Countdown - Iris Johansen [56]
“Tough, isn’t it? Me too.” He stared down at her hand resting on the boulder. “Christ, I want to touch you.”
He wasn’t touching her but he might as well have been. Her palm pressing against the rock was tingling and she felt again that queer breathlessness.
His gaze stayed on her hand. “You touched me once. You put your hand on my chest and I had to stand there and keep myself from reaching out for you. It nearly killed me.”
“It should have. You were being stupid.”
“You were seventeen.”
“I was old enough to know what I wanted.” She added quickly, “Not that you were so special. You were just the first man that I’d felt that way about. I was a little backward where sex was concerned.”
“You didn’t act backward. I thought you were going to slug me.”
“You called me a schoolgirl.”
“I was trying to make you angry enough to protect myself.”
She was still angry, hurt—and filled with bitter regret. “Poor Trevor.”
“I hurt you.”
“Nonsense. I don’t let people hurt me. Did you think you’d scarred me for other relationships? No way.”
He shook his head. “You warned me you’d search until you found someone better than me. You kept your word.” He looked out at the sea. “Clark Peters, nice boy, but he got possessive after two months. Tad Kipp, very smart and ambitious but he didn’t like your dog, Toby, when you brought him home to Eve and Joe. Jack Ledborne, archaeology professor who supervised the second dig you went on. He didn’t tell you he was married and you cut him dead when you found out. Peter Brack, a K-9 cop in Quinn’s precinct. A match made in heaven. A dog lover and a cop. But he must have done something wrong, because you—”
“What the devil?” She couldn’t believe it. “Have you been having me watched?”
“Only when I couldn’t do it myself.” His gaze shifted back to her. “And most of the time I could. Do you want me to go on with your little black book? Or do you want me to tell you how proud I was when you won the Mondale International Art Award? I tried to get them to sell that painting to me, but they keep them for five years to put on tour to display around the country.” He smiled. “Of course, I considered stealing it, but I didn’t think you’d approve. But I did steal something else that belonged to you.”
“What?”
“A sketchbook. Two years ago you left it on a bench at the Metropolitan Museum when you went off with your friends to the cafeteria. I flipped through it and I couldn’t resist. I was always going to return it to you but I never did.”
“I remember that happening. I was mad as hell.”
“It didn’t seem to be anything that you’d develop into a painting. It seemed more . . . personal.”
Personal. She tried to remember if she’d had any sketches of Trevor in that sketchbook. Probably. “Why?” she whispered. “Why did you do all this?”
“You told me when you left Naples that it wasn’t finished. I found it wasn’t finished for me either.” His lips twisted. “Jesus, sometimes I prayed for it to be finished. You’re tough, Jane.”
“Then why didn’t you—”
“You told me I had no place in your life for the next four years. I was giving you your chance to find out if that was true.”
“And if I had?”
“The truth? I’m no martyr. I’d have stepped in and ruined the tidy little life you’d structured for yourself.”
“What are you saying? What’s the bottom line?”
“The bottom line?” His hand moved to within an inch of hers on the boulder. She could feel its warmth. “I want to go to bed with you so bad it’s a constant ache. I respect you. I admire you. You accused me once of being obsessed with Cira, but it’s nothing to what I feel for you. I don’t like it. I don’t know if it will go on. Sometimes I hope it doesn’t. Is that bottom line enough for you?”
“Yes.” Her throat was tight and she had to clear it. “If it’s true.”
“There’s a way to test at least the most obvious portion of it.”
He moved his hand that last inch. He touched her.
She shuddered, but not with cold. Heat.
Too much. Too intense.
She jerked her hand away. “No.”
“You want it.”
She couldn’t lie