A Winter's Rose (13 page)

She ducked inside, rushed over to the front desk and grabbed a handful of message slips, then raced back with them. “I took every one of these,” she said proudly, holding them out to him. “Look, I even noted the times. This guy wanted you to call him first thing today.” Speechless, Jackson took the messages. “It's about the study results.”

Chloe raced to the desk again, bursting with pride. “All the donation reminders went out, right on time.” She swiveled and pointed to some boxes stacked beside her. “We got the newsletter ready to go.” She lifted her chin proudly. “I was a big help with that. Bentley said she couldn't have done it without me. And—” she paused for breath “—we only had to call Jill twice!”

Stunned, Jackson looked around the reception area, noting that not one article was out of place. Far from the chaos he had expected to find last night. He settled his gaze on Chloe.
What had happened while he was gone? This was not the same child he had left.

As his daughter raced around the office, showing him this and that, describing her week, the more foolish—the more ridiculous—he felt. He'd acted like a total…ass. Everything Bentley had said to him was true.

He had to apologize.

No. Jackson frowned. He had to beg her forgiveness. And even after begging he wouldn't blame her if she told him to take a flying leap.

The morning ticked by, minute after agonizing minute. He waited for Bentley, practicing what he would say to her, rehearsing his apology so many times he could have recited it in his sleep.

No Bentley.

Finally, at noon, Jackson had to accept the fact that she wasn't going to show.

He'd blown it.

Frustrated, he turned away from the door, only to find Chloe watching him. He forced a smile and crossed to her. “Quiet day.”

“She's not coming, is she?” Chloe asked quietly.

“No. I don't think so.”

“Oh.” Chloe bit her bottom lip and cocked her head. “What are you going to do about it?”

Jackson gazed at his daughter a moment, then shook his head. “I haven't figured that out yet.”

Chloe opened her mouth, then looked away, stubbing her toe into the carpet.

He drew his eyebrows together. “You have an idea?”

Chloe lifted her head, a bright flush climbing her cheeks. She shrugged. “Well, you might try—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“You promise you won't get mad?”

He held up two fingers. “Let me have it.”

Chloe twisted her fingers together. “You get kinda crabby sometimes, Daddy. She might not understand that's…just the way you are. Maybe if you explained that to her, and told her you were sorry…”

His daughter let her words trail off, then bit her lip. His heart swelled. For the first time since she'd come to live with him, he felt that they were really communicating. “Crabby?” he repeated, arching his eyebrows, amused.

“Kinda. Sometimes.” She lifted one shoulder. “Demanding, too.”

Jackson gazed at her a moment, then tumbled her into his arms for a bear hug. For a moment Chloe resisted, standing stiffly in his arms, her own arms at her sides. His heart broke. Then she shuddered, snaked her arms around him and hugged him back. Hard.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jackson decided he owed Bentley a lot more than an apology.

Chapter Eight

B
entley threw open her living room window to the unexpectedly warm winter day and leaned out. From the shop below the rich, sweet scent of flowers wafted up to her. She breathed deeply and wished the balmy, scented air could cleanse her of the turbulent emotions churning inside her.

Jackson hadn't called. He hadn't come by to apologize. She felt as if she had been holding her breath since she'd walked out his door the night before. Bentley tipped her face toward the sky, squinting against the brilliant sunlight. She had wanted him to come after her. Wanted it so badly it hurt. She had waited for his call, his knock on her door.

The time had come to stop waiting and wishing. The time had come to face the truth. For whatever reasons, she was susceptible to Jackson. An inexplicable chemistry crackled between them despite their differences, despite the fact that he loathed her.

Bentley closed her fingers around the windowsill. She should stay as far away from him as possible. He had hurt her; he would hurt her again.

Even facing that truth, she wasn't certain she had the strength of will.

Leaving the window up, Bentley ducked inside. Turning, she faced her apartment, faced the first concrete evidence of her independence, her growth. This was hers, she reminded herself. She had taken big steps to get here, and she wasn't about to throw everything she'd gained away. Not on something as insubstantial and fleeting as chemistry. And certainly not on a man who cared so little for her, a man who continued to judge her by someone else's sins.

She'd set her music box on a pedestal by the bed. Crossing the room, Bentley picked it up. She trailed her fingers lightly over the filigree, thinking back, as she had so often in the last hours, to her and
Jackson's fight.

He hadn't been completely wrong. She should have called him. Baysafe was his. He'd had the right to know of any changes that might affect his business. She'd known that even as she'd made the decision not to. But she'd also known that if she called, he would come racing back to Galveston. No matter what she said, no matter how she would have tried to convince him, he wouldn't have believed in her ability to handle Baysafe even for a few days.

She'd wanted her chance. She'd taken it.

