Night Jasmine (5 page)

Guilt sawed through her, and she looked away. “He has you. All the relatives. He's very well loved. You've only to look at him to see how happy he is.”

“He is young yet.”

Aimee let her breath out in a frustrated huff.
“Fine. We're not going to agree on this. You've rented the room to Hunter, and he will come and stay. But I'm not going to change my mind, Papa.”

She tried to stand. Roubin tightened his fingers on hers, stopping her. “I'm no role model for Oliver,” he said sadly. “Maybe once, but no more. And the relatives? They come and they go. Oliver, he needs a man around day in an' out. He needs a man he can count on. A man who can teach him what he needs to know.”

She curled her fingers around her father's, his skin hard and callused from the years of working with them. “He
can
count on you, Papa. Everything a man should be you can teach him.”

Roubin shook his head, his expression growing bitter. And angry. “Look at me. I'm taken care of by women. I sell junk for tourists in my store. Once, I would have been out there with the men.” He motioned to the bayou. “Once, I brought home food for the table.”

Aimee lifted his hands to her cheek, hating his unhappiness. His bitterness. It hurt to hear him this way. “Dr. Landry says you could walk again. He says with hard work you could—”

“Walk with a cane,” Roubin interrupted, his cheeks flushed. “At best. Not well enough to hunt or fish. Not well enough to take care of my family, the way a man should.”

Their argument was a familiar one. Despite his doctor's recommendations and her own urging, her father refused to do the exercises necessary to progress. He refused to even try.

“But,” she murmured, “you'd have some mobility. Wouldn't that be good? Look how far you've come since your—”

“It would have been better if the aneurysm, she had taken me.”

“Don't say that!” Tears flooded her eyes. “I love you. Oliver loves you. Without you, I don't know what I would have done, or how I would have made it. You're strong, Papa, you hold us together as you always have. Without you…”

Roubin slipped his hands from hers and cupped her face. “Non. You never needed me,
chère.
Even when you were a
petit bébé,
you stood on your own two feet. You look me in the eye always.”

“No, Papa, I—”

He shook his head, then pressed his lips to her forehead. “Oliver will be home soon and hungry. Come. The gumbo, she is sure to be ready.”

Chapter Three

I
t was late when Hunter arrived back at Aimee's. He'd had to check out of the hotel and make a call to the clinic. His assistant had been surprised; they'd all expected him back the following morning. He hadn't explained, had only asked her to make arrangements with the other doctors to juggle his patient load, cancel his business appointments and his plane reservation. All indefinitely.

He could tell she thought he'd lost his mind. Truthfully, he wasn't so sure he hadn't.

Hunter climbed from the car, bringing the carefully packed music box with him. The night was still, the air heavy with moisture and thick with the sounds and smells of the bayou. Rounding the car to the trunk, he took out his garment bag and hiked it over his shoulder.

About forty yards toward the bayou from the store stood another building, its high pitched-roof construction the same as the first's. Aimee's home. Where she'd grown up, where she lived now with her father and son.

Hunter started toward it. In the light of day he had seen that it was bigger than the store, and homey. Flowers spilled from window boxes, the gallery was graced with a swing on one side of the front door and two highback rocking chairs on the other. Beside the house, a large vegetable garden was laid out.

Hunter's lips lifted. Aimee had always had a green thumb. She'd moved into his house and promptly filled every table, ledge and corner with plants. She'd made his garden her own personal project and had even shown the gardener a thing or two about making things grow.

After she'd left the plants had withered, then died. Within a month of her departure, the tables, ledges and corners were once again empty, green replaced by sterile white.

Hunter shook his head, annoyed with his thoughts. He hadn't expected seeing Aimee to trigger this melancholy trip down memory lane. He hadn't expected indecision. Or confusion. Or this overwhelming, irrational feeling of responsibility and protectiveness.

But of course, he hadn't expected to find he had a son.

