Night Jasmine (11 page)

“It doesn't matter. It's still wonderful.”

“I'll tell Tante Marie you said so.” Aimee drew her knees to her chest and stared out at the darkness. Minutes passed with neither of them speaking.

Hunter thought of all the times they had sat together like this, quietly but with a sort of unspoken communication. Tonight, the atmosphere between them was one of awkward truce and uncomfortable awareness. He cursed the loss even as he accepted blame for it.

“Tell me about today, Aimee,” he murmured, needing to break the silence. “What happened?”

She tipped her face to his, then looked away again, gazing across the yard to her home. “Papa's not making the kind of progress he should be, and the therapist thought that if he watched us work together he could help us correct any problems we were having.” A touch of bitterness colored her tone. “Of course, all we're having are problems.”

She sighed and rested her chin on her drawn-up knees. “The therapist supervised while I worked with him. It was awful. Papa fought me, fought the physical therapist when he tried to intervene. He refused to cooperate on any level.”

Hunter set his plate aside and covered one of her hands with his own. He hated to see her despair. Her bitterness. They were so foreign to the woman he had known before. It saddened him to see her so unhappy.

“Every time I touched him,” she continued, “he complained. Or criticized. I couldn't do anything right.” She breathed in, the sound shaky and aching. “It hurt. It was humiliating to be treated that way in front of a stranger. I felt like a fool. Like an incompetent, uncaring daughter.”

Hunter moved his thumb gently across her knuckles. He should ask her why she allowed her father to treat her that way. He should give her the advice he knew she needed, should tell her that was exactly how her father wanted her to feel, at least on a subconscious level.

But he didn't want a confrontation, not tonight. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to be there for her. “I'm sorry.”

She lifted her lips in a small smile, then tilted her face up to the star-strewn sky. “You should have seen Papa before his illness. Big and strapping. Confident. Full of life and strength.” She laughed, the sound full of love. “When I was a little girl, he was my hero. Maybe all little girls say that of their fathers, but Papa, with his booming voice and deep, rich laugh, was so much larger than life to me. In my eyes he could do nothing wrong. I remember just looking up at him and being filled with…awe.”

“And he doted on you.”

“Yes. I was his little girl, his only child. He thought I was perfect.” She frowned then, and slipped her hand from his. She dropped her right hand to the old wooden step and ran her finger back and forth across its surface, grooved and scarred with age. “I'm not certain when it began to go wrong. Maybe when Maman died. Maybe when I began to see that he was a man, not a hero.”

Hunter caught her hand again, this time lacing their fingers. “Maybe it didn't go wrong,” he murmured. “Maybe it just changed. Relationships do.”

“Maybe.” She gazed down at their joined hands, then looked back up at him. “He's never forgiven me for leaving. Nothing I can do now seems to be able to make up for that betrayal. But I only knew I had to go. That this life—his life—wasn't the one I wanted.”

“Yet, here you are.”

His comment hurt her; he could see it in her eyes. He hadn't meant to, but as he'd murmured the words he'd known that they would. After all, how could they not? She was the same woman who had left home all those years ago, she had the same dreams, although he knew she would deny it.

He brought their joined hands to his mouth and pressed his lips to hers. “You didn't betray him, Aimee. You did what you had to. You followed your dream.”

She pulled her hand away. “I was young. So naive and starry-eyed.”

He cupped her face. “You were brash and self-confident. You had everything going for you.”

“Not enough, apparently. Illusions. Dreams of grandeur.”

“No, Aimee. You're wrong.”

She placed her hands on his bare chest, suddenly angry. Beneath her palms, his heart thundered. “Not enough going for me to keep the critics from ripping me to shreds. Not enough to keep you.”

“I didn't leave.”

She laughed, the sound brittle to her own ears. “But you were never really there, Hunter.
I
was our relationship. The only thing that kept us together as long as we were was my naive belief that I could shape the world and everyone in it. Including you.”

He moved one of his hands to the back of her neck, circling it with his fingers. A wild, irrational anger flared inside him. “I was there. More than you know.”

