Someone had hurt Rhiannon, badly enough to scar. And then Shawn had hurt her again, by staring at the scars she had unconsciously revealed.
He hated that he’d upset her, hated more that she thought he was repulsed by her when nothing could be further from the truth. Even as he’d stared, he’d known he should look away, known he should pretend that the scars were no big deal. But he hadn’t been able to do that—not when all he could think about was how she’d gotten them.
Not when he’d been able to picture some asshole hurting her, again and again.
Had her husband done that to her? Is that why she’d gotten divorced, why she was so wary of men? Or had some other bastard—
His hands clenched the steering wheel. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to handle the emotions ripping through him. Ever since childhood, when he’d realized how impotent anger really was, he’d refused to let himself get into this state. When things got rough, he’d always made a point of disconnecting, of going around the roadblocks instead of trying to fight his way through them. Life was so much easier when you dodged and weaved around the unpleasantness. Even more so if you walked away before things got bad to begin with.
He broke out in a cold sweat at the idea of walking away from Rhiannon. At the same time, he wasn’t sure he could stick it out, either. Not because he was repulsed by her scars, but because they reminded him so much of Cynthia’s scars that it completely freaked him out. Of course, Rhiannon’s weren’t self-inflicted—from their placement, he could see that most of them, if not all of them, were defensive wounds. Unlike Cynthia’s, whose scars were the result of years of suicide attempts.
When he’d gotten involved with Cynthia, he hadn’t known how sick she was, hadn’t known she was sick at all, actually. So when he’d had to run her to the hospital to get her stomach pumped after she’d overdosed on Tylenol, he’d been shocked—but determined to stand by her.
Her need for self-destruction hadn’t stopped there. When the doctors saved her for what turned out to be the third time, she’d taken to cutting herself instead. He’d lived with it for nearly two and a half years—the depression, the anxiety, the incredible moodiness—before she’d finally succeeded in dying.
It had been nearly six years since Cynthia had killed herself, but he could still see her scars clearly—inside and out.
He didn’t think he could watch another woman battle problems so serious he couldn’t come close to understanding them. He’d wanted to help Cynthia and had ended up nearly dying himself, from guilt and heartbreak.
The idea of doing it with Rhiannon, too, was almost more than he could bear.
Of course, he might not have a choice in the matter. Rhiannon had walked away from him tonight without a backward glance and he wasn’t sure how he was ever going to get her to talk to him again—if he even decided that was what he wanted.
As they’d left the batting cage, he’d tried to explain, had tried to tell her that he didn’t care about her scars—at least not the way she thought—but she hadn’t wanted to listen to him. Had refused to hear what he was saying. Instead, she’d politely thanked him for dinner and started walking toward her office as fast as her classy pumps could carry her.
He’d insisted on walking her back to her car—it was dark, after all, and they were downtown. There was no way he was going to let anything else happen to her. But the entire way he’d been more than conscious of the fact that she didn’t want him there, that she was putting up with his escort because it was easier than arguing with him. Gone was the easy camaraderie they had shared earlier in the evening, only to be replaced by a wall of frigid silence he didn’t have a clue how to bridge. It had taken him a hell of a lot of work just to get Rhiannon to actually consent to go on a date with him—and that was before he’d stared at something that she was totally self-conscious about.
Could he have been a bigger idiot?
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he nearly missed the turnoff to his street and ended up skidding again, despite his vow to be more cautious. Shit, at this rate he would be lucky to make it home without wrapping his car around a tree—just one more reason it was a bad idea to open yourself up and care about someone else. When they got to you, really got to you, it messed you up.
As soon as he pulled into the garage, he was out of the car and slamming toward the house. Every instinct he had told him to call Rhiannon, to try to apologize to her one more time. But something held him back. Maybe it was the fact that he figured an apology like the one he owed her was better delivered in person than over the phone. More likely, it was the feeling that he was in quicksand and slowly sinking.
After having spent almost three years bogged down in an emotional quagmire, he just didn’t think he could handle it again. Better to stay way from Rhiannon until he decided if he could handle what she’d been through.
But he didn’t know what she’d been through—that was the problem. He’d been close enough to her to recognize that the scars she had hadn’t been caused by fire or accident. Their placement was too deliberate—someone had done that to her, had cut her with something over and over again. And the wide scars on her wrists… He didn’t want to dwell on what might have caused those. Already his suspicions were nearly driving him crazy.
Though he knew it was probably a violation of her trust—not that she exactly trusted him at this point—he settled down in front of his computer and typed Rhiannon’s name and Austin, Texas, into the search engine. He didn’t know if he would find anything, but he had to try. The look on her face when she’d realized that she had exposed her scars—exposed herself—had wounded him more than anything had in longer than he could remember.
The first few hits all linked her to Parties by L.K. and he skimmed through them without paying much attention. But somewhere in the middle of the second page, Shawn realized that all of the entries suddenly belonged to the Austin American-Statesman and the Associated Press. Clicking on a few, he stared in confusion as byline after byline came up for Rhiannon Jenkins.
