Night Jasmine (6 page)

She folded her arms across her chest and wished she could read something of his thoughts in his eyes. “Then, stop it.”

“What? All I'm doing is looking at you.”

That was enough. And that was the problem.
“Then, it's what you're thinking. What you're remembering.”

Hunter laughed and took another step toward her; she inched backward, hating that she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “Maybe it is. But some thoughts can't be stopped. They just…come.”

He took another step. He was so close now she could feel his breath fan against her cheek. She fought the sensations that raced, lightninglike, over her.

“And the truth is,” he murmured, lifting his hand to her face, his tone full of regret, “I never forgot touching you. Making love with you. I wanted to. Believe me, I tried.”

Aimee drew in a shuddering breath. Dear, God, she had tried, too. And been unsuccessful.

He moved his fingers lightly against her cheek. Aimee held absolutely still, torn between running for safety and the pleasure of his touch. She felt as if she had died and been reborn. Life, awareness, sprang from a place deep inside her; a small sigh wrenched from that same space.

The breath shuddered past Hunter's lips. “This is going to be tough, Slick. A lot tougher than I thought.”

Slick.
It had been his nickname for her. They had laughed over it because she had been anything but. Now, hearing it hurt. It brought all the foolishness she'd felt—over her silly dreams of Hunter and her own future and invincibility—scrambling to the surface.

The tender place inside her snapped closed; anger rushed over her in a cold, galvanizing wave.

She jerked away from his touch, reminding herself of the months of pain she had endured after their separation, of the months spent wishing—praying—Hunter would come after her. Reminding herself that Hunter wanted neither her nor their son.

“If it's going to be so tough, stay away from me. There is nothing between us now.” She shook her head for emphasis. “Nothing.”

Hunter drew in a deep breath, moving a fraction away from her. “That's where you're wrong. There's everything between us. History. Hurt. Sex. I look at you and remember everything we shared.”

Aimee swore softly. He was right. There was too much between them for indifference. It would be a battle to stay away from him. A battle she would win if it killed her.

“Fine,” she said stiffly. “Remember all you want, just keep it to yourself.”

Turning, she pushed through the screen door and stepped out into the night. The darkness enfolded her, comforting in its blackness. She hurried into the yard and toward her house, fighting the urge to run. The urge to look back.

Hunter watched her. She felt his gaze upon her as an almost palpable thing, compelling her to come back to him. Heat stung her cheeks, and she shook her head, scolding herself, her imagination. And her weakness when it came to Hunter.

Hadn't the past taught her anything?

Of course it had, she assured herself. Hunter had been right, there was so much between them, so much history, it would be difficult at first to keep from being swept away by those potent memories. After all, wouldn't every ex-couple experience the same?

Aimee slowed her steps. But had they ever been a couple, in the traditional sense of the word? They'd been together. They'd been intimate. But had he ever felt a part of her or as if she belonged to him?

She thought not. And that hurt. Still. After everything she'd been through and after all the time that had passed. It shouldn't hurt; she didn't want it to.

She reached the house and climbed the steps to the gallery. She paused then and looked back, knowing Hunter could no longer see her. He stood in the doorway still, a strong, dark silhouette against the rectangle of light. Always an island. Always alone.

From behind her came the gravelly cry of an egret as it roosted in a live oak at the water's edge. The bayou lapped against the shore; a nutria or some other small animal scurried from the brush into the cool, dark water. Time inched past. Hunter didn't move.

Aimee drew her eyebrows together, feeling his loneliness, his self-imposed exile as she always had—deeply and in a place with an infinite capacity for love. And hope.

And for self-delusion.

She shook her head and turned away from him. Crossing the gallery, she let herself into the house. Empathy for Hunter had brought her nothing but heartache. Believing she could change his life, believing he would love her had hurt even more.

She was done with believing and hoping and deluding. She was a grown-up now; she would do what was best for her and Oliver, no matter the personal toll.