Bentley gazed at her porcelain look-alike, pride warring with despair inside her. She had done it. She'd proven herself to herself. Her satisfaction would have been complete if he had been happy for her, if he had been able to admit she'd done a good job. Instead, he had lashed out at her. His accusations had been unforgivable in light of what they had shared only a moment before. He had shown her, once and for all, how little he thought of her.

Bentley inched her chin up. She would survive without his approval, without him. She had lived through much worse and gone on.

Tears stung her eyes, and she cursed them. She had a decision to make. Could she stay on at Baysafe? Or should she throw in the towel and admit defeat? Her chest tightened at the thought of leaving. She wanted to stay and continue what she'd begun this last week. Baysafe needed her; she could make a difference there.

But not without Jackson's cooperation. Not without his belief in her.

And she would never have either.

Bentley set the music box on the pedestal, her hands trembling so badly she feared she might drop it. The truth of that shouldn't hurt so much. It shouldn't make her feel alone and torn in two. But it did, she acknowledged, her eyes filling, brimming over. What was wrong with her that it mattered so much what he thought of her?

She was falling in love with him.

Bentley shook her head against the thought, denial racing through her. No. Impossible. She couldn't afford to love him. She couldn't afford to give her heart—or her burgeoning self-esteem—to someone who would crush it.

And he would crush it, just as David had done.

She had to get out of here, Bentley thought, looking around her nearly empty apartment. She had to go someplace there were people talking and laughing, somewhere she couldn't hear her own thoughts.

Grabbing her handbag, she raced to the door and jerked it open. Jackson stood on the other side, his arms filled with yellow roses arranged in a beautiful vase, his expression uncertain.

Bentley stared at him, nonplussed and aching, her heart a freight train in her chest. He'd come.

They gazed at one another, one second becoming two becoming a dozen. He looked tired. And worried. His light eyes seemed shadowed by some deeply felt emotion. Her heart went out to him, and she called herself a softhearted ninny.

“Why have you come here, Jackson?” she asked, finding her voice, reminding herself that anger was her best defense against him.

He cleared his throat. “These are for you.”

She longed to take the flowers, to touch one of the butter-colored blossoms, to bury her face in their sweetness. But to do so would be to give him more than she could allow herself to.

She folded her arms across her chest and forced herself to keep her eyes on his. “And we both know that doesn't answer my question.”

“Why do you think I've come, Bentley?”

His voice, soft and thick, moved hypnotically over her. She shook off its affect, shook off the urge to forgive him anything and everything for the pittance of a bouquet of flowers and one of his smiles.

Nothing had changed. He was unwilling to admit he was wrong about her, unwilling to give her credit.

Anger jumped to life inside her, and she lifted her chin. “I don't have time for games, Jackson. Excuse me.”

“I was wrong,” he said quickly, stepping forward, stopping the door with his hand. “I'm sorry.”

Her heart stopped, then started again with a jerk. Still, she didn't move away from the door, didn't make a move to take the flowers. “Sorry isn't enough.”

“Give me a chance, Bentley. Please. Let me in.”

“I don't think so.” She gripped the edge of the door more tightly, her knuckles whitening. “I don't think it's a good idea.”

She was a liar—she
knew
it was a bad idea. Risky. Dangerous. Already, she could feel herself weakening, giving in to the way he made her feel, the way he made her ache to touch him.

He took another step closer. She could smell the roses then, their subtle potency going straight to her head, weakening her resolve even further.

“I don't blame you if you don't want to listen to one thing I have to say.” He lowered his voice. “I'm asking you to listen anyway.”

Suspecting that she was making the mistake of her life, Bentley stepped aside to allow him in, then shut the door behind him. But she didn't take the flowers, didn't offer a place for him to set them.

Jackson stood just inside her living area, filling it with his size, his presence. The air seemed to become his, crackling with his energy, his magnetism.

Needing space, hoping to clear her head, Bentley took a step away from him. It didn't help.

Jackson moved his gaze around the large, sparsely furnished space, then met her gaze again. “This isn't what I expected.”

She stiffened her spine. “I don't own much. I—” She shook her head, cursing herself for her need to justify herself to him. “You have something to say to me?”

“Many somethings. But first, I was wrong, Bentley. I behaved like an idiot, like an unforgivable ass.” After plucking one flower from the bouquet, he set the vase of roses on the floor. “You and Chloe did do a great job. And you were right. When it comes to you, it seems I can't admit how capable you are. Until now.”

She didn't move, didn't comment. She hoped he couldn't see the hope in her eyes or the way her chest rose and fell like a marathon runner's.

“You've changed my life.” He took a step closer to her. “You're changing it still. The difference you made in Chloe—in Chloe's and my relationship—is like a miracle.”

He took another step. “And you were right, what you said about Baysafe being too industry dependent. I'm not a good salesman. I naively believe that people should give us money because it's the right thing to do, because the Bay needs us. Arrogantly, I think everyone should feel as zealously as I do about this cause.

