LITMIR.BIZ

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could say I got tired, worn down by family pressure, but that’s a cop-out. Nobody held a gun to my head, and I was over twenty-one.”

      It annoyed him to admit that, he realized. To be honest with Bailey was to face the truth without excuses. “We liked each other well enough, or at least we did until we got married. A couple of months of marriage fixed that friendship.”

      “I’m sorry, Cade.” It was easy to see the discomfort on his face, his unhappiness with the memory. And though she envied him even that unhappiness, she hated knowing she’d helped put it there. “There’s no need to go into it.”

      “We were good in bed,” he went on, ignoring her. And kept his eyes on hers when she shrank back, drew in and away from him. “Right up until the end, the sex was good. The trouble was, toward the end, which was a little under two years from the beginning, it was all heat and no heart. We just didn’t give a damn.”

      Couldn’t have cared less, he remembered. Just two bored people stuck in the same house. “That’s what it came down to. There wasn’t another man, or another woman. No passionate fights over money, careers, children, dirty dishes. We just didn’t care. And when we stopped caring altogether, we got nasty. Then the lawyers came in, and it got nastier. Then it was done.”

      “Did she love you?”

      “No.” He answered immediately, then frowned, looked hard at nothing and again tried to be honest. And the answer was sad and bruising. “No, she didn’t, any more than I loved her. And neither one of us worried about working too hard on that part of it.”

      He took money from his wallet, dropped it on the table and rose. “Let’s go home.”

      “Cade.” She touched his arm. “You deserved better.”

      “Yeah.” He looked at the hand on his arm, the delicate fingers, the pretty rings. “So did she. But it’s a little late for that.” He lifted her hand so that the ring gleamed between them. “You can forget a lot of things, Bailey, but can you forget love?”

      “Don’t.”

      He’d be damned if he’d back off. Suddenly his entire miserable failure of a marriage was slapped into his face. He’d be damned. “If a man put this on your finger, a man you loved, would you forget? Could you?”

      “I don’t know.” She wrenched away, rushed down the sidewalk toward his car. When he whirled her around, her eyes were bright with anger and fears. “I don’t know.”

      “You wouldn’t forget. You couldn’t, if it mattered. This matters.”

      He crushed his mouth to hers, pressing her back against the car and battering them both with his frustration and needs. Gone was the patience, the clever heat of seduction. What was left was all the raw demand that had bubbled beneath it. And he wanted her weak and clinging and as desperate as he. For just that moment.

      For just the now.

      The panic came first, a choke hold that snagged the air from her throat. She couldn’t answer this vivid, violent need. Simply wasn’t prepared or equipped to meet it and survive.

      So she surrended, abruptly, completely, thoughtlessly, part of her trusting that he wouldn’t hurt her. Another praying that he couldn’t. She yielded to the flash of staggering heat, the stunning power of untethered lust, rode high on it for one quivering moment.

      And knew she might not survive even surrender.

      She trembled, infuriating him. Shaming him. He was hurting her. He almost wanted to, for wouldn’t she remember if he did? Wasn’t pain easier to remember than kindness?

      He knew if she forgot him it would kill him.

      And if he hurt her, he would have killed everything worthwhile inside him.

      He let her go, stepped back. Instantly she hugged her arms over her chest in a defensive move that slashed at him. Music and voices lifted in excitement and laughter flowed down the sidewalk behind him as he stared at her, spotlighted like a deer caught in headlights.

      “I’m sorry.”

      “Cade—”

      He lifted his hands, palms out. His temper rarely flashed, but he knew better than to reach for reason until it had settled again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It’s my problem. I’ll take you home.”

      And when he had, when she was in her room and the lights were off, he lay out in the hammock, where he could watch her window.

      It wasn’t so much examining his own life, he realized, that had set him off. He knew the highs and lows of it, the missteps and foolish mistakes. It was the rings on her fingers, and finally facing that a man might have put one of them on her. A man who might be waiting for her to remember.

      And it wasn’t about sex. Sex was easy. She would have given herself to him that evening. He’d seen it when he walked into the kitchen while she was buried in a book. He’d known she was thinking of him. Wanting him.

      Now he thought he’d been a fool for not taking what was there for him. But he hadn’t taken it because he wanted more. A lot more.

      He wanted love, and it wasn’t reasonable to want it. She was adrift, afraid, in trouble neither of them could identify. Yet he wanted her to tumble into love with him, as quickly and completely as he’d tumbled into love with her.

      It wasn’t reasonable.

      But he didn’t give a damn about reason.

      He’d slay her dragon, whatever the cost. And once he had, he’d fight whoever stood in his way to keep her. Even if it was Bailey herself who stood there.

      When he slept, he dreamed. When he dreamed, he dreamed of dragons and black nights and a damsel with golden hair who was locked in a high tower and spun straw into rich blue diamonds.

      And when she slept, she dreamed. When she dreamed, she dreamed of lightning and terror and of running through the dark with the power of gods clutched in her hands.

      Chapter 7

      Despite the fact that she’d slept poorly, Bailey was awake and out of bed by seven. She concluded that she had some internal clock that started her day at an assigned time, and couldn’t decide if that made her boring or responsible. In either case, she dressed, resisted the urge to go down the hall and peek into Cade’s room and went down to make coffee.

      She knew he was angry with her. An icy, simmering anger that she hadn’t a clue how to melt or diffuse. He hadn’t said a word on the drive back from Georgetown, and the silence had been charged with temper and, she was certain, sexual frustration.

      She wondered if she had ever caused sexual frustration in a man before, and wished she didn’t feel this inner, wholly female, pleasure at causing it in a man like Cade.

      But beyond that, his rapid shift of moods left her baffled and upset. She wondered if she knew any more about human nature than she did of her own past.

      She wondered if she knew anything at all about the male of the species.

      Did men behave in this inexplicable manner all the time? And if they did, how did a smart woman handle it? Should she be cool and remote until he’d explained himself? Or would it be better if she was friendly and casual, as if nothing had happened?

      As if he hadn’t kissed her as if he could swallow her whole. As if he hadn’t touched her, moved his hands over her, as though he had a right to, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to turn her body into a quivering mass of needs.

      Now her own mood shifted from timid to annoyed as she wrenched open the refrigerator for milk. How the hell was she supposed to know how to behave? She had no idea if she’d ever been kissed that way before, ever felt this way, wanted this way. Just because she was lost, was she supposed to meekly go in whichever direction Cade Parris pointed her?

      And

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