Operation Cinderella (16 page)

He reached down and clasped her cold hands between his. Chafing her chilly fingers, he said, “Look, MJ, I know things between us were stuck in limbo when you left, and that was mostly—okay entirely—my fault. But—”

She cut him off with a fierce shake of her head. “Stop apologizing! It’s not you, it’s me. I’m the one who’s messed up and if I didn’t get that already, this past week more than drove it home.” Her voice broke. “I hadn’t been home in almost two years, and it took my kid sister nearly overdosing to get me there. I need to spend some serious time reevaluating my life and where it’s going—or
not
going.”

Ross tried not to sound as hurt as he suddenly felt. “What about Sam and me? I’d like to think we’re more than a pit stop.”

“Of course you are. I’ve come to…care for you both…deeply.”

It wasn’t exactly a declaration of love, but for now Ross would take what he could get. He’d missed her so much that instead of pressing for more answers, he found himself pressing her against him. His lips found her forehead, her closed eyelids, and finally her mouth and suddenly they were making out like teenagers, his hands inside her pants, her hands pulling at his shirt.

Rather than repeat history, he tore himself away and shoved the key in the ignition. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather our first time wasn’t in a car.” MJ deserved better, the very best, from him and if their courtship so far hadn’t exactly been by the book—they’d been skipping whole chapters right and left—the least he could do was provide a proper bed.

Her puzzled gaze flew to his. “What about Sam?”

“Earlier she woke up for about two minutes. With the anesthesia from the surgery and now the pain meds they’re pumping into her, I expect she’ll be knocked out for the rest of the night. I’ll come back first thing in the morning. Right now, I’m taking you home to bed—
my
bed. Assuming no objections, I’m fixing to make love to you the old-fashioned way—slow, thorough, and all through the night.”

Chapter Nine

The condo door had barely closed behind them when Macie tore off her coat and started on the buttons of her blouse. A while ago in the garage she’d been able to relax and let herself go, probably because she’d known Ross was too much of a gentleman to take her in his car. But now that they were in his home and about to really go to bed together, the old fears fought their way to the surface. Suddenly she was sixteen, not twenty-six, crushed in a stifling embrace and choking on cheap cologne.

Ross laid his hand over hers. “Hey, slow down, we’re not in any race. Besides, I was looking forward to doing that.”

“Sorry, just trying to get to the main event.” She gulped down more air and looked beyond him to the kitchen. “Maybe we should have a drink.” Pulse pounding, she couldn’t remember if there was any vodka left.

He stared at her. “You want a cocktail now? It’s almost two in the morning.”

She let out a scratchy laugh. “I’m sure it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

If she couldn’t be numb, she’d have to go back to being fast, otherwise the anxiety would paralyze her. She launched herself at his chest, her clumsy cold fingers plucking at his shirt buttons.

He wrapped a hand about her wrists and lowered her arms to her sides, his gaze searching hers. “Who hurt you, MJ? It’s obvious that being on the receiving end of a man’s touch makes you antsy as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.”

She shook her head, hating that after all these years she was still so see-through, so broken. “That’s ridiculous. Before I came here, I had a boyfriend back in New York, a
serious
boyfriend.” God, she sounded so sixteen.

Not to mention that she was lying—again. Zach had been fun to be around when he was in one of his good moods, but if she were honest with herself, what he’d mostly been was convenient. He’d never come close to “complete package” status. Still, she’d stuck it out, not because she was a masochist, at least not especially, but because she hadn’t been any closer to committing to a real relationship than he had.

“You have this problem with him, too?”

How she hated feeling vulnerable. “Tex, I have zero problems with sex—and moves you haven’t even heard of.”

Fuck MJ—Macie Graham was out of the closet with a vengeance, and she had something to prove. She settled her palm over his fly. Behind the zipper of his khakis was a hard-on the size of…Texas. She cupped the firm flesh and predictably his eyes flew open.

Still, he blew out a breath and moved her hand away. “Hold onto that thought. For now, let’s you and I sit down on that sofa over there and have us a talk.”

He held out his hand. Macie hesitated.

“Come on, honey.”

His gentleness undid her. On the brink of tears, she took his hand and let him guide her into the great room.

They sat side-by-side on the sectional sofa. Yanking the ends of her blouse together, she drew her locked knees up to her waist. “I’m sorry I messed up.” A breath shuddered out of her. She suddenly felt empty and cold.

“You didn’t mess up anything.” Ross wrapped a steadying arm about her shoulders and she leaned into him. “Just breathe, okay?” He demonstrated, drawing a deep breath and then exhaling.

Macie followed. Amazingly it helped. “You’re…good at this…breathing thing.”

He cracked a smile. “If radio host doesn’t work out for me, I figure Lamaze coach can be my fallback.”

