Night Jasmine (13 page)

Even her son was turning to Hunter, Aimee thought, making a sound of pain. Coming out of himself in a way he never had before—in a way she'd never been able to make him feel secure enough to do.

Unable to face her failure any longer, she turned and strode out onto the gallery. She snapped the door shut behind her, not caring what her father or anyone else thought of her behavior.

She moved to the darkest part of the gallery. The rain had eased momentarily but the wind had picked up, and she turned, facing into it, finding comfort in its angry strength. It pulled at her hair and clothes, the drops of rain stinging her cheeks. But still she faced it, staring at the strobe-lit sky, wishing for something as brilliant and intangible as the flashes of lightning, something just as far from her reach.

“Aimee.”

At the sound of Hunter's voice, she squeezed her eyes shut. Why had he followed her tonight when so many other times he hadn't? Why tonight, when she would prefer to be alone?

He called her name again.

Turning slowly, she met his eyes. For long moments, she just gazed at him. The lightning illuminated his face crazily; at one moment his expression was drenched in darkness, the next bathed in light. The lighting made him at one moment tangible, approachable, the next an enigma, mysterious and out of reach.

She turned away from him, choosing instead to face the wind. “You can't imagine,” she said finally, softly, “how I felt when I opened the door and saw you and Papa working together. When I saw that you had been able to accomplish immediately and seemingly without effort what I had been unable to in years. You can't
imagine how much that hurt.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. He stood immobile, as if planted to the gallery, legs slightly spread, arms at his side. In that moment, ridiculously, he reminded her of the old oak tree in the yard. Strong and rooted, a shelter in a storm. She reminded herself that Hunter was neither of those things and called herself a fool.

“I feel so betrayed.” She sucked in a deep breath. “For nearly four years I've tried to work with him. He hasn't let me. He hasn't cooperated. Yet you come here, a stranger, nobody to him, and he works with you.” Her voice broke. “He smiles like I haven't seen him smile in forever. He laughs.”

“And that's bad?” Hunter closed the distance between them. “I thought you'd be happy to see your father progress.”

She swore, guilt curling through her. “I am happy. I do want him to progress.”

“But only if you're the one doing the helping. Is that it?”

“Bastard.”

She pushed by him; he caught her elbow, stopping her, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Snap out of it, Aimee. Self-pity doesn't become you. And it certainly isn't helping your father.”

The adrenaline of fury began to pump through her. “What do you know abou—”

“I talked to Dr. Landry today.”

Aimee stared at him for a moment, surprised silent. “You did what?”

“You heard me.” A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Nice man. Seems to be a good doctor.”

“I can't believe you had the audacity—”

“Believe it.”

The urge to hit him was so strong it took her breath away. She fought it off even as she inched her chin up, ready to do verbal battle. “And what did
my
father's doctor tell you?”

“That you coddle Roubin. That he could walk again if he was willing to work for it. If he had a reason to work for it.”

Aimee clenched her hands into fists. “I know that. My father knows that. But he refuses to do what he has to.”

“Why should he? You do everything for him.”

She drew in a deep breath, using the moment to try to garner a shred of control. “I don't have to listen to this. And I won't. This conversation is over, Hunter.”

Again she began to move past him, and again he stopped her. “I'm not trying to hurt you, Aimee. Quite to the contrary, I'm trying to help. These are things you need to hear.”

“Things you, in your infinite wisdom, have deemed it necessary I hear. You are arrogant beyond belief.” She jerked against his grasp. “Now, let me go.”

Hunter tightened his grip instead, narrowing his eyes in determination. “Stop coddling your father, Aimee. Stop acting out of some sort of misplaced guilt. You're going to have to get tough. You're going to have to force him to be self-reliant. He's using you, manipulating you with your own guilt. You're letting him because you're afraid. Of what I'm not quite sure. But I am sure that neither of you is doing the other a damn bit of good.”

