The Righteous and The Wicked (13 page)

Emma opens a window and cool air rushes in, dissipating the gray clouds of smoke. Eric stands at the sink with his back to her. Not sure what to say, she begins to walk toward him. She reaches her hand out to touch him, but withdraws it before she makes contact, letting it rest at her side.

Eric looks down at the thick, black liquid that was once Emma’s dinner. His body is still possessed by his need for her, but his mind is uneasy. He doesn’t regret kissing her; it was so intense and intimate. It felt so good to touch her, so different . . . but he’s walking too close to the edge of the cliff. If he goes any further with her, it will open the door to his darkness. If his demon is released, it will attack her. It will gorge itself, and then it will crave more. He will not be able to stop with just her and will acquiesce to his addiction again. If he allows himself to indulge with Emma, he’ll be violating his pledge to leave her untainted, to be the source of her joy, not sorrow. If he touches her again, it will leave her hurt once more.

He won’t do it. He turns around and finds her tiny body standing right behind him. He smiles at how timid she is, and his resolution flounces. It would be so easy. He could do it right now. A voice beckons from the shadows for him to touch her, to take her. Desire hangs in the air like the thick smoke above them. He wrestles with the temptation to satisfy their mutual need. It would feel so good, he could give her such pleasure . . .

“Looks like the food is ruined,” she says.

He reaches up to brush her hair from her shoulder. When he touches her, her eyes close for an instant, and then open again. He can see how affected she was by the kiss they shared. She wants more, and so does he. But he’s not ready to give it to her. Not yet.

“Well, then,” he says, “it looks like I’m taking you out to dinner.”

The Jeep smells like leather. The light from the dashboard makes Eric’s knuckles look white as he manipulates the stick shift. Emma stares straight ahead, wondering where he’s taking her. The radio plays, just loud enough to prevent awkward silence in the car. He glances at her as he drives and she looks away. Longing engulfs her. Now that she has touched him, she wants more, she needs more. But she doesn’t know how to get it. She has to get inside his head.

She envisions what would’ve happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. Perhaps he would have made love to her . . . on the living room floor . . . on the couch. She would have finally been the one to meet his need. His restraint surprised her, but in a way, it was a blessing. Anything more than a kiss would’ve been too much. It would have been too fast. Her head tells her it’s for the best, but her body disagrees. She’s attracted to him, but she doesn’t want to be just a conquest. She wants him, over and over again. To be the sole object of his desire. The only one. It’s an unrealistic expectation, but she yearns for it nonetheless.

The restaurant is dark inside. It’s the kind of place illicit couples come to hide, to avoid being caught. The aromas of fresh bread and spices fill the air. Eric speaks to the olive-skinned hostess, and they follow her to the back of the restaurant. She seats them at a secluded, candlelit table near a bay window. There are no chairs, just a cushioned bench seat on the windowsill. Emma and Eric have no choice but to sit right next to each other.

Emma looks at the menu, and Eric studies the wine list. Their arms brush against each other, and Emma feels the powerful pull to him. The warmth of his body fans the spark inside her and she lets herself rest against his heat.

“Do you want to get a bottle? Oh, that’s right, you don’t drink.”

A glass of wine sounds like a perfect antidote to Emma’s nerves and unsatisfied lust. “I guess a glass or two won’t hurt. I like red.”

Eric smiles. “All right.”

The waiter arrives and Eric orders the wine, chatting about Argentina and Malbec, but these are foreign topics to Emma. Eric asks what she would like to eat, and orders for her. Then they’re alone.

She begins her careful journey inside Eric’s mind. “Where were you living, before you came here?”

“Most recently, I was in Santa Catarina.” He spreads his crisp white napkin across his lap.

“Were you building a house there?”

“Yes. I was commissioned to design and build a vacation home for a wealthy couple. Well, for his wife mostly. The man wasn’t interested in the project, but the woman was the one who . . . wanted it.”

He’s uncomfortable answering her, and she assumes what it was that the wife wanted from Eric, or what he took from her.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“Actually, they speak Portuguese there.”

