Annie's Song (39 page)

Alex had no such problem. As he studied her, his firm mouth lifted slightly at one corner, and he reached out to run the backs of his knuckles along her cheek. In that moment, it seemed to Annie that the air between them became so electrified that the friction of his skin against hers produced static. As he trailed his knuckles lightly to her neck, she gulped for breath as though she had just surfaced from under water.

His smile deepened and his eyes took on a knowing twinkle. “You look like a condemned Christian about to face the lions.”

Annie frowned slightly, not entirely certain what he meant.

“Christians were once sentenced to death for their religious convictions,” he explained. “Right now, you have the look of a little martyr who’s afraid she’s about to be devoured.” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Determined to sacrifice yourself for a cause, Annie, love? Why do I have the feeling I’m it?”

Embarrassed to be so easily read, she lowered her gaze. When she glanced back up, his smile had vanished and the muscles in his face had drawn taut. He regarded her for several seconds—endless seconds for Annie. “You’re trembling again, and I know damned well it isn’t with cold.”

Annie couldn’t deny the obvious. She was trembling, and it wasn’t because she was cold. She was nervous, horribly nervous. And more than a little afraid. Though she knew Alex would never hurt her on purpose, that wasn’t much comfort when she recalled how bad the pain had been with Douglas.

Her mouth suddenly felt as dry as sun-parched grass. “You asked me to think about—” Whatever else she meant to say fled her mind. How did one refer to such an act? Alex had called it a “special closeness” and “making love,” but those terms seemed too embarrassingly explicit to repeat. “I’ve thought about it,” she finished lamely, praying he would understand what “it” meant. “Remember? This afternoon, you asked me to think about it?”

His hand still at her throat, he began to make light, circular motions with the leathery pads of his fingers directly beneath her ear. Her skin there was so sensitive that every drag of his fingertips set her nerve endings afire. She gulped, realizing too late that his thumb was pressed gently over her larynx.

“And because you know I’m feeling sad, you’ve decided to grant me my request,” he finished for her.

Annie started to shake her head, but he forestalled her by grasping her chin. His gaze held hers in a grip that was just as relentless as that of his hand. “If nothing else, Annie, let’s keep this honest. If you start coloring the truth to save my feelings and I start doing the same to save yours, the first thing we know, we’ll have a mountain of white lies looming between us.”

“But I want—”

He cut her off yet again, this time by touching a finger to her lips. “No, Annie, you don’t want. That’s the unvarnished truth.” In the firelight, his eyes, usually so clear, turned cloudy, the color reminding her of
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matte gold. “Given what happened to you, I don’t expect you to want any part of a physical joining. This afternoon, I asked you to consider the possibility and to trust me enough to allow me a chance to show you how wonderful it can be between us. That’s all. Just a chance. It was never my expectation that you would come to me burning with need or wanting any part of it.”

As though he found that thought mildly amusing, he continued to regard her, his mouth quirking slightly at one comer.

“Well, I’ve thought about it!” she told him, feeling a little put out because he seemed to be laughing at her expense. “And I have decided to give you a chance to show me.”

“Why?”

“Well, because...” She licked her lips and fixed her gaze on the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Because I—’’ She broke off and returned her eyes to his.

“Because you know I’m very upset?” he finished for her. “And because you feel obligated?” He shook his head. “You’ve made the right decision, Annie, love, but for all the wrong reasons.” With another smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes, he reached to draw the towel from her head. “I think I’ll wait until you come to me for all the right ones. For now, let’s get that hair of yours dried before you take a chill.” He motioned for her to sit on the rug before the hearth, then left her to get his hairbrush off the dresser. As he walked back toward her, he said, “Don’t frown. It’ll give you wrinkles.”

Annie couldn’t help but frown. As perverse as she knew it was, she felt irritated and a little bit hurt. For all the wrong reasons, he said. And just what reasons would he deem the right ones? She loved him and cared about him. Tonight he felt sad, and she wanted to make him feel better. What better reasons could she have?

