Alex blinked, as if he hadn't considered Monica. He probably hadn't; all of his attention was focused on Noelle. He knew about Monica's suicide attempt, of course; it hadn't been possible to keep it quiet, not with all the commotion at Dr. Bogarde's office. Monica didn't try to hide the scars, anyway. She was too proud to let herself take the cowardly route of long sleeves or wide bracelets.
"Monica is a lot stronger than she was then," Alex finally said. "But Noelle doesn't have anything to fall back on. I thought at the beginning, and still do, that she should face up to facts and get on with her life, but if she found out you were having an affair with Faith no. She couldn't stand it. She might try suicide herself."
Gray shook his head, amazed that Alex could have known Noelle all these years and still not realized that she was too self-centered to harm herself. The myopia of love allowed him to see only her cool, perfect, unattainable beauty. It was that romantic streak in him, a strange characteristic for a lawyer.
"She has to go," Alex said regretfully.
Twelve.
The fax machine was humming, so Faith didn't hear the car turn in to the driveway. When the knock rattled the front door, she leaned over to look out the window. She couldn't see who was standing on the porch, but she could see the gray Jaguar parked behind her car, and she sighed as she went, coffee cup in hand, into the living room to answer the door. It was barely eight-thirty, too early to have to deal with Gray Rouillard.
The first thing she noticed when she opened the door was that he was in a towering rage.
The only other time she had seen him like this was the day he'd come to the shack to tell them Renee had left, and again that night, when he'd had them thrown out. As she looked up into the cold ruthlessness of those dark eyes, the memory of that night flashed in her mind, the stark images reducing her in an instant to the terrified girl she'd been then. Her blood chilled, and she fell back a step as he came inside, letting the screen door slam behind him.
She jumped at the sound. Her eyes, green and unblinking, were fastened on his face as if she didn't dare look away.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked very softly, the velvety sound as chilling as a sword sliding against another blade. He advanced another step, so that he loomed over her, and Faith retreated again. The coffee cup shook in her hand.
For every step he took forward, she took one back, a slow dance that ended when she bumped into the wall, her shoulder blades pressing hard against the Sheetrock as if she could force her way through it. His arms shot out before she could slide sideways, his palms flattening against the wall on either side of her shoulders, imprisoning her within the cage of his arms and body. He leaned down slightly; the top two buttons of his white shirt were open, revealing a wedge of warm olive skin decorated with curly black hair. His pulse throbbed visibly in the hollow at the base of his strong throat, right in front of her eyes. Faith fastened her gaze on that rhythmic movement, desperately seeking to steady herself. She was not fourteen. He could not throw her out of her own house.
"Well?" he asked, still in that dangerous, purring tone.
His thick wrists were squeezing her shoulders, bared by her sleeveless blouse; his skin was hot against hers. His wide shoulders and broad chest were like a wall in front of her, and his rich, musky male scent made her nostrils flare in automatic delight. Still clasping the coffee cup, holding it like a shield between them, she swallowed and managed to say, "What are you talking about?"
He leaned closer, so close that his stomach brushed against her fingers. "I'm talking about all those questions you've been asking. Alex told me last night you'd been to his office. Talking to Alex is one thing, he'll keep his mouth shut, but guess who I saw this morning. Ed Morgan." Despite the calmness of his tone, she could see the cold fury flickering in his eyes. If he'd been having a roaring fit, she wouldn't have been half as nervous. In this mood, he was capable of anything, but oddly enough, she didn't fear him physically. No, if Gray harmed her, the damage would be to her emotions.
"I'm only going to tell you once." He said the words very precisely, leaning down even closer, until his nose was almost touching hers. "Don't ask any more questions about my father. Your nosiness will only stir up gossip, and hurt my family again. If that happens, Faith, I will run you out of the parish again, by any means necessary. You can take that to the bank. So keep it in mind: I don't want your pretty mouth even shaping my father's name."
