Afterlife (10 page)

that caught under her

heels and flapped over her wrists,

she was some fragile,

beautiful heroine with flowing hair

and silky lingerie. A

heroine who could trust him to carry

her to safety. She could

curl her arms around his shoulders,

which seemed broad

enough, his lean frame

notwithstanding, and bury her face

into his shoulder, reassured by his

male scent. And not just

any male. A male who would protect

a woman, who would

care for her, no matter what. Who

didn’t question or resent

that but considered it a duty, a

privilege and, beyond that, a

deep, abiding desire.

She was embarrassed that he was

seeing her smal

apartment like this. She usual y kept

it clean and cleansed,

a tranquil space for reading,

meditation, regrouping. But

the clothes she’d worn to the club

were stil crumpled

beside the coffee table, her purse left

there. In the kitchen,

dishes piled in the sink and dirty

countertops showed the

remains of the lackluster meals she’d

made. Though he

seemed to take al that in with a quick

glance, his steps

didn’t falter as he headed for her

bedroom, fol owing the

easy-to-discern path to it.

She’d never had a man carry her.

Didn’t even remember

her deceased father doing that,

because the last time it had

happened she’d likely been too young

to remember it.

She’d scoffed at the way they did it

in the movies, so

smooth and easy, even if the woman

wasn’t expecting it or

resisted, which would, in reality,

result in an awkward flurry

of limbs, a hitch in his movements to

handle her weight.

With her yoga muscles, heavy breasts

and curvy hips, she

was a solid one-thirty, but he’d

plucked her off her feet as if

she weighed much less. But of

course, this was a man who

could easily hold his own weight on

his arms.

She’d started shaking again and she

didn’t want to fal to

pieces. But it was as if her body and

mind had been

waiting specifical y for this. While

she was apprehensive,

she couldn’t deny pretty much every

part of her was glad to

have him here. And that was bad.

Laying her down in the rumpled nest

of covers, he

planted his very fine backside on the

edge of her bed,

keeping her hemmed in. He glanced

at the side table.

“Aspirin and compresses?”

She shrugged. “It’s the best thing for

helping it do what it

needs to do. What are you doing

here? And how did you…”

“I came to check on you. Leland and I

know one another.

He noticed my card in your purse and

assumed something

about you that I was more than

pleased to have him

assume. That you’re one of mine.”

Digesting the mortifying shock of him

knowing Leland

Kel er took a moment. Then she

blinked. “Excuse me?”

He put a hand on her face, the

uninjured side. “Rachel,

why did you do this?”

When he was little, her son had taken

martial arts

training. For some reason, at Jon’s

direct look, the firmness

in the hand on her cheek, she

remembered one of Kyle’s

instructors. He’d been gentle, careful,

intel igent. Yet when

he helped the boys spar, there was a

concentration in his

gaze that suggested it was best not to

underestimate the

power of a gentle, focused man.

She closed her eyes. “Jon, we can’t

have this

conversation. I can’t have this

conversation. It was stupid

and pointless. That part of my life

was over a long time ago.

I’d accepted it. It was just…”

“I started something I didn’t finish,

and left you nowhere

else to go.”

“No.” She opened her eyes

immediately. “This was my

stupid decision, Jon. You weren’t

responsible. I appreciate

you coming by to check on me,

but…”

It was as if he were weighing the

significance of every

word that came from her mouth,

noting every minute

change in her expression, the

uncomfortable shift of her

body. Since he was sitting on her

bed, his hip brushing her

thigh, he now slid his hand from her

cheek to her shoulder,

his thumb resting on her col arbone. It

effectively stopped

her babbling. She couldn’t seem to

continue, to tel him she

was fine, that he needed to leave.

“Breathe,” he said. “Like when you

start your class. Three

count. And keep your eyes on mine.”

His thumb shifted so it was on the

pulse in her throat,

making short strokes there as she

drew in a breath. She felt

foolish, but she took that deep breath,

drew it in for a count

of three, even as she remained

conscious of those two

points of contact, his hand on her

throat, his hip against her

leg. When she let it out, emotion wel

ed up in her chest,

making it tighter. She got the second

breath out, and it got

worse, such that more tears spil ed

forth.

“I don’t want you to see this.” Her

voice broke. “I can’t—”

“One more,” he said, not unkindly,

though his hold on her

throat increased, underscoring the

relentless command.

It was a shudder of sobs, more than

an indrawn breath,

and as it crested, they broke. She’d

cried a lot over the

past day and a half, but this was

different. This was the way

a person cried when someone was

there to hear, to help.

Pul ing her into his arms, he turned

them so they were

stretched out on the bed together, one

of her arms wrapped

around his back and the other around

his neck, her face

buried into his chest. He stroked her,

crooned to her as she

shook and cried, until she’d cried out

the fear and shame,

and was left limp with exhaustion.