“How dare you! How—”

“And what about Oliver?” Hunter demanded, drawing her closer to him, so close she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “What about how this situation is affecting him?”

“Leave my son out of this.” She flattened her hands on Hunter's chest, denying that his words touched any chord of truth, or concern, inside her. “Oliver's fine.”

“Right.” Hunter laughed, the harsh sound mocking her. “Fine. He's got a mother with a martyr complex and a grandfather who's given up the world of the living.”

“What do you know about us?” she cried. “About the way I feel about my father? About what my son needs?”

“Plenty.” Hunter lowered his voice. “I've seen this type of family scenario played out a hundred times before. I deal with patients like Roubin and daughters like you every day. The scripts vary, but the premise is always the same.”

Fury flashed through her, as hot and white as the lightning above. “You self-important bastard! You accuse me of acting out of guilt! What about you? Isn't guilt the whole reason you're here?”

Hunter flinched but when he continued, his tone was as even and hard as tempered steel. “Your father feels sorry for himself. You feel sorry for him, too. But maybe even sorrier for yourself. You feel responsible. And guilty. As if somehow you could have prevented this from happening. As if somehow, if you'd been a better daughter—”

“Stop it!” She balled her hands into fists against his chest. “How can you be so cold? How could I ever have felt anything for you?”

“It hurts you to see him incapacitated and unhappy. So you let him manipulate you. You do things for him that he's capable of doing for himself, that he
should
be doing for himself, all in the name of being there for him. You're making it easy for him. And hard. Take it from a professional and an impartial observer—lose the guilt, Slick.”

Impartial observer.
Those words hurt more than any others he'd said tonight. Because they were true. Even when they'd been lovers he'd been an observer instead of a participant in their relationship.

“What do you know about being there for someone?” she asked, her voice choked with a combination of tears and fury. “About really caring what happens to them? When was the last time you did either? When you kissed your wife goodbye that final time?”

Swearing, Hunter swung away from her. He crossed to the edge of the gallery and stared out at the darkness. When he spoke, his tone was low and almost devoid of emotion. “We're not talking about me, Aimee.”

She crossed to him. Gripping his arm, she forced him to look at her. “We never do, do we? You never let anyone in or close. You wouldn't want to be touched, right? You wouldn't want to actually
feel
something?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he narrowed his eyes. Aimee saw that he was angry and that he struggled to control the emotion.

“At least I'm not hiding,” he said softly, viciously. “You're unhappy here, yet you stay. What are you hiding from, Aimee? Rejection? Fear of success?”

“Hiding? Me?” She tipped her head back and laughed, the hard sound ripped away from her by the wind. “You've been hiding since Ginny and Pete's death. Even though we were lovers, you never talked to me about the fire or how you felt. So often I would see your pain, yet you were never willing to share it with me. Just as you never shared any other part of yourself.”

Tears welled in her eyes once again, for his pain, for her own. “Everything I learned about Ginny and Pete, I learned from other people. But even so, I knew you well enough to know you wished you'd died with them. That in a way you had. Isn't that so, Hunter?”

She saw the pain in his eyes, the regrets, the bitter longings. She wished she saw denial of her words instead. She wished he could look at her and pronounce himself alive and free. A cry of despair rose to her lips; it came out as a whimper. When was she going to stop wishing for the impossible and get on with the possible?

With a deafening crack of thunder, the sky unleashed a flood. The wind blew the rain onto the gallery, soaking their clothes, their hair and skin.

Still they stood, so close their bodies brushed as they worked to keep their balance against the wind. From inside, Aimee heard Oliver's shriek of amusement, her father's deep laughter. Around her, the storm howled in fury.

Hunter cupped her face in his hands; the rain sluicing over her cheeks and between his fingers. She turned her face and pressed a kiss into his palm, her heart beating so heavily it hurt. He made a sound of pain, of need, and drew her against him.

