The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [109]
His gaze rested on the harsh red line encircling her neck. The ligature line from the plastic bag.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was husky, uncertain.
“Looking for someone to scrub my back.”
“What makes you think I’d do a thing like that?”
“I’m an invalid. You’ll help me.” He pulled the shower curtain all the way back, unmindful of the hot water that sprinkled his chest. He placed his right hand on his fly and rapidly undid the buttons.
She remained standing beneath the shower spray, openmouthed and watching as he stripped. He joined her in the tub, his legs cradling hers.
Without asking, he took the soap from her hands. He ran it over her breasts, her flat belly. He felt her skin quiver beneath his touch. Wordlessly he brought the soap up and slid it over the red welt encircling her neck, as if he could erase it. As if any man had that kind of power. Christ, he wanted it. He wanted to make the world better for her, he wanted to give her everything he hadn’t been able to give Marion, everything he hadn’t been able to give Rachel and Teddy. He’d failed so many times. It scared him to death to try, and scared him even more to leave Tess alone at the mercy of a man like Jim Beckett.
His fingers massaged the red line again. He thought that when he saw Jim Beckett next, Beckett’s death would be painful and a long time coming.
Goddammit, let me keep one person safe. Let me help Tess, let me help Samantha. Let me stand up at the plate and finally be a man.
She said quietly, “You called her, didn’t you?”
His thumb brushed again, slow, his silence answering for him.
“J.T., I’m proud of you.”
“I don’t need you to be proud of me.” He let the soap go. He looked into her eyes, searching for something he was too afraid to put into words. Her eyes were so large and so clear. Trusting. God help him. God help her.
His fingers slid into the brown thistledown of her curls and found her. She was moist, hot, ready. She arched into him, her hands digging into his shoulders. She whispered his name; the sound alone toppled his control.
She gave him hope. And maybe something more.
She pressed her forehead against his chest as his fingers started to move. “I know,” she whispered against his skin, “but I’m proud of you anyway.”
“I WANT MOMMY.”
“I know.” He touched her blond hair lightly where it pooled over the plain white pillowcase. She sank deeper into the pillow, not quite cringing but not quite wanting the contact. After the first big shock of seeing him, she had become worried and anxious. She didn’t fight him, but she didn’t cling to his hand the way she used to. He accepted that. It had been two years since she’d last seen him, and he hardly looked like his old self.
He continued smoothly. “As I told you, Mommy’s not coming back.”
Sam’s lower lip jutted out. Blue eyes became liquid. “But she promised!”
He didn’t respond to the whine in her voice. If you reward such behavior with attention, the child never learns. Instead, he said bluntly, “Theresa lied to you, Sam.”
“Mommy wouldn’t do that!”
“Yes, she would. She told you I would never come back, correct?” Samantha nodded miserably. “She lied, Sam. She lied, but it’s okay, because I’m here for you now.”
She cried a little, as if that would refute his words. He remained sitting there patiently. Finally she wiped the moisture from her face, then sighed with a little girl’s broken heart. He didn’t console her or hold her. He just waited. Within a few weeks Theresa’s image would begin to fade in Sam’s mind, within a few months her mother would seem like a distant shadow, and within a few years Theresa wouldn’t be recalled at all. Starting over again tabula rasa was the glory—the privilege—of youth.
When Samantha was tearless and composed once more, he tucked the covers beneath her chin and patted her shoulder. “I have a surprise for you,” he said lightly, giving her a reward for handling