Anew: Book One: Awakened (29 page)

“They’re both artists. He
respects her work.” Whereas if I were him, I’d be going nuts.

She looks as though she doesn’t
quite believe me but she says only, “She’s remarkably beautiful. Perfect,
really.”

I’m listening to her, sort of,
but mostly I’m trying to remind myself that I’m here just to reassure her and
go. Instead, I hear myself saying, “You’re perfect. In every possible way.”

She stares at me for a long
moment before, so softly that I only just make out the words, she asks, “If
that’s true, in your eyes at least, then why do you think that you could harm
me?”

The sudden rush of adrenaline
clenches my muscles and sets my heart pounding. I’m not prepared for this. I
have never spoken of it, not to anyone. Hodge knows, Hollis suspects, but
that’s it.

Maybe I should have talked with
a therapist or somebody but it’s too late for that now. I made the choices that
I did. There’s no escaping the results.

The ugly truth stares me in the
face. What happened before could happen again. Or worse. Much, much worse.
However we may want to fool ourselves, we can’t outrun our essential natures.

Or can we? I have a fair idea of
how Amelia was supposed to be, enough to understand how different she is in
reality. Perhaps because of where I’m standing I have a sudden image of an
artist given a palette of colors but refusing to be restricted by them, instead
mixing her own shades and hues to create what she herself envisions.

That may be possible for Amelia
to do but she came into the world pure and inviolate, unburdened by anything
like the baggage I carry. I swallow hard and for a moment, I have to close my
eyes because looking into hers, I see all too clearly the man I don’t believe I
can ever be.

I should leave but I can’t. I’m
frozen in place, unable to walk away even when I know that what I really need
to do is run.

“Please, Ian,” she says softly,
“don’t shut me out. Whatever is troubling you so much, at least give me a
chance to understand.”

Before I can respond, she comes
nearer and rests her hand over my heart. The warmth of her skin, her scent,
above all her closeness fill me. The sensation is so gentle, so soothing that a
center of calm blossoms from it.

I’m therefore unprepared when
she says, “I know what you’re planning and I don’t want you to do it.”

She knows? She doesn’t want?
What the fuck?

With as much control as I can
manage, I ask, “Do I need to have a serious talk with Gab?”

She looks at me chidingly.
“Please, did you really think that I wouldn’t understand what I saw in the
garage when we arrived and put it together with what else is happening? You’ve
decided to go after the HPF yourself. Given who you are, maybe that would be
all right normally. But things aren’t normal, are they? You aren’t.”

“You’re in my head now?” I don’t
make any effort to conceal my disdain. It ought to set her back on her heels
and make her think twice about trying to get so close. But somehow it doesn’t.

“I know what I saw on the polo
field,” she says. “What happened between us in the Rolls did something to you.
I don’t understand what that was apart from the fact that it obviously has
something to do with your father. But I do know that you need to get past it
before you even consider putting your own life and the lives of others at
risk.”

I stare at her dumbstruck. This
can’t be happening. She can’t possibly have any clue about--

“My father? What the hell--?”

“Your father
was
a danger
to women. He was an abuser but that doesn’t mean that you--”

“
Jesus Christ
, Amelia,
you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about!”

All the shock, fear, and pain
I’m feeling at that instant merge into a jagged bolt of red hot anger. She’s
stripping me bare, leaving me exposed in a way I’ve never been before and can’t
endure. I am beyond furious, so enraged that men I know who would never flinch
in combat would have the sense to run like hell from me.

Amelia doesn’t so much as blink.
She just tips her chin up, tightens her luscious mouth, and says, “Then explain
it to me. Tell me what has you so torn up inside that you’ve become reckless
with your own safety and even with the safety of others who depend on you.”

At the realization that she is
right, that’s exactly what I’ve done, something snaps inside me. Before I can take
a breath, my arm lashes out, my hand closing around her throat.

She gasps but incredibly she
makes no effort to resist. Clearly, the woman has far more guts than sense.

I can’t bear the thought of
hurting her but I have to make her understand what I really am. And why she
should want nothing to do with me.

I step forward, pressing along every inch of her. Her pulse
leaps under my fingers. A soft moan escapes her. Staring into eyes so wide and
luminous that I could drown in them, I snarl, “You do not want to do this.”

Amelia

“Y
ou’re
in my head now?” Ian makes no effort to conceal his disdain but I refuse to let
that affect me. Too much is at stake.

“I know what I saw on the polo
field. What happened in the Rolls did something to you. I don’t understand what
that was apart from the fact that it obviously has something to do with your
father. But I do know that you need to get past it before you even consider
putting your own life and the lives of others at risk.”

“My father? What the hell--?”

The look on his face--taut with
shock and smoldering rage--should make me tremble. And I do, inwardly.

Outwardly, I lift my chin, look
him straight in the eye, and say what I know beyond any doubt to be true. “Your
father
was
a danger to women. He was an abuser but that doesn’t mean
that you--”

“
Jesus Christ
, Amelia,
you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about!”

