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‘You cold?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m fine.’ The words came out sounding stiff.
‘Here.’ He leant down and pulled the sheet up to cover them both. After tucking it around her, he settled her back into his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder. ‘That better?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
Still she waited. Was he really going to say nothing more to her? She listened to the faint hum of the sea beyond the gardens. Could hear the murmur of his breathing. His arms were warm and strong around her. She could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. Lifting her
head, she looked up at the planes of his face in the shadows.
He was asleep.
Reaching, she caressed his cheek with one unsteady finger. She would not feel bad about this. She would not. Just because he hadn’t declared his undying love, it didn’t mean that he didn’t love her. Her teeth tugged on her lip; her body trembled. She would not let the tears fall. She was not going to be a ninny.
She groped in the darkness for that feeling of euphoria, of contentment that had assailed her earlier in the afternoon when she had spoken to Ali. The glow of romance when she had looked up that night and seen him waiting for her. The exhilaration when they had been making love just a few minutes ago.
But the joy, the pleasure, refused to come. In its place was a feeling of uncertainty, of confusion, of rejection and, worse, that miserable feeling of foolishness she’d suffered so many times before in her life when she’d charged head first into something, letting all her defences down, only to discover that it hadn’t been what she’d thought it had been after all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘HELL!’ Monroe shouted, shattering the quiet in the garage apartment.
The afternoon light was flooding through the French doors. The intoxicating scent of turpentine, sea salt and fresh grass swirled in the air.
It should have been the perfect time to paint, but he’d been trying to get this picture of Jessie on canvas for three hours and it wouldn’t come. He’d never had this problem before.
Cursing under his breath, he dumped the useless paintbrush back into the mug of turpentine and braced his arms against the table top. He could feel the burning tension in his neck and shoulders. He’d hardly slept at all last night.
He picked up the washcloth, began to rub his hands, and then threw it down again, cursing more vehemently.
It was no good. He couldn’t fool himself any longer. He should never have touched her. He could still see the confusion in her eyes when she’d told him she loved him the night before and he’d said nothing.
She hadn’t asked him to say the words back to her, had let him hold her afterwards as if it were okay. But he knew he’d hurt her.
He’d pretended to be asleep, unable to face her, unsure what to say. And in the darkness he’d felt her tremble beside him. It had been like having a knife thrust into his chest, knowing she was crying over him.
She’d been so quiet this morning, seemed so fragile, he had forced himself not to touch her before she’d left.
He should have been glad. Maybe she had begun to see that what they had didn’t stand a chance.
But he couldn’t seem to get past what had happened last night. He wanted to make things right, even though he knew he couldn’t.
And he missed her. Not being able to hold her this morning, not being able to bury himself inside her had put him on edge all day.
He pulled off his T-shirt and dumped it in the laundry basket he kept under the painting table. Picking up the washcloth again, he cleaned his hands and tried to ignore the grim thought that had haunted him since yesterday. If he was honest, it had haunted him ever since he’d first taken Jessie to bed.
What if he was falling in love with her, too?
He hung the washcloth over the table’s edge, shook his head. What on earth was wrong with him? Of course, he wasn’t in love with her. Any more than she really was with him. She was sweet and innocent and they’d both had the best sex of their lives together. That would dazzle anyone. But she couldn’t love him; no one could.
He picked up one of the oils he’d been using, screwed on the cap.
He slammed it into the box.
He couldn’t let her go, not yet. The muscles in his back went rigid at the thought of it, with panic and more than a little pain.
There were still lots of things he needed to get done here, he tried to reason with himself. He couldn’t be around her every day, see her every day and not want her, not want to take her to bed.