If she was going to experience soul-

deep weariness, she

couldn’t have asked for better

immediate surroundings. He

smel ed like sage and sandalwood

aftershave, and

beneath that, more faintly, something

that was like motor oil

and burning wood. His hair was

under her fingertips, silk

she was able to stroke in nervous

movements, trying to

regain her composure. Since he was

wearing slacks and

dress shirt, his tie loosened, she

realized he’d come from

work. Because she’d had her cheek

pressed to the tie, it

was now water spotted. Drawing

back enough to see it,

she saw it had a subdued silhouette

pattern of dark blue

dolphins against a deep ocean blue,

like seeing the

magical creatures leaping through the

waves at night.

“I like your tie,” she rasped. She

smoothed her hand over

it, the man beneath. “What you said,

‘one of mine’. I don’t

understand. I can’t—”

His hand closed over hers, held it stil

. “I want to know

more about you before we start

talking about me,” he said.

That velvet voice became irresistible

when it dropped to a

rumble, like now. “What did you

mean when you said this

part of your life was over a long time

ago? Have you served

a Master before?”

He made it sound so normal. Of

course, it was part of his

life, like yoga class or going to work.

It made her want to cry

again, but she had no tears left.

“No. My husband…he and I divorced

some time ago, and

he wasn’t into that. I’ve never been

able… I’m not real y,

either. I got confused. Chalk it up to

midlife crisis.” Her

other hand pleated and worried at the

tie under his grasp.

Her fingers were cold compared to

his.

“Hmm. So if it’s never been a part of

your life at al , why

did you say this hasn’t been part of

your life in a long time?”

Catching both her hands now, he

brought them into a

prayer
mudra
and folded his over

them, giving her warmth

but also bringing her gaze up that

pointed direction of their

fingertips, to his penetrating gaze.

“Jon.” Why was she saying things she

couldn’t possibly

explain, to him or anyone? “It was a

mistake. Can we

please leave it there?”

“The only mistake you’re making

right now is not trusting

me.”

“I’m not going to tel a man young

enough to be my son

that sex hasn’t been part of my life

for nearly six years.”

Longer, if she counted when she’d

stopped being able to

enjoy it.

Then she realized what she’d said,

and panic clutched

her stomach. If he asked her about

Kyle…

“Al right,” he said gravely. “You

don’t have to tel me that.

But maybe you could tel me why.

And I’m only old enough

to be your son if you had me when

you were barely a

teenager.”

The relief that he hadn’t taken it as a

direct reference to

her being a mother was quickly

replaced by another sick

feeling. He was going to make her

say it. Despite the blow

to her already nonexistent pride,

maybe it would push him

the necessary step back from her. It

stil shamed her to

speak the words.

“I can’t do it. I don’t get…excited.

Not the right way. And

the things I want…” She sat up, pul

ing away, and huddled

on the edge of the bed. She felt so

worthless, used up. A

whole cauldron of emotions she

couldn’t handle was

bubbling up. Why the hel was she

saying these things?

Because she’d dreamed of having

someone understand.

No, she’d wanted someone she
loved

to understand. But

no one loved her. And she was

having to explain it to this

handsome, charismatic man, a Master

who could have

anyone. Multiple anyones, such that a

cop had thought she

was “one of his”.

The bed shifted as he rol ed off the

other side and came

around the end of the mattress. Any

other time, she would

have watched him, because she loved

to watch him move.

But today, seeing such a thing could

lacerate her heart

even more deeply. She wondered if a

cardiac surgeon had

ever been asked to do a heart

transplant merely because

the heart had been slashed to ribbons

from too many

serrated emotions.

When he stood in front of her, she

kept staring at the

floor, her bare feet beneath the floppy

cuffs of the pajamas

braced on the bed railing. “Jon, I

know this sounds so

ungrateful, but can you please go?

Just leave?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Yes.” She forced it past the hard

lump in her throat.
No,

no, no.

Reaching out, he stroked his hand

through her limp,

unwashed hair. She closed her eyes,

not wanting to revel in

the male strength in that touch, but

unable to keep herself

from turning her head into the stroke,

pressing hard into the

heel of his palm, holding there while

his fingers made short

caresses of the area around that

pressure point. It was a

long moment before he spoke.

“For a year, you’ve kept me at arm’s

length with that

wedding ring, making me believe

something that’s untrue. I

should have fol owed my intuition

sooner, because I knew it

didn’t fit. I don’t pursue married

women, and yet I kept

coming back to your studio, unable to

stop seeing you. I

asked you a question just now, and

you lied to me as wel .

Rachel, look at me.”

His fingers dropped to her chin.

When she couldn’t

manage the motion herself, thinking

of how swol en and

blotched her face must look, no

makeup, he forced her face

up to meet his intent gaze.

“You won’t lie to me again. Do you

understand?”

With that trace of steel in his voice,

her reality shifted.

She was standing in an open

doorway, and he was

ordering her across the threshold.

Her trembling soul

recognized it, even as the rest of her

wasn’t yet brave

enough to wrap her mind around it.

“Do you understand how to answer

me, Rachel?”

She swal owed. She couldn’t. He

didn’t know how often

she’d stood here. Her dangerous