He stares at me as though I am
some species of creature he has never encountered before. And perhaps that is
the case. He and Susannah may have disagreed from time to time but the
beautiful, serene woman in the portrait would never have challenged him as I am
doing.

If my guess is right, all his
relationships have been similar--contained, controlled, safe. Deliberately
chosen not to arouse whatever he believes is in him and is so determined to
repress. Until now.

“Then explain it to me,” I say.
“Tell me what has you so worked up inside that you’ve become reckless with your
own safety and even with the safety of others who depend on you.”

Darkness stirs behind his eyes.
Before I can take a breath, his arm lashes out, his hand closing around my
throat. A bolt of primal fear whips through me until I realize that he is not
applying any pressure. However angry he is, he is still in control of himself.

In a sudden flash of clarity, I
understand what he is doing. He wants me to be afraid of him so that I will finally
be convinced to see him as he sees himself.

When I refuse to so much as
flinch, Ian takes a step forward. His hard body presses all along mine. I feel
him in my nipples, the arch of my hips, the cleft between my thighs. Feel him,
too, in the memories of all we have shared. The mouth that has so sweetly
tormented me curls in a snarl.

Everything about him declares
that if I had a fragment of sense, I would get as far away from him as
possible.

“You do not want to do this,” he
says.

For the first time ever, I feel
a stirring of appreciation for all the long years of helplessness floating
intermittently conscious in the gestation tank. As agonizing as they were, they
taught me patience. And endurance.

And courage.

Ignoring the fluttering in my
stomach, I put my hand very lightly over his where he is holding me. At the
same time, I take a step back.

He frowns, clearly confused by
my response and takes another step forward, allowing no separation between us.

Without letting go of him, I
step backward again.

Though he has yet to realize it,
we are engaged in a pas de deux in which I appear to retreat before his
strength and will when all I am really doing is drawing him to me.

I smile.

Behind his eyes, I see a flicker
of doubt. He doesn’t understand what is happening or how to deal with it. I
have the advantage… for the moment.

Another step followed quickly by
a
couru
, small, swift steps easily matched by his own until we come to
rest with my back against the wall of glass at the far end of the gallery. Its
coolness makes me all the more aware of the heat rising in me. My pulse is
racing. Under my skin, the muscles in my belly clench.

Ian’s eyes, wolf-like with a
hard amber sheen, glitter as they stare into mine. I wonder how much he can
sense of my arousal. How much he knows of how desperately I want him.

I take a breath, reaching deep
for what little semblance of composure I can muster while confronted by my own
melting desire for him, the hunger only he can satisfy.

Quietly, I say, “You have no
reason to risk your own life and those of others for my sake. How can you
expect me to let you do that? What sort of person would that make me?”

I’m hoping that he will actually
think about what I’ve said but only one word seems to get through.

“Let?” he repeats, sounding
incredulous. “You think that I need your permission?”

His response is beyond
frustrating. Never mind that this is about my life and my safety. Heaven forbid
that I should have any control over what happens.

I can’t keep the exasperation
out of my voice. “You’re doing this for my sake. That should give me some say
at least.”

He frowns as though I’m speaking
a language he doesn’t know. No, not just that. One he has never heard before.

I try to help him understand.
“You have people working for you, Gab and others. You must listen to them at
some point, at least consider their views.”

“They have skills and experience
earned in the field. You don’t.”

As though to take the sting from
his words, his thumb strokes over the pulse beating in my throat. His gaze
shifts to my mouth. His own softens even as his breath quickens. I can see the
change in him as the desire that springs so readily, even inevitably between us
begins to edge out anger.

His voice drops a notch,
becoming as caressing as his touch. Huskily, he says, “I’ll take care of this,
baby. You don’t need to concern yourself.”

Yearning pools deep in my belly.
His words are as seductive as his touch. I want so much to just let go, accept
it all, accept him on any terms I have to. But I can’t, I won’t, not if I hope
to retain any sense of my own self, the person I am becoming. I have to be
stronger than that.

“Don’t I, Ian? Fear doesn’t go
away just because you shove it down into some dark place deep inside you and
pretend that it doesn’t exist. That only makes it more powerful. When you least
expect it, it can rear up and tear you apart. The only way to prevent that is
to drag it into the light of day and confront it.”

Too late, I realize what I am
saying. If he asks how I can know any such thing…

I shrug, trying to minimize the
damage. “Or so it seems to me.”

Please let him think that this
is a legacy from Susannah who had to cope with the specter of illness, not the
result of my own nightmares of the gestation chamber and the clawing fear that
I will somehow find myself back in it. I can’t bear the thought of going into
that with him now, not under these circumstances when it will only detract from
what I must make him understand.

His frown is back. All too
perceptively, he asks, “What are you afraid of?”

I answer without hesitation,
from the heart, relieved just to get the words out and praying that he will
understand them.

