Her Galahad (17 page)

She blinked. "The enormous carving of the eagle chained to the tree stump?"

"That's the one."

"You're
Dolphin Art?"

He laughed at her gaping expression. "Uh-huh. I work through the art gallery in Sydney where your dad saw the piece. I use the name of a friend of mine to make the transactions legal, and he gets commission for doing nothing but storing a couple of lumps of wood and some half-finished pieces in his shed."

"I saw that eagle piece when I snuck back to see Dad about a year ago. I loved it," she murmured wistfully. "The way the eagle tried to fly, even chained—the unconquered, defiant spirit. I wanted it to be me." The tiny grin twitching at her mouth turned to wild, hurting laughter, tinged with tiredness. "That eagle was his pride and joy. He shelled out thousands to get it."

He stopped for a red light. "Three and a half, to he exact—and at a time I really needed the cash. And he told all his friends about me … not knowing it was me, of course."

She bit her lip. "You mean my father helped set you on the path to fame and fortune?" He grinned and nodded, appreciating the irony of Keith Earldon's as much as she did. "How many pieces, and paintings, have you sold?"

"Enough. The kangaroos I stored in the van are part of a deal I've got with Australia International Travel Agencies. They want them for their overseas offices."

"But—they're the biggest travel agents in Australia!" she gasped. "That must mean—?"

"That I am—to put it mildly—well off? I guess you could say so, princess." Again knowing what she wanted to ask, he grinned once more. "But why do I live like a stony-broke hermit in the back of beyond? I know it seems insane, but I figured if Beller or your brother found out I was making money, they'd try to shut me down. So I kept socking it all away where they'd never know about it, waiting for this time to come."

She frowned. "You knew we'd meet again?"

"No." He accelerated as the lights changed. "I knew the right time would come to take my life back."

"Did you want revenge on me, too?" she mumbled.

Hating to upset her, he said, "Not since we met again."

Risking a glance, he saw her set profile in sharp contrast to the setting sun. "You thought I was in on their plots."

"They're great liars, Tess—with the proof to show it."

"Yes," she agreed tonelessly, "and experts at destroying me. They'd do anything to make me go back to him."

He sighed, and tried to soften the blow. "Tess, I never doubted that they love you."

"Maybe, but they hate you more. And they love their social standing and respectability above everything else. They took Emily away from me, and let you suffer in prison, to keep their reputation in Sydney society. Find that place to stay," she said, her voice hard. "We need to talk about what to do next."

He accelerated through another set of lights, looking ahead. "We'll have to stay in one room tonight." He lifted a hand as her vivid face lit in passionate denial. "We have no choice. We'll attract attention as it is by paying cash instead of plastic. Taking separate rooms will guarantee the manager will remember us if one of Beller's dogs goes there."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'll stay in the car while you book the rooms, or I'll book my own after you go. Then it won't—"

"This is Australia, Tess. There aren't enough successful indigenous people to make me inconspicuous. If I book two rooms, I'll be remembered for it—and if you book a room alone, you'll be remembered, Tess. Your face isn't one a man forgets easily," he added dryly. "Our first priority here is to remain forgotten." He pulled the car over to the side of the road. "I won't touch you, if that's what scares you. I gave you my word. I can get a twin room if you want, but that will guarantee we're remembered."

Tessa said nothing, but the bitterness in her face, the quiet disbelief, was louder than a shout.

"What's the real problem, Tess? I said I wouldn't hurt you or touch you. I didn't last night, did I? And it's not like we're strangers, or we haven't been lovers before. I'm your husband—"

Her eyes flashed in the gathering gloom. "Oh, sorry, I forgot—the ultimate argument. That's what
he
said every time. When I didn't want him to touch me. When I didn't like his friends or giving his parties. When he took my passport and all my money, until I had nothing and no one left but him. When he hit me!" She sounded so bitter Jirrah gasped. "So good little Theresa will do as she's told again. Do what you like. You will anyway. It's not like I matter, so long as you get what you want!"

Again, the fury ate at his gut like acid. "And you think I'm like that?" Damn it, he'd thought she trusted him by now!

After a little silence, she mumbled, "You control it, but I feel the hate, the rage in you … just like him."

Oh, damn. The
fool
that he was! She always saw right through to his heart. Why had he ever thought he could protect her by hiding his hatred of her family? Slowly, gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, letting them rest there. He looked deep into her eyes, those revealing windows into her turbulent soul. "I can't deny what you're saying. You know I can't.

But it's not aimed at you, Tess. I'm not like him. I'd never hurt you."

She pushed off his hands. "That's what
he
said. 'I love you, Theresa. I'd never hurt you'—then it became 'I love you. Theresa. I'll never hurt you again.' But he did … and he enjoyed doing it. Dad and Duncan always said, 'We love you so much. We want what's best for you.' The problem was, the
best
was Cameron for my husband, putting you inside and giving away my baby! If that's love, I don't want any part of it, ever again!"