She’d been a reporter? He clicked on another story, hoping to find a picture of her somewhere. Maybe there was more than one Rhiannon Jenkins in Austin—though her first name wasn’t common, her last name was far from exotic. That had to be the case, because it didn’t make sense that she’d just stopped being a reporter one day and become an event planner instead. Not judging by the size and scope of the stories she’d covered for the paper, and then for the AP.
This Rhiannon Jenkins had covered everything from political scandals in Texas’s capitol to major decisions from the 5th Circuit Court of Appeals. She had covered murder trials and major missing person cases, had uncovered a scandal that stretched from the boardrooms of two major Austin corporations to the halls of Washington. And she had dropped off the face of the earth nearly eleven months before the first hit that placed Rhiannon at her current job.
Somehow he strongly doubted that that was a coincidence.
Which meant what? Rhiannon had been a reporter—a very good reporter—for years and had suddenly walked away to become a party planner? It didn’t make sense, especially with the nearly year-long gap between her last article for the AP and her first mention at Parties by L.K.
What had she been doing for those months, he wondered? Taking time off to get over a divorce? Healing from the attack of an abusive husband?
Turning his attention away from speculation about Rhiannon and back to the computer screen in front of him, Shawn metaphorically rolled up his sleeves and then set about finding out everything he could about Rhiannon. The next time he saw her, there was no way he was going to chance hurting her out of ignorance. One time was more than enough for that.
But three hours later, he finally gave up. If there was something else to be found about Rhiannon—besides the Pulitzer prize she’d won at thirty-one and the public announcement of her divorce from a Richard McCarthy, he couldn’t find it. But just because it wasn’t public record didn’t mean it hadn’t h
appened. He just had to figure out where to look.
Walking into the bathroom, he turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face in an effort to clarify things in his own brain. It didn’t work. Nothing was clear, nothing was how he’d expected it to be.
Sure, he’d assumed Rhiannon’s wariness had stemmed from somewhere, but not physical abuse. Not abuse that left those kinds of scars. It was a nightmare and he hated the fact that he’d pursued Rhiannon only to push her away now because he couldn’t deal.
But the more he thought about it, the more he figured out that he couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, deliberately hook up with a woman who had the power to destroy him with her own pain.
His past would not repeat itself—he wouldn’t let it.
HUMILIATION WAS A JAGGED blade scraping away at her insides as Rhiannon poured herself a glass of wine. Normally she wasn’t much of a drinker—it had been a little too easy to rely on alcohol to help her sleep after the attack, so she’d quit touching the stuff—but tonight she felt like she more than deserved it. God knew, her first foray into the dating arena in more than fifteen years hadn’t gone quite the way she’d planned.
What had she been thinking? she wondered, as she walked through the dark living room toward her bedroom. How could she have forgotten herself so completely that she’d taken off her jacket in front of him? It wasn’t like she didn’t live with the scars every day of her life, wasn’t like she ever forgot that they were there.
Except she had forgotten. Today, with Shawn, the pain of the past few years had dropped away until it had been just the two of them having fun. Until she was just regular old Rhiannon Jenkins, on a date with a smart, nice, good-looking man. For a minute, she’d even thought she had a chance of hitting that stupid ball.
But instead of a home run, she’d ended up striking out in the worst way possible. It would be a long time before she forgot the look in his eyes when he’d seen her arms. It was eerily similar to the way Richard had eventually looked at her.
Lifting her glass to her lips, she drained the wine in one quick gulp, then started undressing as the alcohol burned warmly in her stomach. Normally she undressed in the dark, hating to look at the damage that had been done to her body, but tonight she couldn’t help herself.
Making her way into the bathroom, Rhiannon flipped on the light and forced herself to stand in front of the full-length mirror. She’d already taken off her jacket, so she was dressed only in her blue silk tank and black dress pants. Her arms were bare, the curlicue scars on them standing out in stark relief against the faint olive tint of her skin.
They weren’t atrocious, she realized with a faint sense of surprise. It had been so long since she’d looked at them—since she’d allowed herself to look at them—that she hadn’t realized how much the scars that criss-crossed her biceps and forearms had faded. They were still there, obviously, or Shawn wouldn’t have been able to see them from across the batting cage, but at least they were no longer that ugly pinkish-purple she’d lived with for so long.
No, the scars were now nothing but thin, white lines that looped and crossed down her shoulder to her biceps and triceps, past her elbows to her forearms. They could almost pass for lace or the thinnest of ribbon if one discounted the complete randomness of the pattern. Or the wide scars around her wrists, from where she’d yanked against the ropes until her blood had stained them dark red.
He’d done it to mark her, so that she would always remember him—or at least that’s what he’d told her. Personally, she thought he’d done it because he was a sadistic bastard, who’d enjoyed causing as much pain as he possibly could.
Maybe they were both right, because God knew, most nights his face was still the last thing she saw before drifting off to sleep and the first thing she remembered after waking up.
