Rocky Mountain Valor. Jennifer D. Bokal
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you want me?” he asked, his voice husky. “Tell me you want me.”
It would be so easy to love Ian again, especially since she’d never really stopped caring. Then again, what was love if they didn’t want the same life? She already knew the answer—it was an empty sentiment that led to heartache and loneliness.
She placed her hands on his chest and pushed firmly. Sliding from the island to the floor, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, not trapping the kiss, not wiping it away. Her fingers trembled. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. I should leave.”
“And go where? You said yourself that the media has camped out at your apartment. Don’t be daft,” he said, his voice without a shred of emotion. “Stay.”
Petra gritted her teeth at his calm. She was nothing more than feelings and second-guesses. “Do you always have a stiff upper lip?”
“I suppose so. It goes with the tea and the affinity for British cars.”
“And your dry sense of humor.”
“There’s that, too. By the way, I was wondering—how did you get in?”
The kiss and the passion and the dreams of the future—or rather, the past—were gone for Ian. She needed to drive them all from her mind and her heart, too. “You hadn’t changed the code for the lock,” she said. “I supposed that since I could still get in, you might be willing to help me...”
Ian shrugged. “I guess I never thought that you’d come back.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She wanted Ian to confess that he’d kept the same code deliberately, all the while hoping for her return. Sure, he wanted her, even now—the kiss had proved that. But sex and passion had never been their problem. It was the emotional connection she craved, the knowing that he would be there if she needed him. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask for help. Will you,” she asked, “still help me? Even after...” She paused, not sure how to characterize what had just happened. “Even after everything?”
“Like I said, I’ll do some digging tonight and see what turns up. From there, you go to your attorney. Agreed?”
She paused again. This time it was for another indelicate subject—money. After all, he was a professional and well paid for his services. She knew; she used to live with him.
Sure, Petra had her own job. But while she was far from poor, she’d emptied her savings account to retain her attorney. She swallowed. “How much will it cost?”
Ian waved her question away. “Don’t even mention that to me. Now go upstairs and try to get some rest.”
Rest? She could hardly imagine sitting down, much less sleeping. “You said you have some of my clothes?”
Ian raked his hair back. “In the dresser, upstairs guest room.”
Oh yes, he had told her that already. “Then I guess I better...” Her throat burned and tightened, her words trailing off.
“I’ll let you know what I’ve found out about Arnie Hatch’s background in the morning.”
To Petra, it seemed as if the events that led her here had happened years ago and not mere hours. Yet there had been a brief instant while Ian held her that transcended time. In those short moments, Petra had truly felt safe, as if nothing could hurt her.
Ian was now at the sink, rinsing out the teacups. She regarded his form, his broad shoulders and narrow waist—and that rock-hard butt. Without question, he was gorgeous.
But it was what Petra knew about him that made Ian more than appealing. His hair wasn’t just blond, with golden and copper strands woven throughout. His eyes, a stormy gray, actually began as silver near his iris and darkened to charcoal at the edge of his pupil. He had a dimple on his lower back that she had kissed countless times and a scar atop his foot.
Even more important than his looks were his character and unwavering confidence, his dedication and strength. Ian was the kind of man women wanted and men wanted to be.
“Can I help with Arnie? I’ve met him before and—”
Ian didn’t turn around. “I work better alone.”
Alone.
There it was again. She should have known better than to offer. “Thank you, then,” she said, “for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Petra waited a moment for him to glance her way. She wanted to look him in the eyes so he’d know...what? Well, that was a question she couldn’t answer.
Without another word, she left the kitchen. The guest room was just as it had been when she’d lived in the house. Thick tan carpet covered the floor. One wall was navy blue and the rest painted an unblemished white. There was a matching navy-and-white comforter on the bed, along with a dresser, a TV on a stand and a bedside table with a lamp. In fact, it was almost as if it hadn’t been used since she left.
She opened the top drawer of the dresser and found half a dozen pairs of her underwear and a few bras, neatly folded. The next drawer held several shirts, two pairs of jeans and a sundress. In the closet, she found an old pair of her ballet flats.
When she’d walked out, she’d forgotten that she’d been doing laundry, until she went to put on her favorite shoes and couldn’t find them. And Ian? He’d never called, either. Never wrote, never texted. In fact, she’d wondered many times if he’d found her clothes—even though they were left in the dryer and hardly something he’d miss.
Petra shut the closet door and went to the adjoining bathroom. She flipped on the light. A face stared at her. She looked over her shoulder, a ready scream on her lips, but found no one there. She looked back and, sadly, recognized the reflection was hers—but not.
Her hair was a tangled mess; her eyes were lost to the dark circles that surrounded them. Her skin was pale and washed-out. Droplets of red lined her cheek—blood? Basically, she looked as feral as she felt.
She turned on the shower, as hot as the tap allowed. Steam rolling out the open glass door collected on the mirror, finally obscuring her image. After stripping off the bulky sweatpants and T-shirt, Petra wondered if burning the outfit would be overly dramatic. With a wry smile, she decided that, yes, it would be a bit much, and she stepped into the spray.
The water was scalding, turning her skin bright red. She jumped back with a yelp, before easing under the shower. The heat didn’t bother Petra then. It was minor compared to the burn she still felt for Ian. She grabbed a bar of soap and worked it into a lather, sliding her foamy hands over her body. Why had she pulled away from him when he’d offered what she wanted? Wouldn’t the comfort she found in his arms be the best salve for her wounded soul?
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