Breathe in, breathe out.
He had to do a mental count before he spoke, praying to say the right thing. "Was it your fault?

Does a man who loves a woman abuse her—with words or fists?"

"I didn't love him. I couldn't act like I did, or that I was happy with him. I hated sex. It drove him crazy when I felt nothing for him but distaste, and tried to avoid him—"

"Did you ask for it, Tess? Did you want him to hit you?"

She turned to him; the look in her eyes was arrested, questioning—unsure.

"Does a man who really loves a woman lash out at her, no matter what provokes him?" he went on quietly, yet full of meaning. "Does a man who loves a woman blackmail her into marriage, then abuse her for a situation he created himself?"

"But—but he didn't hit me until the end…"

"He took away your passport, your money, your job and your friends—that's abuse in my book. He stole your dignity. Would you do that to someone you love, Tess?"

Slowly, her eyes enormous, she shook her head. "No."

With a tender finger he caressed her cheek, and, watching him as if hypnotized, she allowed the touch, not flinching or moving away. "Would I take your dignity from you, mulgu? Would I take your choices away? Would I hit you? Would I force myself on you? Have I ever done that?"

A long silence. "No. You wouldn't force me." A little smile twitched the corners of her mouth. "I was the one who did that."

He grinned. "You sure did, more than once … and they're memories I cherish. So if you feel the need to force yourself on me again. I'm here, waiting in hope—but I'll never do it to you. Okay?"

Slowly, after long, hanging moments, she nodded. "Okay."

He lifted a brow. "So?"

"So we get one room, and you behave yourself!"

He laughed in sheer relief at the impish note in her voice, realizing the magnitude of the victory he'd gained. Tess trusted him—not just with her life and daughter, but with her body; and, given where she'd been the past six years, that was a gigantic leap of faith for her. "That's about the size of it. You trust me, and I wait in hope."

"Then let's find that mom. After seven hours of riding over the worst roads in the state, I'm too tired for anything but sleep."

Said with her crooked, one-dimpled smile, the one that tugged at those suddenly shaky barricades around his heart—and made everything inside that made him a man rise up in hot desire.

He bad to control it. Forcing a smile, he uttered dryly, "Typical." With a mock sigh of surrender he started the car, and drove down the highway toward the city.

* * *

"This is—nice."

They stood side by side in a pretty, country-style hotel room on Sydney's exclusive Lower North Shore, looking at the king-size bed as if it held the secrets to life.

Tessa cursed her stupid tongue. What a pitifully banal thing to say! She hadn't broken the awkwardness of the unwanted déjà vu, she'd increased it.

He remained silent, his face expressionless—but she knew what he was thinking. The same thing she was thinking. The last time they'd entered a hotel room together.

Their wedding night

Staggering through the door in each other's arms, laughing, kissing. Undressed before they hit the bed. Fast, frantic loving followed by slow, sensuous loving in the spa, slick with bubbles, high on champagne and love. They hadn't even noticed what the room looked like until the next morning.

The last morning they'd spent together.

Her eyes misted; her heart ached for the time of innocence, the complete and unconditional love she'd never know again.

He must have misinterpreted her silence, for he said only, "I'll sleep on the sofa bed if you want, Tess."

If you want.

She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes and blew out a sigh. Nothing worked.

"Tess? What is it?"

She turned to him, her eyes full of anguish. "Do you know the last time a man said that to me—
if
you want?"
She choked on the words. "It was six years ago—and the man was you. That was the last time anyone called me Tessa. No one knew how I hate being called Theresa. Nobody asked what I wanted. Only you."

The darkness of desire in his eyes didn't shift, but he spoke gently. "I know how it feels to have your choices taken from you. I'd never do that to another human being, especially you."

"Better get ready for bed—uh, sleep. Dibs first shower." She snatched the bag of clothes she'd bought in Dubbo and fled to the safety of the bathroom.

Only then did she start shaking.

When she reemerged, with damp, rumpled hair and the thick calico nightgown that fell to her feet, she felt on more solid ground, ready to face him. "Your turn. I'm off to sleep."

"Tess, can you define empathy for me?"

His voice, hoarse with the strain of heated sexuality kept under tight leash, arrested her at the edge of the bed. She halted, but couldn't look at him. She stared at the floral bedspread as if it alone absorbed her interest. "What?"

"It's different from sympathy, or pity. Empathy's a good thing. It means you know where someone's coming from—because you've been there yourself. Tess, I've lived with the trapped feeling, the rage, hatred eating at you like a living thing. Lying awake at night wondering if you'll ever feel like a normal human
being again." He stood behind her, close enough to touch, talking in soft, mesmerizing hoarseness. "Yes, your pain hurts me. I want to help heal you of what he did to you if I can. But I don't pity you. I understand. That's why I'll always ask you what you want, why I won't make decisions without consulting you. So don't ever confuse it with pity again. Any pity I felt died before that first night. I couldn't want you like I do if I pitied you."

He still thought she was beautiful.