Hawk's Way: Carter & Falcon. Joan Johnston
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his arms.
Desiree stood rigid. She was aware of the heat of him, the male scent of him. She was appalled by the way her nipples peaked when they came in contact with his naked chest. She became certain that he must be able to feel her arousal, even through the layers of cloth that covered her, when she felt the hard ridge growing in his low-slung jeans.
“Desiree,” he murmured.
As his arms tightened around her, memories of the past rose up to choke her. And she panicked.
“No! Don’t touch me! Let me go!” Desiree struggled to be free of Carter’s constraining hold. She slapped at his face, beat at him with her fists, shoved and writhed to be free. But his hold, although gentle, was inexorable.
Desiree didn’t scream. She had learned not to scream. There was no one who would come to her rescue; she would have to save herself. She continued fighting until she finally realized through her panic that although he refused to release her, Carter wasn’t hurting her. At last, exhausted, she stood quivering in his arms, like a wild animal caught in a trap it realizes it cannot escape.
“There, now. That’s better,” Carter crooned. “Easy now. Everything’s gonna be all right now. You’re fine. You’re just fine.”
As Desiree recovered from her dazed state, she became aware that Carter was speaking in a low, husky voice. She was being held loosely in his arms, and his hands were rubbing her back as though she were a small child. She looked up and saw the beginning of a bruise on his chin and the bloody scratches on his face and froze.
“I hurt you,” she said.
“You’ve got a wicked right,” he agreed with a smile. He winced as the smile teased a small cut in his lip.
“I’m so sorry.”
He looked at her warily. “Would you like to explain what that commotion was all about?”
“No.”
His blue eyes narrowed. “No?”
“No.” For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to let her evade his question.
Then he sniffed and said, “Something’s burning.”
“My hot chocolate!” When she pulled away, he let her go. Desiree hurried to the stove, where the milk had burned black in the bottom of the pan. “Oh, no. Look at this mess!” She retrieved a pot holder and lifted the pot off the stove and settled it in the sink.
“You can make some more.”
“I don’t think I could sleep now if I drank a dozen cups of hot chocolate,” Desiree said in disgust.
“I heard a noise, and I came down to check it out,” Carter said in a crisp voice. “You’re the one who went crazy.”
“I didn’t—” Desiree cut herself off. Although she didn’t like the description, it fit her irrational behavior. She shoved a hand through her long brown hair and crossed the room to slump into one of the kitchen chairs. “Good Lord! I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”
Carter joined her at the table, turning a chair around and straddling it so he was facing her. “Do you think it would help to talk about it?”
Desiree wondered how much she should tell him. And how little he would settle for knowing. “My first marriage was a disappointment,” she admitted.
“I guessed something of the sort. How long were you married?”
“Two years. Then we divorced.”
“I was married for five years.”
“You were married?” Desiree didn’t know why she was so surprised. But she was. Suddenly she had a thought. Perhaps there was a good reason, after all, for Carter’s strange, distant behavior toward Nicole.
“Do you have children?”
“I have…had a five-year-old daughter. She died along with my wife in a car accident six years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” No wonder he didn’t want to be around Nicole! Her daughter must be an awful reminder of his loss. Desiree knew there really was no comfort she could offer, except to share with him her own grievous loss. “My parents died the same way.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
A tense silence fell between them. Both wanted to ask more questions. But to ask questions was to suggest a willingness to answer them in return. And neither was ready to share with the other the secrets of their past.
It was Carter who finally broke the silence between them, his voice quiet, his tone as gentle as Desiree had ever heard it.
“If I’m going to get anything accomplished tomorrow I ought to get some sleep. But I don’t feel comfortable leaving you down here alone. Is there any chance you could sleep now?”
Quite honestly, Desiree thought she would spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling. But she could see that Carter wasn’t going to go back to bed until she was settled. “I guess I am a little tired.”
“I’ll follow you upstairs,” he said.
Desiree rose and headed for the kitchen door. Before she had taken two steps, Carter blocked her way.
“I don’t know what to do to make you believe that I’d never hurt you,” he said.
“I…I believe you.”
Nevertheless, she flinched as he raised a hand to brush the hair away from her face.
His lips flattened. “Yeah. Sure.”
Desiree cringed at the sarcasm in his voice and fled up the stairs as fast as she could. Behind her she heard the steady barefoot tread of her husband. She hurried into her bedroom and shut the door behind her. She leaned back against the door and covered her face with her hands.
I hate you, Burley. I hate what you did to me. I hate the way you made me feel. And I hate the fact that I can never be a woman to the man I married today.
Hating didn’t help. Desiree had learned that lesson over the six long years since she had divorced Burley and gone on with her life. But she hadn’t been able to let go of the hate—or the fear.
Because she knew that when he got out of prison in two weeks, Burley would be coming back.
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