Improbably, she laughed. Her deadlock on her blouse loosened and he reached around her. “Here, let’s get you put back together for now. You okay with that?”

She nodded, and he started doing up her blouse buttons. “First cooking and now putting clothes back on otherwise willing women,” she mused aloud. “You’re blowing your macho image big time.”

Looking up, he winked. “We’ll keep it our secret.”

Secrets—Macie knew all about them. Sitting back, she admitted, “I’m broken, Ross. I can’t…I’ve never been able to, you know…
come
.”

He sent her a concerned look. “You talk to a doctor about this?”

“The problem’s not physical, it’s…mental.” She gathered a long, deep breath. “When I was a teenager about Sam’s age, my pastor molested me.”

There, she’d said it.

He slipped an arm back around her. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

She nodded. “When I finally found the courage to tell my mother, she wouldn’t believe me. Pastor Meeks was a good, God-fearing man in her eyes and the community’s, which meant I must be making it all up.”

Macie had fought back the only way she knew how, coloring her hair every shade of the rainbow, wearing all black, and cutting classes to hide out in the woods bordering the football field. There, she’d spent the better part of her schooldays smoking weed and reading Sylvia Plath and wondering when being alive would stop hurting so much.

“My school guidance counselor saw something was wrong, everyone did—my grades had fallen from A’s to C’s and lower—but I never told anyone again. All I wanted was to forget, forget and be numb. I started drinking and using drugs. Mostly pot but I tried pills, too.” She looked up sharply. “I never exactly bottomed out, but I never really rose above the experience either.” She paused and looked over at him. “During this visit, my mother actually apologized. So did my dad. I can’t tell you how huge that was.
Sorry
isn’t in my parents’ regular vocabulary. I’d always figured that if that ever happened, it would be like someone flicking a magic wand in my face. I wouldn’t be only vindicated. I’d suddenly be all better, all…healed.” Her shoulders fell. She sighed. “Obviously that’s not the case.”

Throughout, he’d let her go on uninterrupted. Now he asked, “Have you thought about talking to someone, a professional?”

She nodded. “I did once, a few years ago.” She’d just started dating Zach, who’d complained she was cold in bed. The fear of losing him, the first real “boyfriend” she’d had in years, had prompted her to seek help.

“What did he say?”

In spite of the sober circumstances, she smiled. “It was a
she
actually, not a shrink but a gynecologist. After the exam, we talked in her office about post traumatic stress disorder, and she gave me a referral to a support group for sexual assault survivors.” Only taking a seat in the group’s mandatory circle, Macie hadn’t felt like a survivor at all but a member of the walking dead. “I went once, which was one time too many. It sucked. Sitting in a circle of sad-eyed women all scared of their own shadows wasn’t my thing then or now. I like to keep my pity parties as solo events.” She tried for a laugh but he didn’t join her.

“Ever think about trying a different group or a private therapist, maybe both?”

“I take the brochure out every few months and look at it. Does that count?”

“Probably not.”

She fingered the fringe of the throw pillow she’d somehow ended up hugging. “Every time I go to bed with a man I try telling myself it can be different…only it never is.” Shit, she probably shouldn’t have told him
that
. Assault survivor or not, Martha Jane Gray would be celibate. Macie Graham was definitely not.

She glanced up to gauge his reaction. The compassion in his eyes almost undid her. “Maybe you’ve never been with the right man.”

Macie looked away to the far wall, where a framed black-and-white photograph of the Washington Monument hung—pretty phallic imagery now that she thought about it—and shook her head. “And I suppose you’re the man for the job?”

His hand curved around her shoulder. His other one played with her ponytail; the latter was unexpectedly soothing. “Would it be so terrible if I was?”

She snorted. “I’d just as soon skip the macho routine if it’s all the same to you. I’m sure you’re good—okay,
very
good—but I don’t think we’re a good idea. I’m just not—”

He stopped her with his kiss, brushing his mouth over her still moving lips. Macie felt the warm tingle trickle through her all the way down to her toes. Pulling back, he rested his forehead against hers. “Hush up and listen. It’s going to be different this time because I’m me and you’re you. And we’re going to take this thing between us, whatever it is, just as slow as you need, got it?”

She nodded.

“And the single solitary second I do something that makes you uncomfortable—or scared—you’re going to tell me. And then I’m going to stop.” His hand fell away. He winked at her and the sudden “all better” feeling put pixie dust to shame.

She nodded, the held-back tears choking off any hope she’d had of answering.

“And by the way, seeing as I’m from the ‘old school’ as you put it, I don’t hold with all this modern woman stiff upper lip crap. If you need to cry, you cry. Okay?”

“O-okay.”

