The Beauty of Surrender (27 page)

“That’s crap.”

He was right behind her, his hands on her waist, turning her to face him. His expression was fierce, his dark eyes burning with emotion.

“You want me to go, is that it? That’s fine; you do what you need to do. But don’t bullshit me, Marina. Be honest with me. Tell me what you want. What you need. That’s what this has been all about between us, hasn’t it? Until right now, anyway.”

She swallowed past the knot forming in her throat, as much from his nearness, the scent of sex on his naked skin, as from the hard tone of his voice.

“Yes. You’re right. I … I need some time. This has all gotten very … intense.”

“Yeah, it has. But that’s why it’s so good.”

“Maybe.”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

She wanted to cry again. But she wouldn’t allow it. She could only shake her head. She couldn’t look at him, her gaze wandering instead to the foggy view outside her bedroom window. So gloomy out there. So gloomy inside.

“I’m sorry, James. I just have to …” She stopped, shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “Please just go. Okay? Just … go.”

He took a step back, his body tensing as though she had hit
him. Maybe she had. His face was dark, shutting down at high speed, his jaw hard, tight. Unbearable. “Yeah, fine. I’m going.”

He moved away, disappeared into the guest room to find his clothes. She stood in her bathrobe in the middle of her bedroom, her ears painfully tuned in to every sound: him closing the guestroom door, the creak of the wood floors as he moved down the hallway, the quiet thud of the front door closing behind him. The moment he was gone the tears came, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Wrapping her arms around her body, she sank onto the foot of the bed and cried until she was dry inside.

It was after nine when she looked at the clock. Her face felt swollen and tender. Her head was heavy, numb. She couldn’t cry anymore. She couldn’t think.

But no, she
had
to think. Was she going to walk away from him? Could she? She was grieving as though she already had. And maybe after the way she’d treated him this morning, it would be too late already. But that would be for the best, wouldn’t it?

Wouldn’t it?

What the hell was she going to do now?

Leaning over the side of the bed, she picked up the phone on the nightstand. She should call Desmond, talk to him. He was always the calm voice of reason. Or he had been until he’d met Ava six months ago. Now he was lovestruck. Dumbstruck. No, talking to Desmond was a bad idea. She would have to handle this on her own, just as she had all these years. And Desmond would only talk her into going to James, telling him she loved him.

Impossible
.

She could not do it. She couldn’t risk feeling like this again, not for one more day. Look at what it was doing to her already, loving James.

God, she loved him! And it was like a knife in her chest.
Because she could not allow this to happen. Not again. Never, ever again.

Dropping the phone, she curled up on the bed, her head on the pillow where James had slept so recently. She breathed him in, breathed in the pain of knowing it was over. And gave herself permission to feel it, to let the pain rack her body, just for this one day. And after that, she would shut it all safely away, in that dark, locked compartment in her heart where she stored everything that hurt.

J
AMES SAT AT
an outdoor table at Absinthe, his hands cupped around a cappuccino, watching the waning afternoon light and the world go by without him.

More than two weeks had passed since he’d last seen Marina, her torn expression, emotion making her eyes huge in her pale face. He’d thought she would call him the next day. Or that weekend. But he hadn’t heard a damn word.

He’d had no idea that anything could hurt as much as this did. More than the broken jaw he’d come home from Manila with. More than the machete injury he’d gotten in Indonesia. More, even, than the drifting remnants of what had happened in Africa.

He never knew loving someone could hurt like this.

God damn it!

He gripped the steaming mug, burning his fingers on the hot porcelain. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.

He loved her, and what was the fucking use? She’d turned away from him, leaving him to wait, the pathetic rejected lover. It felt like hell.

It felt like death. That same sort of loss. Crushing, tearing at his insides.

But this time there was something he could do about it. He could damn well try. No one was holding a machete to his throat now. He was not going to kneel in the dirt and fucking take it.

