Stop Me (23 page)

An artificial smile replaced the sincere response of a moment before. “Yeah, well, that’s what they all say.”

She was trying to shrug it off, to pretend she didn’t care that he hadn’t valued what they’d shared. But he saw how quickly she folded her arms over her chest, how desperately she wanted to hide herself from his view. Until just now, she’d been completely trusting, warm—and he’d made her pay for it.

Shoving a frustrated hand through his tousled hair, he searched for the words to undo what he’d done. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.” She held up a hand to stop him. “No need to explain. I understand.

Meaningless is meaningless, right?”

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Jasmine couldn’t wait to get out of Romain’s house. She’d known better than to get involved with him, but she’d never expected him to make her feel so cheap.

Actually, she was more embarrassed than offended—because their lovemaking had been special to her.

God, she was an idiot. She generally had a good head on her shoulders, lived a cautious life, avoided anything that might be awkward later. How had she stumbled into this?

She hadn’t been herself yesterday. She’d been through too much, must not’ve been thinking straight. Let it go. Forget it.

After a mostly silent meal, Romain forked up the last of his French toast and looked at her. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Why?” She added more sugar to her coffee. Thanks to the potbellied stove, the house was growing warm. Had she been less eager to escape his company, she would’ve enjoyed the morning. The primitive but comfortable house. The isolation.

Even the surrounding bayou. For the first time, she could see the peace and beauty of this place.

“I’m curious.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever been married?”

She briefly considered whether or not she wanted to tell him but figured it didn’t matter. After the next few minutes, she’d never see him again. “Once.”

“So Stratford was your married name?”

“No, it was a short marriage. I went back to my maiden name.”

“How short?”

“Two years.”

“Why?”

“We were too different. It just didn’t work out.”

“No kids?”

She hesitated. Why was he trying to get to know her now? As far as she was concerned, it was a waste of time. “Does it matter?” she asked.

“That’s too personal a question?”

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“I have a steady boyfriend and a couple of kids waiting for me at home,” she lied.

He gave her a wry glance over his coffee cup. “You wouldn’t cheat on him.”

“And I wouldn’t be here at Christmas if I had kids. So I guess you could’ve answered both questions yourself.”

“Not even for your sister?” he said.

She cut off another bite of French toast and pushed it around in the syrup. “Not for anyone.”

“Didn’t you and your husband want a child?”

“My husband was infertile. Or—” she caught herself, realizing that wasn’t fair to Harvey because she didn’t know for sure “—maybe it was me.”

“There are tests for that sort of thing.”

“We weren’t together long enough to pursue it. But he was married three times before and had no children, so I’m thinking there’s a good chance it’s not me.” Romain had been leaning back in his chair, watching her as she attempted to finish her breakfast. When he heard this, his chair thumped as it hit the floor. “Your ex was married three times before you?”

Fairly certain she was getting a headache, Jasmine rubbed a finger over her left temple. “He was a bit older.”

“What’s a bit?”

“Thirty years.”

His jaw dropped. “Holy hell! How old were you when you married him?”

“Twenty.” She raised a hand to forestall his reaction. “But he wasn’t wealthy by any stretch, so don’t imagine I’m some kind of gold digger.”

“You married for love?”

No. But it seemed unkind to simply admit it. “In ways,” she finally said.

“That’s hardly what I’d call an unequivocal answer.” She didn’t have to give him an answer at all, but it was as pointless to refuse as it was to finish the conversation, so she remained polite. “I was completely screwed up. He turned me around.” She shrugged. “I owed him a lot.”

“So you decided to thank him with ‘I do’?”

As famished as Jasmine had been when Romain first mentioned breakfast, she found she couldn’t get through more than half of her pain perdu. It tasted great but kept getting stuck in her throat. Giving up on the meal, she pushed her plate away. “It happens.”

He eyed her leftovers. “I thought you were hungry.”

“Not anymore.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“It’s fine. I’m just…full.”