“How?” she demanded, curling her hands into fists on his chest. “In bed? And if so, how do I know if it was even me you were with?”

He swore. “How could you even doubt it?”

“How could I not?”

He swore again and dragged her against his chest. “Because I never felt with anyone the way I did with you. Even Ginny. I died a hundred agonizing, guilty deaths because of that, but I couldn't change it.”

“Well, that makes me feel just great,” she said, the words tight with fury. “Even when we made love, she was on your mind. You felt like you were cheating on her.”

She started to stand; he pulled her back down to him. He cupped the back of her head. “Damn you, Aimee, that's not what I meant.”

“No? I can't see it any other way. You felt guilty, like you were cheating on your wi—”

Hunter silenced her with his mouth. His kiss dominated, it bruised. She didn't resist; instead she met his force, matched his fury. She parted her lips—his tongue found hers, mating with it. He caught both her hands in one of his and tumbled her back against the porch floor.

Hunter lifted his head and gazed down at her. Her eyes were smoky with arousal, her cheeks wild with color. He lowered his eyes to her mouth, soft with passion, parted in invitation. He moved his gaze lower still, his arousal painful. Her full breasts pressed against the light cotton of her blouse, her nipples stood out, erect and—he knew—aching for his hands, his mouth.

He'd seen her this way dozens of times before; it felt like the first. As if a dying man, Hunter greedily took her mouth once more, cupping her breasts with hands greedier still, molding, caressing.

Aimee arched into his hands, wanting more, needing everything. It had been so long. So very long. She bit back a moan as he moved a hand lower, over her rib cage, her abdomen, to the
apex of her thighs. He curved his fingers around her. She arched up, crying out with pleasure and shock.

Hunter caught her cry with his mouth. “Remember, Aimee?” he rasped. “Remember how it was between us?”

She did. So well it was like yesterday. Yet at the same time, she had forgotten what it was to be alive, to be a whole woman. Sexual. Sensual. Complete.

Aimee reveled in the sensation, in the excitement roaring through her, fighting off the other memories. Memories of pain. Memories of the devastation she had felt at the end, when she had finally realized he would never love her.

With a sound of pain, Aimee flattened her hands against his chest and pushed. “No, Hunter.”

He lifted his head, his hands from her body. He gazed down at her, out of breath, his eyes dark with desire. For one moment, she felt herself weakening, her muscles liquefying once more with arousal, then she firmed her resolve. “Let me up.”

He rolled off her and she jumped to her feet. “I've got to go.”

He followed her to her feet; he caught her hand, lacing their fingers. “Don't go. Stay with me.” He lowered his voice to a caress. “You want to.”

She did, she wanted to so badly she ached. But if she stayed she would regret it forever. “I can't.” She shook her head for emphasis. “I can't.”

“Then why did you come to me tonight?”

Her cheeks heated with anger, and she narrowed her eyes. “Cheap shot, Hunter. You know I didn't come here for that.” She tugged against his grasp. “It's over between us.”

“No.” He dragged her against his chest. “It's not over. You can feel it between us, Aimee. It's still there.”

“What you feel between us,” she said, struggling for control, “could be taken care of by any woman.”

“You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you? Just as you'd like to believe that any man has the ability to make you feel the way I do.” He slid his hands to her bottom, cupping her, drawing her against his arousal. “I haven't been with anyone else, Aimee. Not since you left.”

His words, their meaning, rocketed through her. He hadn't made love with another woman. She must have meant something to him. She must have been important. Special.

But not important enough. Not special enough to love.

She balled her hands into fists against his chest. “Why are you doing this? Do you believe you have something to give me this time? Something more than sex and a place to live and make my photographs? And what of Oliver? Where does he fit in the scenario? Do you have anything to give him?”

