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ligence to tell him what it was she felt, but she was no poet. "Just love me, Ian. Make a beginning with me."
He gazed down at her, his flame blue eyes almost luminescent in the pale moonlight. "What if it's wrong, Selena?" His voice broke. "What if you belong to someone else?"
This question that bothered him so much meant nothing to her. All she cared about was the look in his eyes and the way he made her feel when he touched her. "How could it be wrong?"
He gave her a smile that was heartbreakingly sad and touched her face. "Ah, Selena ..."
She leaned forward, pressed her cheek into the heat of his hand and closed her eyes.
He made a soft, groaning sound and pulled her into his arms, holding her so fiercely she couldn't breathe.
Ian poured himself another huge glass of whiskey and tossed it down, tasting nothing, feeling only the false warmth in his gut.
Wobbling, laughing quietly to himself, he made his reeling way to his desk and sat down with a thud. The papers strewn across the mahogany surface blurred before his eyes.
For a split second, he saw the letters he'd filed at every post office between here and New York City. He'd told hundreds of people about the mysterious woman in his care. Hell, he'd begged her family to come forward.
He crashed his fist to the desk and swept the offending whiteness away. Papers scattered to the floor.
What was he going to do? Sweet Jesus, what was he going to do?
It was the question that haunted him, drove him to his knees and kept him reaching for the booze. Every moment, every second, every breath, reminded him that Selena might someday be taken away from him, that he-ignorant, selfish bastard that he was-had alerted the world to her presence. Every time the wind
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tapped on the windowpane, he jumped; every time Fergus drove into town for the mail, Ian stood at his window, sweating, obsessing, waiting for a letter to arrive.
To whom it may concern: I'm coming to claim my wife.
My wife, my wife, my wife. The mother of my children ...
He grabbed the fragile lamp from the corner of his desk and threw it in frustration. It hit the paneled wall with a thwack and crashed to the floor in a spray of broken glass. Flames shot up from the pool of fuel on the wooden floor, licked the dark cherry paneling. The acrid scent of smoke wafted through the air.
He stared at the flames. In the reddish gold swirls, he saw her eyes, the color of maple syrup, eyes a man could lose himself in. And her hair, the wavy, untamed sweep of burnished brown. So soft and sweet-smelling; it slipped through his fingers like silk.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he'd touched it more, wishing he'd kissed her more deeply, more often, wishing he'd peeled away her cheap gingham dress and stroked the petal softness of her skin. Wishing, ah Jesus, wishing ...
The door to his study slammed open. "Good God, Ian," Johann barked. "What in the hell?" He raced over to the broken lamp and wrenched off his coat, using it to stomp out the flames.
Ian tried to focus on Johann, but the younger man was blurry, swaying. A semihysterical laugh slipped from Ian's mouth. "Drink, Johann?"
Johann yanked up his coat and turned to Ian. Charred bits of fabric fluttered to the pale carpet, smoke wafted up from the sleeves.
Ian laughed again. "Ah, look, a smoking jacket."
Johann rolled his eyes. "You're soused."
Ian waved him over. Anything was better than the loneliness, the sickening thoughts that sped unrelentingly through his mind. "Drink with me, Johann."
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Johann poured himself a stiff drink and took a seat opposite Ian's desk. He dropped his burnt coat in a heap at his feet. "You don't look so good."
"I feel worse."
Johann frowned sharply. "My God, a human response. What is the world coming to?"