Three years later and she still didn’t know what had made him do what he’d done to her. It wasn’t just that he’d beat and cut her damn near to death, nor was it that he’d raped her. Both crimes were horrendous in and of themselves, but together… She shuddered. Together they had ruined any chance at a life she would ever have.
But standing here thinking about it, thinking about him, wasn’t getting the job done. Inside her head a voice was shrieking at her to stop, to walk away. Not to do this. But a part of her knew that if she didn’t do this now, she never would. And she was sick of living like that.
Sick of hiding behind long sleeves and pants in the summertime and long, matronly dresses at the parties she oversaw.
Sick of showering and dressing in the dark because she couldn’t stand to see her own body.
With a shudder, Rhiannon closed her eyes. Ripped off her shirt. Stepped out of her pants. Took off her bra and panties, until she stood completely nude in front of the mirror. Then tried to look, tried to force herself to open her eyes and confront the woman she had become.
It was even harder than she thought it would be. Images of the dark, unreadable look in Shawn’s eyes as he’d stared mixed with the face of the man who had done this to her until it was all she could do not to dive into bed and pull the covers over her head.
But she’d already done that, had already spent days and weeks hiding from the world, letting her life pass her by because she was too depressed to deal. Too miserable to get on with a life that felt like it was no longer worth living.
Damn it, no. She forced her eyes open. She was finished hiding from herself, finished hating herself and her body because of what some madman had done to her. Though everything inside of her urged her to flee, Rhiannon held her ground and made herself look.
She started with her legs, which bore scars similar to those on her arms—wide bands around her ankles from the restraints, and shallow knife wounds on her shins and thighs, from where he had cut her and laughed.
Then she moved up to her breasts and abdomen, where deeper, wider scars marked where he had stabbed her—not deeply enough to kill her, but more than deeply enough to mark her for life.
Memories bombarded her, making her knees tremble and her breath hitch. She pushed them away, refused to give in to the fear that assailed her every time she thought of him. Oh, but it was hard, so hard to stand here, and look at the damage. To look at what he’d done to her simply because he could.
When she’d had enough, when her knees had finally stopped knocking together and her heartbeat had almost returned to normal, she flipped off the light and made her way back into the bedroom.
After crawling into her pajamas, she burrowed under her covers but left the light on. Across the room, the TV beckoned, promising if not total oblivion then at least a momentary distraction. She reached for the remote, started to click the power button, but in the end, couldn’t do it.
That’s how she’d been coping for years. A sleeping pill combined with late-night reruns of her favorite sitcoms. Anything and everything to avoid the fact that she’d been hurt, simply because someone had wanted to hurt her, to scare her.
Anything and everything to avoid the fact that her husband had left her to deal with the aftermath of the attack on her own—all because he couldn’t accept what she had become. But then, it was hard to blame him when she couldn’t accept it herself.
Reaching out, she swept the empty wineglass off of her nightstand with one quick flick of her hand. It hit the wall and shattered into a million tiny pieces, irreparably broken, like her.
It felt so good to admit it, so good not to fight it anymore that she shoved the pile of books onto the floor next. Then her phone and alarm clock.
Rage swelled within her. Huge, towering, uncontainable rage that nearly smothered her with its intensity. Climbing out of bed, she grabbed the large, freestanding jewelry box Richard had given her for her thirty-fifth birthday and shoved it hard enough for it to tumble onto its side. The mirrored tray she kept on top of it came crashing down, along with her perfume bottles and hand creams. Its doors fell open, earrings and rings, bracelets and brooches,
necklaces and watches tumbling drunkenly out.
She knew she should stop, knew she should crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head like she had so many times before. But she was sick of hiding, sick of pretending all those horrible things hadn’t happened to her. They had happened, and damn it, she was furious about it.
Rhiannon headed for the dresser on the other side of the room, picked up the beautiful vase she’d bought at her favorite furniture store and smashed it against the wood. Did the same to the tall, slender lamp and collection of odds and ends that rested on the dresser’s other side. Then picked up the music box Matt had given her the previous year and heaved it, as hard as she could, against the wall. It hit a print she had hanging there, under glass, and both shattered, the picture frame crashing to the ground with a resounding thud.
She moved on to the chest of drawers near the door and did the same thing, until there was nothing left to throw. Nothing left in the entire room to destroy.
When she was finished, when the fury departed as suddenly as it had come, Rhiannon stepped gingerly through the mess. Closing her bedroom door firmly behind her, she sank onto the sofa and pulled the lavender afghan she had resting there over her. For the first time in a very long time, she fell asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EVEN THOUGH SHE’D SWORN to herself that she was done with Shawn, sitting on a lounge chair in her brother’s backyard, watching Matt flip burgers and flirt with his wife, Camille, it was hard for Rhiannon not to think of him. Harder still not to think of everything she was missing as she cradled Matt’s newborn son, Cole, in her arms.
He’d burst into the world six weeks before with bright blue eyes and a full head of auburn hair and from the second she’d held him, Rhiannon had been one hundred percent in love. Cole was the first baby any of her siblings had had, the baby that had finally made her an aunt after she’d spent so many years longing to be a mother.