A Candle in the Dark (43 page)

Her release exploded over her, washing through her in waves so intense it was almost painful. Ana clutched at him, gasping words she didn’t understand, trembling beneath him as he thrust deeper and deeper, faster and faster.

And then she felt him stiffen, heard his hoarse, strangled cry before he shuddered and collapsed, and she felt him throbbing deep inside her, hot and wet and unbearably sweet.
Yes. Oh, yes, this was what she wanted, what she needed
… His face was buried in the curve of her neck, his mouth moved against her skin. The heaviness of his weight felt good. So good. She wanted to go on forever and ever.

But she knew it couldn’t.

Ana squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for his inevitable withdrawal, the lonely chill she would feel when he was gone. She knew it well, knew she would feel cold and dirty and empty, knew she would pretend not to see his knowing, smirking smile. She would want him gone then, she knew that too. She would want him to grab his clothes and leave quickly—so she could start to forget about him.

If you can forget about him.

The thought came, unasked for and unwelcome, but she knew it was true. Tonight had been different. Her responses had been unstudied, the way she’d arched against him and whispered his name, the way she clutched him. She remembered gasping beneath his sensual onslaught, crying his name in her release—release she’d never imagined, never known. She could almost
see
herself writhing beneath him, begging for release, for salvation. Her hands in his dark hair, her limbs twined with his. The vision assaulted her in dizzying, confusing images, and she was aching suddenly, wanting something so far beyond her grasp she couldn’t imagine it. Wanting him to stay there, wrapped around her, his arms and his legs and his hair catching in hers.

No
. That wasn’t real. He wouldn’t stay, it didn’t matter what she hoped for. It was only a dream, and one she didn’t really want.

The thought brought sadness so deep she wanted to cry. Ana struggled to push it away. She clenched her fists in the blankets.
Leave
, she thought.
Please, just leave now so I can forget this
.

But he didn’t. He rose up on his elbow and looked down into her face, wrapped a strand of her hair around his finger and smiled down at her.

“You all right?” he asked softly.

No. No, I’m not all right
. Ana nodded slowly. “Yes.”

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, and then closed it again, glancing away for a moment as if she was too painful to look at. Ana’s heart constricted. She waited for his next words, the ones that would thank her in a stilted, awkward tone before he pulled away from her and went to his hammock. She watched him, feeling frozen inside, waiting.

Then he smiled again and leaned over her, pressing his lips to hers in a gentle, open-mouthed kiss.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “Christ, you’re so perfect.”

Ana was suddenly wrapped in confusion so strong it took her breath away. Because she saw his eyes finally, saw the emotion shining from them, and everything dropped into place. She knew then why he didn’t leave, and why he caressed her as if she was the most important thing in the world.

He loved her.

He loved her.

The knowledge made her numb with fear.

Cain felt her struggle in his arms. At first, he thought she was just moving to get comfortable, and he rolled onto his side and tried to cradle her in his embrace. It wasn’t until she pushed at him with a little, choking sound of dismay that he realized she was trying to escape.

But before he could do anything about it, before he could even protest, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose. He felt the sudden ease of pressure on the mattress, heard its creak, and then she was skirting away from him, bare skin glowing in the darkness, shadowed by the heavy length of her hair.

He lay there, still not quite believing it, drugged into complacency by the strength of his release. He told himself she was only going to get a drink of water.

Then he heard the shuffle of clothing.

Cain sat up. “What are you doing?”

She didn’t look at him. “Going for a walk.”

“A walk?” He heard the sharp rise of incredulity in his voice and he struggled to control it. “A walk?”

“Yes, a walk,” she replied with exaggerated care. “You don’t need to worry about taking up the bed tonight. I’ll sleep in the hammock when I get back.”