Wide green eyes stared into chilly dark ones, only a couple of inches apart. Her chin tilted upward, and her mouth, which he thought was pretty, parted as she deliberately tugged on the tiger's tail, and uttered two words: "Guy Rouillard."
She saw his pupils widen in disbelief, then the chill in his eyes was swallowed by pure fire. Maybe it hadn't been prudent to provoke him, but watching the result was fascinating. He seemed to expand with fury, dark color running into his face, and if his long hair hadn't been pulled back and secured, she rather thought it would have lifted from his head.
She had a split second in which to enjoy the entertainment. Then he moved with the blurring speed she had seen before, his hands leaving the wall to clasp hard around her upper arms, and he gave her a teeth-rattling shake. Her grip loosened on the forgotten cup in her hands, and she felt it slip. With a cry she tried to juggle it, but he was too close, and all she could do was knock the falling cup toward herself, rather than let the steaming liquid burn him. The coffee soaked into her thin skirt, plastering it to her right thigh, and splattered over their feet. She cried out again, this time in pain. The cup hit the floor with a crash, breaking off the handle but otherwise remaining intact. Gray jumped back, automatically releasing her, and frantically she pulled the wet fabric away from her stinging thigh.
His dark gaze swept down her, and he said, "Shit," in a rough tone. He grabbed her, pulling her against him, and his hands worked briefly at the back of her waist. Her skirt loosened and dropped to her feet. He lifted her out of the circle of fabric, swinging her up in his arms, and dizzily she clutched his shoulders as the room whirled around her.
"What are you doing?" she cried in alarm as he rapidly carried her into the kitchen. She was confused by the shock of pain, and he was moving too fast for her to get her bearings. Beneath all that, she was acutely aware of her bare legs draped over his arm, and that she was dressed in only her panties and blouse.
He hooked his foot around a chair leg and pulled the chair away from the table, then carefully set her in it. Turning to the sink, he pulled off several paper towels, folded them into a pad, and wet them under the cold water. The pad was still dripping when he plopped it over her reddened, stinging thigh. She jumped at the chill. Trickles of water ran down her thigh, into the seat of the chair, and soaked into her panties.
"I forgot about the coffee," he muttered. Truth to tell, he hadn't even noticed it until he'd seen it spilling down her leg. "I'm sorry, Faith. Do you have any tea?" Before she could answer, he was already opening the refrigerator door, and taking out the pitcher of tea that was almost de rigueur in southern kitchens.
He opened and closed cabinet drawers until he found her clean towels. Taking one out, he dropped it into the pitcher of tea, then removed it and carefully squeezed out most of the excess liquid. She watched in bemusement as he took away the pad of paper towels, tossing it into the sink with a sodden plop, and replaced it with the tea-soaked towel. If the water had been cold, the tea was icy. Faith drew in a hissing breath as it, too, ran down her leg to pool beneath her bottom.
"Does it hurt?" Gray asked, going down on his knee beside the chair to smooth the towel over her thigh. His voice was tight with anxiety.
"No," she said bluntly. "It's cold, and you're soaking my rear end."
His face was level with hers. At her words, she saw the worry leave his eyes, and the tension ease from his shoulders. He grasped the back of the chair with his left hand, and with wry, faint humor asked, "Did I overreact?"
She pursed her lips. "A tad."
"Your thigh is red. I know you're burned."
"Only a little. It stings a bit, is all. I doubt it'll blister." She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to hide the laughter she could feel bubbling in her chest. "I appreciate your concern, but it certainly didn't warrant having half my clothes stripped off."
He looked down at her bare legs, and the white cotton underwear barely visible beneath the hem of her blouse. A tremor ran through him. He put his right hand on her uninjured thigh, smoothing his palm over the firm, cool resilience of her flesh, entranced by the silky texture. "I've wanted to get your panties wet for a long time," he murmured. "But not with tea."