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The way his lips drew into a straight line—the same lips that had touched every part of her body this morning—indicated he wasn’t pleased by her answer, but he didn’t press her to eat more. “Where’d you meet this guy?” She sighed. “Somewhere between Indiana and Illinois.”

“Most people are able to come up with a more specific answer to that question.”

She glanced at the battery-powered clock over by the small generator-run refrigerator. “I think I should be heading out.” She knew she was going to feel stupid asking for money after everything that’d happened, but she had no choice. Clearing her throat, she broached the subject, trying to get it over with quickly. “Is there any chance you could lend me forty bucks?”

When he didn’t answer right away, she hurried to explain. “I’ll send it back to you, of course. You can pick it up at the motel in Portsville since you don’t have mail service out here. I have a friend who’s wiring me some money, but it’s in New Orleans, and I need gas to make it back.” She faltered as she began to realize he might not have money. “If you don’t have it, maybe you’d vouch for me so I could borrow it from someone you know. I’m good for it.”

“Fishing is a living,” he said, obviously offended. “I’ve got money.”

“Great.” She smiled in relief. “So…”

“No problem.” Getting up, he started clearing away the dishes. “But right now, we’ve got to get ready or we’ll be late.”

She frowned, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. “Late for what?”

“Dinner at my parents’.”

“I’m not going to your parents’,” she said. “I have to get back to New Orleans.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“So?”

“You can’t have that much to do.”

“I have a lot to do.” She gave up on her coffee, too, and carried the rest of the dirty dishes to the sink. “In any case, Christmas isn’t my favorite holiday. I don’t mind skipping it.”

“It’s not mine, either. But it’s important to my parents.” She threw their paper napkins in the trash. “Wonderful. I’m sure you’ll have a nice visit with them.”

“You’re not returning to that hotel room alone,” he said. “And I can’t go with you until tonight.”

Jasmine pulled up the sweats he’d lent her because they were puddling at her feet and probably made her look too small to take care of herself. “That’s ridiculous.

I don’t need you to come with me. I just need forty dollars. If you’ll risk the loan, I’ll 139

get out of your way.” She started from the room as if to change and leave, as if it’d already been decided, but he caught her elbow and turned her toward him.

“Listen, I understand that you’re finished with me, that you wouldn’t let me touch you again even if I begged. I screwed up and now you can’t wait to get the hell out of here. I deserve that. But regardless of what you might think of me, I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Funny that he’d been the only one to hurt her in years. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she said. “But I’m not your problem.” He laughed softly, almost bitterly, and dropped his hand. “You came to me.”

“Then we both got what we wanted and now I’m ready to leave.” Something passed through his eyes, but Jasmine couldn’t identify it. She was too busy struggling with her own emotions. “I’ll give you the money when we get back,” he insisted.

She couldn’t spend the whole day with him. Every time she looked at him, she craved another taste, another touch. It was like being mesmerized by flames, like reaching out to them even after she’d been burned. “But your parents aren’t expecting me,” she said, trying a different approach.

“They’ll be glad to see you. If you’re there, my sister and I will have less of an opportunity to ruin the big feast.”

“Your sister?”

“She’s visiting, along with her family.”

Jasmine remembered that Black had mentioned Romain’s brother-in-law, but it was such a long shot that said brother-in-law would have any involvement in Kimberly’s disappearance—or anything else of consequence to her—she wasn’t willing to take the risk of accompanying Romain just to meet him. “I don’t know them. They don’t know me,” she argued. “And I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m definitely not wearing your clothes.”

“I know a girl about your size.”

“A girl? Don’t bother her.”

“She won’t mind.”

He was being far more stubborn about this than she would’ve expected. “Why don’t I stay here and wait for you, then?” She waved at the dishes they’d stacked near the sink. “I could finish cleaning up.”

“You wouldn’t wait. You’d walk to Portsville and hitchhike from there.”

“So? What do you care?” she snapped, frustrated by his unyielding refusal.

He studied her for a moment. “I guess meaningless isn’t meaningless, after all.”

“Do they fit?” Romain asked, standing outside his bedroom door.

