Barefoot by the Sea

Even in the candlelight he could see some color fade from her face. “So you think it would be wrong to have sex with me because you think…” She dug around, obviously trying to figure out how his mind worked when, in truth, she was miles and miles and miles off base.

The simple truth was that right this minute, he could absolutely see himself having a baby with Tessa. He really could. At the thought, a longing deep and powerful squeezed his chest, shocking the breath right out of him.

He could. Holy hell, he could fall in love with her.

What did that mean? Where did that leave them? Both living in a government protection program? Gone from here, from her life and her friends, disappearing into obscurity and lies, like he had to live? No. She didn’t have to live that way just because he loved her.

After a long moment of him staring at her, she pushed him all the way off her, sliding her legs out to stand up. “I’m glad you’re honest about it.”

Honest? He was choking on lies. “I haven’t said a word.”

“You don’t have to.” She smoothed her top and straightened the tiny shorts she wore, self-conscious of her sex-inviting outfit. Leaning over to blow out a candle, she held the V-neck to her chest modestly.

With a puff, the room was completely black.

“Good night, John.”

From deep, deep inside him, something welled up. Something hot and mad and so damn frustrated. He wanted to howl, to cry, and punch a hole through the wall.

This was not how he wanted to live. Tears stung his eyes and every muscle quivered.

With a shaking hand, he reached up and grabbed her arm, pulling her right back down on the sofa with a gasp.

“You don’t know anything,” he ground out. Even in the dark he could see her eyes widen in shock. “You don’t know…anything.”

He didn’t care that she could see his eyes wet with tears. Didn’t care that his voice cracked and his body quaked. Let her see how torn up he was inside. Even if she could never know why.

“Then tell me,” she whispered, searching his face, touching his cheek in wonder when she saw the moisture. “Tell me anything. Tell me…everything.”

“I…” A sob welled up, a sorrowful, pitiful, aching hole of need. He didn’t want to make love to her. He wanted her to be part of him, the part that knew every ugly thing about his life and loved him anyway. In spite of his past. Because of it.

“You what?” she urged.

“I…want…you.” For real. For real. Why couldn’t this be real?

Because Luther Vane stole more than his wife and his life. He stole every chance that Ian had to be normal, happy, and whole again. But Tessa…Tessa. She could make him whole.

If she were willing to give up everything.

She held his face very still, clueless as to what he really needed. “Then take me right now and forget about whatever it is that’s torturing you so much.”

White-hot agony ripped through him. One kiss, that was all it would take. One touch of her lips, one single kiss, and they would melt into each other and find pleasure and release and the ultimate, perfect bliss. For an hour, or two. A night, maybe.

And two weeks from now, he’d fuck her again, in a whole different way.

The need to tell her the truth actually burned in his chest, far hotter and more demanding than anything in the lower half of him. He didn’t want to “take” her. He wanted to tell her.

He had to. Right now. Right bloody now.

Chapter Twenty-three

The wild, raw pain in John’s eyes reached right into Tessa’s soul and kind of horrified her. She’d never seen anything so—dark.

“I lied to you.” The words came out like burlap through his throat.

“About what?”

He closed his eyes, clearly buying time. Everything knotted—her chest, her stomach, and the blood in her ears seemed to gush like whitewater.

“I’ve been married.”

“Okay.” She merely mouthed the word. “And?”

“She died.”

Oh. She might have said the word, or just formed the letter, or barely breathed.

She died. The many, many implications of that rocked her, so she grabbed the easiest one. “That must have really hurt you.”

“More than you know.” He inched back, enough that she got cold and hollow inside. Deep down, the first tendril of a realization started to twine through her, but she was too busy taking in the torture on his face to think too hard about her own.

She backed away, too. Not to mirror his posture, but from the sheer anguish that emanated from him. This was no ordinary tale of loss, she realized with a shudder. Not that there was anything ordinary about death, but this was dark. “What happened?”

He tried to swallow, his moist eyelashes crinkling as he squeezed his eyes shut. “I found her,” he rasped. “I found her body.”

She let out a low exhale. “No.”

He nodded, still struggling for his voice.

“Did she…” Have a heart attack? An accident? Questions ricocheted as she waited for more.

“She was murdered.”

Gasping, she put her hand to her mouth, icy chills dancing over her. “How awful.”

Another nod, and he slowly moved even farther away, like his body and soul simply had to make distance from her.

And a wisp of a thought started to take shape: He’s not over her. He may never be.

“How long ago?” she asked.

“Three years.” He stabbed his hair, dragging his fingers through it as though counting. “And eight months.”

Oh, no. Not over her yet. Not even close. “You still…” Love her. “Are healing.”

He snorted softly. “There’s no healing from something like that, Tess. There’s merely existing.”

The words kicked her in the gut. “Did they…get the murderer?”

He nodded. “He’s in prison.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Very slowly, he shook his head, sliding back another few inches. She could practically feel the bricks go into place as he built a wall around himself.

“Why are you telling me if you don’t want…help?”

“You can’t help,” he fired back, the shot actually hurting her.

“You don’t know that.”

He searched her face again, his eyes red. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he said quickly. “You’ll want to know…” He shook his head as if he were trying to stop himself from talking. “I shouldn’t put you in this position.”

In what position? “You don’t want to talk about it? To a friend? To cry about it and…” Maybe move on? “Fix yourself?”

“I’m fine,” he said, standing abruptly.