Her laughter disappeared as if it had never existed. Tension stretched between them, almost palpable in its thickness. Her insides clenched at his words, heat pooling in her loins, her breasts tightening. She felt the dampening of desire, and the admission You have trembled on her lips. She bit it back, knowing that voicing the telltale response would cross a boundary over which she didn't dare pass. Sexual tension emanated from him like a force field, hot and urgent. It would take only that confession, and he would be on her.
She ached with the need to touch him, to press herself against that big, steely body and open her own body to him. Only the instinct for self-preservation kept her silent, and still.
He leaned imperceptibly closer, inhaling her spicy sweet scent. His blood throbbed through his veins, pulsing, swelling. Silently they watched each other, like two adversaries coming face-to-face in a dusty street. He wanted to pull down her panties and bury his face in her lap, the impulse so strong that he shuddered with the effort of resisting it, and wondered what she would do if he gave in. Would she be frightened, would she push him away... or would her legs fall open, and her hands clench in his hair?
His hand flexed on her thigh, his fingers pressing into the silky flesh that had warmed beneath his touch. He saw her pupils dilate, then her lashes droop heavily as she drew in a deep, slow breath that made him acutely aware of her breasts. He shifted his hand a little, and rubbed his thumb back and forth, each sweep moving higher, probing deeper into the cleft of her clenched thighs. He wanted to touch her.
He forgot about Monica, about Guy, about everything but the slow, hot movement of his thumb, closer and closer to the exquisitely tender flesh between her legs, so flimsily protected by the thin layer of cotton. He would slide his thumb under the elastic of the leg opening, and find the furrow of her tightly closed folds. Then he would drag his thumb upward, opening her as he went, until he found the tiny bud at the top of her sex.
If she let him touch her, she'd be his. He'd have her then.
His thumb brushed elastic. And she moved, her hand clamping down over his and tugging it away from her thigh. "No," she whispered.
Frustration roared through him like a brush fire. A sound very much like a growl rumbled in his throat as physical instincts fought for supremacy over thought. His brain won, but barely. He was sweating, shaking with the need to have her. His erection strained painfully against the restriction of his pants.
"No," she said again, as if the original refusal needed reinforcing, and perhaps it did.
Slowly he turned his hand, so that his fingers meshed with hers. "Then hold my hand for a minute."
She did, clinging tightly to him, feeling his fingers twitch and flex as if reaching for something. His other hand was clamped around the slat of the chairback, his knuckles white from the pressure.
After a moment of unknown duration, time suspended as their gazes locked and lust shimmered between them, the terrible tension in him began to fade. He winced and shifted position, stretching his leg out. He freed his hand to reach down and make an adjustment, the furrow between his brows smoothing out as he made himself more comfortable.
She cleared her throat, uncertain what to say, if anything.
He rose stiffly to his feet. The thick ridge in his pants was unmistakable, but he was in control now. He plucked the hand towel from its rack and draped it over her thighs, removing temptation from sight, if not proximity.
After a minute he said in a quiet voice, "Are you certain you're not hurt?"
"Yes." She too spoke quietly, as if a too loud noise would shatter their control and send them tumbling over the precipice she had barely managed to avoid. The hunger hadn't been one-sided. "It's a minor burn. I probably won't even feel it tomorrow." The stinging had completely vanished, soothed away by the cold, wet tea.
"All right." He looked down at her, and lifted his hand as if he would smooth her hair, but then let it fall back to his side. He couldn't safely allow himself to touch her just yet. "Now, tell me why you've been asking all those questions about Dad."
She looked up at him, the dark fire of her hair spilling down her back. She wanted to tell him what she suspected, that his father was dead, but found that the words stuck in her throat. She couldn't do it. She had to believe he knew nothing about it, that he had nothing to do with his father's death, because she loved him and it would break her heart otherwise. And because she loved him, she couldn't bring herself to hurt him. She had deliberately tilted the falling coffee cup towards herself to keep him from suffering a minor scald; how could she now tell him that the father he loved was probably dead, murdered?
