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Placing so much trust in another human being was the most difficult thing she had ever done, but she loved him, and she could no longer live in the shadows. Gathering her courage, she told him about the rape, speaking in broken sentences and twisting her hands as she struggled to explain. She didn't realize until she saw the outrage on his face that she had been subconsciously preparing herself for disbelief, and the words came more quickly. As she spoke of those awful months in Paris when she'd slept with so many men, he showed no condemnation, only a sympathy that relaxed the tough lines of his face and made her yearn to throw herself into his arms. But she stayed where she was, nearly faltering as she attempted to describe how frozen she had felt for years and how impossible it had been for her to be intimate with anyone.
When she was done, she fell silent, her muscles screaming with tension, while she waited for him to absorb the fact that he was the man with whom she had chosen to end so many years of celibacy. He had not made a commitment of any kind to her, yet she was letting him know without words what he meant to her. Never had she risked so much.
She sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and watched him rise from the chair. As he came toward her, she sensed his suppressed rage in the corded tension of his neck muscles, but, at the same time, the soft compassion in his eyes made her understand that his anger wasn't directed at her.
He gathered her into his arms, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so very, very sorry."
Dropping his head, he began to kiss her, the warmth of healing in the touch of his lips. Right then, she wanted to tell him she loved him, but his kiss deepened and he began to caress her. Before long, she was lost to reason as he vanquished the shadows of the past with the sweet, deep stroking of his body.
It was nearly three in the morning before he drove her home. She'd put her bondage dress back on, along with his sweatshirt and her evening coat. After the emotional turmoil of the night, she felt very much at peace, and he, too, seemed relaxed.
"You're going to be exhausted tomorrow," she said as she leaned against his arm.
"I don't need much sleep. Even when I was a little kid, I'd crawl out of bed and sneak outside."
"You rascal."
"I was a stubborn little cuss. My mother took a switch to me whenever she caught me, but no matter how much she beat me, I kept doin' it."
His tone had been mild, but she lifted her head slightly. "Your mother beat you?"
A small muscle throbbed in his jaw. "My parents weren't exactly into modern child-raising techniques. They were backwoods people, teenagers when they had to get married. They both pretty much resented being stuck with a baby."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to look so sad. It got better when I was older. My father was real proud of me once I started to play ball."
She experienced a flash of rage toward a father who had needed a Scoreboard to measure out love. "What about your mother?"
"She was an alcoholic. On her good days, she was proud of me, too. They were killed in an auto accident my freshman year in college." She understood what it was costing him to reveal so much of himself to her, and she remained silent so he could tell this his own way.
"If you want to know the truth, I felt like I'd lost them a long time before that. It's strange. A couple of months ago, this guy was tailing me." He told her about Ray Hardesty, the Stars' player who had been cut from the team, and his father's apparent vendetta against Dan. "I haven't seen Hardesty since, so I assume he came to his senses. But when I had that man up against the side of his van, I felt like I was looking into my old man's eyes all over again. It was obvious that Hardesty had never made anything of himself, and he'd been living his life through his son. He wasn't grieving for Ray; he was grieving for himself. That's sick."
She shuddered at the idea of Dan's having someone stalking him.
His voice grew gruff. "That's why—It's a hard thing to explain, but family's important to me. A real family with kids and parents who care about each other."
"Was that why your marriage broke up?"
"Val never had any interest in kids. I'm not blaming her because things didn't work out, you understand. It was more my fault than hers. I should have gotten my priorities sorted out before I married her. She always said I was jealous of her career, but that wasn't it at all. Val's dedication to her work was one of the things I most admired about her. But I wanted her to care about family, too, and I can't ever let myself make a mistake like that again with a woman. I don't want my kids growing up with the kind of parents I had. I don't want to be the kind of father who makes his kid feel as if he has to score a touchdown before he can get any affection. And I want them to have a mother who's a real mother."
She gazed at him as he turned into her drive, trying to understand what he meant by that. Was he simply sharing his past with her because she'd told him about her
own, or was there a deeper meaning behind this conversation? The intimacy between them was too new and fragile for her to ask.
He came around to help her out, and when they reached her door, he kissed her temple, then her lips. Long minutes passed before they drew apart. "I'm going to miss you."
"We see each other every day."
"I know, but it's not the same." He brushed a lock of hair back from her cheek with his thumb. "I'll be pretty busy the rest of the week getting ready for the Bills' game, so don't read anything into it if I don't stop by here."
She smiled. "I won't."
"You keep your chin up this week, hear?" He stroked her hair and gave her a gaze so tender she felt as if he were making love to her all over again. "Honey, I understand how much you've got riding on Saturday. We're gonna do our best."
"I know that."
For a moment she thought he was going to say more. Instead, he squeezed her hand, kissed her again, and began to walk away.
