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“Why did they break up?”
“Because Sarah’s seven-year-old daughter told her that Thomas had been sexually abusing her,” he said in a rush.
“What?” she shoved at his arms that encircled her and bounded off her bed.
“I'm sorry, Clara; I know this is hard for you to hear. When Sarah ended things, she said that Thomas told her he had been abused as a child during the time you two were missing. He said he wanted answers, and he obviously knew enough to find the Doll Killers.”
“Which means I must too, only I can't remember.” Taking a leaf out of Naomi’s book, she paced the bedroom, struggling to come to terms with everything she’d learned about Tommy the last few days. Her mind was on overload. How had she not seen that he was so unbalanced?
“Come lie down,” Jonathon patted the mattress.
For the first time, she realized that Jonathon was wearing only a pair of sweatpants. For a moment, all she could do was stare at his sculpted chest and hope she wasn't drooling. It had been a while since she’d had sex—not since her last serious relationship broke up almost eighteen months ago. But she didn’t just jump into bed with someone she hadn’t even known a week, no matter how good-looking they were. Sleeping in Jonathon’s arms last night had been comforting, made her feel safe, but she hadn’t wanted anything more. Now, however, given the emotional turmoil and stress of the last few days, she was tempted to throw out her no-sex-with-someone-you’re-not-in-a-committed-relationship-with rule.
He looked at her with an amused expression. “Relax. I'm not asking you for sex. I was just going to offer a massage, to help you relax.”
“Oh,” was all she could manage as her cheeks heated in embarrassed.
“Not that I don’t want to, of course,” Jonathon continued cheerfully, his brown eyes twinkling merrily, obviously enjoying watching her squirm. “And we will. But not like this, not when you're scared and suffering. I don’t want you to wind up regretting it. When we do, it should be perfect. So, come, lie down, and I’ll give you a massage.”
She smiled despite the nervous fluttering butterflies that had taken up residence in her stomach.
“Take off your nightgown,” he instructed as she rejoined him on the bed.
Clara did as he asked, glad that she’d kept on the simple white cotton camisole and panties under her pajamas because without them she feared she’d almost definitely end up breaking her own rules. Tossing the pink and green plaid flannel nightgown on the floor, she stretched out on her stomach as Jonathon indicated.
He started with her feet, paying attention to each toe, then the ball of her foot, the arch, and then up her legs. His strong hands worked magic on her taut muscles. Bit by bit, her body liquefied as she relaxed more and more with each stroking movement of his hands. By the time he reached her back, she wasn't sure she could have strung together a cohesive thought if her life depended on it. If he’d asked her right now to make love to him, the answer would have been a resounding yes.
“You're so tense,” he murmured as he moved on to her shoulders.
And then she tensed completely as his hands brushed the back of her neck. He froze too and she knew he’d felt it.
Immediately, she rolled over and scooted up onto her bottom; her knees came to her chest, and she wrapped her arms around them, instinctively forming her own little protective shield. She didn’t like anyone to see it. She hated knowing that it was there.
“You have one, too, I wasn't sure,” Jonathon said softly.
The Doll Killers had branded her. Left the mark of a doll on the back of her neck. At first, it had hurt a lot, and due to an infection, it had taken a long time to heal. The pain hadn’t bothered her—it was that people would see it, know what had happened to her. Ever since she made sure that she wore her hair long enough to cover her neck, and she never, ever put it up, italwayshung down her back covering her neck from prying eyes. Over time the burn had faded, gone from bright red to a purply color, and now it was the same color as the rest of her skin. It was barely noticeable unless you touched it. Then the raised scar was obvious.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Clara.”
Ignoring her body language, which clearly shoutedstay away, he moved to sit beside her, curled an arm around her stiff shoulders, and urged her head to lean against his broad chest. After resisting for a moment, she relaxed a fraction and snuggled closer.
“You feel guilty; that’s what’s holding back your memories,” his fingers began to play with her hair.
“I was just a kid, I didn’t do anything wrong,” she protested.
“You walked away from your mother that day, even though you knew you weren’t supposed to speak to strangers.”
It felt like he was fishing for answers, so she could simply say nothing. Instead, she said, “Sometimes kids know the right thing to do, but when they're put in that situation they still don’t do it.”
“Why did you walk away, honey?” he asked gently.
What broke her down and pushed her into answering was how gentle he was with her. He’d meant it when he’d said he wanted sex; she’d felt it, both physically and emotionally. But he’d held back because he knew she wasn't ready; he was right when he’d said that she would have wound up regretting it if they slept together tonight. Instead, he’d made helping her relax his priority, setting aside his needs to focus on hers. “Because of my mom,” she answered softly.
“You two weren’t close? Even back then?”
She and her mother hadneverbeen close. “She blamed me for ruining her marriage.”
“She was the one who chose to cheat on her husband,” he reminded her.
