Upon a Mystic Tide (21 page)

“You did.” John lay back on his pillow. “How are you doing this? Are you talking with Bess like this, too?”

It’s a gift. And, yes, Bess and I have chatted quite a bit lately.

From his tone, he wasn’t pleased with the results. “Are you psychic?”

Not exactly.

Hedging. Big-time hedging. “What exactly are you?”

Bess says I’m telepathic. I say, at the moment, I’m late for an appointment. I’ll see you again soon.

Bess says. But was Bess right, or wrong? That, Tony hadn’t said. “Question is, will I see you?”

Maybe one day.

“Wait!
You packed Bess’s bags, didn’t you?”

Yes, I did. She’d made her mind up to leave and had to learn for herself that she really didn’t want to go.

He’d done something to her car, too. Otherwise the finish wouldn’t have gone from shiny to dull and it would have cranked. Bess had to keep that car in excellent running condition. She kept everything in her life tidy and neat and orderly. But there was no way a telepath could mess with a car’s finish. Was there?

We’ll address the car another time.

That suited John. His gut instinct warned him that small doses of this strange and weird business would be easier to digest. “Tony, do you think she’ll come around?”

On the settlement? Or on you loving her enough in two weeks to make her want two more?

Until Tony had said it, John hadn’t fully realized his motives himself. But he couldn’t deny that maybe a small part of him—the chump part—wanted two more weeks, and another two and, after that, still another two. But it was too late. “There can’t be two more. Not until I solve this case for Elise, for sure, and it’s doubtful then.”

I’m sorry for your loss, Jonathan. Elise was a good woman.

“Did you know her, too?” John tried and failed to keep his surprise from his voice.

I know you loved her. That alone tells me she was special.

John had loved her. And he’d never, not once, told her. But Tony really hadn’t answered his question. And he wouldn’t—even if asked directly. “Yes, she was special,” John said, feeling the blinding pain of loss, the empty ache that hurt so deeply he couldn’t identify where in his body it started or stopped.

Biological or not, mothers are special.

“Yeah.” John frowned. “Yeah, mothers are special.”

So are wives.

He didn’t want to talk about Bess. Talking about Elise had reopened the wound of losing her, and he was losing Bess too. “How did you know about my mother?” And how did Miss Hattie know about Elise? Wait
 . . .
of course, Tony had known Elise. He’d been with John in the hospital. Told him to let Elise go, to give her peace.

Yes, I was there.

“I thought you were my conscience then.”

I know.

“You helped me a lot. Thanks.”

My pleasure.

“Are you talking with Miss Hattie too?”

God, don’t I wish?
Tony’s voice shook with longing.
But, no, I don’t exactly talk to Hattie. I
 . . .
can’t.

“Tony?” Very confused by the emotion trembling in Tony’s voice, John prodded for a more specific answer.

I know many people, Jonathan. Most, from the heart out. I can arrange a lot of things. Even a three-way conversation where no one has to speak aloud. All manner of things. But I have to weigh the total effects of any action I take. I have to consider the emotional impact along with everything else. Sometimes, I confess, that’s a crapshoot.

“Big responsibility.”

It is. But the learning involved is worth it. And unless I miss my guess, you’re going to be learning a lot of new things about your wife. Things you never dreamed you’d learn. Things she’s only discovering for herself.

“What kind of things?”

I can’t say.

Elise and her flower came to mind. “Do you know anything about the flower petal I found in Elise’s hand?”

She needed a little guidance to find her way
 . . .
home.

Home? What did that mean? “I don’t under—”

Nor do you need to. I would like to say something, though I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it. Sometimes the costs of keeping secrets—regardless of how noble the intentions are behind it—are just too steep, Jonathan.

A streak of sheer fear shot up John’s spine. “You know about my parents?”

Yes, I do. I understand your reasons for keeping silent, and I’ll never betray your confidence. You’ve my word on that. But I wish you’d think about all you’ve lost because of this secret already. Maybe it’s time to reconsider the value of keeping it yourself.

His bedroom door swung open. “Jonathan?”

Bess. In a panic. He stretched and clicked on the bedside lamp. “What’s wrong?”

Her robe hanging low on her shoulder, her eyes wild, she hurried across the room. Banging her hip against the tall stack of boxes near the desk didn’t even slow her down. She grabbed her side and rushed on, stopping beside the bed.

“I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m telling you it’s the truth.”

Nails tapping on the floor, Silk came in and settled down on the rug. She seemed calm, but his wife certainly wasn’t. Bess was highly agitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot, wringing her hands. In all their married life, she’d never, not once, wrung her hands. “What’s the truth?”

She started to say something, but changed her mind and turned pleading eyes on him. “I can’t talk about it yet.” She stepped closer, bumping her knees against the mattress. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

Surprise streaked up his spine.
It’s just a piece of paper and doesn’t change a thing.
Six years. Six years, and she simply says,
Can I sleep with you tonight?
Did she mean sleep or
sleep?
Her
Ritz
perfume settled over him, and again he remembered that moment in her room where her robe had fallen open and he’d gazed upon those long, lovely legs of hers that went on forever. His throat went tight, his body hard. “Sure.” He lifted the quilts.