“Oh.” Emma bites her tongue. She’s broadcasting her lack of worldly knowledge. Boston and Pine Lake have been the extent of her travels. “So you speak Portuguese, then?”

“Yes.” The black of his clothes makes his eyes seem an even deeper blue, and Emma struggles to keep focused on her goal.

“I’ve heard it’s a beautiful language. Will you say something?”

His face is devious yet tender. He rests his elbow on the table, and his arm flexes as he clears his throat. He speaks in a low and intimate voice . . . almost a whisper. “
Sua beleza é um presente para mim. Seus lábios são celeste, sua pele tão macia
.”
³

She has no idea what he’s said, but she feels herself flush. The spark has ignited an inferno, and she fears she’ll soon become nothing but a pile of ashes. His mouth is closed, but his eyes are still speaking to her, and
this
language is not foreign.

“What does that mean?”

He leans in closer to her, and his hand slides onto her knee. She is blazing, scorching.

“It means . . . that I’m happy I met you, Emma.”

She wants to tell him, to
show
him, how much she yearns for him and that she can give him what he craves. She wants to kiss him again, right now. She wants him to slide his hand up her thigh . . .

“I’m happy I met you, too.”

As the waiter approaches again, Eric removes his hand from her leg and she feels her skin scream at the loss of his touch. If Emma were less of a Catholic, she would tell the waiter to go the hell away. She narrows her eyes at him, furious at his interruption. He shows them the bottle and waits for Eric’s approval before he fills each glass. Eric sips and nods, dismissing the eager waiter. Emma drinks. The wine is sweet and dry, she relishes the flavor. Eric knows what he’s doing.

She continues to push for more of Eric’s story. “Where is your family?”

His brow furrows. “I don’t know. The last I heard, they were living back in Ireland. I was never close to them.”

“Not even when you were little?”

“No. My father traveled a lot for work. He was always busy, always away. My mother . . . my mother was an alcoholic. I was pretty much raised by a nanny. Her name was Mary.” He stares into space.

“And where is she?”

“She died when I was thirteen.” He gulps his wine.

“That must have been hard for you.”

He clears his throat and sits up straight. “Yes. Well, what can you do? People come and go.”

She recognizes his attempt at minimizing his pain. She hears it underneath the layers of his rehearsed response. She’s familiar with the effort it takes to look effortless when you try to remove your heart from your own life story. It’s like looking in a mirror.

“Yes. Yes, they do.” It occurs to Emma that they have more in common than she thought.

After dinner, Eric pulls the Jeep into Emma’s driveway, feeling relieved to have shared some of his memories with her. He let her in, he allowed her to attempt to scale his insurmountable wall. The wine has made him warm inside, but he can see it has made Emma drunk. She giggles as he puts the car in park and her eyes shine with a blissful haze.

“That was a nice dinner, Eric. Thank you.” She shifts in her seat, and to Eric’s disbelief, her hand moves across the console and onto his thigh.

This is too easy, too tempting. She could become a victim in an instant. The powerful urge to grab her and drag her into his lap seizes him. He wants to kiss her and let his lips drift to her neck. He wants to grind himself against her and let her feel how hard he is for her. He fights to resist his impulses, but it’s not easy. Instead of relenting and gratifying himself, he takes her hand and interlaces his fingers with hers. She squeezes it, and leans closer to him. Their mouths are so close, almost touching, but he moves his lips away from hers and kisses her forehead.

He wants her to understand why he can’t touch her the way he wants to. He can’t give her what she craves, because his soul is at stake.

“Emma, have you ever needed something?”

“What do you mean?”

“Has there ever been something you
had
to have, or you just couldn’t keep going? Something you couldn’t resist?”

“Yes. I mean, I have to have coffee every day. I can’t live without it.”

He laughs and runs his hand over his jaw. Her attempt at identifying with him is adorable. There is no way she could ever imagine how damaged he is.