So instead she told him what was both the truth in substance and a lie in intent, murmuring, "He was my past, too. I can barely remember when he wasn't there, but I never really knew him. He was always kind when he saw me, which wasn't often, but then I lost my mother because of him. Do you think I'm not curious about the kind of person he was? That I shouldn't try to fill in the gaps, to make sense of what happened?"
"Good luck," he growled. "I thought I knew him better than anyone else on earth, and I still can't make sense of it." He paused. "If you have any more questions about him, ask me, because I meant what I said. I don't want to get rough with you, Faith, but I'll do what's necessary to protect my family. Remember that."
Since he'd offered... But, no, it was hardly the time to prolong this encounter by firing questions at him, with her sitting there half-naked, and Gray a sexual powder keg, primed and ready to explode. So she merely looked at him in silence, and after a moment his mouth quirked with a smile. "I'm not hearing any promises, am I? Think about it, baby. Don't make it any tougher on yourself than it has to be. Just keep quiet, and behave yourself."
"Like a good little girl?"
"Like a smart woman," he corrected. Again his hand moved toward her, and again the movement was aborted. She could sense that he wanted to stay, wanted to continue what he had begun, but she had refused him and he was forcing himself to accept her decision for now. Every time they met, the battle would be joined again, and the temptation to give in would be just that much stronger for having been denied.
"I'm going to go," he said.
"All right."
He didn't move. Then: "I don't want to."
"Do it anyway."
He chuckled. "You're a hard woman, Faith Devlin."
"Hardy."
"I didn't know him. He isn't real to me. Did you love him?"
"Yes." But not the way I love you. Never like that.
His dark eyes glittered, and this time he did touch her, his hand cupping her cheek. "You'll always be a Devlin to me, with that red hair and your witch's eyes." He bent, and moved his mouth warmly against hers in a brief kiss. Then he was gone, and when the door closed behind him, Faith sagged back in the chair with relief.
She felt as if a storm had entered the room and tossed her around. Her heart was still pounding, and her muscles felt like spaghetti noodles. Those few moments had been among the most erotic of her life, and all he had done was touch her leg. If he had actually made love to her, she would have totally lost control of herself. She was frightened by the intensity of the desire he could arouse with a look, a brief touch, even the delicious muskiness of his male scent.
You'll always be a Devlin to me.
Not the greatest of recommendations. She could only suppose that he meant he'd never be able to forget her background, her heritage, that nothing she did would ever change his mind about her.
And I'll always love you, she whispered to him in her mind. Always.
Just a touch on her leg, and he'd been almost ready to come, Gray thought wryly. God, if he ever actually got inside her, his heart would probably explode from the strain.
His hands were shaking as he drove, a common reaction if he spent more than a minute in Faith's company. It would be easier if she didn't respond to him the way she did; she might hold herself still, she might be able to say no, but that hot, languorous look was still in her eyes. He knew all the signs. Her breathing deepened, her breasts rising round and full, her nipples peaking. Though he hadn't kissed her until that light peck on the lips as he was leaving, because he couldn't resist the urge any longer, her mouth had been red and swollen. A delicate flush had glowed under her translucent skin.
He wanted her. He had to make her leave. He wanted her. The opposing needs were driving him crazy.
She hadn't agreed to stop asking questions. She hadn't argued with him, but he was beginning to realize that her silence masked a streak of stubbornness as wide as the Grand Canyon. She might not fight, but she definitely resisted. As a girl, Faith had too often been beaten down by life, when she had been helpless to make her own decisions. Now that she could decide her own course, she let very little sway her from it. That single-mindedness was probably the main reason why, at the young age of twenty-six, she owned her own business.
Given that, it wasn't likely he would be able to convince her to leave. And since he sure as hell couldn't trust his own good sense to keep him away from her, he foresaw some rocky days ahead.
Monica's hands were shaking as she opened the door to Alex's office and smiled at Andrea. She managed to keep her voice steady and cheerful, though, as she said, "I hope he's in. I was in town, and thought of something I wanted to ask him."
