From the Beginning (12 page)

“Need you? I’ll never need you. I’ll never
let
myself need you. Not ever again.” She gestured to the door. “Now get out.”

Her words slammed into him like bullets, each one causing more damage than the one before. He gaped at her in shock. Was that how she saw him? Was that really what she thought he was doing? Trying to make up for his mistakes?

As if that was even possible.

He wanted to help her, because she needed help, because he cared about her, because she’d been the mother of his child and he couldn’t forget that any more than he could forget their long history. He wasn’t under any illusion that she would ever exonerate him from what he’d done.

“I’m not looking for forgiveness,” he told her. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Bullshit.” She threw the expletive back at him. “For once in your life, be honest, Simon. If not with me, then with yourself.”

“What does that even mean?” None of this was going the way he’d planned it.

She shook her head, the expression on her face almost pitying. “You’re more in need of redemption than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re desperate for it—why else would you have come to Africa? Why else would we even be having this conversation?

“But I’m no one’s redemption. I won’t take that on, not even for you.
Especially
not for you. I have enough problems making it through the day without adding your guilt to the mix.”

His head was whirling as he tried to comprehend all the accusations she’d hurled at him, and in desperation, he latched on to the last thing she’d said. “You think that’s all I feel for you? Guilt?”

“What else is left?” she asked with a toss of her head. “It’s not like we ever had anything real between us, anyway.”

Nothing real?
It took every ounce of willpower he had not to physically stumble away from her. Was that what she really believed? That his relationships with her, with their daughter, were nothing but shams? They were the only real things he’d ever had in his entire life. To think that she thought so little of him—so little of
them—
cut like the sharpest of knives.

Enraged, hurting, desperate to convince her—and himself—that her words were a lie, he grabbed on to her arms above the elbows and hauled her toward him.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, and he noted for the first time that her voice contained something other than anger.

Instead of answering, he lowered his mouth to hers.

CHAPTER SEVEN

EVEN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, he tasted exactly as she remembered. Like coffee and cinnamon and sweet, ripe oranges. Despite her best intentions, and the little voice in the back of her head telling her that this was a really bad idea, Amanda allowed Simon to coax her lips apart.

To nibble on her bottom lip for long, leisurely seconds.

To slip his tongue inside her mouth and explore the hidden recesses.

Her hands came up to his shoulders—to push him away, she told herself. To stop this madness. And it was madness—painful, out-of-control insanity that was going to stop right now.

But her hands didn’t work the way she wanted them to. Instead of pushing him away, they ended up tangling in the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

This was wrong, Amanda told herself, even as she tilted her head to give Simon better access. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Even if Gabby’s death wasn’t between them, there was still too much history. Too much pain and anger and confusion to ever make this a good idea.

Despite knowing all that, she couldn’t find the strength to pull away. Not when the memories, good as well as bad, were swamping her. Not when she felt her body—really felt it—for the first time in longer than she could remember.

His hand crept up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair the way they’d done so many times before. It felt so good, so familiar, that she allowed herself to relax into him, allowed her body to rest lightly against his as she slid her own hands up to his shoulders.

He was as lean and hard as she remembered, his body bordering on skinny except for the rangy muscles that covered every inch of him. Muscles that came from lugging packs full of camera equipment in some of the most remote areas of the world rather than regular workouts at the gym.

She flexed her fingers, dug them into the muscles of his upper back, and he groaned. His hands tightened in her hair as he walked her across the room until her back was pressed against the wall. Then he leaned into her, and he felt so good, so hot, that she gasped. His body heat worked its way deep inside of her, soaked all the way through her until the core of ice at the center of her being began to melt. A core that the searing heat of Africa hadn’t come close to touching.

She wanted the kiss to go on forever, wanted to hold on to this delicious warmth inside her for as long as possible. If she could stay here, right here, with her body alive and her thoughts wrapped up in something other than Gabby, she would be okay.

Simon started to pull away and she whimpered, tried to hold his mouth against hers for just a few more seconds. She wasn’t ready to lose this connection, this heat, wasn’t ready to start thinking again. He must have understood—and felt the same way—because his touch suddenly became a million times more aggressive. His hands slipped down her arms to her sides and then up to cup her breasts as he pressed himself firmly against her.

She gasped at the feel of him, hard and fully aroused, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to touch him. To let him touch her. To take the sudden inferno blazing between them all the way.

But then, when she least expected it, he wrenched his mouth from hers. As he did, whatever spell had woven itself between them was broken. Shocked, and more than a little horrified at her behavior, Amanda shoved Simon away from her, stumbling along the wall in an effort to get away from him.

What was she doing?