“I didn't want to admit any of those things,” he continued, softly. “Not last night, not ten minutes ago. Humility doesn't come easily to me. Neither does self-awareness. Because when I look at myself and my life, I see a flawed man who's made a lot of mistakes.”

Bentley drew in a deep breath, fighting for reason, for control. “And now?” she asked.

“Now, I'm trying to undo one of those mistakes.” He moved a step closer. “I was deliberately pushing you away. Last night and from the moment we first met. Because everything about you pulls at me. I was afraid. Of being hurt. Of making a mess of my life. Again.

“But I'm more afraid of losing you. You've brought something special, something warm to my life.” He held out the rose. “Tell me it's not too late.”

Bentley searched his gaze. How could she not forgive him? He spoke from his heart. To hers. The too-proud man who had once told her he never apologized had just humbled himself to her.

She took the rose from his outstretched hand. Holding it to her nose, she breathed in the delicate scent, then trailed it lightly across her mouth. How could she be angry with him for not believing in her when until recently she hadn't believed in herself?

Over the delicate bloom she met his eyes. “It's not too late.”

Jackson smiled. The curving of his mouth was as spontaneous and pleased as a boy's. It affected her in ways and places only a woman would know. Turning, he scooped up the vase and handed it to her.

Bentley took the flowers carefully, almost reverently. Once they were in her hands, she gave in to the urge and lowered her face to the velvety blossoms and breathed in the light but heady scent. She knew she would never again be able to smell roses and not think of this moment and of Jackson.

“They're beautiful,” she whispered, meeting his eyes once more.

“No thorns.” He reached out and touched her hair. “I once likened you to a rose, an exquisite blossom that needed to be coaxed and pampered, a cultivated beauty. But like the rose, I thought there was a catch attached to your incredible beauty. I thought you had thorns.”

He moved his hand to the curve of her cheek. “I know now there's no catch, no thorns.” He cupped her face in his palm. “You haven't any meanness or cruelty in you, Bentley. I know that now. I misjudged you.”

The breath caught in her lungs, then shuddered out. She tipped her face into his caress. How could she not respond to his words? And what could she give him besides everything?

She wasn't beginning to fall in love with him.

She had already fallen. Deeply and passionately. Irrevocably.

As frightened as she was exhilarated, Bentley swung away from him. She set the vase of flowers on the bed stand, then crossed to the open window. For long moments, she stared at the busy street, at the flower vendor's baskets of blossoms below.

Love? she thought dizzily, sucking in a lungful of the scented air. How had she let herself get in so deep? How had he gotten by every one of her defenses without even trying?

She squeezed her eyes shut. Jackson wasn't in love with her. Not now. Maybe he would never be. Panicked laughter bubbled to her lips. She was thinking love and he'd just realized he didn't despise her.

Could she take the chance and make herself vulnerable to him?

She already had.

Jackson came up behind her, stopping so close she could feel the heat that radiated from him, feel his breath stir against her hair. But he didn't touch her, and it was all she could do to keep from swinging around and clutching him to her.

“What are you thinking?” he asked quietly, rubbing some of her soft, dark curls between his fingers. “Don't shut me out, Princess.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. If only she could tell him. If only she wasn't so certain that words of love would have him running. She took another deep, healing breath. If onlys sapped dreams and peace of mind. Wishing and worrying about the future and the impossible did nothing but rob the here and now.

And she wanted the now. She wanted Jackson.

She turned. Heart racing, she met his gaze. “I was wondering where we go from here.”

“You tell me.”

“I'd like to stay on at Baysafe.”

“I'd like that, too.”

“But if I do stay, I'll need your cooperation. I intend to pursue what I started last week.”

“You've got it.” He cupped her face in his palms. “Where else, Bentley? Where else do we go from here?”

The expression in his eyes was hot and dark. It melted her. “The decision's not only mine.”

“But it is.” He tightened his fingers, lowering his eyes to her mouth for a moment before lifting them back to hers. “I want us to be lovers. That hasn't changed since last night. It won't change.” He dragged his thumbs across her bottom lip, smiling as it trembled under the caress. “What we both need to know is, what do you want?”

Lovers.
Not I love you. The truth of that ripped through her, and she lifted her hands to his chest, the rose still clutched in her fingers. He offered no promises, no declarations of affection. But hadn't she had both once? And hadn't they turned out to mean less than nothing?

Bentley searched his gaze. He offered her more; he offered honesty, respect and trust. He desired her, but he also liked her. Those were things she'd never had before, special and wonderful, and she would cherish them later, when she was regretting and wishing for everything. Wishing for love.

Bentley curled her fingers into his shirt. Outwardly he looked in control, even cool. But beneath her hand and the flower, his heart beat wildly. Almost out of control. He wanted her badly.