Strong Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #1)(45)

I can’t help laughing, especially when I see the slight twitch of his lips. Maybe this is how he heals. Maybe this is how he keeps moving on. He embraces who and what he is and pushes the rest down, shoves it so deep he can ignore it for a while.

The only problem with that tactic is that one day, it won’t be pushed down. It will refuse to go and he’ll be forced to deal with it or suffer the consequences.

But that day is not today. Today can be whatever we want it to be, whatever he needs for it to be. And I’ll be that for him, with him. Because I care. Probably more than I should.

Definitely more than I should, I correct in my mind. I think I’ve already done something stupid like fall in love.





TWENTY-FOUR


Jasper

For reasons I’m more comfortable not exploring too deeply, I was already looking forward to spending the day with Muse. Even before she walked out onto the front porch with her flaming hair in a loose knot and her long, curvy legs squeezed into form-fitting pants. But now, seeing her, I’m even more enthused.

She stops suddenly and my eyes drift up to hers. They’re twinkling with mischief. They tell all, which is something I love about her. She’s transparent and doesn’t try to be anything more than that.

“Have you changed your mind about how you want to spend the day?”

“Yes, but I think it’s important that you’re able to walk.”

Her laugh is a tinkle. That’s the best way I can describe it. It’s light and happy and carefree, three things I never attribute to myself or my life. It resonates within me, like something comforting and highly desirable might.

Maybe comforting isn’t the right word. I don’t feel comfortable, necessarily, when I look at Muse, when I hear her laugh. I feel all sorts of other things, though—desire, possessiveness, ferocity. A trace of anger that confuses me. Guilt. Protectiveness. In truth, I have no idea what she makes me feel or why. I only know I shouldn’t want this. But I do.

Spontaneously, she launches herself at me where I’m standing on the second step. I catch her easily and she winds her arms and legs around me. “You’re a tease, Mr. King,” she says in a throaty voice, her eyes locked on mine. There’s heat in the emeralds and I think for a second about carrying her right back inside and losing myself in them, in her until neither of us can think. Or walk.

But to do that would be even more heartless than what I’ve already done. She thinks she knows the worst about me now that I’ve shared some of myself, some of my history with her. But she doesn’t. And she won’t. Not until it’s too late.

Another surge of guilt. And dread. And something worse, something I don’t think I’ve ever felt, therefore can’t identify. But I don’t like it. It makes me feel agitated and angry.

Feel, feel, feel. I’ve got to get away from all these feelings.

I kiss Muse’s shiny pink lips before I ease my hold, which encourages her to let me go. I don’t maintain contact with her very long. At this point, it’s counterproductive.

“Maybe a hike will work off some hormones,” I say absently as I take her hand and pull her down the steps behind me.

“Hormones? Is that what you call this?” she asks.

I look back at her. There’s disappointment where the heat was, dulling the green rather than lighting it up.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’d call this. I’ve never been here before.”

I don’t elaborate on where “here” is and she doesn’t ask. I’m sure she knows that I mean us, this. Because I haven’t. For years, the only women I’ve gotten involved with are useful to me in one way or another. They give me an in. Or an out. They give me pleasure. They give me information. They give me something.

Muse started out that way. Not only was she a way in with the Colonel, she was also a means of exerting pressure on him. She was part of my assignment. Period. Beyond that is where the trouble starts. Since meeting her, since traveling with her, since getting to know her (even though I had no desire to know her at first), she’s become something more. I don’t know exactly what, but what I do know is that waters that have always been clear for me are now muddy. She and she alone muddied them.

We walk in silence toward the woods. I notice her doing some of the same things I do when I’m here—stopping to look around, taking deep breaths, touching trees as we pass. Only she smiles when she does it. She’s enjoying the view, letting the fresh air invigorate her, savoring the feel of rough bark. I can’t remember the last time I smiled as I walked these woods. They’re therapy for me, but therapy of a different kind.

“I can see why you come out here,” she says when we enter a pine stand. She stops in a ray of sunlight that’s filtering down through the canopy and turns her face up to it.

“Why is that?”

“It’s so quiet and peaceful, like we’re the only people in the world. I could set up an easel here and paint for hours.”

I study her as she spins in a slow circle, taking it all in. “I’m glad you like it. Maybe it will inspire your next canvas.” Uncharacteristically, I get the urge to share something with her again. Also uncharacteristically, I do. “My mom used to bring my brother and me here for walks in the woods. No matter what kind of game we played, how much noise we made, it never seemed to affect that peaceful look she had on her face. It showed up the minute we stepped into the trees and didn’t leave until we did. It’s probably the only time she was ever really happy. Or felt carefree.”