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around her and inhaled the familiar sweet scent of her body. She relaxed against him.
"The sun's barely up," she said, still looking out the window. "But people are already stirring."
He glanced toward the eastern horizon. The first sliver of sunlight could be seen stretching across the sleepy town. Megan was right. Mr. Greeley was making his way toward his butcher shop.
"They'll know." Her voice was troubled.
Regret. That which he'd feared most. He'd known she would regret their night together and the tenderness and love their bodies had shared. He'd warned himself about this, but he still felt the icy fingers clutching at his heart.
He stepped back. "If you hurry, you can get home without anyone seeing you."
"No. It's too late."
She shook her head. Long strands of hair shimmered around her. He wanted to touch her hair, touch her, anything to make it all right. But he couldn't. She was right. It was too late. For both of them.
He stood behind her in the cool morning air, clenching his hands at his sides. He didn't want to know about her regrets. A flare of anger surprised him. "You should have thought of that before you came here," he said. "You're the one who insisted on coming up to my hotel room. You wanted to plan your own scandal. Now that it's happened, why are you surprised? Of course there's going to be a price to pay. There always is."
"At least we're even."
He stared at the back of her head, then placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her until she faced him. He'd half expected to see tears, but there weren't any. Her large hazel-gray eyes met his unflinchingly.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I'll have my comeuppance this morning. You should be pleased. At last I'll pay for those things I said to you seven years ago."
He stared at her. "Is that what you think last night was about? That I bedded you to punish you for what you said?"
"No, of course not. Punishment wouldn't be that sweet." She stared at the center of his chest. "But can you tell me it never crossed your mind? As we climbed those stairs, wasn't a small part of you secretly pleased at what I would have to face today?"
"Never."
She swallowed. "I wish I could believe you." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and raised her gaze to his. "Do you forgive me, Justin Kincaid? Genuinely? Can you forget the past between us?"
She'd always been beautiful, but this morning, with the fragrance of their night together clinging to her skin, with a faint flush of color staining her cheeks, with her full mouth trembling, he knew beautiful didn't begin to describe her. She was the only woman he'd ever loved. She'd broken his heart and shattered his soul. She'd known his greatest weakness and she'd profited from it. Lowing her had always been easy, but forgiving her?
She nodded faintly. "I suspected as much. You can't forgive me. No matter. I can't forgive myself, either." She moved away from him and sat in the window seat. The coverlet she clutched around her made her look young and vulnerable.
"I loved you," she said, then smiled. "I know you don't believe me, but I swear, I did. More than anything. That morning." She shuddered. "It was awful. I'd heard about the beating. Colleen could talk of nothing else. My father knew you'd been accused. He was disgusted, saying the most awful things. He frightened me. Gene came calling. He told me more details of the beating. He was the one who told me they'd accused you."
There was a velvet chair by the fireplace. Justin walked over and sat on it. The faint chill in the room made him glance toward his clothing, but he didn't bother to pull on his trousers.
"I believed you to be innocent," she went on. Her gaze was firmly fixed on the floor, her fingers twisted the edge of the coverlet. "Then Gene took my father aside and told him you'd admitted to being with Laurie. That you'd paid her to do those things." She paused and swallowed, as if fighting for control. "We were supposed to be engaged, Justin. You said you loved me, but you'd admitted to being with a wh-whore." Her voice cracked.
"I explained that," he said.
"I know. But I needed the truth seven years ago. Not last month. ,,
"You should have trusted me."
