Nat's breath left her lungs in a rush. Shadows crowded her peripheral vision until she saw only Elliott Ratcliffe's face. The hatred burning in his eyes, the bitterness etched into his face. The dark emotions gathering in her own heart. "I'm not going to defend myself,” she said in a shaking voice. "Not to you."
"You're not going to defend yourself because your actions are indefensible. You committed the ultimate sin, then you played upon the sympathies of a community that is far too compassionate."
"Nat. Easy. Let it go."
The voice was Nick's. Vaguely, she was aware of his fingers wrapping around her arm, pulling her back But there was no way she could retreat now that Elliott Ratcliffe had flung open this Pandora's box of pain. She was too angry. In too much pain. She would not let him win this battle, even though she'd long since lost the war.
Shaking off Nick's hand, she stepped toward Elliott. "You don't know anything about me," she said breathlessly. "You're blinded by hatred and bitterness—"
"I know you seduced my son: First with your body, then with a bastard son."
The words echoed like gunshots in her ears. Fury poured through her veins, like a scream trapped inside her body, its shrill ring powerful enough to shatter bone. Her vision tunneled on his face. She could feel her pulse beating inside her head, a giant hammer clanging against her skull until she thought her head would explode. The last of her control fled. "You son of a bitch!"
She launched herself at him. A terrible sound that was half scream, half roar tore from her throat. Her first punch went wide and glanced off his shoulder. She heard a shout, then her second blow struck him squarely in the jaw. But his head was as large and solid as a boulder, and the impact barely fazed him.
Dully, she was aware of him stepping back, dodging her blows. His hands flying up to protect his face. "Get her off me!"
She landed another blow to his chin. Pain exploded in her hand, zinged all the way to her elbow. She could feel her teeth grinding together. Rage igniting into a violent blast inside her. Intent cemented in her brain. She wanted to hurt him. Rip the terrible words from his mouth.
"Call the police!" Elliott said. "She's out of control!"
Strong arms wrapped around her from behind and swung her around. "Knock it off."
Nick, she thought vaguely. But she was beyond reason and twisted away. It was as if all the emotions that had been trapped inside her for the last three years came pouring out in a single, violent rush. "Let go of me!" she screamed and tried to lunge at Elliott again. "Don't you dare speak of my son that way!"
Locking his arms around her waist, Nick pulled her back. "Nat! Pull yourself together."
The elder Ratcliffe raised his hand and pointed at her. "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord."
"Dad ... " Travis stepped between her and Elliott. "Let it go. This has gotten ugly enough."
Nat struggled, but Nick's arms were like steel bands around her. "Let go of me," she choked.
"I don't have the cash to bail you out of jail, chere." Grasping both her arms, he turned her toward him and gave her a small shake. "Get ahold of yourself."
But Nat had already lost her grip. She could feel the last remnants of her control peeling away. She could hear herself sobbing, and the thought struck her that she sounded like a crazy woman. She could hear the shuffle of their shoes against the floor as Nick forced her toward the door.
Travis stood in the foyer with the door open. His hair was mussed. He looked shaken and angry and shook his head at her when she passed. "You'd better not come back," he said.
"Your father is wrong," she choked as Nick muscled her past him. "I'm going to prove it!"
He slammed the door without responding.
Chapter 16
Nick was no stranger to ugly emotions. In the six years he'd spent in prison, he'd seen just about every emotion known to mankind. Hatred. Rage. Grief. Despair. He'd felt varying degrees of those emotions in his own heart. He'd seen those emotions come to fruition in terrible acts of violence, rape and murder and suicide. He'd witnessed almost every vile thing a man could do to another man.
But the ugly scene that had played out between Nat and Elliott Ratcliffe got to him in a way nothing else could have. She'd been like a lioness protecting a dead cub and willing to fight to the death to do it. Old man Ratcliffe had known just where to strike, and in the minutes she'd been out of control, consumed by grief and rage and God only knew what else, the man had seemed to draw some sort of twisted satisfaction from hurting her.
Nick had wanted to deck the son of a bitch. But he knew an assault charge would only land him back in Angola, so he'd settled for getting her the hell out of there.
The tension in the truck was palpable as they sped toward her house. She sat in the passenger seat, her hands in her lap, staring through the window with all the animation of a mannequin. He glanced over at her several times, but she didn't meet his gaze, didn't even acknowledge him. It was as if she'd gone to a place deep inside herself. A place that was quiet and dark where the pain couldn't reach her. He figured she'd spent quite a bit of time there in the last three years.
The need to reach out to her was strong, but Nick resisted. He wasn't quite sure how to do it. He didn't know what she wanted, what she needed. He wasn't even sure what he wanted--or if he should risk getting any more involved than he already was.
He parked in the driveway behind her Mustang. He'd barely shut down the engine when she shoved open the door. She was out of the truck and running toward the house before he could stop her. For a moment he just sat there, refusing to take his hands off the wheel, and watched her bound up the steps to the porch. A woman running from her demons, he thought. If his own personal experience was any indication, she would never outrun them. If she was lucky, she might learn to live with them.
