Chapter Six
“No. I won’t do that,” he managed to say quietly.
“But you’re Devon ‘The Devil’ Wilder. Rumor has it you sleep with everyone under the sun. Am I not attractive to you?” A wrinkle deepened between her eyebrows.
For a second, he wished he could just pull her into his arms. He’d give one of his kidneys to tear up that cherry-red dress and fling it to the other side of the room. Screw her against the wall, hard and fast. Deep.
A surge went through him, and he cursed his throbbing erection. Earlier that day, the surveillance guy had told him there was one number she dialed often, and he had tried it. And, to his surprise and frustration, it had been the office of a shrink specializing in women victims of abuse. How right was it to bring her into his messy life? Whether she lied or not; whether she slept with his brother or not, that woman was broken and he wasn’t the one to fix her. Didn’t know how.
“That’s not the problem. Have you been sexually abused or assaulted?”
She surged to her feet. “Is there a freaking sign on my forehead?”
“What?”
“How do you know?”
He walked to his kitchen, and opened the cupboard to get two square glasses. His intention had been for this meeting to be alcohol free. Damn it, he needed every working lucid brain cell he could count on. The idea of a tortured, abused Elena burned a hole in his gut. And right now, alcohol was his only release. “I checked on the numbers you dialed frequently and found Dr. Hodge.”
“Why did you check my phone records?” she asked, and a second later, she cocked her head to the side, as if figuring out the answer herself. “You didn’t trust me.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Is that why you won’t help me with my, er, problem now?” She cleared her throat. “Because you still don’t trust me? Or is it because I’m damaged goods?”
No. I’m damaged goods. “I’m just not the right type to help you get your mojo back on.”
“You said it yourself though. Attraction just happens.”
He grabbed the bottle of bourbon and filled the tumblers generously. “It does. But knowing what you probably went through, I can’t set out to have sex with you and leave you. Wouldn’t be right, even for me.”
Tears threatened to spill out of her eyes. “That’s bullshit.”
“Try this.” She needed a boost to cope with the rejection, and so did he.
Her hand trembled slightly as she received the glass from him, and his heart squeezed like a three-hundred pound bench press sat on it. For the first time in his life, not sleeping with someone he wanted badly was the right thing to do. And the more they deviated from that subject, the better. “How much do you know?”
“Just about her expertise. I Googled her. Did you know your attacker?”
She took a swig at the drink, then slammed the glass on the coffee table. “Yes. Too well. He was my ex-husband.”
His shoulders sagged a notch, as if he had been tossed on the couch. Quietly, he digested her words, and his body kept up with his brain. He stiffened, and curled his fists so hard, his nails bit into his palms. Her ex-husband? “What?”
The tears ran freely down her reddened cheeks, but she didn’t sob. “I was married for three years. He was the second guy I ever slept with. When we got married, I wasn’t super experienced. He liked to have sex a lot, and I assumed that was normal.”
Devon took a gulp of his own drink, the flavor scorching his throat. “Enjoying sex is normal.” Judging from the frown on her beautiful face, whatever her husband was into, wasn’t. And he just wished he could punch the dirty bastard.
“That’s what he kept telling me. First, it was a couple times a day. Then, he wanted more times a day. After a while, it didn’t matter if I said no.”
He could feel the hot throb in his temples. He looked down at his drink, but this stomach was so damn unsettled he didn’t drink it. “You said no?”
“A few times I tried. Then I figured I’d just better keep quiet. Sounds stupid, but in the beginning I wasn’t sure what was going on. If it was normal or just a phase. I prayed it was temporary. My parents had been married for over forty years… I stuck by to see if we could make it. I come from a traditional Italian family. I was taught as a child that divorce was the easy way out. God. And you wonder why I needed therapy?” she said, and although she tried to inject some humor at the end, he didn’t miss the nervousness dripping from her voice.
“Did you talk to someone?”
She took a swig at the bourbon, and he could tell she wasn’t used to drinking much because she coughed hard. A bit of alcohol dribbled at the corner of her mouth, and she wiped it with her finger. “I didn’t have any friends at the time. I met someone, Kika, who also helped me see that Timothy’s behavior was abnormal. But the other female friends I confided in said I should be lucky he wanted to have so much sex.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low whisper, as if it had been his fault.