Aimee flipped off the lights, then went to check on Oliver. He sprawled across his small bed, his covers a tangle at his feet. Smiling tenderly, Aimee reached down and stroked the soft, silky curls at his nape. He was losing those baby curls already. His big-boy hair was coming in more like hers, thick, straight and heavy.

Bending down, she pressed a light kiss on his temple. He stirred and whimpered. She'd meant what she'd said to Hunter—she loved Oliver more than anything. She would go through hell and beyond for him.

How could she regret having met Hunter?

Aimee drew the quilt over Oliver, tucking it snugly around him, thinking of the way Hunter had gone blank after she'd spoken of her love for Oliver. As if he'd retreated to a place where neither she nor anybody else could touch him.

She'd recognized the expression. When they'd been together, every so often he would zone out. And afterward he had always been quieter, more remote, than usual.

She'd always suspected he'd been thinking of his wife and son and had tried to coax him into talking to her. Into sharing his thoughts and feelings. He never had. That he'd never been able to talk to her, to share his pain, had hurt her deeply.

She shook her head. But then, that had always been the problem between them. She'd shared everything, given everything. And he'd been willing to give her nothing—of himself, of his heart.

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked against them. Well, she wouldn't share Oliver. And she wouldn't worry about Hunter's problems. His needs. She had her own to deal with.

Taking one last look at her son, Aimee headed to her own bedroom. She stepped out of her shorts and T-shirt and into a light cotton nightgown. As if drawn by a force beyond her control, her gaze strayed to the window. She gazed at the dark rectangle a moment, then unable to stop herself, crossed to it and looked out. She sucked in a sharp breath—Hunter still stood in the doorway.

Aimee stared at him, her mouth dry, her heart fast. The urge to slip out of the house and go to him moved over her, so strong she shook with the effort of holding back.

A fool. She was a fool. He didn't want her. He'd made that plain, back then and now. Curling her fingers into her palms, Aimee turned resolutely away from the window. She wouldn't give in to her feelings, she vowed, crossing to her cold bed. Not this time, no matter the price.

* * *

“Good morning.”

Aimee looked up from the toast she was buttering. Hunter stood in the doorway, his hair damp from his shower, his eyes still heavy lidded and sexy with sleep. He rubbed his knuckles across his jaw, smooth from his morning shave, and she caught herself following the movement of his hand and swore silently. She'd always liked
watching him shave. For her, there had been something erotic about the totally masculine act.

She met his gaze then and he smiled, the curving of his lips slow and supremely male. She gritted her teeth. She would not allow herself to be affected by him. She simply would not.

“Morning,” she said, knowing she sounded ungracious but not giving a damn.

“Sleep well?”

“Fine,” she lied. She'd tossed and turned, her head filled with Hunter, the past and present colliding in her dreams. When, just after first light, she'd dragged herself out of bed, she'd half expected to look out the window and find him still standing in his doorway.

Of course, he hadn't been.

“Am I too early?” he asked, shooting her another cocky smile.

Aimee resumed buttering the toast, annoyed. He knew he wasn't. Oliver sat in his booster chair, stuffing grapes in his mouth as fast as he could, Roubin sat at the table with the fisherman's almanac and a big earthenware mug of coffee.

“Of course not,” she muttered. “Coffee's on the stove, cups are in the cabinet beside the refrigerator.”

“Thanks.” He sauntered into the kitchen, heading for the coffeepot.

Oliver eyed Hunter warily as he poured his coffee. “Maman,” he asked around a grape, “why here?”

Aimee smiled reassuringly at her son and placed the plate of toast on the table. She had prepared for this moment. “Mr. Hunter is renting the room behind the store.” She quartered a slice of toast and set it in front of him. “He's decided to stay and visit.”

Oliver frowned, looking from his mother to Hunter and back. “Why?”

“Why?” Aimee repeated, surprised. Oliver usually accepted her word without question. “Well, he…he's never been to Louisiana before, and he's going to do some sightseeing. Doesn't that sound fun?” She smiled. “Now, eat your toast.”

Again, Oliver looked questioningly from his mother to Hunter, then frowned and dropped his gaze to his plate.