He knew better than to go after her. She was hurting; he was feeling a hell of a lot more for her than was prudent. It was a dangerous combination for a man with a weakness for vulnerable, troubled women. But Nick had never been prudent when it came to getting what he wanted, even when he knew it was going to cost him something. At the moment, he wanted Nat.
"Goddamn it."
Rapping his palm hard against the wheel, he shoved open the door and started for the house. She was standing on the porch, fumbling in her purse for the key, when he reached her.
He stopped a few feet away, shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from reaching for her.
"I'm fine," she snapped. But her eyes belied the words; they were haunted and so lovely it hurt to look into them and see the deep well of pain.
"I can see that," he said dryly.
"I want to be alone."
He knew all about being alone, knew it was about as helpful as a bottle of whiskey on top of a broken heart. "Yeah, well, sometimes what we want and what we need are two different things, chere."
She tossed him a glare over her shoulder. "I mean it. I need some time. Just ... go."
Nick held his ground, telling himself for the dozenth time he could handle this. He could handle her and her grief and all the things she was making him feel. "I don't think this is a good time for you to be alone."
"You don't know me, and you don't know what I need."
He watched her grapple in her purse for her keys. Her hands were pale and shaking. He didn't think she was going to find them anytime soon. "Let me."
She shook her head, continued digging in her purse. "I can do it, damn it."
Ignoring her protest, he eased the bag from her hands, gave it a single shake to locate the keys, and pulled them out. Brushing past her, he inserted the house key into the lock, gave it a twist, and opened the door.
Wordlessly, she stepped into the foyer. Nick hesitated an instant before following. The house smelled like a combination of coffee and some soft scent he was beginning to recognize as hers. He watched her walk into the living room and stop. She stood there for a moment with her back to him. her arms wrapped ar
ound herself, her shoulders squared, chin high. An odd mix of body signals that told him she was trying hard to get a handle on her emotions. Judging from the way she was shaking, she wasn't succeeding.
"I'm sorry I lost it,” she said after a moment. "I don't know what happened. I just ... " As if not knowing how to finish the sentence she let her words trail.
"He pissed you off."
Slowly, she turned to him. "He had no right to say those things about Kyle."
"No, he didn't."
"Kyle was just an innocent little boy."
''And Elliott Ratcliffe is a coldhearted son of a bitch."
"He wasn't illegitimate,” she whispered.
Nick shook his head, felt something go soft inside him when her eyes filled. "Nat, it doesn't matter."
"It matters."
"To Elliott Ratcliffe, maybe." In the back of his mind, he wondered how a man who called himself a man of God could be so cruel.
A breath that was deep and filled with emotion shuddered out of her. "I'm the daughter of a cotton farmer. Nick. My dad had only a sixth grade education. We weren't poor, just . . . middle class." Her shoulders rose and fell. "When I got pregnant, Elliott accused me of trapping Ward because of the Ratcliffe money."
"Some people have small minds."
"I loved Ward. He was the first man, the only man I ever loved. We were happy."
Nick thought she was trying a little too hard to convince him, but he didn't interrupt. For whatever reason, she needed to say this. The least he could do was listen.
"What's really sad is that Elliott never once had a kind word for his own grandson. He never held him or laughed with him. Ward tried to justify his father's lack of affection by telling me he was a disciplinarian and didn't believe in coddling children. But I knew better." Her expression turned wistful. "Kyle was a happy little boy. He was exuberant and beautiful and loving. I never understood how anyone could not love him, especially his own grandfather." A bitter sound escaped her. "I think when he looked at Kyle, he saw me."
"Elliott Ratcliffe is a hypocrite."
Turning away from him, she bowed her head and put her face in her hands. She didn't make a sound, but Nick sensed the dam was about to break. He didn't know what to do. For several interminable moments he just stood there, wanting to go to her, knowing what would happen if he did.
He didn't like seeing her like this, laid open and raw, like a quivering nerve exposed to air and screaming with pain. There was simply no way he could stand there and do nothing while she came apart right in front of him.
"Nat."
"Don't." She raised her hand as if to stave him off, but she didn't look at him.
He reached her in two resolute steps. She jolted when he wrapped his fingers around her biceps. "Vien ici." Come here.
He didn't wait for her to comply. Gently, he turned her toward him. She tried to avert her face, but he set his fingers beneath her chin and forced her gaze to his.
"I know it hurts," he said gently. "But you're going to get through this. You're going to be all right."
"I'm never going to be all right. It's been three years since my little boy died, and I still miss him so much I can't bear it."
"It gets easier. You'll have good days and bad days. This is just a bad day."
"They're all bad."
"No they're not." Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he offered a thin smile. “The ratio will improve with time.”
"Nick, I still see him. I still hear his voice, his footsteps in the house. I smell him. For God's sake, we have conversations inside my head."
For the first time he realized how profoundly bittersweet, how heartbreaking the trance writing was for her. He knew that no matter how hard she tried to heal, it would not let her move on.
"I want my baby back," she whispered.