The next thing she knew, she was sobbing into his chest while he held her, and pressed kisses into her hair and her wet cheeks, and whispered for her not to fret herself but to let it all out. Because he was here and maybe, finally, everything was going to be all right.

She cried as she hadn’t cried in years, until she didn’t have any more tears or breath or sadness to spend. She cried until the hurt and the anger both faded to a manageable sting, crowded out by the cozy contentment she felt enveloping a very private part of her. She cried until she lost track of what she was crying about—loss of innocence, betrayal by the grownups who were supposed to have loved and protected her, or maybe just the beautiful cleansing release of finally,
finally
letting it all go.

At some point, Ross rose, picked her up, and carried her down the hallway and into his bedroom. Coming up on the bed, he lowered her gently onto the mattress and climbed in beside her. Half asleep, Macie snuggled against him. He pressed kisses onto her damp cheek, whispering assurances that she was safe, he was there, and from here on everything was going to be fine, just fine. Eyes closed, Macie let herself drift off.

She was safe. Ross was here.

But for how long?

.

Macie awoke to Hank Williams’s “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” not the custom ringtone she would have ever selected for an alarm. Keeping her eyes closed, she willed the stubborn sound to cease. When it didn’t, she reached over to the night table, hoping to hit snooze.

Only she wasn’t in her bedroom, not the one back in New York, not the one in DC, either. She was in Ross’s room—and the space beside her was empty. Remembering everything that had gone down the night before, she covered her hands over her face and groaned.

A cough drew her attention to the door. She cracked open an eye and lifted her head from the pillow. Ross stood on the threshold, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a pillow crease on one cheek. Reflexively she reached for the sheet, and then saw that she still wore her clothes.

He entered, carrying his signature cup of coffee. “Sleep okay?”

“I did.” She shifted over to make room for him on the side of the bed. “What time is it?”

“It’s after noon.” He handed her the coffee, then reached around her to hit “dismiss” on the cell phone.

“What about Sam?” She remembered that he’d meant to go back to the hospital that morning.

He handed her the mug. “I went in early this morning and helped her with breakfast, then came home and crawled back into bed with a certain sleepyhead.”

Macie took a sip of coffee, savoring the strong chicory flavor. Just a few weeks ago it would have been too potent for her liking, but now she couldn’t imagine having it any other way. “About last night…” She set the cup down on the nightstand, making sure the bottom met the coaster so as not to leave a ring on the wood—talk about changed. “I’m sorry for being such a disappointment.”

He propped a hip against the side of the bed. “Did I say I was disappointed?”

Chivalry was one thing but his sense of honor was way over the top. “Ross, we didn’t—”

“Look here, honey, what you went through was horrific, a crime in every way. For what it’s worth, I spent a good part of the night thinking up ways to track down that sick little asshole.”

Touched, Macie shook her head. “The statute of limitations ran out a long time ago and even if it hadn’t, he’s an old man now. If he’s even still alive, he’s hopefully too decrepit to ever hurt another child. It’s time I moved on. I
want
to move on, Ross, starting with a redo of last night.” She reached out to him. “Do you still want me?”

He swallowed hard, the residual ripple traveling down the muscled column of his throat. “I want you so damned much it scares me.”

Wrapping her hand around his wrist, she drew his hand down. “Let’s make a new deal—no more being scared for either of us.”

He came down beside her. “Just so you know, I’m not letting you out of this bed until you come.”

She smiled. “Why Dr. Mannon, that sounds like a challenge.”

A Texas-size grin spread across his face. “Darlin’, you can take it anyway you like, but above all—consider it a promise.”

.

Lying on her stomach, Macie lifted her head from the pillow to look back at Ross rubbing her back. “This is absolute decadence. I could lie here like this all day.”

He chuckled. “I’m not stopping you.”

He’d taken off his T-shirt but kept on his jeans. A lock of hair fell over his forehead, making him look like a boy, the sight filling her with tenderness.

“But your arms must be getting tired,” she protested.

He shook his head. “Not hardly. I could do this for hours.”

Macie didn’t doubt it. Her Texas gentleman was the most patient man she’d ever known—and the most giving. They’d been in bed together for more than an hour and still they hadn’t come close to having sex. Earlier she’d tried to give him a blowjob but he’d refused, insisting this day was all about her.

“Tomorrow when I go to pick Sam up from the hospital, we’ll both turn back into pumpkins, so enjoy it while it lasts.”

Macie stared. “Sam! I was supposed to visit her today.”

Gentle hands urged her back down on the mattress. “I told her you were back but feeling under the weather—not exactly a lie.”

Macie bit her lip, thinking of all the lies she’d so far told both Ross and Sam.

His hand on her spine traveled lower still, stroking the curve where her back and buttocks met. “How are you feeling now?” The press of his lips on her lower back followed the question, and relaxation took a sudden, erotic turn.