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A scowl tugged at the corners of Jonah’s mouth as he shot her a glance. He could tell they were talking about him.
“Right,” Adriana said. “Okay. Well, be careful.”
Was it Francesca’s imagination or did her friend sound relieved? “I will.”
Francesca pressed the end-call button and glanced up to find Jonah watching her.
“I was never really attracted to her,” he said. “I—”
Wincing, she held up a hand. “Don’t. Really. That only makes it worse.”
His knuckles showed white on the steering wheel. “How?”
“Because it means you tore my heart out and stomped on it for nothing!” Oh, God, she was going to be sick. What was wrong with her? She’d come to terms with this years ago, hadn’t she?
If so, her mind had forgotten to notify her body. She felt exactly as she’d felt when she first learned the truth, as if there wasn’t so much as a day separating that moment from this one.
“Stop the car,” she said.
“Here? What for?” He was obviously confused, but she didn’t have time to explain. Neither did she want to. It was bad enough that she understood the effect he had on her.
“Just pull over, please!”
He must’ve heard the panic in her voice because he slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a stop only seconds before she stumbled into the tall weeds along the shoulder and lost what was left of her dinner.
CHAPTER 11
Jonah wanted to believe it was the lack of sleep and the stress that were taking a toll on Francesca. When she got back in the car, she muttered something about eating a hamburger that must not have agreed with her. But she wasn’t sick because of what she’d had for dinner. It was his fault she’d been ill. Only after she’d called Adriana and he’d tried to tell her, once again, why he’d done what he’d done had the color drained from her face.
That he had no one to blame for her pain except himself was rather ironic. If anyone else had hurt her, he would’ve kicked some ass. Hell, he was kicking ass. He’d been kicking his own for a decade. But all the self-recrimination in the world wouldn’t dull the sharp edge of regret.
“You okay?” he asked once they were on the road again. She’d pushed her seat back and closed her eyes, but he knew she wasn’t asleep. He wished he could take her hand and simply hold it. But he didn’t dare. He didn’t deserve the pleasure it would bring him.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Better. I—I’ll call Josephine in the morning. She goes to bed early. No need to wake her. Butch won’t be going anywhere tonight. The police are watching his place, aren’t they?”
She was as tough as any woman he’d ever met, and yet she suddenly seemed so fragile. How could he have hurt her the way he had? He couldn’t blame it all on the alcohol. He’d known what he was doing. He’d acted consciously—to destroy what he wanted most. “That’s what they said.”
“She’ll be okay for tonight,” Francesca repeated. “Everyone will be okay for tonight.”
She was trying so hard to convince herself that Jonah muttered a few words in agreement. But when he was with Francesca and he had to face what he’d done and what he’d lost because of it, he felt as if the world would never be right again.
* * *
“What’s wrong, honey?”
Her husband’s question came out of the dark, and it made Adriana aware that she’d been tossing and turning. “Nothing, why?”
“You’ve been restless ever since you went to bed. Is everything okay?”
“Of course.” She fought to put some lift in her voice. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Grimacing, she hugged her pillow closer. That wasn’t a lie, was it? Nothing had happened.
“Would you like me to rub your shoulders?” he asked. “Help you relax?”
She felt too guilty to accept. Stan was a wonderful man—a talented pediatrician, a generous husband, a fabulous father. She loved him. So why did she feel the acidic burn of jealousy whenever Jonah was in Francesca’s life? Even now, after so many years? And what did that make her? A disloyal wife as well as a disloyal friend?
