Pulling the device from his pocket, he frowned when he saw it was his brother calling.Again.It was the third time this morning. He’d ignored the first two. He didn’t dare ignore the third.
“Sorry.” He winced. “I really should get this.” He was never sure what might come out of Knox’s mouth, so it was best if the call wasn’t overhead by a federal agent. “I’ll just take it in the kitchen.”
“Of course.” She nodded her acquiescence.
“Hey, brother,” he answered once he’d reached the hallway because his phone was about to switch over to voicemail. “What’s up?”
He didn’t hear what Knox said because, glancing over his shoulder, he saw Julia O’Toole slip through the front door. She took any further discussion about them liking each other with her.
It’s for the best,he told himself and blamed the hard punch of disappointment that landed in his gut on indigestion from eating one too many blueberry muffins.
32
Fisher squatted in Mardi Gras’s shadow, pretending to fiddle with his exhaust pipe. But really his eyes were fixed on Eliza as she spoke animatedly with the tall, handsome FBI agent.
When Douglas reached out to touch her arm, jealousy twisted in Fisher’s gut and had the prickly legged thing rising and gnashing its teeth.
It wasn’t just that she was talking to another man—she talked to other men all day. Shelivedwith other men too. It was the way she laughed, the way she leaned closer, the way her eyes lit up with interest.
He wanted to march over there, slap Douglas’s hand off her, and bare his teeth at the bastard. He wanted to pull her next to his side and snarl,“She’s mine.”
But she wasn’t.
She never had been even though, for awhile there, it hadfeltlike she was and, as a consequence, he’d been happier than he’d ever been in his whole sorry life.
I had to end it, he reminded himself.She’d gotten in too deep.
In the long, lonely days since he’d pulled the plug on things, he’d been miserable. Even though he’d done the right thing. Even though it would be better in the long run. Even though he felt like the cold, hard stone of his heart had been ripped from his chest.
He closed his eyes and remembered how it had all gone down…
They’d been in her bed, dozing after another lusty round of lovemaking. Or,he’dbeen dozing. Then he’d felt her reach for him. Felt her run her thin fingers through his chest hair. And he’d been instantly awake.
Awake and gettin’ harder with every pass of her fingers.
Except he hadn’t let on he’d come out of sleep. He’d kept his breathing low and steady, added in the occasional snore, hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d wanted to see what she would do.
It had been wildly exciting to watch Eliza hone her skills as a seductress, to see her grow more confident in her ability to tempt and beguile. And he’d been eager to learn how she’d go about rousing him that time.
Would she tongue his nipple like she’d done the night before? Duck beneath the covers and take his cock in her mouth like she’d done two mornings past? Or would she come up with something even more erotic and wonderful?
He’d continued to feign sleep when she’d whispered his name. He’d continued to feign sleep when she’d said,“I love you.”
Even now, days later, remembering her confession made him want to curl into a ball and cry. Made him want to curse fate or the universe or whichever god was responsible for making him in the image of his father.
If she had stopped there, he might have allowed their little tryst to continue for a few more days. He’d have figured she mistook their wild physical chemistry for something more. He’d have figured she was mistaking limerence for love. But she hadn’t stopped there.
“I love you like secrets are loved, in the shadows of the soul. I love you like sunshine is loved, in the warm, wide-open spaces of the heart. I love you simply, without artifice or ego. I love you elaborately, with all the weight and complexity of my life’s experiences. I love you without knowing how or when or from where it comes. I love you because I know no other way to exist.”
She’d kissed him softly. A warm, gentle press of her lips against his jaw. Then she’d snuggled into his side where she’d promptly fallen asleep.
As for him? He’d lain awake all night replaying her words, over and over until he’d had them memorized. By the time morning had rolled around, he’d known three things.
One, he might be able to quote others’ poetry, but Eliza had a way with words that could compete with Plath or Poe. Two, the way she spoke of her love, so surely, so completely was how his mother used to speak of her love for his father, as if she had no control over it. And three, he’d die before he ever let history repeat itself.
Over coffee in the kitchen, he’d told her,“I think we should go back to the way things were before.”
She’d been in the middle of biting into a lemon poppyseed muffin. His words had had her dropping it onto her plate.“What do you mean?”