What was she letting him do?

And more important, why?

At Gabby’s funeral, she’d promised herself she was done. Sworn to herself that this would never happen again. And yet here she was, letting him do whatever he wanted to her. Letting him use her all over again.

Bitterly disappointed in herself, she crossed the room, went to look out at the city below. Today, it was bustling with traffic and people and noise and light, the view as different from the one she’d observed last night as she was from the woman she’d once been.

“Did that feel like guilt to you?” Simon asked, and he was still breathing heavily. Of course, so was she.

Without turning, she answered truthfully, “It felt like desperation.”

A soft curse was his only answer. His footsteps whispered across the carpet and she braced herself for the feel of his hand on her shoulder again. She wouldn’t react this time, she promised herself. She wouldn’t let him get to her.

Except, his touch never came. Instead, there was only the soft click of the door as he let himself out.

Still, she refused to turn. To stare after him like a lovesick girl who didn’t know any better. Though her body ached for him, she didn’t turn. Instead, she stood by the window and tried to pretend the past few minutes hadn’t happened.

She’d never been one for self-delusion, but this time it was a matter of self-preservation. If she had any hopes of putting the broken pieces of her life back together, she had to stay away from Simon. Because every instinct she had told her that letting him back in wouldn’t just break her this time. It would destroy her completely.

SIMON STOOD IN the parking garage and stared around the space with unseeing eyes. He knew he needed to find his car and get out of there, but at that moment he couldn’t do anything but relive the past few minutes in Amanda’s room. Not the kiss, which had been as explosive as he remembered, but what had happened afterward.

A kiss that had meant so much to him, that had brought him back to a place where he was loved and wanted and desired, had done nothing for her. Oh, she’d reacted physically, but that was no big deal. The chemistry between them had always been explosive.

But the coldness she’d shown afterward, the wall she’d thrown up between them without saying a word, had hurt him more than he’d believed possible. He’d thought they were connecting for the first time in a long time, while Amanda had just felt as if he was tearing her apart.

He didn’t know what to think about that, or how to feel.

Forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, he finally found his car and climbed in. A glance at the dashboard clock told him that it was after two. He’d wasted most of the day waiting around for Amanda and had nothing to show for it except the uneasiness still churning in his gut.

Not sure what else to do, he did what he always did when he was confused—headed into work. He’d come back early from Afghanistan, and the network was going to expect the special he’d promised them right on time.

When he’d flipped the news on after getting home last night, he’d seen the promo spot for his special at least three times. Which meant he needed to get his ass in the box and piece the whole thing together, including the voice-over work. He’d played around with it a little when he couldn’t sleep last night, but now it was time to get serious.

Besides, dealing with the horrors of Afghanistan was a hell of a lot easier than dealing with the mess he’d made of his own life.

When he got to the studio, he really wanted nothing more than to do just that. Maybe then he could forget the churning in his gut, not to mention the confusion that had put it there.

But his back-to-back trips to Afghanistan and then South America had kept him out of the office for a few weeks and everyone seemed to want to check in with him. To check on him, since news of his unexpected trip to Africa had spread through the office like wildfire. Even those who didn’t want to poke and pry—and when it came to journalists, they were few and far between—were happy to sit around and chat until he was nearly out of his mind.

By the time he finally made it into one of the editing rooms, he was close to snarling. He’d never been a huge talker at the best of times, and today it had felt as if every conversation, every word, was a slice across his already raw flesh.

Sinking into the nearest chair, he closed his eyes for a moment. Just sat there in the dark, resting, and tried to get out of his own head. This special was his baby, after all, and one he’d bugged the network for months to let him do. He needed to hit a home run with it. To begin with, a lot of time, money and effort had gone into the documentary, all of which demonstrated the higher-ups’ faith in him, even though he hadn’t worked for the network for a full year yet.

More important, the story he had to tell—the story of the children of Afghanistan—was one that needed to be told. The atrocities they suffered as the war ripped through their country had to be made public.

But every time he closed his eyes, he didn’t see the footage he and his cameraman had so painstakingly shot. He didn’t see the people he’d interviewed, the stories he’d recorded.

Instead, he saw Amanda. Fragile, dry-eyed, devastated as she faced him down. He saw Gabby, listless, miserable, in more pain than any child should have to bear.

He saw himself, running away, because that’s what he did in situations he couldn’t control.

Unable to deal with the guilt ripping through him yet again, he opened his eyes, shook it off, refusing to get bogged down in the memories of his daughter. He’d been running from the way he’d failed her for over eighteen months now. Seeing Amanda brought it all back, but that didn’t mean he had to dwell on it.