Who Do You Trust?. Melissa James
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“Thank you, my beautiful, generous-hearted Lissa, for everything you’ve done. For them. For me. Thank you. Thank you.”
She couldn’t control the quiver that ran through her at the words, at the touch. He’d called her beautiful…
And for the first time his mouth had touched hers.
Once, only once before had he come close, and, as things had always been between them, it was too little and years too late.
In the kitchen of her parents’ house. He’d given her a locket for her seventeenth birthday—a year after she’d started dating Tim, his best friend. A candy-pink enamel-and-gold heart-shaped locket, a cheap, bargain-store replica of the one Gilbert gave to Anne of Green Gables. Unable to believe he’d remembered, let alone respected her little dream, her sweet, foolish dream that she’d find her own Gilbert and receive her own locket of love. He’d used what little money he had to fulfil it. She’d thrown her arms around him and reached up to kiss his cheek. He turned his face to hers, whispering huskily, “Lissa, don’t you know I—” He’d searched her eyes for an intense moment, and she knew that all the yearning in her heart for his kiss must be clear to see, shining like a beacon in the night. Slowly he’d lowered his mouth to hers as she waited, breathless and hungry for the touch….
Then Tim’s laughing voice sounded outside the room, and they sprang apart like guilty lovers. Neither of them could bring themselves to hurt Tim, his best mate and her boyfriend.
Oh, how she’d wished, in the long, cold years after her birthday night, that she’d had that kiss before it was too late. But too late had come and gone years ago. She’d lost her innocence too young. She’d learned cynicism too well. Even if by some miracle Mitch wanted her—and why would he?—she knew exactly what she was. Not enough for any man.
With a smile she knew trembled, she backed off. “Still full of blarney, McCluskey? You must have had a touch of Irish in you.” She swept a hand over her grubby gardening attire, the battered straw hat perched atop her simple ponytail. “I’ve lived in this face and body thirty-one years. I know what I am.”
His gaze never wavered. “I can’t speak pretty words, Lissa. I only speak what I know.” Stepping forward, he tipped her face up with a finger. “You were a sweet, pretty girl when I knew you before. Now you’re a beautiful woman, with a heart as gentle and lovely as your face.”
She trembled even at his simplest touch; the tiny flare of forbidden heat came alive, warming her shivering soul, making her stupid dreamer’s heart wonder if maybe, finally—
Fool! She had to break contact. Now.
She stepped back so fast she almost fell into the aubergines. “You can’t know what I’m like now. You haven’t seen me in twelve years. Times change, people change. I’m not the girl you knew.”
Again Mitch allowed her withdrawal, his gaze following her, dark and brooding; yet his words held the simplicity of faith. “You took my boys in when they were in trouble. You went to Sydney for them, brought them home and kept them safe here when I couldn’t leave East Timor. That’s the Lissa I knew I could trust with my sons—and you came through. For them. For me. And that makes you more beautiful to me than any supermodel could be.”
“Yep. The perennial nice girl next door. That’s me,” she said blithely, hiding the strain of bitterness beneath the words. “Everyone’s best friend and little sister, who always comes to the rescue. Good old reliable Lissa.”
A short silence, as if he weighed his words. Then he spoke, his deep, rumpled voice speaking his unique brand of blunt truth. “You’ve always been a ‘nice girl,’ you did live next door, and yes, I’ve relied on you—but from the moment we met, I’ve never thought of you as my sister, Lissa. Not once. Not ever.”
She couldn’t breathe. Her gaze felt pinned by his, trapped by the power of words she’d never dreamed of hearing from Mitch McCluskey, the beautiful, dark-hearted rebel who was always going to fly away from this hick town. “How…how did you think of me?” Then she swung toward the house, her face burning. “No. Don’t answer that. Would you like coffee? The boys will be home from school in about twenty minutes, and Jenny—”
“Are you frightened of me?”
The question halted her midstride. Slowly she turned back to him, trembling, needing, ashamed. She didn’t want to say it, but she’d never lied to Mitch; she’d only kept secrets.
She met his gaze, hers filled with unflinching honesty. “Terrified,” she said softly.
His hands, reaching out to her arms, dropped. “I hoped it was only him who’d wanted me to go that day. I’d hoped you at least still trusted me.”
“I do!” she cried. “I do, Mitch…but I—” She floundered, biting her lip. Haunted by past pain, hemmed in by secrets, by the fear and self-hate that walked beside and inside her, night and day. “It’s just that I— Oh, I can’t explain…but it’s not you,” she finished lamely.
“I see.” His face twisted. “That’s why you keep moving away from me like I’m a monster.”
The pain in his eyes found an echo in her soul. Mitch, oh, Mitch, I wish it didn’t have to be like this!
She owed him the truth. She knew what his life had been before they met, how few people he cared for or trusted since living through the foster system. But he trusted her.
“I learned a long time ago not to believe in everything Tim said or did,” she said, giving him what truth she could. “I never wanted him to say those things to you. I didn’t want you to go out of our lives like that. I’m glad you’re here now. The boys have missed you so much.”
“Thanks for that.” He nodded, as if thinking of something else. “What time does Tim come home from work?” His voice was slow, thoughtful.
“I—” She blinked. “What did you say?”
His brow lifted. “It’s a simple question, Lissa. What time does your husband come home from work?”
Without warning everything shifted focus. She felt dizzy, disoriented, as though she’d stepped back in time to a strange new world where only one truth made sense.
Mitch didn’t know.
Blinking to clear her mind of the unexpected turmoil, she tried to speak, but it came out a harsh croak. “Tim left me six years ago.”
Mitch staggered back, as if she’d decked him. “What?”
She shrugged, seeing no need to repeat herself.
“You’re divorced?” He watched her with an intense gaze, as if trying to make sense of a simple fact. Waiting for her to deny what he’d just heard. “You’re free?”
Lissa flinched. Oh, how she hated the word divorce. It was a word unheard of in the Miller family—until Tim walked out, left her for— “Yes.”
Obviously, he’d seen her expression. He’d been looking at her with all his brooding intensity. “Do you ever see him now?”
“Of course,” she answered, relieved at the change in subject. “He comes to see Jenny, our daughter. She’s five.”
“Did he leave you for someone else?” The question was as grim as the look in his eyes.
She dragged in a breath. At least she could answer that question honestly. “Yes.”
“He left when you were pregnant with his child.”
Unable to look at him, she nodded. If he knew the truth—
“Damn it. I’m going to kill him.”
She blurted without thinking, “How is it any different from you? It’s exactly what you did to Matt and Luke’s mother—except you didn’t even bother to marry her before you did your runner!” She clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified by the burst of anger