He felt as if she’d punched him, and then cursed himself for being surprised. He had forgotten. For a time, he’d been so lost in sensation, in the warm, pulsing lightness of being inside her, that he’d forgotten she was not an ordinary woman. She was a prostitute. A woman who was used to selling her favors, to quick rolls that brought no warmth, little pleasure. The thought sent nausea clawing through him. Christ, he was just another man, another client.

But then he remembered. He had felt her pleasure, felt the quick, passionate responses of her body and heard her soft moans. No, he was not just another man. He had felt her throbbing against his tongue, had tasted her and kissed her. He had not mistaken her responses, he knew. Had not mistaken his. He had made love to her, and he wondered if any man before him ever had.

He looked at her and knew then that he was the only one. She was confused and uncertain, and for the first time since he’d known her, she wasn’t even hiding it very well. She pulled on the chemise with shaking hands. He heard her bitten-off curse as the cotton tangled around her waist. No, she was not unaffected.

“Don’t go,” he said quietly.

She stopped. Her back was to him, but she half turned her head. “I’m just going to take a walk.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t sleep. I’ll just keep you up all night.”

He grinned. “That’s fine with me.”

She turned away again. “No. Not again.”

“Why not, Ana?” Cain whispered. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you like it?”

“You were—” She yanked at the chemise. “You were very good.”

” ‘You were very good,’ ” he mimicked. “That’s not what I asked you, Ana. I asked if you liked it.”

“Cain—”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes. No. I—” She wrenched on the fabric, ripping it in frustration, and spun around to face him. “What do you want me to say? ‘I’ve never felt this way,’ or ‘You made me feel things I’ve never felt’—is that what you want to hear?”

“Only if it’s true,” he said harshly.

“You don’t understand.” She sounded near tears; the chemise lay crumpled and abandoned at her waist. “This changes nothing—I told you it wouldn’t. You don’t understand.”

“No?” Cain rose, trying to control his anger as he faced her. He had given her his heart, made love to her with his very soul. And she had done the same, he knew it even if she refused to admit it. “Pardon me for disagreeing,
querida
, but I think you’ve got things a little mixed up. It’s not me who doesn’t understand. It’s you.”

He advanced slowly. She swallowed and moved backward, grabbing at the edges of the torn chemise. When it didn’t budge, she crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her small breasts from his view.

She swallowed. “Don’t.”

Her eyes looked huge and dark and frightened in the darkness, her hair a wild shadow over her shoulders. Like a trapped animal, he thought for the second time since he’d known her. Then he realized it was more than confusion she felt. It was fear. She was afraid.

The knowledge took his anger.

He reached out, running a finger down the softness of her cheek. She jumped, and then froze, and he dropped his hand. “What are you afraid of, Ana?”

She lifted her chin. “Leave me alone.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“Why?” he whispered.

She stepped backward until she was against the wall. “I know what you think. I know you think you’re different than the rest. But you’re not. You’re not. I didn’t feel a thing.”

Cain moved forward, so quickly she was startled, and grabbed her wrist, pulling her against his chest, and then he curled his fingers beneath her chin and forced her to look at him.

“Liar,” he said softly. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” she whispered. “I felt nothing. Nothing.”

“Really?” He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “Not when I did this?” He touched her mouth with his finger. “Or this?”

She shook her head frantically. “No. No.”

“Really? Then how about this?” He bent his head, brushing her lips with his, then slowly, achingly slowly, tracing her lips with his tongue.

“No.” Her voice shook—or he thought it did.

Cain slid his hands around her waist. She stiffened as he touched her bare skin, he heard her rapid breathing. He backed her against the wall and then held her in place with one hand. With the other, he touched her nipple. It stiffened immediately. “Not this?” he whispered against her mouth.

She shook her head wildly, tearing her lips from his. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, continuing his relentless teasing, knowing it was unfair and hating himself for it even as he couldn’t stop. “Tell me,
querida
, what can I be doing to you? You said you feel nothing when I touch you.”

She bit her lip. She was trembling. He felt her struggle in the stiffness of her muscles, the way she refused to look at him. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he said softly. “Explain it to me, Ana. Make me understand.”

