Dinner. With another person. He hadn’t experienced that particular pleasure even once in three years. The longing was as intense as it was unexpected. He forced it away, using the iron control that had yet to let him down.
He snatched up the envelope and ripped it open. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Ula dismissed him with a wave. “You’re making more of your scars than you should. She won’t care.”
“But I will,” he said coldly, letting the housekeeper know she’d crossed over the line with him.
She sighed heavily, then rose to her feet. “Very good, sir.”
Thesirwas emphasized, as she lethimknow she wasn’t impressed by his attempts to intimidate her. Stone knew she meant well. Ula had been good to him over the years.
He deliberately softened his expression. “I don’t think it would be wise,” he said by way of a peace offering.
“Why not? You’re making all of this—” she motioned to his face “—more tragic than it has to be.”
That drove Stone to his feet. He dropped the papers onto his desk and barely noticed when one of them drifted silently to the floor. “Itistragic,” he said, his voice laced with anger. “Have you forgotten Evelyn died that night? Have you forgotten that it was my fault?”
“I haven’t forgotten you want to make it your fault. There’s a difference. It’s been three years, Mr. Ward. It’s time to let it go. Evelyn, too.”
“I’ll thank you to remember you are simply an employee here. As such, I would appreciate it if you would keep your opinions to yourself.”
Ula’s temper flared to match his. But the housekeeper didn’t respond. Instead, her spine stiffened and she turned on her heel, then left. Stone remained standing for several more minutes, listening to the silence and the pounding of his rapid heartbeat. He felt the threat of the memories, as if the release of his temper had also released the box where he kept them locked up.
As they swirled through his mind, jabbing him, blinding him to anything but the past and his guilt in it all, he sank slowly into his chair and prepared for the onslaught.
* * *
“You’re quiet tonight,” Stone said.
As always, the sound of his voice made her want to dance with delight. Instead, Cathy shifted slightly on the sofa and looked at him. “Sorry. I was thinking.”
“About what?”
He was really here. Sometimes she had trouble remembering that, or believing it. Despite the fact that he’d come to her room every night for the past two weeks, she kept expecting to wake up and find that this was all a dream. But here they sat, a scant foot apart.
Ever since she’d given up the crutches and started moving around more easily, she’d taken to sitting on the sofa while he visited. Although she couldn’t see him any better, because even though she was closer, it was still dark in her room, she liked to pretend that they were a normal couple on a date. That he had come to see her for romantic reasons rather than because he felt sorry for her, or responsible, or whatever real reasons drew him to her side.
She liked feeling his presence. They were physically close enough that sometimes she caught the scent of his body, the combination of faint cologne and some male essence that left her thighs trembling. She liked that when he talked he used his hands, and occasionally he would reach out and briefly touch her shoulder when he was making a point. She liked that when they argued about books or politics, he would lean forward as he tried to convince her to see it his way. Sometimes she disagreed just to be contrary and to tease. She liked everything about him.
She wished that she could see him. Several times she’d almost asked, but something had kept her silent. Respect for him and his wishes, she supposed. Obviously his need for privacy was great. She had no right to violate that.
So she made up fantasies about him, about what he looked like and how it would be if she could see him. It was like having a crush back in high school.
“Cathy?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought.” She felt herself flushing. Thank goodness he couldn’t see that. “What was the question?”
“What were you thinking about?”
She tried to figure which of her wayward thoughts would be the safest to share. “Um, high school.”
“What was that like for you?” he asked.
She thought about all the lies she told on that particular subject and suddenly she was very tired. Did it matter if Stone knew the truth?
“Not fun,” she admitted. “I didn’t have many friends, mostly because I couldn’t do anything with them after school, and that was expected. I didn’t mind going to their house, but I couldn’t invite them to mine and I always had to be home early.”
She paused, waiting for the inevitable questions. Instead, Stone was silent. After a couple of minutes, she continued. “My mother drank a lot. I never knew what to expect.” She closed her eyes against the memories, but that didn’t help much. They were always there, just below the surface. “Sometimes she would be fine, just like everyone else’s mom, but most of the time she was either drunk or passed out. I spent a lot of time taking care of her. I didn’t want to have to explain why she was acting strange or asleep on the sofa, so I avoided situations where I would have to. In the end, it was easier to just be alone.”
