Roxanne Claire - Barefoot by the Sea

The simple truth was that right this minute, he could absolutely see himself having a baby with Tessa. He really could. At the thought, a longing deep and powerful squeezed his chest, shocking the breath right out of him.

He could. Holy hell, he could fall in love with her.

What did that mean? Where did that leave them? Both living in a government protection program? Gone from here, from her life and her friends, disappearing into obscurity and lies, like he had to live? No. She didn’t have to live that way just because he loved her.

After a long moment of him staring at her, she pushed him all the way off her, sliding her legs out to stand up. “I’m glad you’re honest about it.”

Honest? He was choking on lies. “I haven’t said a word.”

“You don’t have to.” She smoothed her top and straightened the tiny shorts she wore, self-conscious of her sex-inviting outfit. Leaning over to blow out a candle, she held the V-neck to her chest modestly.

With a puff, the room was completely black.

“Good night, John.”

From deep, deep inside him, something welled up. Something hot and mad and so damn frustrated. He wanted to howl, to cry, and punch a hole through the wall.

This was not how he wanted to live. Tears stung his eyes and every muscle quivered.

With a shaking hand, he reached up and grabbed her arm, pulling her right back down on the sofa with a gasp.

“You don’t know anything,” he ground out. Even in the dark he could see her eyes widen in shock. “You don’t know…anything.”

He didn’t care that she could see his eyes wet with tears. Didn’t care that his voice cracked and his body quaked. Let her see how torn up he was inside. Even if she could never know why.

“Then tell me,” she whispered, searching his face, touching his cheek in wonder when she saw the moisture. “Tell me anything. Tell me…everything.”

“I…” A sob welled up, a sorrowful, pitiful, aching hole of need. He didn’t want to make love to her. He wanted her to be part of him, the part that knew every ugly thing about his life and loved him anyway. In spite of his past. Because of it.

“You what?” she urged.

“I…want…you.” For real. For real. Why couldn’t this be real?

Because Luther Vane stole more than his wife and his life. He stole every chance that Ian had to be normal, happy, and whole again. But Tessa…Tessa. She could make him whole.

If she were willing to give up everything.

She held his face very still, clueless as to what he really needed. “Then take me right now and forget about whatever it is that’s torturing you so much.”

White-hot agony ripped through him. One kiss, that was all it would take. One touch of her lips, one single kiss, and they would melt into each other and find pleasure and release and the ultimate, perfect bliss. For an hour, or two. A night, maybe.

And two weeks from now, he’d fuck her again, in a whole different way.

The need to tell her the truth actually burned in his chest, far hotter and more demanding than anything in the lower half of him. He didn’t want to “take” her. He wanted to tell her.

He had to. Right now. Right bloody now.

The wild, raw pain in John’s eyes reached right into Tessa’s soul and kind of horrified her. She’d never seen anything so—dark.

“I lied to you.” The words came out like burlap through his throat.

“About what?”

He closed his eyes, clearly buying time. Everything knotted—her chest, her stomach, and the blood in her ears seemed to gush like whitewater.

“I’ve been married.”

“Okay.” She merely mouthed the word. “And?”

“She died.”

Oh. She might have said the word, or just formed the letter, or barely breathed.

She died. The many, many implications of that rocked her, so she grabbed the easiest one. “That must have really hurt you.”

“More than you know.” He inched back, enough that she got cold and hollow inside. Deep down, the first tendril of a realization started to twine through her, but she was too busy taking in the torture on his face to think too hard about her own.

She backed away, too. Not to mirror his posture, but from the sheer anguish that emanated from him. This was no ordinary tale of loss, she realized with a shudder. Not that there was anything ordinary about death, but this was dark. “What happened?”

He tried to swallow, his moist eyelashes crinkling as he squeezed his eyes shut. “I found her,” he rasped. “I found her body.”

She let out a low exhale. “No.”

He nodded, still struggling for his voice.

“Did she…” Have a heart attack? An accident? Questions ricocheted as she waited for more.