A few lights burned inside the cottage and Hunter wondered if it was Aimee who waited up for him. Probably. His chest tightened with anticipation and he swore under his breath. What they'd shared had been wonderful but brief. It was best for Aimee that it had ended. He wasn't here to mess up her life again.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up at the long gallery, bathed in shadows. Taking a determined breath, he climbed the few steps and crossed to the door.

“You're scowling.”

Startled, Hunter stopped and turned toward the darkest part of the gallery. Aimee sat on the porch swing, her knees drawn to her chest, a coffee mug cupped in her palms. Although he couldn't see her expression, he sensed anger. And sadness.

It was the latter that pulled at him more. He swore again, this time silently. “Was I?” he asked.

“Yes.” She brought the mug to her lips and sipped. “If you're so unhappy about being here, why don't you leave?”

“I can't. We've already been through this.”

She frowned. “That we have.”

He closed the distance between them, stopping in front of her. “I'm sorry, Aimee.”

She tipped her head back and met his eyes. “Are you?”

“Yes.” He looked away, then back. “I know you don't want me here. But I have to do this.”

“So you've said.” She set her mug down sharply, and stood. “I'll show you to your room.”

She brushed by him; he caught her arm. She met his eyes almost defiantly. He picked up the faintest whiff of her perfume, subtle and sweetly spicy. It swamped his senses now as it had back then, as it had the night they'd met.

The night they met.
Their first meeting had been one of those chance encounters, two people coming together who—under normal circumstances—never would have met. He'd only gone to the art opening because Ginny had admired and collected the artist's work; he'd intended to duck in and duck out. Then he had run into a loquacious colleague.

While talking to the other doctor, he'd caught sight of Aimee from across the room. She'd been laughing, charming jaded jet-set art types who were never charmed. There had been something different about her, something special. Something brilliantly alive.

In a room full of people all striving to be unique, she'd seemed the only one who was.

He'd watched her, had been drawn to her, even. He'd had no plans to introduce himself, had had no interest in a woman other than Ginny.

But then she'd turned suddenly, and their eyes had met. She'd smiled; he'd smiled back.

And he'd been lost.

Or maybe it had been
she
who'd been lost.

“Hunter?” Aimee tugged against his grasp.

He blinked, the present coming into focus once more. He lowered his hand so his fingers circled her wrist. Her pulse thundered beneath his touch.

“Remember the night we met?” he asked, his voice husky with the memory.

Aimee hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Of course. Why?”

“I was thinking of that night. Of you and me and…fate.” He rubbed his fingers rhythmically across the translucent flesh of her wrist. “We never should have met. We almost didn't.”

For long seconds silence stretched between them. She cleared her throat. “I can't say that, Hunter. I can't even think it. How could I? If we hadn't met, I wouldn't have Oliver. And I love him more than anything.”

Aimee slipped her hand from his and crossed the gallery to the stairs. She descended them and started across the yard toward the store. Hunter watched her go, pain and memories colliding inside him.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, Pete. More than anything.”

Hunter put his free hand on a cypress column, his legs suddenly shaky.

Pete giggled. “More than chocolate milk?”

“You bet, buddy. More than pizza, even.”

“Then why can't I go, too? I'll be a good boy, Daddy. I promise.”

“Hunter? Are you okay?”

Aimee stood several yards from the house, gazing quizzically up at him. He looked blankly at her, seeing for a moment Pete instead. He sucked in a sharp breath, his chest so tight the action hurt. He nodded and forced a stiff smile. “Fine. Just…fine.”

He descended the steps and caught up with her in two strides.

They crossed the yard in silence. When they reached the other building, Aimee led him to a small porch on its far right side. They climbed the stairs and crossed to the door. She opened it, then handed him the key.