He took a long gulp of the coffee, not caring how it scalded his tongue, his throat, on the way down. And it felt like he was being jarred awake after being in some kind of emotional coma for two weeks. What the hell was wrong with him that he’d waited this long? Was he crazy? He fucking loved her. Why the hell should he sit there and let her walk away?

He tossed a ten-dollar bill down on the white tablecloth and made his way through the other tables, hit the sidewalk almost at a run. In moments he was back at his apartment, keying open the garage, climbing into his car. He gunned the engine as he pulled onto Hayes Street. It was another gray day in San Francisco, which had always seemed a bit romantic to him. It had made him feel only more removed from the world, more sad, these last weeks.

Yes, it was time he took charge of his life. And that meant taking charge of Marina long enough to tell her that they were supposed to be together. He would make her see it.

He drove through the city, making for her place as the sun set. Saturday-evening traffic was heavy, and it seemed to take forever to get to her side of town. He pulled up, finding parking right in front. The lights were off, and there was no answer when he pounded on the door.

Maybe she was working? He knew she often did on the weekend. Getting back into his car, he drove toward Union Street. Parking was more difficult there, and he ended up three blocks away, but the walk through the cool evening air helped to work off some of his energy, some of the pure fury he felt. Fury at himself for allowing her to walk away.

Her office was dark when he arrived at her building, the gallery on the first floor already closed. He paced the sidewalk, thinking. Where the hell would she be?

He grabbed his cell phone, dialed her number, and his heart stuttered when he heard her voice, but it was only her voice mail.

Damn it
.

He hung up without leaving a message. What he had to say to her had to be said in person.

He made his way across the city once more, heading toward home, frustration burning hot in his veins. Where was she?

When he got to his place he couldn’t seem to make himself go inside. Too stifling in there. Too quiet. Instead he walked up Hayes Street, passing the shops and restaurants in a blur of light and sound: people talking, laughing. He felt more like an outsider than ever. He turned onto Gough Street, his legs working hard as he made his way up the hill, then down a side street onto Van Ness. Long, hard strides, but never hard enough to get his mind to calm, his thundering heart to still. But it was better than sitting around his place by the Goddamn phone, like he’d been doing lately.

The city was coming alive around him: neon signs, the flashing streetlights. The streets were always full of people in San Francisco; it was a walking city, a nighttime city. And he was glad for all the activity, the life of the place. It energized him, distracted him a little from what was going on inside his head. But he never quite stopped thinking about her. He didn’t think he ever would.

He must have walked for an hour before he got back to his street. He checked his watch. It was after nine now. And he knew exactly where he needed to go.

Back into his car, then he pulled out into the street and drove through the seemingly endless traffic until he reached the Potrero Hill district. He found parking in the back lot behind the old brick structure. He was nearly bursting by the time he reached the door.

Calm down
.

He showed his membership card to the doorman, heard the sounds of the trancelike music drifting through the curtained doorway leading into Pinnacle. But he wasn’t there to play. Oh, no, he had serious business, if he could only find her. He didn’t even know why he thought he’d find her there; it was some weird sense that told him he would.

He moved through the main floor of the club, barely taking in the red lighting, the heavy pieces of equipment lining the room: the crosses, spanking benches, racks, and leather-padded tables. It was early enough that there wasn’t too much activity yet. He hoped he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. He was hardly capable of carrying on a normal conversation.

He climbed the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the next floor.

The bondage room. This was her place.

She was at the far end of the room, standing by one of the large wooden bondage racks, her hand resting on one of the support columns. She was alone.

He had to catch his breath. Her hair was a sheaf of red-and-gold fire waving around her shoulders in the dim amber lights. She was dressed all in black, her high-heeled boots, her tight black leather skirt, and leather corset making her skin all the more pale. A jet pendant hung from her slender throat. When she turned her head, he could see the shock in her eyes, the red slash of her lip-sticked mouth making a small
o
.

She was the most fucking beautiful woman he had ever seen.