She stared down at him. “You’re—You’re
 . . .
nude.”

“Geez, Bess. I’ve slept naked since I was thirteen—including every night of our marriage—and you’re surprised?”

“I’m—I’m not.” She crawled onto the bed, over him with a none-too-gentle knee to his stomach, and then finally settled her head onto the pillow beside him. “I just forgot for a second. It’s been a while.”

His heart chugged. Was she scared? Ticked? What? Tangled up inside, he couldn’t sort out his own emotions much less hers. He’d get her calmed down first, and then at least he’d stand a chance of finding out what was going on here. “The pillows have more lumps than my mashed potatoes.”

“This one certainly does.” She squashed and fluffed it then lay back down. “You were a lousy cook.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t set off every smoke alarm in a two-mile radius.”
Ritz.
She’d come to him robed in slinky silk sex and
Ritz.

“Beat
starving, too.” She scrunched down, buried herself to her chin under the quilt.

“Your culinary skills weren’t the greatest, either. Though you did burn a mean piece of toast.”

“I’m a great cook.” She slid him a wicked grin. “I burned everything on purpose.”

He guffawed. “You burned everything because you can’t cook.”

“Nonsense. I said, I’m an excellent cook.”

“The hell you are. Remember, darling, this is me you’re talking to, not your sorry Spaniard. I shared your bed
and
your kitchen for over a year. You can’t cook.”

Seeing that she’d calmed down immensely, he turned off the light. As it went out, John saw her sinful smile—and the truth. “You tricked me, didn’t you? You burned everything so you wouldn’t have to cook.”

“I never tricked you or lied.”

“The hell you didn’t.” He’d been had.

“Jonathan, each and every meal I burned, I swore I was a good cook.”

She had told him that—every damn. time. And he’d fallen for it—every damn time. “You’re good, Bess. Really good.”

“I hate cooking.”

He couldn’t see her face in the darkness but whatever had sent her running in here still had her as tense as strung wire. She wasn’t ready to talk about it yet and, if he knew nothing else about Doc, he knew she wouldn’t utter a word until she was good and ready. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t like to cook?”

“What if I had and then you’d said you didn’t like it either?”

He frowned at her. “Well, I guess we’d have done something drastic like toss a coin, rotate nights, or maybe even hire a cook. Pretty grim scenarios.” He sighed. “Yeah, with stakes like those, I can see why you chose to deceive me.”

“I didn’t deceive you. I told you straight out I could cook.”

She had a point.

She wears your ring
 . . .
chump.

Watch it, Tony—and take a hike. This is private.

I happen to agree—on both counts.

Both?

This is private and, right now, she is one moody woman.

She’s upset, not moody. Do you know why?

Yes.

Well, aren’t you going to tell me?

I am. I’m going to tell you good night.
He made a production of clearing his throat.
Good night, Jonathan.

Tony had gone; John could feel it. And, for some reason—likely the fault of the woman beside him—the room had suddenly grown a lot warmer. “Bess?”

She wasn’t touching him, but he felt her body heat all along his side. Maybe she wanted to make love. Her needing him physically beat her not needing him at all. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve accepted my proposal?”

“Fat chance.”

He’d figured, but he’d still had to ask. “Are you wanting to make love, then?”

“Frankly, yes
 . . .
but I’m not going to.”

That she’d admit it, even as she denied them both, surprised him. He’d been right, thinking protection and not desire had brought her to him. But protection from what? She sounded cool and controlled, but she wasn’t. He admired her discipline, but just once—just once—he wanted her to abandon it. With him.

“John,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t mind just a hug, though. I’m chilled to the bone.”

Just a hug?
Just a hug?
Could he give her
just a hug
and stop there?

Six years, he’d ached for her. Contemplated a million reasons why she’d left him. Hurt for her, and hungered like a starving man for her to need him for anything. And now, inside of three weeks of divorcing him, she admits she needs him—if only to hold her for a minute. Naturally, she waits until he’s naked and vulnerable. Naturally, she waits until she’s in his bed and nothing but that filmy excuse of silk robe separates her skin from his. And, naturally, she levels him with that soft and husky I-trust-you-Jonathan voice that set him on fire. How could she trust him to demand no more than a hug when he couldn’t trust himself? He’d try—he really would—but with all these memories crashing through his mind
 . . .
legs that went on forever, wrapped around his hips. Their bodies hot and sleek and melding, moving together in rhythm. Bess whispering lovers’ secrets in his ears. Could he do it? He was only human.

But she trusted him.

Trust.

And for the first time ever, she’d admitted that she needed him. She
 . . .
needed
him
.

His throat tight, he prayed he wouldn’t let her down.