His mouth found hers, taking it quietly but with an edge of desperation that frightened her. Their tongues mated, their bodies melded. Through their soaked clothing, Aimee imagined she could feel the wild pump of Hunter's heart, that its beat met and blended with hers, creating one stronger, steadier beat. Creating one being where there had been two.

Dizzy, frightened, she stood on tiptoe and pressed her body more fully to his. He slid a hand to the back of her neck, curling his fingers possessively around her, burying his other hand in her wet hair.

The lights flickered, then went off. Blackness enveloped them. Oliver cried out for her.

For one excruciatingly brief moment, they stood frozen and clinging to one another. Then Hunter dropped his hands and stepped away from her. She felt his emotional wall drop back into place. She grieved—and rejoiced—at its coming. Now she was safe. And safety was the thing she wanted most…and least. “Hunter—” She lifted a hand, reaching out to him.

He took another step back. “Your son needs you,” he murmured. “Go to him.”

Turning away from her, he crossed the gallery and descended the stairs, stepping out into the storm. Aimee watched him until he was swallowed by the darkness.

Chapter Seven

F
rom the back door, Aimee watched Oliver and Hunter play under the oak tree. Beside them, Tante Marie sat shucking oysters for the stew she had insisted on making for them tonight. What a pretty family picture they made, she thought. How happy they looked. How right together.

Aimee sighed and closed her eyes on the scene before her. In the days that had passed since her and Hunter's encounter on the rain-drenched gallery, she'd found it difficult to concentrate, to sleep, to eat. Time and again, she had caught her thoughts drifting to that night, and found herself analyzing every word they'd exchanged, every glance, every touch.

By some unspoken but mutual agreement, she and Hunter had hardly interacted at all since then. Oh, he'd been around. He'd worked with her father and played with Oliver, but he'd kept his distance from her.

She'd thanked the heavens for that unspoken agreement. For in her analyzing she'd come to understand something—Hunter was lonely; he needed her. Whether he realized it or not, that need had brought him here. And that frightened the hell out of her.

Aimee touched the screen lightly, trailing her fingers over its rough surface. She could rail against his determination to “do the right thing” by her; she could be infuriated by his guilt, his pity. But his loneliness, his pain, pulled at her, and she was powerless against it. She always had been.

She'd allowed Hunter to use her as an anesthetic before. That's what she'd been; she understood that now. Only now, she could use a painkiller, too. She was lonely. She hurt.

The two of them were a dangerous combination, indeed.

Aimee turned away from the scene before her. She had to think of Oliver, of his needs. Every day he grew more attached to Hunter. He'd never taken to anyone so quickly. Was her son so starved for male companionship? Even as the question filtered through her brain, she shook her head. That didn't make sense. He had lots of male relatives besides his
Pépàre,
all of whom took a great interest in him.

So why the case of hero worship? She drew her eyebrows together, concerned. And what did she do about it?

Outside, Oliver squealed with amusement, and Aimee smiled at the sound. Maybe she should just let it run its course. Hunter wouldn't be staying too much longer. His clinic had been calling more and more frequently; obviously, he was needed back in California. At this point she and Hunter were playing a waiting game. If the number of calls from the clinic was any indication, Hunter would be forced to concede soon.

Oliver laughed again, and Aimee looked back at him and Hunter. Her son would be sad when Hunter left, but he would get over it. He would have to. Hunter wouldn't give him any other choice.

Turning away from the screen once more, she headed back into the store. Once a month, she took a portfolio of photos around to the tourist gift shops and commercial galleries in the area. The photos depicted Cajun life, the bayous and swamps, and made good postcards and mementos. They were strictly a money-making venture for her, and they were the only photographs she took these days.

From behind the sales counter she collected her portfolio, purse and car keys. Carrying them to the front of the store, she waved goodbye to her father, who was on the phone.

She paused on the gallery to dig her sunglasses out of her purse. She slipped them on, then glanced up at the bright sky. Not even a cloud today to ease the relentless burn of the sun, she thought. Without air-conditioning, her car would be a furnace by noon.