Lifting his hand, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, let his fingers linger against her cheek. "You can't have him back, chere. He's gone. You have to let him go and move on with your life."
“I can't. Not when he talks to me.”
"He's trying to help you, chere."
"It's killing me."
"Maybe you can take some comfort in that with his help we're going to make things right for him."
It was the first time Nick had spoken the words aloud, and even though he'd come to believe Nat was, indeed, psychic, they still shocked him.
"Promise me," she whispered. ''Tell me we're going to find the son of a bitch who took our children from us."
Nick stared at the pale frame of her face, aware that his chest was tight, his palms damp. He hurt for her, he realized. He could feel the pain burgeoning inside him, a silent ache that was powerful and cold and squeezed his heart like a fist.
"We'll find him,” he said. "I promise."
They were standing face-to-face, so close he could smell the sweet scent of her hair, feel the warm brush of her breath against his face. He knew better than to let the moment go on. But simmering in some shadowy place deep inside him was an attraction he could no longer deny. He knew there shouldn't have been anything sexual about the moment. The last thing she needed in her life was ex-con who couldn't offer her anything but his own troubles. But the need to feel her body against his was as powerful as his need to take his next breath.
Putting his arms around her, Nick pulled her to him. A tremor went through her on contact. The sweet ache that followed went all the way to his core. He set his cheek against her hair, which was like fragrant silk against his skin. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the lemon scent of her shampoo. He was keenly aware of her arms encircling his shoulders, her soft body conforming to his. It had been six unbearable years since he'd been this close to a woman. His response was instantaneous and base. The rush of blood from his head to his groin made him dizzy. His sex grew heavy and full and strained uncomfortably against his fly.
"I don't usually have emotional meltdowns like this," she said.
He pulled back slightly so she couldn't feel his erection against her, and looked into her eyes. "Don't apologize."
Her eyes filled, and something went soft and warm in his chest. She blinked furiously, but the tears squeezed through her lashes to roll down her cheeks. When her shoulders began to shake, he tightened his arms and set his chin on her crown.
"Go ahead and let it out," he said softly.
The tears came with a vengeance, racking her body with great, shuddering sobs. He held her tightly while she purged the grief that had lain dormant inside her for so many months. All the while he stroked her hair with his right hand, held her against him with his left, and whispered words of comfort into her ear.
He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, locked in an embrace and standing body to body. It could have been minutes; it could have been an hour. The only thing he knew for certain was that she'd needed to be held. That he'd needed to hold her. And that he damn well didn't want to ponder the significance of either of those things.
When the last of her sobs subsided, she pulled back and raised her gaze to his. "I've cried all over your shirt."
"It's an old shirt."
Nick thumbed a tear from her cheek. Even pale with grief, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, she was lovely. Her mouth was partially open. Her lips were damp. He could feel the need coiling and flexing inside him. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that. He wanted her naked and beneath him. He wanted to sheathe himself inside her heat and pour his seed into the deepest reaches of her body.
Leaning close, he brushed his mouth lightly against hers, testing her, testing himself. Her lips were pliable and soft beneath his. He touched her lip with the tip of his tongue. tasted the remnants of her tears and the fever of his own lust. The quick rise of heat stunned him. He could feel the gallop of blood through his veins. A hot pool forming in his groin to pulse with every frenzied beat of his heart.
Neither of them had closed their eyes, and when he pulled away, hers were w
ide and puzzled. "Why did you do that?"
"Because I wanted to taste you." Nick stared into the turquoise depths of her gaze, more shaken than he wanted to admit. "Because I'm a fool."
"If that makes you a fool, what does it make me?"
"Vulnerable. Troubled." He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "A mistake, probably."
"A mistake for whom?"
"You more than me, chere.” He sighed. "I have to go."
He fully intended to turn around and walk out the door. He envisioned himself walking down the porch steps, getting into the truck, pulling out of the driveway.
But neither of them moved.
Nick wasn't sure he could. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Raising his hand, he brushed his thumb across her lower lip. It was like a rose petal, soft and pale and slightly wet as if with dew. "I don't like seeing you hurt like this."
"I'm okay." She gave him a shaky smile. "Your being here helped. Thank you."
That she would thank him when all he could think about was laying her down and burying himself inside her made him feel like a lecher. He was about to step back when she raised up on her tiptoes and brushed her mouth against his cheek.
Sudden need flared like a thousand matches igniting simultaneously inside him. She must have seen the intent on his face, because her eyes widened. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but before she could utter a protest, Nick leaned close and crushed his mouth to hers.
The kiss wasn't gentle this time, and a shudder ran the length of her body on contact. The snap of pleasure made him groan. It was like an electrical surge that ignited every nerve ending in his body, each of them zinging with a thousand volts. He devoured her mouth, and all he could think was that he wanted more.
Tilting her head for a better angle, he deepened the kiss. She didn't kiss him back, but he didn't care. He penetrated her with his tongue. A groan rumbled up from his chest when she finally responded. It was what he'd been waiting for, and he fed on her mouth like a starving man. A man possessed. A man about to cross to the point of no return.