Night Jasmine (3 page)

After all this time, why had he come? Why couldn't he have left well enough alone? Time had healed her. She'd finally put the past behind her. She'd gone on.

Now, he'd reopened the wound. How long would it take it to close this time? A week? A month? Years, again?

Aimee brought a trembling hand to her mouth. For so long, she'd fantasized him coming after her, declaring his love, telling her that he couldn't live without her. When those fantasies had died, she'd created others, ones where she'd been cool and unaffected by his pleas and promises, ones where she hurt him the way he'd hurt her.

In her head, she had prepared what she would say to him, had rehearsed how she would act and react. Always in her fantasies, she'd bested him.

And then there'd been nothing. She'd let go. Of the fantasies. The hurt. The love.

Aimee laughed softly, the sound wrenched from a place somewhere deep inside of her. She hadn't had a clue. Every part of her had been affected by seeing him. And as it had always been between them, it had been Hunter who was cool. Hunter who had been unaffected.

Aimee stared through the screen door, out at her father and Oliver, sitting together under the shade of the huge, old oak. Its thick, twisted branches, draped with spanish moss, stretched out over the yard, providing shade but blocking the sun so that little grass grew beneath.

She could tell by the rigid line of her father's shoulders that he was furious with her. He wouldn't understand why she'd lied to him—or rather, he would see what she'd told him as a lie. She didn't. She'd told her father that Hunter had been married, that he hadn't wanted anything to do with her or Oliver. Neither had been a lie, for although Hunter's wife was dead, he had been still very much married to her.

Aimee brushed impatiently at the tears that slipped down her cheeks. So now she'd hurt her father again. Disappointed him again. It seemed she'd made a life out of doing both.

Oliver looked anxiously up at the store; she heard him ask his
Pépàre
for her. She drew in another steadying breath, then released it. She would have time for tears, for self-recriminations, later. Her son needed her.

She pushed through the door and headed across the lawn. “Did you save Mommy any lunch?” she called, forcing a bright smile.

“Maman!” Oliver jumped up and raced toward her, his face radiating love.

He launched
himself at her and she swung him into her arms, hugging him tightly. “Hi, baby. Are you and Pépàre having fun?”

Oliver nodded and snuggled against her. She breathed in his sweet scent, part baby still and part boy already, and her heart turned over. What would she do if she lost him? She kissed his silky head. “I love you.”

“Love, too.” He wound his fingers, sticky with grape jelly, in her hair. “That man gone?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She pressed her nose to his. “He was just an old friend, baby. He won't be coming back.”

Her father made a gruff sound and she dared a glance at him. He sent her a dark look, one filled with questions and accusations.

“Not now, Papa,” she murmured, hearing the tremor in her own voice and cursing it. “Oliver needs his nap. We'll talk later.”

Without a word, her father turned away from her and began to wheel slowly back to the store. Her chest heavy with unshed tears, Aimee watched him go.

* * *

Several miles up the road Hunter stood at the edge of the bayou, staring out at the dark water. He had a son. Dear Lord, he was a father. Again. The thing he had promised himself would never happen had happened without his even knowing it.

A son. Hunter pressed the heels of his shaking hands against his eyes, memories of another toddler, another son, bursting through his head like fireworks, obliterating everything but the pain of the memories. Unlike Aimee's boy, Pete had been fair. Tow-headed, with huge blue eyes. He'd been tall for his age and full of mischief. He hadn't had the seriousness of Aimee's son, nor the clinginess.

He and Ginny had adored Pete. He'd been the center of their universe. And Pete had basked in that love as only a baby can—unshakably and without questions, confident in himself and his world.

Hunter squeezed his eyes shut. If he dug deeply into his well of memories he could hear Pete's baby voice in his head.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Digging deeper, he could feel those chubby little arms around his neck, hugging, could feel his child's weight in his arms, against his chest.

“But why can't we go, Daddy? I'll be a good boy.”