"It's your lucky day," Andrea said, smiling. She had known Monica since babyhood. "He came in about five minutes ago. He's washing up, but he'll be out in a minute. Go on in and have a seat."
Washing up, of course, was a polite way of saying he was in the bathroom. It was what Mama would say, Monica thought, if she alluded to a bathroom at all. In thirty-two years, she couldn't remember her mother in any way acknowledging the real function of a toilet. Physical reality had to be hidden if possible, and ignored if not. Try as she might, Monica couldn't imagine her mother having sex, though she and Gray were proof that it had happened at least twice. And as for visiting an obstetrician, and the indignity of having a baby the wonder was that Mama hadn't locked Daddy out of the bedroom after Gray was born, rather than go through that again.
Monica avoided the leather sofa and walked over to the window, to look out at the courthouse square. The fresh blooms of spring were rapidly giving way to the lush, heavy foliage of full summer. Time moved relentlessly onward, the earth and plants going through their cycles oblivious to the puny humans who were so caught up in their own grandeur that they thought they affected everything.
Alex entered the room, smiling as he saw her. "What brings you here today?" He'd had dinner with them the night before, so any business would have been discussed then.
Monica looked at that lean, good-looking face, the kind gray eyes, and her throat went dry. She had been trying for a week to work up enough courage to talk to him. She had actually made it as far as his office, but now her voice had failed her.
He frowned at the misery in her dark eyes. "What is it, dear?" he asked softly, closing the door and coming over to take her hand.
She sucked in a deep breath. Sometimes she thought she was crazy, that those times with Alex existed only in her imagination. There was never any hint of it in his eyes, or his manner, when they were together during normal times. He was just Alex, as he had always been, a sturdy shoulder to lean on, quietly stepping in to take on as much of the weight as he could, until she and Gray had been able to manage. It really was as if those furtive moments existed between two other people, between Daddy and Mama, coming together in borrowed flesh.
This was Alex, she reminded herself. He wouldn't leave. His love and support didn't depend on whether or not she slept with him. She had been a convenience for him, that was all, an outlet for his pent-up emotions.
That was what logic told her. Emotionally, however, she was terrified. One father had already left her, his love for her not strong enough to hold him against the lure of screwing Renee Devlin. She couldn't bear it if she lost Alex, too.
But then there was Michael. Sweet, sexy Michael. If she didn't seize her chance now, she might lose him forever, and of the choice between the two men, there was no choice at all. Michael was her heart, the very blood moving through her body.
"Monica?" Alex prodded, gray eyes darkening with worry.
She gulped. She had to tell him. She closed her eyes and blurted it out. "I'm going to marry Michael McFane."
There was silence for a moment, and she squeezed her eyes tighter, waiting with dread. But the seconds ticked past, and still Alex didn't say anything, and finally the stress became so acute that she couldn't stand it any longer and opened her eyes.
He was smiling at her, fond exasperation on his face. "Congratulations," he said, then chuckled. "What did you expect me to say?"
Stunned, she stared at him. "I I don't know."
"I'm happy for you, dear. Neither you nor Gray have shown any inclination to get married, and I've worried about that. The sheriff is a good, steady man."
She wet her lips. "Mama won't like it."
He paused, considering that for a moment. "Probably not, but don't let that stop you. You deserve happiness, Monica."
"I don't want to upset her."
"There are some things she needs to face, and some things she shouldn't have to. In this case, marry Michael, and be as happy as possible. Believe me, this won't upset her half as much as hearing about Faith Devlin."
Faith Devlin? Monica blinked. "What about her?" Since Mama already knew the woman had moved back to Pres-cott, Alex's statement didn't make sense.
"Gray hasn't told you?" He seemed surprised.
"Evidently not. Told me what?"
He sighed. "She's been asking questions around town about Guy. Personal questions. If she isn't stopped, she'll stir everything up again, and that will hurt Noelle far more than your marriage."