“I already tried.”

He frowned. “You did?”

“Before—” She waved a hand, closed her eyes. “Before this.”

It dawned on him suddenly what she was talking about. Their conversation before he’d made love to her had been lost in the exquisiteness of the act. He’d forgotten her fears. What had she said?
You expect too much. I can’t give you what you want
.

He had discounted the words, refusing to believe them, knowing she still thought she was someone she hadn’t been for a very long time. In his arrogance, he’d thought his lovemaking would make her see that. But that was his belief, not hers. He was the one who thought her whoring days were over.

Was it possible she had never intended that at all?

He swallowed, horrified at the thought, and stared at her. His hand stilled on her breast, and he felt her resistance, saw the fierce biting of her lip and her averted gaze.

“Ana,” he said slowly. “I don’t care about your past.” With shock, he realized the words were true. The questions that had once seemed so important—why she became a whore, why she hated doctors—didn’t matter anymore. “I don’t care.”

She lowered her eyes, took a deep breath. “I know.”

“You’re still—” he forced himself to say the words. “You’re still planning to go on to San Francisco.”

She threw him a quick look. “I told you nothing’s changed.”

“What if I asked you not to go? What if I asked you to stay here with me?”

She was silent, and Cain held his breath, for a moment wishing he could take back the words. He wanted to tell her he loved her, wanted to cradle her in his arms and make love to her again and again, until the idea of going on to San Francisco was anathema to her.

But he’d never said those words to anyone before. This was the only time in his life he’d felt worthy enough to say them. It was ironic, he thought, that the one woman who made him feel worthy was a woman practiced at artifice and lies, a woman who cared for no one herself—

No, that wasn’t true. She cared for him, he knew it. Christ, he knew it. Cain pressed closer, and she pressed her hand against his chest, splaying her fingers through the curls on his skin, and looked up at him. He saw fear and confusion in her eyes, and because of that, he said the words he’d sworn not to say.

“I love you.”

She shook her head, not even looking surprised. “No, you don’t. You only think you do.”

He laughed quietly. “How reassuring that you think so much of me. I don’t know my own mind, is that it?”

“You don’t know me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you—”

“Shall I tell you how much I know, Ana?” he asked gently, pressing her against the wall, grabbing the hand she’d placed on his chest and curling his fingers around it. “Should I tell you who I see when I look at you?”

She struggled against him. “No, Cain, don’t—”

“I see a beautiful woman who’s afraid of being loved. Of loving herself, even. I see a woman who has convinced herself love isn’t important.”

She shook her head. Her hair fell over her shoulders, her breasts. “That’s not true.”

“Then tell me what is true.”

She said nothing. She couldn’t even look at him, and that alone sent pain knifing into his heart.

He sighed, tightening his hands on her skin, closing his eyes. “Ah, Ana, why won’t you let me love you?”

“Because,” she said, in a voice so soft he had to bend his head to hear it. “Because then I would have to love you back. And I don’t know if I can do that.”

He didn’t know what to say to her. They were the saddest words he’d ever heard, and he didn’t know how to answer them, how to do more than stare at her lowered head, at the hair falling forward to cover her face and throat, shadowing the small mounds of her breasts. She seemed so delicate then, and fragile, and it occurred to him that he’d never seen her this way, had always seen her as indomitable, unbroken.

He had an intense urge to wrap her in his arms, to hold her safe and protected against the world. His Ana, who had never backed down from any fight, who had always confronted everything, stood half naked and trembling, helpless and alone.

Ah, Christ, the sight of her that way broke his heart.

Because she was lying to herself, he knew it. She thought she couldn’t love him back; what she didn’t realize was that she already did. He knew it, even if she didn’t. Sometimes the words weren’t important.

But she wouldn’t listen to him if he told her that, and it suddenly didn’t matter. She had given him confidence, she had given him back himself. For that, if nothing else, he loved her enough for both of them.