Hunter sucked in a sharp breath, the pain sawing through him like a jagged, dull blade. His vision blurred, and he swore. At the heavens, at hell. It was so senseless. Why Pete? Why his bright, beautiful little boy? There were so few miracles in this world and so much ugliness. His little boy had been a miracle. His little boy had been light and love and goodness.

And what of Ginny? Hunter clenched his fingers into fists of futility and frustration. Sweet, gentle, kind to everyone. What had she done to deserve her fate? What had been the purpose of taking her?

Her voice rang in his head. “Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll be fine. Don't forget, I love you.”

Forget. If only he could. Lord knew, for almost five years now he'd tried. The best he'd been able to do was bury the memories, never digging into the well, never probing, refusing to remember.

But pain had a way of seeking one out, memories of slipping through cracks—despite steel-willed resolutions, despite desperate promises.

Hunter swung his gaze once more to the water, forcibly dragging himself back from the depths. He breathed deeply through his nose, the memories ebbing, taking the pain with them, leaving only emptiness behind. And cold. A numbing, killing cold.

He brushed impatiently at his cheeks, at the moisture there, focusing on the scents and sounds of the bayou. The scents ranged from unbearably sweet to citrus sharp, each hauntingly potent. Magnolia, he'd guess; mimosa and sweet olive he recognized. The sounds were subtler—the rustle of the lush vegetation, the plop of a frog or turtle sliding into the water, the shrill call of a cicada.

Hunter moved closer to the water. His first impression of this place, of Aimee's world, had been of water and a green that went on forever. And of life. Vibrant. Throbbing. Sexual. The way Aimee had been when she'd first come into his life.

He'd never forgotten what it had been like touching her, making love to her. Would it be the same now? he wondered, watching as an egret burst into flight. Would Aimee's touch, her taste, move him the way it had back then? Would he still feel guilt at that cataclysmic reaction to her—a reaction such as he'd never experienced with another woman, not even with Ginny?

In the years that had passed, Aimee's looks had richened, matured. Like a flower in full bloom, her curves were softer, more lush, her face stamped now with something sensual, something that looked more like a woman and less like a girl. In truth, impossibly, she was even more beautiful now than she'd been then.

But she'd changed in other ways as well. Ways that weren't as soft, ways that disturbed him. Hunter bent and picked up a small stone. He held it in his hand, weighing it, rubbing his fingers over it, finding its surface subtly scarred. Gone was the girl who had sucked him into her whirlwind of reckless joie de vivre. The girl who had rushed headlong, willfully even, toward her future. The girl who had given him a few stunning months of reflective warmth.

She was harder now. She had an edge—one that could cut. Not that there wasn't any softness there—he saw it in the way she looked at her son, the way she spoke to her father. But the Aimee he'd known hadn't had the capacity for cynicism, for sarcasm. Only for laughter and daring—sometimes misplaced, sometimes foolish, but she was always likable. Always honest.

Hunter felt a moment of sorrow, of grief, for the girl she had been. And a stab of guilt. Because he knew he'd been at least partly responsible for her departure. He supposed he shouldn't feel guilty. He'd told her up front that he didn't have anything to offer her, that there would never be a happily-ever-after for them. But that didn't change the fact that he'd hurt her, that he'd gotten her pregnant.

Reeling back, Hunter flung the stone toward the bayou. It struck the glassy surface and sent shock waves rippling over the quiet water in ever widening circles.

He was responsible. He had responsibility. To her. To her son.

Turning, Hunter started back to his rental car. Like it or not, he was a father. Oliver was his. He didn't doubt Aimee's word; she wouldn't lie. It wasn't in her.
That,
he was certain, hadn't changed.

He understood why she hadn't told him about Oliver. He didn't want to understand, but he did. And if he was being brutally honest with himself, and he might as well be, he'd been angrier about the fact he had a son than about her secrecy.

But now he did know about Oliver and he couldn't turn his back on her or the boy. That wasn't in him. He would offer her financial support; he would insist she take it. He owed her that much.

Hunter unlocked the car door, then slipped inside. Aimee wouldn't be happy to see him again; he would go back anyway. It was the least—and the most—he could do.