“Well, sometimes people need things that aren’t good for them and they have to work very hard to stay away from those things, no matter how much they want them.” He’s saying too much. If he reveals his true self, she’ll run. She will be disgusted by him, the way he’s disgusted with himself. He will never see her again.

He lets go of her hand. “Emma, I have to go. I have a lot of work to do in the morning.”

Her face falls and she looks at her lap. He’s hurting her, and he can’t stand it. He should let her go, he should stay away from her, but he’s selfish, and he won’t.

“When can I see you again?”

She looks at him, and her expression is strange. There’s passion in her eyes, but it’s mixed with something else. It’s like she really sees him. It’s like she knows. He has never had a woman look at him this way before. She reaches up and touches his face. He should stop torturing himself, he should just stay away, but her touch is so soothing. He closes his eyes and allows himself to enjoy it.

Emma cradles his jaw and traces his mouth with her thumb, but instead of kissing him, she leans in and presses her lips to his forehead. She mirrors the chaste touch that he gave to her. She’s giving him just what he can handle, just what he can take. He breathes her perfume; he feels her skin on his. His fingers brush against her neck. He wants to take her right here and now. To carry her inside the house. His fiendish desire is rising up, threatening to
break through its chains. He caresses her slim neck, her delicate shoulder.

“Eric . . .”

He can’t take a breath, he’s drowning. He has to have her naked in front of him, to unleash his frenzied need, to let it explode. He wants to make her body his.

“Tomorrow. Come tomorrow,” she answers, and gets out of the car.

Emma walks away from Eric’s Jeep and fights the urge to look back. She passes over the rotten wood of the porch; it creaks and threatens to give way beneath her feet. As she ascends the stairs, the idea that has been rising up in her brain takes shape. What if she told him she knows? He wouldn’t have to pretend anymore. If he knew Emma was unfazed by his addiction, he would be able to behave freely. But would his shame overtake him? She doubts he would even want to be with her that way, but she has felt his skin on hers, rigid and unrelenting. The way it felt just can’t be a lie.

Maybe he wants to be with anonymous women. No commitment, no strings attached. Just sex—whenever he wants it, however he wants it—with someone he’ll never see again. The idea of that weighs on Emma’s heart. She gets into bed and pulls the covers over her head, falling into a deep sleep filled with unfathomably dirty dreams of Eric.

Chapter Fourteen

The National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm warning for all of Ridgefield County, including Pine Lake . . .

Eric slams his hand down on the clock radio, silencing the object that has awakened him. He grunts and rolls over in his sunlit bed. Running his hand over his bare chest, he’s faced with the enormous and painful reality that he hasn’t given in to his need for what feels like a very long time. He touches himself and thinks about trying to take care of his addiction without help from another, but he knows it won’t work. He has tried that before, and it doesn’t bring the same deliverance. It doesn’t give him the thrill of watching someone else’s body tremble and quiver at his hand. The thrill of penetrating and possessing. The thrill of entering the blackness that he tries to resist. The total loss of control. Submerged in vile sin.

He closes his eyes and sees Emma’s face. He fantasizes about her body taking that dark journey with him. For a moment, he imagines that she’s the kind of girl he needs. Wicked and immoral, bent in unholy positions, screaming and sweating and begging. It’s been a struggle to suppress his grim urges, and he’s facing the cruel reality that it’s just a matter of time until he surrenders. Whether it’s with her, or someone else, he has to get some kind of relief.

He needs a distraction. He sits up and the sheet slides down his torso and rests at his hip. He picks up his cell. “Nate? It’s Eric. I need you to come out here today. There’s something I want you to do.”

Submerged in his blueprints once again, he walks through the hardware store, thinking that this is the safest place he could be. Old, working men are the only people that should be here. But, of course, Eric is wrong. A blond housewife catches his eye. She’s beautiful, covered in jewelry, and pretending to look at fixtures. In reality, Deborah’s looking for someone just like him. She’s gift-wrapped. She smiles, and it’s an invitation. Eric doesn’t smile back. He walks away.