In a few long strides he was next to her. She stood frozen, watching him with fearful eyes. It hurt to see it, the anxiety, the tension. He never wanted to make her feel like that. But hell, he wasn’t the one doing it to her. She did it to herself.

“Marina.”

God, she couldn’t believe he was there! Her palms went damp, her throat dry. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. It hurt too much, seeing him. Seeing the fury in his eyes, the desperate, hard set to his mouth.

At the same time, she was weak with relief.

She hated feeling weak.

He reached for her, his large hand wrapping around her wrist. She flinched, but she didn’t have it in her to pull away.

“Marina, we need to talk. We’re going to talk, whether you like it or not. Come with me.”

“Where?”

She was trying hard not to notice that she was shaking all over. Pain was building in her chest. The pain she’d tried so hard to ignore these last couple of weeks. That she’d done a lousy job of pretending wasn’t there, hovering over her, day and night.

“Come up to the roof with me. It’ll be quiet up there this early.”

She hadn’t agreed to go, hadn’t had a chance to protest, to say anything, when he pulled her with him, across the long room, up the wooden staircase, through the heavy door that led to the roof garden.

It was cool up there, the night damp, but it wasn’t the cold that was making her shiver. It was as though simply seeing him had unlocked the floodgates of emotion she’d held so firmly in check. The tears were gathering in her eyes already, and they’d hardly exchanged two words. Her head ached. And she felt helpless against him. Helpless to turn away from him.

She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, how horribly she’d missed him.

He led her to a patio table, his hand still tightly gripping her wrist. Once there he let her go, but he stood only inches from her. Neither of them sat down.

She could smell him. Could feel the anger and the love radiating from him. Oh, yes, there was love there. She’d known it the morning she’d asked him to leave her house. Had known it the night before when he’d kissed her so tenderly in the shower. When he’d taken over her body in her bed.

His voice was hard, sharp. He had a right to be angry. “Talk to me, Marina. And make it count.”

Her pulse was a wild flutter, making her dizzy. She couldn’t think with him standing so close to her!

“I … I don’t know what to say, James.”

“Oh, yes, you do. I want an explanation. I want to know how you could walk away from me, from what we have!” He moved in
even closer, and she had to bite her lip against the tears. “Tell me what the hell this is about for you.”

“I think you know what it’s about,” she said, her voice a strangled whisper.

“Yeah. It’s about Nathan, isn’t it? But that was four years ago. How long are you going to punish yourself? How long are you going to deny yourself?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not it. It’s not about Nathan.”

It was about
him
, James, about what she felt for him. What she didn’t feel capable of dealing with.

“Isn’t it?” He ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were blazing; she could see them even in the dark, the roof garden lit only by a few scattered wall sconces, by candles in hurricane lamps on the tables. “Do you think I don’t understand? Me, of all people. You know damn well I do. You feel just as much guilt over Nathan’s death as I do over what happened in Africa. Survivor’s guilt. We all feel it. But you know what? It’s okay that we’re still alive. And what’s the fucking point if we’re not going to really live? Do you think that’s what he would have wanted for you? I don’t think so.”

“No, of course not. He wasn’t like that.” She was getting angry now. How dare he try to tell her how she should feel? And yet a small part of her knew he was right. That he got it. It was just too hard to face.

“Then why are you doing this? To yourself? To me, damn it!”

Oh, his anger was like heat, scorching her. But behind the anger was passion. For her. That was what drew her, and what scared her to death.

“It’s too hard for me, James. I can’t … I can’t go through another loss like that. I don’t have it in me.”

“Marina. There are no guarantees in life. I can’t say I won’t get hit by a truck tomorrow. But God damn it, how can you do this, manifest the loss you’re so afraid of? You’re making it happen. It’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, James! Life wasn’t fair when Nathan died of cancer at the age of thirty-five. It isn’t fair now that I love you, and you can be taken from me just as easily.”