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Jasmine didn’t answer right away but, after a moment, he heard her voice.

“Close.”

When he’d handed over the clothes he’d borrowed from Casey’s teenage daughter, she’d shut him out, which disturbed him almost as much as the way breakfast had gone. He wanted to watch her dress. Not because he wanted to see her body as much as he longed to regain the intimacy he’d so impetuously destroyed.

“Are you going to open the door?” he asked, growing irritated.

“I’m coming.”

The door swung open and she stood in the entryway.

The jeans fit nice and tight, the way he liked them. Unfortunately, so did the sweater. It pulled in front, drawing attention to her breasts, and she kept fiddling with the fabric in an attempt to loosen it.

“It looks great,” he said, trying to sound believable. It was great, but the kind of great a man would be more likely to appreciate than a woman.

“How old was the girl who gave you these clothes?” she asked, turning back to the mirror. She’d waited in the truck when he’d gone into Casey’s house—hadn’t met Casey or her daughter. But he knew Casey had peeked at Jasmine through the windows. He’d seen the curtains move as he backed out of the drive.

“Thirteen.”

“No wonder.”

“She’s the only person in Portsville even remotely close to your size.”

“She’s not my size. This sweater is too tight.”

He agreed, but telling her so would only make her more self-conscious. “It’s fine. If we find a store that’s open, I’ll buy you something better along the way.”

“I’ve got to get back to New Orleans to pick up my money,” she grumbled. “I hate being so dependent.”

“The money will be there waiting for you.”

With a sigh, she stopped adjusting her top. “I guess this will have to work.

Anyway, it beats how I looked in your T-shirt and boxers.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He caught her eye in the mirror and had a flashback of her staring up at him this morning, naked and on her back, their fingers and other body parts intertwined. Now that was a beautiful sight.

“Are we taking my car or your truck?” she asked, shifting her gaze away as if she could read his thoughts and they made her uncomfortable.

“I was thinking it might be fun to take the bike. I have an extra helmet,” he offered.

Her teeth sank into her lower lip as she considered it. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle.”

He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them in the air. “Alors vous allez à comme le tour.”

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“English, please.”

“You’re going to like the ride.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t regret it later,” she said.

And he knew she was talking about a different kind of ride altogether.

Jasmine couldn’t get comfortable on the back of Romain’s motorcycle, not when she was trying so hard not to hold on to him. She kept changing the position of her hands, searching for a good grip on the bike instead, but then he’d make a turn or switch lanes, and she’d have to grab him again.

Eventually, he pulled over to the side of the road and flipped up the screen on his helmet. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Why do you keep fidgeting?”

“The speed and motion of the bike makes me nervous,” she said, but that wasn’t true at all. He made her nervous.

He twisted to see her clinging to the backrest. Then he muttered a curse, lowered the screen on his helmet and they took off again. After another few miles, however, he reached back one hand at a time and brought her arms around his waist, and she didn’t move after that because he went even faster and she was afraid she’d fall off if she let go.

When they reached Mamou, Jasmine was exhausted from two hours of fighting her natural inclination to let her body relax into his. But staring up at Romain’s parents’ neat, middle-class home she felt too tense to worry about the fatigue. His family had already started pouring out the front door—a motorcycle didn’t exactly make a quiet entrance.

“Here they come,” she whispered as he took her helmet.

He didn’t respond. He was getting the packages he’d wrapped in ice out of his saddlebags.

Jasmine smiled politely as a tall, rather austere-looking woman, who had to be Romain’s mother, drew close to shake her hand.

“Romain, you didn’t tell me you were bringing a date.” His mother was obviously pleased, so pleased and acutely interested in Jasmine that Jasmine immediately felt the need to explain.

“I’m not a date,” she said. “I’m just…someone who—” She glanced at Romain, seeking his help. She didn’t want to mention Moreau or the investigation, didn’t want to bring up a difficult subject. But he didn’t fill the gap in the conversation. “I’m someone who didn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas so Romain dragged me along,” she finished lamely.