Roubin peered over the top of his almanac; Hunter cleared his throat, and Aimee let out a frustrated breath. Off to a great start, she thought, starting on the eggs. Even her three-year-old son knew something was up.

Hunter carried his coffee to the table, choosing the chair on Oliver's right. He started to sit down and the boy jerked his head up. “No! Maman's!”

Hunter blinked in surprise, then smiled and took the other empty chair. “Sorry about that, Bud…”

Aimee looked at Hunter. His expression was frozen with pain.
Buddy.
That was what he used to call Pete. She only knew because his sister had let it slip once when they had all been together. She'd been stunned to learn that Aimee hadn't known that. When Aimee had confronted Hunter with it later, he'd been angry that his sister had brought it up.

Her chest aching with the memory, Aimee quickly finished scrambling the eggs. “Here we go,” she said with forced brightness. She crossed to the table and spooned some eggs onto each plate. After she served Hunter, she lightly touched his shoulder. “Is that enough?”

He met her gaze and she saw by his blank look that he was a million miles away and had no idea what she was talking about. A second later his eyes cleared, he looked down at his plate, then back up at her. “Yes,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

He looked away, a mask of indifference slipping over his expression once more. He was shutting her out. She felt the door slam between them as keenly as if it had been a real door, solid and unbreakable.

Hunter remained silent through the rest of the meal. He avoided her gaze and he never again looked at Oliver. Not really, anyway. As if drawn to the child, he would glance his way, then as if catching himself doing so, would quickly avert his gaze. When Oliver talked or laughed, Hunter shifted in his seat, stiffening almost imperceptibly.

Through the meal Roubin, too, remained noticeably quiet. Aimee was uncertain whether her father was studying Hunter or judging her. Or both. She only knew that his silent perusal made her jumpy.

Finally, when she began to clear the table, he spoke up. “What time is my appointment with that
imposteur?
”

Aimee frowned at her father. “Dr. Landry is expecting to see you at two.”

He gestured with his big right hand. “Cancel. We have no one to watch the store.”

Aimee wiped Oliver's face. “Ti-tante Marie is coming. She will sit for Oliver also. She's looking forward to it.”

Roubin snorted with disgust. “Marie, she is so clumsy. Every time she comes,
voilà!
Things are broken. It is no good to have her alone in the store.”

“That's only happened a few times, Papa.” Aimee wiped Oliver's sticky hands. “And you know how much Oliver likes her. Everything will be fine.”

He scowled. “What of the lures, eh? Can Marie get that mess untangled?”

Aimee made a sound of frustration and tossed the washcloth in the sink. “The lures have waited this long to be untangled, they can wait a bit longer. This appointment has been set up for three months, Papa. You
are
going to see Dr. Landry today.”

Roubin grunted and muttered something uncomplimentary about doctors and daughters. She opened her mouth to reply but Oliver tugged on her arm, stopping her. She looked down at her son.

“Swing, Maman?”

“Sure, baby. I'll get cousin Alphonse to fix it.”

“Now?” he asked, his expression hopeful.

“I'll call him today.” She smiled and kissed Oliver's head. “Go on now and play in your room.”

Oliver scooted off his booster seat and raced out of the kitchen. She watched him go, then turned back to her father. “Papa, I'm sorry. But you know this is for your own good.”

He shook his head. “I know that if you were truly sorry,
chère,
you would not make me go.” Roubin pushed his wheelchair away from the table, slowly and as with great effort. He sighed. “My own daughter, she has turned against me.”

“That's not true!” Aimee cried, angling a glance at Hunter, uncomfortable with his presence. He faced the other way, his attention on the
Acadiana Times
and his coffee. She suspected instead that he was soaking in every word of her and her father's exchange.

She looked once again at her father. The defeated line of his shoulders, the bitter set of his mouth, tugged at her heartstrings. “Dr. Landry needs to check to make sure your condition hasn't changed. It's a precaution.”

Roubin's lips twisted and he lifted his hands, palms up. “Look at me,
chère.
Has anything changed? I'm still an invalid,
non?
Still useless.”