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For more than a month now he’d evaded her, scrutinized her, wanted her. Initially, the battle was arduous. Since the day he’d taken her to bed, it was futile.
How ironic. His worry had been for Brigitte—that it would be she who’d be unable to cope with the aftermath of their passion. Instead, what had happened? She’d accepted his conditions, resumed life as it had been before that unforgettable afternoon in his arms. While he, on the other hand, spent every waking moment, every sleepless night, yearning for her. And not only in bed. He yearned for her laughter, her spirit, the fiercely protective way she stood up for Noelle.
Noelle.
For the first time, Eric found himself able to contemplate his niece without anguish, separating her from the events surrounding her birth. That in itself was a miracle.
So was the change in Noelle.
With utter disbelief, he’d watched as Brigitte transformed her from an uncontrollable, rebellious child into an exuberant, loving little girl, giving her a home, a future.
A mother.
Swearing softly, Eric averted his head, his jaw clenched in self-deprecating recall. If anyone was to blame for the past, it was he. That’s why he’d done what he had to, taken the only route he could.
Banished Noelle from the desolation that was his life.
After what he’d endured with Liza, he’d been dead inside, incapable of giving or feeling—especially to the newborn babe his sister refused to acknowledge.
Refused to acknowledge? Hell, she’d wanted to erase Noelle’s birth, as if it were some unwanted gift that need only be returned to be forgotten.
Eric squeezed his eyes shut, asking himself for the thousandth time what he’d done wrong. What had happened to the precious Liza he’d raised since infancy, showered with love, lavished with attention? Dear God, what had he created? A selfish woman with no sense of honor or commitment, neither to her brother, nor to her own child?
Whatever his mistakes, he couldn’t allow Noelle to be subjected to them—or to him, for that matter. She deserved more than a blackhearted uncle who had nothing inside him but emptiness and self-hatred.
And now she’d have more—thanks to Brigitte.
A muted whimper from the bed brought Eric’s head around, and he frowned when he saw his wife thrashing about, the bedcovers a tangled mass at her waist. Crossing the room, he resettled her, tucking the blankets beneath her chin.
“Noelle,” she cried out, fighting the weight of the covers. “Must reach her … She’ll drown …”
“Noelle is safe, Brigitte,” Eric murmured, wondering whom he was comforting—his wife or himself. “And so are you.”
“Eric?” As if from a great distance, she whispered his name.
“I’m right here. Nothing is going to harm you, or Noelle. Now sleep.”
She quieted at once, her beautiful features relaxing into a deep, trusting slumber.
How in the name of heaven could she trust him?
Or love him.
The memory of Brigitte’s admission made Eric’s chest tighten.
Do you know how long I’ve loved you? Forever. Can you guess how many nights I’ve pictured your coming to me? Hundreds. But no dream could re-create the sensations I discovered in your arms.
It had to be the fever talking. After all, “forever” was impossible; they’d known each other less than two months. Thus, the remainder of her vows must have been equally groundless.
Not those describing their passion.
Those, Eric reflected with a hot rush of memory, he himself could attest to. Never in his wildest imaginings, much less experiences, had he encountered such excruciating pleasure, a wild, incomparable storming of the senses that preoccupied his thoughts to the point of obsession.
Evidently, they preoccupied Brigitte’s thoughts as well.
But lust, as he himself had apprised her, did not signify love. So whatever Brigitte was feeling—or thought she was feeling—couldn’t be love.
Could it?