Chapter Two

H
unter found Aimee alone in the store. She stood behind the counter, counting the money in the cash drawer. She didn't hear him enter and he stopped just inside the door. Moving his gaze over her, he used the moment to study her as he'd been unable to earlier.

She wore a plain white T-shirt and a pair of denim cutoffs. She'd dressed in a similar fashion when she'd lived in California, never being one for airs or following the pack. He'd always admired that—and he'd always thought she looked sensational. There was something infinitely sexy about a woman who knew who she was and dressed accordingly.

Hunter tipped his head. As she worked, her thick, straight hair slipped over her shoulder and fell across her face, like a dark, silky waterfall. She reached up and tucked the strands back behind her ear and he recalled doing the same for her many times, recalled how those heavy strands had felt against his own fingers.

Awareness moved over him and Hunter breathed deeply through his nose. A scent drifted on the air, rich and spicy, stirred by the ceiling fan that whirled above. He smiled, the smell bringing back memories of the times he and Aimee had spent in the kitchen cooking, of the times food had been forgotten in favor of other, more urgent hungers.

Hunter's thoughts jerked back to the present as Aimee sighed and dumped the pennies back into the drawer. His chest tightened at the sound, a combination of frustration, fatigue and futility. He had no doubt that his appearance played a big, maybe even exclusive, role in bringing about that sound.

He stepped forward. “Aimee?”

The nickels slipped from her fingers, clattering into the metal drawer. She looked up, meeting his eyes. In hers he read surprise and hesitation. And a glimmer of something sad; something akin to her sigh.

She rested her hands on the cash drawer. “I thought we said goodbye.”

She'd meant the words to be hard, but they were soft. Unbearably so. He moved farther into the room. “I couldn't leave. Not that way, not before…” He cleared his throat. “I want to give you some support. Financial support. For Oliver.”

She snapped the drawer shut and swung around to face him fully. “We're doing just fine without any…help. Thank you, but no.”

He took another step toward her. “A college fund, then.”

She shook her head, her dark hair swinging with the movement, brushing her shoulders. “No.”

Hunter lowered his gaze for a moment, fighting frustration and annoyance, reminding himself to consider this from Aimee's standpoint. “I understand your concern. I was a…parent once, too. And the last thing I would want is for Oliver to be hurt because of me. But he never has to know where the money came from. We can—”

“No.” Aimee came out from behind the counter and crossed to the light switch. She laid her hand on the plate and met his eyes evenly. “I'm closing up now.”

Hunter drew his eyebrows together. “Why are you being so obstinate?”

“I don't think I'm being obstinate. There's no sense taking what we don't need. We're doing fine. Now, I really need to go check on my gumbo.”

She smiled, trying to reassure him. Hunter wasn't fooled; the curving of her lips was stiff, forced. He had the sudden sense that she was terrified.

He looked around them at the rustic store, with its conglomeration of goods, everything from fishing tackle to homemade candies and crafts, to cold drinks and snacks. Was this their sole means of support?

The building itself was unpretentious, sturdy. Constructed of cypress clapboard with a high pitched roof and a gallery that ran the length of the building, it looked as if it had been built to withstand the worst that nature could dish up.

He remembered the way her father looked, with his weathered face, its road map of folds and creases defining a man who had worked hard all his life. A man who had taken care of his family. Hunter admired that; he respected people who could live simply and with little more than what nature provided. Especially in these modern, high-tech times.

But what if Oliver wanted more?

Aimee saw his gaze, and she stiffened her spine. “We do fine, Hunter. You don't need to feel guilty or responsible—”

“But I am responsible.”

She sighed; again the sound tore at him. He crossed to her. “I can afford this, Aimee. I want to do it.”

She tipped up her chin. “It wouldn't even make a dent. Right?”

“You know it wouldn't.”

She turned away from him. “I don't want your guilt money,” she said softly. “I don't want the least you can do.”

He caught her arm, forcing her to turn her face to his. He searched her gaze. “Then, what do you want?”