The echo of her mother’s words sent shame spiraling through her, and the adrenaline that had fueled her ran out. Another man. Another brawl. She felt sick.
Gradually, Colin realized she’d stopped fighting. The pressure on her chest began to ease. He rolled off.
She heard the pop of a beer can followed by Cubby’s voice. “Looks like the fun’s over, folks. Guess we better be on our way.”
Feet began to move. “’Night, Sugar Beth.”
Somebody’s keys jangled. “’Night, Colin.”
A belch. “Y’all take care now.”
Moments later, she heard the sound of truck engines.
Colin stood, the sound of his breathing harsh in the night air, his chest heaving. He gazed down at her, then extended his hand to help her up.
She ignored him and made it to her knees by herself. Her elbow burned from a scrape, and she’d ripped her slacks. She felt something hot on her face, but it took her a moment to realize she’d started to cry.
Colin’s heart wrenched as he gazed down at her and saw tears glistening on those beautiful cheekbones. He’d finally done it. He’d finally brought Sugar Beth Carey to her knees.
With a strangled exclamation, he sank down next to her and drew her close. She didn’t fight him. He began kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, sipping up the moisture. His own eyes burned, and he blinked against the sting. He ran his hand down the fragile bumps of her spine. Kissed her temples. He was a man of words, but he couldn’t think of anything to say except the ridiculous, which came out as a rusty whisper. “You’ve read my book, I see.”
She nodded against him.
He pressed his forehead to hers. Breathed in as she exhaled. Tried to think of some way to make it all disappear, but he couldn’t come up with a thing.
“I feel like I was raped,” she whispered.
He winced.
Her breath fell soft on his face. “I know all of it was written long before I came back. And everything you wrote was true. I know that. I was fair game. More than fair game. And you could have written worse about me than you did. I even understand why you didn’t tell me right away. What good would it have done, right? And now, at least I’ll be prepared.”
“Don’t, my love,” he whispered. “Don’t try to justify something that hurts you so much.” He cradled her face, kissed the damp trail on her cheek. “If I could do it again, I’d write it differently.”
“Facts don’t change.”
“How we see them does.”
He would have stayed there kneeling on the ground with her forever, but she pushed away from him and sank back on one calf in the wet grass. “I found the painting tonight,” she said slowly.
Another sword through his heart. “Did you?”
“In the studio. The drop cloth. The drop cloth is the painting.”
He told himself to get it over with quickly, but she was still talking. “When I was growing up… All those times I’ve searched the studio since I got back… I never saw it for what it was. Not until tonight.”
The time had come to drive the final nail in his coffin. He rose to his feet. She did the same. Her hair tumbled over her cheek, and her hand trembled as she pushed it away. “No wonder my father always laughed when he talked about the painting. She hid it in plain sight.”
Her top button had come unfastened, revealing the edge of her bra, which was creamy white, very much like her soul. “You have what you came for, then,” he said.
She nodded. “The last Ash canvas this large sold at auction for four and a half million dollars.”
“You’ll be a wealthy woman. Independent.”
“This canvas won’t bring as much.”
“No?”
“I want mine in a museum, not hidden away in a private collection. That’ll limit the bidders. But all I need is enough to make Delilah secure.”
“You’ll have a lot more than that.”
“I suppose.”
“Our noble, self-sacrificing heroine.” He didn’t say it sarcastically, but she stiffened, and he cursed the part of him that was so terrified of the sentimental that he tainted everything with cynicism, even when he didn’t intend it. He forced himself to utter the question he’d been dreading. “When are you planning to leave?”
“As soon as I make arrangements for the painting.”
“That shouldn’t take long.”
“Maybe a week.”
He touched her hair. “I love you, you know.”
Her lips trembled and a tear caught on her lashes. “You’ll get over it. Take it from one who knows. Love’s not an emotion that lasts forever.”
“Have you gotten over Emmett, then?”
“I must have, or I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you so quickly.”
Hearing her openly admit her feelings should have gratified him, but it only deepened his pain. “Do you have so little trust in yourself?”
“It’s not a matter of trust. I’m being realistic.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t leave. Everything you need is right here in Parrish.”
“You’re wrong.”
“What about that children’s bookstore you talked about? It doesn’t have to be a dream now. This is your home, Sugar Beth, the place where you belong.”
“No, it’s your town now.”
“And the place isn’t big enough for both of us, is that it?”
“You know it wouldn’t work.”
“You need to be here. You have family.” He drew a ragged breath. “And you have me.”
Dismay darkened her eyes. “That’s why I have to leave.” Her lashes dropped, and she turned way. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
“I found the painting last week.”
She looked back at him.
“When we were searching the studio. I’d been in there at least a dozen times before, but… I was in a foul mood that day-knowing I was losing you-and you were standing next to it. I turned my head to snarl at you. Something about the colors, the violence of the paint… It grabbed me by the throat.”
She nodded as though she understood, although even he didn’t entirely comprehend the turbulent emotions that had claimed him right then.
“When were you going to tell me?” she asked.
“Every day this past week.”
She didn’t get angry as he expected. She didn’t seem reproachful. Instead, she gazed at him with something that looked like understanding.
He sensed her getting ready to move away again, and he spoke before she could. “I want you to marry me.”
Her eyes shot open.
His words should have rattled him-he’d never imagined saying them again-but they felt exactly right. He took a step closer and cupped her exquisite face. “I wish I had magnolias, or gardenias perhaps. Something to make the grand romantic gesture. I’m quite capable of it, you know.”
She rested her cheek against his palm, but only for a moment. “I could never do that to you.”
Her lack of courage maddened him. It felt too familiar, too much like his past. “I won’t beg, Sugar Beth. I begged a woman once in my life, and I’ll never do it again. You’re either strong enough to love me-strong enough to let me love you in return-or you’re not. Which is it going to be?”
She dropped her head and said, in a whisper, “I guess what you see as lack of courage, I see as wisdom.”
“There’s nothing wise about running from love.”
“There is when I’m involved.”