Hunter swore and swung away from her. For long moments he stared out at the darkness. Then he turned back to her. “Doesn't what I said mean anything to you? Doesn't the fact that I haven't been able to forget you, that I haven't desired another woman since you, mean anything?”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “It means you're a faithful man, Hunter Powell. But I already knew that. After all, you haven't loved anyone since Ginny and Pete.” She met his gaze, hope trembling inside her. “Have you?”

Hunter took a step away from her. It hurt to hear her say Ginny's and Pete's names. It hurt to know she was right. He wanted Aimee to give him everything. He wanted to knock down her walls, wanted to peel away all her protective layers, force her to face… What? Her need for him? Her own fears and pain?

Yet, what was he willing to give in return? What did he have to give her?

“Don't worry, darling, everything will be fine. Just hurry home….”

“I love you, Daddy….”

“Is this your son, Mr. Powell? And this, is this your wife?”

Ginny… Pete… Dear God, no…

Hunter squeezed his eyes shut against the memories, the images that tumbled after them. “You're right,” he said, his voice choked with pain. He turned away from her, struggling to submerge the memories, not wanting her to see the extent of his anguish. “I don't have anything to give you.”

Aimee took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. “Hunter, I want to understand. I—”

“Just go,” he said, not turning. “I'm a dead man. Save yourself.”

With a muffled sound of pain, she did.

Chapter Six

T
he next morning, Aimee and Oliver were gone. Aimee had left a basket of breakfast pastries, some homemade preserves and a note. Hunter picked it up and scanned its contents. She'd taken Oliver to mass, then to a cousin's to play for the day. She would try to be home by suppertime, but if not, there were leftovers in the refrigerator.

Hunter frowned at the generic message. It was addressed to neither him nor Roubin, although he couldn't imagine that Aimee hadn't talked to her father before she left. So, she'd meant it for him.

He reread the message, his frown deepening. The impersonality of the note shouldn't bother him. He told himself it didn't.

But that was a lie. It bothered the hell out of him.

Hunter curled his fingers around the paper, crushing it. After what had occurred between them the night before, he wanted, expected, something personal. Something emotional—even if only anger.

Dammit, he hadn't been able to sleep for thinking of her, for brooding over what had happened between them, brooding over how it had made him feel.

He wasn't supposed to be feeling anything.

Hunter pocketed the wadded paper, then helped himself to a couple biscuits and a mug of coffee. Thankfully, Roubin was nowhere to be seen. He had no desire to make small talk with the other man this morning.

Hunter took his breakfast and crossed the yard to his own small porch. He made himself comfortable on the steps, his mind flooding with the image of Aimee as she'd been the night before: her eyes dark with arousal, her mouth soft and bruised from his own.

Only a matter of hours ago, he thought. She'd been here with him. In his arms. Only a matter of hours ago, he'd felt alive. And for one brief moment, ridiculously hopeful.

Hunter swore and set aside his biscuits, his appetite gone. What was wrong with him? What kind of man was he, to want Aimee to admit her feelings for him when he had nothing to give her in return? What kind of person was he, to want her so badly when he knew another affair between them would only end in a dead-end for her?

He had nothing to offer her. Nothing to offer Oliver.

Across the way, he saw Roubin wheel out of his house. The older man didn't see Hunter, and Hunter watched as Roubin progressed slowly across the yard on the paved path that had been put in specifically for that purpose.

He handled the chair clumsily, as if he hadn't gotten used to it yet. Hunter drew his eyebrows together. Roubin had suffered his aneurysm before Aimee returned from California, and she'd returned nearly four years ago. Roubin should be a whiz in the chair by now.

Unless he'd refused to grow accustomed to it.

Hunter's mouth lifted. Maybe he did have something to give Aimee and Oliver. Not the emotional commitment they deserved, but he was a doctor, after all. A healer. His clinic specialized in rehabilitation from the aftereffects of catastrophic illness.

But before he could do anything, he would have to speak with Roubin's physician. What was the man's name? Aimee had mentioned it the morning she'd cut her hand.
Landrieu
…
Landers
… Hunter searched his memory for the name.
Landry.
That was it.
Dr. Landry.