Page 74 of Her Passionate Hero

“You were whimpering.”

So that was what that sound was. She opened her eyes. His eyes were dark and mysterious, it was like he held the secrets of the world. No. It was like he held the secrets of her world.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asked quietly.

“I’ll try.”

“Tell me why you asked me to leave you. Tell me what happened the night your dad died.”

She felt like he slipped a knife into her. Had he kissed her to soften her up so she would tell him?

He traced her pulse point again, and she realized he still held her.

“This isn’t an ambush, Cariña. That kiss was a decade too long in coming. Tell me. Make me understand.”

***

Hunter watched this woman, who meant so much to him, go from warm with desire to wounded. He hated that, but he had to do it. This might be his one and only opportunity to get to the bottom of things while she was this vulnerable. It was past time, thirteen years pastime, that he found out why she had thrown them away.

“Cariña, talk to me.” He drew his thumb upward and brushed her bottom lip where she was biting it. He’d kept his kiss as soft and gentle as he could because even now, her bottom lip was slightly swollen from the explosion. He knew from her reaction, she’d enjoyed it. He also guessed his Alia hadn’t been kissed much. There was too much surprise and wonder in her responses. His heart ached for her.

“Can you hold me? Like you did under the bleachers?” her voice was so soft, he could barely hear her words. Her nails were still biting into his shoulders.

“Always.” He led her into the other room and settled them on the couch. She sat away from him.

“Hunter, I’ve tried to work it out in my mind. I’ve dug out some of the rot, I have, but some of it is rooted so deep, it’ll never come free.” She dug her fists into her thighs, her mouth set in a grimace.

“God knows, I’ve needed help with shit before. You helped me earlier, just listening about meeting Mamie at the dumpster.”

She gave him a considering look, then a small smile. “God knows, I want my shit gone, too.”

“Come here,” he said. Hunter opened his arms. His heart about burst in his chest the way she burrowed into him. He wrapped both arms around her.

“My Táto seemed happy when I was young. Before he’d been forced to leave Czechoslovakia and move to America, he’d been a professor of literature and poetry at the University,” she said with pride.

Hunter shook his head. He was impatient to hear about his suicide, but she needed to get this out in her own way.

“He taught me how to write poetry. His poems were so stark, full of beauty and love.”

“Like your songs, I bet.”

“My songs don’t even come close to Táto’s poems. He had two books of poetry published back in the old country. I still have them.” She sounded both proud and sad.

“He sounds very accomplished. What did he do here in the United States?”

“He loved the Czech language so much, he didn’t want to learn English. He resented having to flee Czechoslovakia even though it wasn’t safe for him there.”

“What did he do for a living here?” he asked again.

“He worked in the foundry for my grandfather. That’s how he met my mother.”

“Oh, yeah, I knew he worked there.” A picture of a blonde man came to mind, he had always seemed out of place in his work boots and overalls.

“I didn’t realize how much this bothered him until I was in the seventh grade. I wrote two poems for English class, and the teacher had them put in the school newspaper. I was so excited. Of course, Heather made fun of me, but for once, that didn’t matter. Some of the other kids complimented me.”

“I remember when that happened. I walked you home that day.” She had been so excited, she had practically danced beside him down the sidewalk.

“When I presented Táto the school paper, he hardly said a word. I showed him how I had used imagery just like he’d taught me, but he walked away.” Aliana’s voice was quiet as she told her story, her accent thick like it had been in childhood. “At dinner, Maminka asked me to translate one of the poems into Czech, but it didn’t sound right. The rhymes and rhythms were off. Táto had me read, then repeat them again in English, but I could tell he was getting frustrated when he didn’t understand all the words. He got up from the dinner table and went to bed. Táto didn’t eat dinner with us for three nights in a row, he said he had headaches after work. I thought I had disappointed him. Eventually, I realized that was the turning point.”