The Renegade (The Moorehouse Legacy #3)(7)

“Before you tell me I’m a bastard, I already know that. And if you’re thinking of branching out from there, I’ve had bigger, tougher and more creative sailors take a run at my hide. You’re going to have to do a real stand-up job with the curses to come up with anything fresh, sweetheart. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s baby cakes, isn’t it?”

His eyes raked over her with such complete dismissal, she felt as though she was mostly invisible but that what little he saw of her, he despised.

He laughed at her silence. “Not even going to take a try at it? Good call. Because there’s absolutely nothing you can say to me that’ll be a news flash.”

She brushed her hair back, hand trembling. In the space of a minute, he’d driven her to the brink of tears. Again.

“I just don’t understand why I’m so repulsive to you,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve—”

She stopped. Showing more vulnerability was not a smart move.

Cass turned away as the first humiliating tear got stuck in her lashes.

Damn it, she was not going to cry in front of him.

As she bolted across the room, the curse he let out was low and vile.

“Cassandra.”

She grabbed for the door.

“Cassandra.”

When she heard a flurry of activity on the bed and something hit the floor, she looked over her shoulder.

Alex was upright and wildly off balance, trying to lurch toward her after having dropped the crutch. If he went much farther, he was going to fall on his face. She rushed back for him.





Chapter Three




Alex had a feeling he was headed for the floor, but he didn’t care.

Man, he’d been wrong. She had surprised him. Her soft, sad words had ripped through his chest.

As he tumbled forward into thin air, she lunged for him. But the moment before her body met his, he pushed her aside and threw his arms out, bracing himself for impact. Going solo for the thin oriental rug was a no-brainer.

Because however hard the floor was going to be, knowing how she felt against him would be harder.

He took the brunt of the fall on his right shoulder. By some blessing, his fragile leg was spared, though his other knee got twisted in the process. As he rolled over onto his back with a nasty curse, he saw he’d thrown her on the bed. He caught a gorgeous flash of her calf and thigh before she rearranged her skirt and stood up.

He knew damn well he’d better get going with the apology. She was on the express train out of his room and who could blame her?

“I’m sorry,” he said roughly.

She glanced down at him. Her eyes were too shiny.

Ah, hell, he’d made her cry.

“I’m damn sorry.”

There was no real reaction, just a shift of her shoulders. “I’d offer to help you up, but I know you won’t let me.”

“Cassandra, I—” He banged his head back against the floor in frustration. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. And you don’t…repulse me.”

Her laugh was a travesty. Which made sense because in a way, so was his apology. But what was he supposed to say?

I want you until I hurt. Until I sweat.

I love you with a raw, bleeding need that I’ve never understood.

And all I know for sure is that you can never be mine.

“I don’t repulse you,” she repeated slowly. “Is that why you’d rather fall down than have me touch you? God, you are the only person in my adult life who’s ever made me feel dirty.”

He cursed again. “That’s not—”

“Please.” She held her hand out and moved away. “Please, don’t say anything else. I don’t think I can bear any more of your apology. It’s worse than your insults.”

“Damn it, come here,” he commanded.

Her eyes flared. “Screw you.”

When she made a move to step over him, he grabbed her ankle, holding her tight. “Come. Down. Here.”

“Go. To. Hell.”

“Cassandra…please.”

She put her hands on her hips and leaned over, her hair falling forward. As he breathed in, he could smell the herbal shampoo she used.

The scent dragged him right back to the one sailing jaunt he’d taken with her and Reese years ago. Reese had insisted that Alex come along, and it had been clear that the man had hoped to get his wife and his best friend on better terms. That trip had been hell. They were supposed to have been gone for five days. Alex had left the boat after two, hopping off at the first port they’d come to.

He’d tried so hard to find fault with her. He’d been desperate to latch on to annoying habits, turns of phrases that irritated him, small rudenesses that proved she wasn’t even close to the image of perfection he’d created in his mind. Instead, he’d gotten to know the different shades of her laughter. Her offbeat sense of humor. Her capacity to savor the sun setting into the ocean with the same sad reverence that beat in his own chest.

And being in close quarters with her had made him mental. Every time he’d taken a shower, he’d smelled her shampoo as if the stuff had saturated the air just to mock him. He hadn’t been able to use the bar of soap at all because he knew it had been over her skin.

The nights had been…unbearable.