They both stepped inside. The room Roubin had rented him was simple and sparsely furnished, but nice. The furniture consisted of a double bed, small chest of drawers, an old wing chair, reading table and lamp. A small bathroom adjoined the room. As with the store, the room wasn't air-conditioned and the windows were all thrown wide to let in the cool night air; a ceiling fan whirled lazily above. A stack of fresh linens waited on the unmade bed.

“Is this yours?” Hunter asked, crossing to a black-and-white photo that hung on the wall by the chair.

“Yes.”

He moved closer to the image, studying it. The photograph depicted a bayou immersed in a ghostly, billowing fog. The effect was haunting. Unforgettable. “It's beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, gazing at the photo. “I took that a long time ago.”

Hunter drew his eyebrows together, studying her. Did she have any idea how wistful her expression was right now? Did she realize how much her eyes told him? He suspected not. For if she did, she would work harder to hide her feelings. This Aimee was not as open as the one he'd known all those years ago; this Aimee preferred to erect barriers around herself.

Was she this way with everyone? he wondered. Or just with him?

Aimee looked away, her wistfulness disappearing. “You'll be called for meals, but we eat around eight, noon and five. If you miss one, you're on your own.”

Hunter set the music box on the table and laid his garment bag on the bed. “Fair enough.”

“If you need something, just ask.”

“I will.”

“Good.” She took a step toward the door, then stopped as she reached it. “I guess I'll see you in the morning.”

“I guess so.”

Aimee pushed open the screen door, then paused again. She turned back to him, making a small sound of annoyance as she did. “Isn't there any way I can talk you out of this?”

“Afraid not.”

“What do you hope to accomplish here?” She folded her arms across her chest. “We've already agreed to disagree.”

He unpacked the music box and carefully lifted it from its bed of tissue. He gazed at it a moment, thinking of what the saleswoman had said about going with one's gut. A smile tugged at his mouth, and he met Aimee's gaze. “I'm going to make you see things my way.”

“And I already told you, you're not.”

“Your father was right.” Hunter gave in and smiled. “You are stubborn. I can't believe I didn't notice that before.”

She scowled. “Stuff it, Powell.”

Hunter lifted his eyebrows and laughed. “Stuff it? Exactly where did you have in mind, Ms. Boudreaux?”

For a moment it looked as if she were going to laugh. It pulled at her mouth, lit her eyes. In that moment he was reminded even more keenly of the girl she had been and of their time together.

The blood began
to thrum in his head. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to kiss her until they both forgot everything but the feel of each other's mouths, forgot everything but the need for even deeper, more intimate contact. He wanted them to lose themselves in each other, the way they used to.

Aimee saw his look. Her breath caught, the tiny sound reverberating in the quiet room. The blood rushed to her head; a place much lower began to throb. She hadn't been touched by a man in so long. She hadn't been looked at as a woman, a woman with needs, in forever.

The way Hunter looked at her now.

Aimee put a hand out behind her, bracing herself on the doorjamb. When was the last time she had been something other than a mother or daughter? When was the last time she had acknowledged her own needs? The last time she had allowed herself to be a woman?

She didn't need to ask herself the question. She knew the answer already. Three and a half years ago.

She lowered her eyes to Hunter's mouth, then skimmed them lower, across his chest and flat abdomen, lower still. She remembered what he'd looked like naked—lean and muscular and all male. She remembered how his flesh had felt beneath her fingers—firm but resilient, hot when aroused.

Longing raced through her, heat followed.

“Aimee,” he murmured, his voice thick. He took a step nearer to her.

Stunned, she lifted her gaze back to his. What was she doing? She didn't love him any more. She didn't.

But love didn't have a thing to do with what she was feeling. Her body had always reacted to him this way. From the night they met, it had taken nothing more than a look, a word or smile, to send her into his arms, his bed.

She jerked her chin up. That was a long time ago. A lifetime even. She was no longer so naive. So easily impressed.

“If you've come here because you thought you and I could resume…or if you thought we could just pick up—”

“Where we left off?” he filled in, shaking his head. “It never crossed my mind.”