“You’re about to put yourself in
danger for my sake. I’m afraid that at a crucial moment, you’ll make the wrong
choice, the wrong decision and it will be because of me. Because just by
existing, I’ve caused you to confront something inside yourself that you wanted
to leave buried and it’s tearing you apart.”

This is my ultimate fear and,
however misplaced, the source of my guilt where he is concerned. Never mind
that I did not choose to come into this world, much less that I would enter it
in such an extraordinary way. I am still responsible for the consequences of my
own actions, however unintended they may be.

I’m not sure what response I
hope for from Ian. Acknowledgement that he can respect what I’m saying even if
it doesn’t make complete sense to him? Reassurance that for all the difficulty
my presence causes him, he does not totally regret my existence?

Whatever I’m hoping for, I don’t
get it. He lets go of my throat but his hand doesn’t leave me. It slides down
to cup my breast in a gesture of blatant possessiveness. A finger circles my
aureole, only just brushing against the straining nipple. Through my blouse and
bra, I feel him as powerfully as if I stood before him naked.

Pressing my lips together, I
struggle to hold back a moan.

A faint smile curves his mouth
but does not reach his eyes. His emotional detachment sends a chill through me.
He touches me again almost clinically, as though he’s standing apart, watching
what he can do to me.

“And you think that I should
drag all that into the light in order to--what?--exorcise it?” he asks. “So
that I’ll be clear-headed enough not to do what I did on the polo field only
worse, cause some giant fuck up that gets me or others killed?”

I fight against the wave of
arousal building in me and nod. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way but yes.”

“You should be careful what you
ask for, Amelia.”

He continues toying with me,
pressing just a little harder with each stroke of his finger. My back arches
away from the window. Without warning, his other hand slides under my skirt,
past the edge of my panties to cup me.

I gasp in shock, thrilling to
his touch even as I am dismayed by his presumption. I don’t like that he
assumes my compliance. But in all fairness, I’ve yet to give him any reason to
doubt it.

“You’re wet,” he observes,
almost idly. Two fingers stroke along my slit, parting me. He arches an
eyebrow.

“What would it take to make you
come right now, Amelia? A few flicks on your clit? Or on that sweet spot in
your pussy that you know I always find? Would that be enough?”

I groan again as a wave of
mingled hunger and humiliation sweeps through me. Distantly, I realize that
I’ve challenged him on too fundamental a level. He’s reacting as I should have
known that he would, throwing up every defense in his arsenal even as he moves
to regain the upper hand in the most blatant and effective way possible.

Holding my eyes, he keeps up his
intimate caress as he says, “I’m going to hunt down the leadership of the HPF.
I’m going to take them alive and reduce them to babbling husks of men who will
give me every last piece of information that I want and a whole lot more that I
don’t. Then I’m going after whoever has been funding them. By the time I’m
done, there will be nothing left but a trail of blood and bodies.”

He could be discussing the
weather, his tone is that matter-of-fact, without a hint of emotion much less
remorse for what he is about to do on my behalf.

Without warning, he thrusts both
fingers into me, the tips stroking unerringly against the hidden bundle of nerves
where I am most acutely susceptible. My gasp is followed by a moan of pure
carnal pleasure. Within seconds, I’m writhing on his hand, tantalizingly close
to coming.

“Is that the man whose darkest
secrets you want to know?” he asks even as he persists, driving me higher,
tighter, making me more frantic for the release only he can give.

His gaze is feral, as though the
mask he wears so habitually has slipped and he is finally letting me see the
full extent of the raw torment inside him. I have to remind myself that this is
Ian, the man I have held in my arms, in my body.

In my heart. I know him. I trust
him. But I am also the reason that he’s about to go into harm’s way along with
others and I cannot shirk that burden.

The light falling through the
glass accentuates the hard planes and angles of his face. I look at Ian and I
see him--

In the library when he took my
word rather than risk hurting me.

In the music room at the
palazzo, urging me to stretch myself beyond Susannah’s legacy and find what
appeals to me uniquely.

In the spa, pushing me to
discover the strength of my own will and then accepting it without reserve.

At every step from the
beginning, he has moved away from his own assumptions and toward encouraging me
to be myself. How can I do less for him?

Even if I am about to come
unwillingly all over his very talented, relentless fingers.

I draw a ragged breath and only
just manage to speak despite what he is doing to me.

“I am not fragile. You think
that I am but you’re wrong just as you’re wrong about yourself. Whatever your
reasons for fearing that you’ll hurt me, I have the best possible reasons to
know that you won’t.”

His eyes flicker with surprise
but also with wariness. As though the words are wrenched from him, he asks,
“What reasons?”

I say what should be
self-evident to him. And perhaps would be if he could see himself as I do
rather than through the warped lens of his father’s memory.

“You had every opportunity to
harm me at the palazzo. You could have done anything and who would have stopped
you?”

My voice catches a little at
that brutal truth but I continue. “As you said yourself, I could be killed and
no one would be charged with anything other than destruction of property. But no
one would have charged you with anything at all no matter what you did. No one
would have cared.”