing Jackson again would be difficult, but not gut-wrenching. She'd expected to ache to touch him, but not to be consumed by the ache.

She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. She wanted the job with Baysafe to work, wanted to be able to say to everyone, “See, I did it.” That she liked Jill and Chloe and Galveston was a bonus.

Bentley caught her bottom lip between her teeth. But she didn't know if she could continue working with Jackson. Not the way they had been—without touching or speaking, without acknowledging or giving in to the chemistry between them.

And she couldn't allow herself to give in. A relationship between them would be disastrous.

She took a deep breath, picked up her bags and crossed to the bureau. There she stopped and tipped her head, considering the row of drawers. Jackson hadn't said which he'd emptied. Taking a stab, she pulled open the top one.

It was filled with his briefs. Regulation white BVDs. Bentley stared at the neatly folded briefs, heat flooding her cheeks—not because she'd never seen men's underwear before, but because she had the urge to touch them.

She curled her fingers into fists, remembering overhearing one of her mother's friends complain once that she was certain a workman had gone through her lingerie drawer. Sick, the woman had called him.
A pervert.

Was that what she was? Bentley wondered. A pervert?

She slammed the drawer shut, then yanked open another. This one was filled with an assortment of things, including, on top, a daringly brief bathing suit. Bright red and made of clingy spandex.

Her mouth went desert-dry, her pulse berserk, and Bentley shut that drawer, too. The closet, she decided. Carrying her hanging garment bag over, she opened the door. Here she found shirts and sweaters, several suits. His bathrobe hung on a hook on the back of the door.

She stared at the robe a moment, then gave in to the urge and lightly ran her hand over the worn terry cloth. Like everything else about him, the robe was big and masculine and without fuss.

Bentley bunched the fabric in her fingers, enjoying its nubby texture against her skin. She brought it to her nose. It smelled of his soap and shampoo—his person. She breathed deeply, growing dizzy on the combination. It smelled like a man. This man. Like Jackson.

Heart thundering against the wall of her chest and feeling like some sort of voyeur, Bentley released the robe. Quickly, she hung up her bag, then emptied it.

She paused, breathing deeply once more. She ran a hand over one of her silk blouses, rubbed a bit of polished rayon between her fingers. Her things felt sensuously smooth. They smelled sweet, sweetly feminine. Her scents and Jackson's combined, creating another that was earthy and sensual. Exciting. Just as their textures would compliment each other. Man and woman. Rough against smooth. Flesh against flesh.

Bentley pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, acknowledging that her cheeks weren't the only part of her that burned, that her palms weren't the only part of her that was damp.

Dear Lord, how was she going to sleep in Jackson's bed when she couldn't even be in his closet without becoming aroused?

Aware of time passing, Bentley finished unpacking, then patted cold water on her cheeks before heading downstairs. She heard Chloe and Jackson in the kitchen arguing.

“But why can't I?” Chloe demanded. “Bentley will take me.”

“Because,” Jackson replied evenly, “you have to work.” He met Bentley's gaze as she stepped into the kitchen. “And so does Bentley.”

“But Christmas is almost here!” Chloe looked at Bentley pleadingly. “I still need to get lots of things, and—”

“We have a couple weeks yet. We'll go together after I get back.”

“Oh, goody,” Chloe said sarcastically, “shopping with my daddy.”

Bentley saw hurt flash in Jackson's eyes and her heart went out to him. She stepped forward, forcing a bright smile. “We have the evenings, kiddo.”

“As long as Chloe gets her homework done,” Jackson said sternly. “She's behind. It seems she forgot she was given work to do during her suspension.”

“Great.” Chloe groaned and plopped onto one of the kitchen chairs. “I'm a prisoner.”

Jackson met Bentley's eyes once more, his jaw softening. “Did you find everything?” he asked.

Bentley thought of his drawer full of briefs and her cheeks heated. She shifted her gaze. “Yes.”

“Good.” Jackson cleared his throat. “If you need anything—anything at all—don't hesitate to call.”

Did he mean
anything?
Bentley wondered dizzily. If she called him just because she needed to hear his voice, would he laugh? Or if she felt the urge to touch him…

She caught her runaway thoughts and clasped her hands in front of her. “I will.”

“Good.” He motioned to a list posted by the phone. “The numbers where I can be reached and my itinerary are there. Jill has both also. I guess that's it. We're keeping school hours around here. Be sure to eat right and…”

He let the thought trail off, meeting and holding Bentley's gaze. In his Bentley read uncertainty, a hesitancy to go and something else, something meant solely for her. Whatever the message, it warmed her.

Jackson dragged his gaze from hers and turned to his daughter. “Chloe…I…”

Chloe glared at him, inching her chin up defiantly. Bentley watched the two, her heart turning over. She saw the pain—and the yearning—in both father and daughter. What would happen, she wondered, if he just hugged Chloe and told her he loved her? Would Chloe relent and hug him in return?

Instead Jackson held himself back, uncertain and obviously aching. “Well, take care. I'll be back Friday.” He shook his head and started for the door. “Be good for Bentley.”

And then he was gone. Bentley watched him cross the porch, then jog down the stairs. Sadness tugged at her. His leaving this way, without a hug or kiss, without a kind word, seemed so lonely.

Giving in to the impulse, she yanked the door open and leaned out. “Jackson!”

He stopped and looked at her, the breeze lifting his hair, the winter sun turning it to gold. As his eyes met hers, a feeling of propriety rushed over her, as if this man belonged to her. And she to him.

“Yes?”

“Good luck,” she said breathlessly, her heart hammering against the wall of her chest.

He smiled. The lifting of his lips was quick but devastating. She felt it to the pit of her stomach—and beyond. “Thanks, Princess. I'll need it.”

He climbed into his Blazer, started it up and, after a last look at her, backed out of the drive. Bentley stood at the door for several seconds after his car had disappeared from sight before softly closing it. Turning, she found Chloe standing just behind her, her expression enigmatic.

What was the girl thinking?
Bentley didn't know why, but she was certain Chloe would not be pleased with the idea of something going on between her father and her baby-sitter.

Unnerved, Bentley smiled. “We better get ready to go into the office.”

“I don't want to go.” Chloe tossed her head back. “I don't see why I should have to. I don't care what Daddy says, I'm not one of his
employees.
”

Bentley felt a moment of panic, then scolded herself for it. Jackson had left her in charge; he thought her able to handle Chloe. “No,” she said, “but I am. And his instructions to me were clear. We're to go in to Baysafe everyday from nine until five.”

“He's good at that,” Chloe muttered, folding her arms across her chest. “Giving orders. Be good for Bentley,” she mimicked. “Like I was a baby. I don't even need a baby-sitter.”

Bentley took a deep breath. She should be angry with Chloe, but she couldn't quite bring herself to be. She saw the brightness in the girl's eyes, saw through the tough behavior to the hurting child. But she could not continue to humor Chloe. It wasn't doing the girl any good.

Acknowledging that her timing probably stank, Bentley murmured, “No, I suppose you shouldn't need one. You're not a baby.”

“That's what I told Daddy!” Chloe lifted her chin triumphantly. “I'm going to be fourteen next month.”

“Then why do you act like a baby, Chloe?” Bentley asked evenly, holding the youngster's gaze. “Why do you act like you need a sitter?”