“She was murdered.”

Gasping, she put her hand to her mouth, icy chills dancing over her. “How awful.”

Another nod, and he slowly moved even farther away, like his body and soul simply had to make distance from her.

And a wisp of a thought started to take shape: He’s not over her. He may never be.

“How long ago?” she asked.

“Three years.” He stabbed his hair, dragging his fingers through it as though counting. “And eight months.”

Oh, no. Not over her yet. Not even close. “You still…” Love her. “Are healing.”

He snorted softly. “There’s no healing from something like that, Tess. There’s merely existing.”

The words kicked her in the gut. “Did they…get the murderer?”

He nodded. “He’s in prison.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Very slowly, he shook his head, sliding back another few inches. She could practically feel the bricks go into place as he built a wall around himself.

“Why are you telling me if you don’t want…help?”

“You can’t help,” he fired back, the shot actually hurting her.

“You don’t know that.”

He searched her face again, his eyes red. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he said quickly. “You’ll want to know…” He shook his head as if he were trying to stop himself from talking. “I shouldn’t put you in this position.”

In what position? “You don’t want to talk about it? To a friend? To cry about it and…” Maybe move on? “Fix yourself?”

“I’m fine,” he said, standing abruptly.

She coughed a laugh, despite the weight of the topic. “I beg to differ.”

“She’s dead,” he said. “And…I’m…”

“Also dead,” Tessa whispered, standing as well. Dead to love, dead to possibilities, dead to the chance at a new life. The gardener in her ached to tend him and nurture him back, but something in his eyes told her that wasn’t possible. “Until you’re ready to talk about it, you’ll stay that way.”

“I can’t talk about it, Tessa.” The statement was flat and unequivocal, the complete lack of emotion cutting deeper than when he’d been ragged with feeling. “So don’t ask me to.”

“Then why did you tell me at all?” And, Good Lord, why had he lied all this time? The question shocked her, both because it hadn’t occurred yet and—well, why?

“Because I can’t talk about it.”

“So you pretend it never happened?”

He swiped at his hair again, the anguish a little different now. He’d gone from jagged pain to regret in the space of a few minutes. “It’s easier that way,” he finally said.

“Easier for who?” she demanded, hating the rise in her voice but unable to stop it.

“Just easier.” He rounded the table and put still more space between them. “I shouldn’t have talked about it. I really shouldn’t have.”

Definitely regret. But why? She stood speechless, the truth descending like a mid-summer storm cloud.

“You know now,” he said, waving his hand like he was absolved, somehow. “You understand.”

Was he kidding? She didn’t understand anything. Only that he was still in love with someone else. Dead or alive, it didn’t matter. He was in love with another woman, and that was the little something he’d been hiding all this time.

He was at the door in a few steps, his hand on the knob, the unspoken good-bye echoing through every dark corner of the room.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, letting himself out.

Stunned, she didn’t breathe until he was gone. “Yeah,” she whispered to the emptiness. “So am I.”

She heard the growl of his motorcycle starting up and the whine as it took off into the night.

She was sorry, all right. Sorry and vindicated. Because, deep inside, she’d known this from the very beginning. Sure, the girls could say it was her silly fear of secrets, and she could rationalize and rationalize along with them, but she’d known deep in her gut that he was holding back something important, something truthful.

From her bedroom she heard the soft digital ding of her phone.

That didn’t take long. Of course he had to finish this conversation. Resentful of the hope that bubbled up, she ignored the call, dropping her head into her hands until the sound stopped.

A few minutes later she washed up in the bathroom, and she heard the ringtone again. Turning the water on harder, she tried to drown it out. What was left to say at this hour of the night?

As she climbed into bed the phone rang again, and this time she could see the screen light up on the nightstand.

Catherine Galloway.

Her mother was calling now? At two in the morning? That couldn’t be good. She picked up the phone and answered, “Mom?”

A sniff was all she got, making Tessa sit straight up in bed. “Mom, is that you? Are you all right?”