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He had certainly destroyed another of her assumptions, because she had always thought people who claimed to be swept away by passion were exaggerating to cover their own stupidity and carelessness. Now she was the newest member of the Stupid and Careless Club.
So much for her vaunted caution and self-control; Marc Chastain just hadn't gotten his hands on her, yet. Well, now he had, and now she knew that she had no caution or self-control where he was concerned.
There were so many levels of foolishness to her behavior that she could scarcely believe what she had done. She had gone straight from her father's grave to a stranger's bed. She didn't think she could have made it through the ordeal of the past few days without Marc's aid, but he was still, essentially, a stranger. She didn't know anything about him except that he was a cop, he could seduce a statue, and he had screwed her brains out.
The deliberate crudity of the thought didn't make her feel better, it made her feel like crying.
If she thought he had been wildly attracted to her from the beginning, she would still be embarrassed by having slept with him, still be mortified by her carelessness, but she wouldn't have run like a scared rabbit. But he hadn't been attracted to her, in fact, he had taken an instant dislike to her. Lying in the cool of the early morning, pinned to the mattress by his muscular arm, all she could remember was when she had first met him, and she knew she hadn't been mistaken. So, if he disliked her so much, why had he immediately launched his seduction tactics? The awful possibility that occurred to her was what sent her running.
Maybe he was guilty of nothing more than horniness. Maybe he had made love to her casually but not maliciously, taking the opportunity when it presented itself. Maybe. She didn't believe it. For one thing, he hadn't left anything to chance, not even the condoms. He had set out to take her and accomplished his aim with ridiculous ease. His actions bespoke a deliberation that frightened her, and hurt her beyond measure.
Given his immediate dislike, what if his entire seduction campaign had been aimed at taking her down a peg? Screw her, use her, walk away from her.
One of the residents at the hospital had even said something like that to her, after she had turned down his invitation for the third time. "One of these days, some slick stud is going to get your panties off," he had said, sneering, "and when he gets through with you and walks off, you'll find out you're not any better than the rest of us."
She didn't imagine studs came any slicker than Marc Chastain.
She winced, wishing she would stop thinking in those awful puns.
Now she thought of an even worse possibility. What if his actions had been motivated by pity?
She groaned, covering her eyes. Great. Just great. She was that most pitiable of creatures, a mercy fuck.
Karen rolled her head and looked at the blinking light on the answering machine. She didn't have to listen to the messages; she could walk over there and erase them. She wouldn't have to hear that dark velvet drawl again or, worse, not hear it. Maybe he had just said to hell with it and walked away, and there was no message from him to erase.
"Damn it." She said the words aloud. "Damn it, damn it, damn it." The repetition didn't help. She had to face the truth she had been trying hard to avoid, but her own inability to stop thinking about him made avoidance impossible. She had done something far more stupid than sleeping with him; sometime during the past three days, she had fallen in love with him.
She had told herself it was only because he was being so helpful at a time when she really needed it, but her heart had given a big thump every time she saw him. She had told herself it was just his voice, that marvelous, deliciously male voice, that attracted her. She had told herself a lot of things, but the truth was her insides had jolted in primitive recognition the first time she had seen him. Call it chemistry, call it biology—hell, call it voodoo—for whatever reason, she had gravitated to him like a nail to a magnet, and everything he had done after that had only intensified her feelings.
How could she not love him? He had fed her, sheltered her with his own body, warmed her; such simple, even primitive actions, things a caveman might have done for his cavewoman of choice when he wanted to get under her bearskin with her. Funny that they were as effective now as they had been thousands of years ago.
She couldn't put her finger on any one moment when her initial feelings had crystallized into something more serious, but neither could she discount what she was feeling. It was real, it w
as fierce, it was terrifying—and it was painful.
If all he had wanted was casual sex to while away a rainy night, then he shouldn't have been so damn courteous and gallant, she thought furiously, tears stinging her eyes. And if he disliked her so much that he had deliberately tried to make her care, so her hurt would be worse—
She didn't know what to do. She didn't have the experience to deal with this kind of situation. She had never loved a man before, never let herself even get close to loving one. It was ironic that she had just decided to begin giving men more of a chance in the romance field, and then Marc had come in under her radar and laid her flat, quite literally.
She should have stayed and faced him. It would have been the smart, dignified thing to do. Just lay it all out, like an adult—no game playing, just honest talk.
Well, it was too late to act like an adult. The least she could do now was apologize for her behavior and let him worry about his own.
The blinking light on the answering machine was driving her crazy. Swearing, tears burning her eyes again, she stalked over to the machine and punched the play button.
There was a hang-up, then a recorded message trying to sell her cleaning products, three more hangups, a message from Piper saying, "God, Karen, I'm so sorry about your father. Why didn't you call?" The next message was an aluminum siding salesman, then another hang-up, and all at once a deep, furious voice: "God damn it, Karen—" He stopped, and when he spoke again, it sounded as if his teeth were clenched. "What the hell did you mean, running away like that? You call me the fucking minute you get home, or by God I'll—"
She didn't get to hear the rest of the threat, because he slammed down the phone. Her knees went weak, and she grabbed the edge of the desk for support. No velvet in his voice now; all she could hear was steely rage. The force of it took her aback. She hadn't expected rage. Disgruntlement, maybe, but she had expected the phone call to be something along the lines of "Are you all right? Running away wasn't necessary." She had expected him to check on her, nothing more, and the very mildness of his response would make her feel even more cowardly for running.
She hadn't heard him curse before—those perfect manners again. She hadn't been naive enough to think he didn't swear at all; she had heard him, though he had been speaking French. He was a cop, after all, and under the courtesy was a toughness that in normal circumstances would have made her keep as far away from him as possible. Her father had been a tough man, too. But she had needed Marc, and she had never in her life felt safer than she had with him. It wasn't just the pistol in his belt holster, it was the man himself, big and confident, with his hard, glittering eyes. He was tough, all right, and she didn't doubt he could be mean when the situation warranted.
With her, however, he had been gentle. Courteous. He had used sex words in bed with her, of course; she closed her eyes as she remembered some of the things he had said, and done. Arousal curled low and warm inside her, making her squeeze her legs together. She shivered and groaned aloud.
Just as she had the first time he called, she rewound the tape and played his message again. She winced as the force of his fury hit her ears. She had run from him as if he were a rapist, insulting him after he had gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf, regardless of what his private opinion of her was. Being a cop, he would also have tried to catch her, to make certain nothing was wrong. She hadn't even had the courtesy to answer his page. No wonder he was furious; she was furious with herself. Yes, she'd had a rough few days, a rough year, but she couldn't excuse herself on those grounds. She couldn't excuse herself at all.
She picked up the phone and dialed before she could do something else childish, such as chicken out.
"This is Chastain. Leave a message."