Resting a hand on her shoulder, he pressed her down onto the rug and then sat beside her, one long leg tucked beneath him, his other knee raised. The position was so blatantly masculine and he had assumed it with such ease that she felt awkward in comparison. The hem of her nightgown got caught under one foot, which caused an uncomfortable tightness across the shoulders. She spent a moment trying to untangle herself. When she finally got comfortable and looked back up, Alex set himself to the task of brushing her hair. Expecting him to hit snags and bring tears to her eyes as her mother had always done, Annie was tense at first. But his gentleness soon soothed the rigidity from her neck and shoulders.

Long, slow strokes. Big, slightly callused hands. Warmth from both him and the fire. Her eyelashes drifted low, and her body, loose with relaxation, moved with the pull of the bristles. As the damp ends of her hair began to dry, he lifted the brush with each stroke, separating the strands and letting them fall slowly back around her shoulders. Annie gazed at the firelight through an ever shifting veil of sable, feeling oddly drowsy and separate from reality.

When at last he set the brush aside, she felt so lazy she didn’t want to move. A log in the fire rolled forward, sending up a spray of sparks. She could almost hear the snap of the pitch and the crackling of the flames. Bracing his weight on one hand, he smoothed her hair from her face, his eyes searching hers.

Annie sensed that there was something he wanted—no, needed—to say. It was there in the tautness of his features, in the firm set of his mouth, in the slightly pleated frown on his forehead. “What is it?” she finally asked. His gaze skittered from hers. For several seconds, he stared into the fire, the sharp definition of his face catching the amber light, the crevices etched with shadows. Several different times, his mouth tightened and he swallowed, as if he were on the verge of speaking. But in the end, he remained silent.

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Annie leaned forward to rest her hand over his. At the touch, he squeezed his eyes closed. “I need—”

His throat worked as though the words were snagging on his larynx. “About tonight—Douglas and everything—I need to explain. I don’t want you to think that I’d ever choose him over you, and I know that’s how it must have seemed to you tonight.”

A hundred times, at least, he had caught her chin to make her look at him. Now Annie did the same to him. At her touch, he opened his eyes, apparently startled. His gaze, darkened with emotions she couldn’t quite define, met hers and delved deeply.

“You love him,” she said. “Just because he does bad things, that doesn’t mean you can stop caring about him. I understand that.”

“He doesn’t deserve my affection, not in any measure.”

“Neither does my papa, but I still love him.”

That got his attention. As she finished speaking, he dragged his gaze to hers, his expression slightly bewildered, as if he’d registered the words but couldn’t quite make sense of them. “I don’t know why, but I always assumed you loved your father because you didn’t know any better.”

Annie hugged her knees and smiled, more amused by his admission than disgruntled. “I’m deaf, not stupid.”

His response was a smile. There was no mistaking the admiration that gleamed in his eyes. “I’m glad you’re finally beginning to realize that.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Trust you to notice.”

“You were going to explain. About Douglas and what happened tonight.”

“I just wanted to assure you that, no matter how it may have looked, I will never put him before you.

Not for any reason. For tonight, I think that’s enough on the subject. As upset as you were at seeing him, I can’t think a discussion about him would be good for you or the baby right now.”

“The baby and I are perfectly fine. You‘re upset. I want to help. Is that so wrong?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, then? I offered to be”‘—she broke off and gestured vaguely—”close with you, and you didn’t feel my reasons were sound. Now you’re refusing to talk about what’s troubling you. How can I help if you won’t let me?”

He smiled lazily. “Uncooperative, am I?”

“Very.”

“I apologize.” He seemed to consider the accusation. Then his smile deepened. “I guess I am being difficult, aren’t I?”

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She nodded.

“What it boils down to is a choice between being close and talking. Correct?’’ He arched a tawny eyebrow at her. “Faced with that ultimatum, I choose the first.”

A frown pleated Annie’s forehead. “Pardon?”

“The first,” he repeated. “I don’t feel like talking about my brother. That leaves being close, which is something I always feel like doing. No problem there.”

Annie narrowed an eye at him again. At her expression, his shoulders jerked with a laugh and his eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your enthusiasm is waning. I thought you wanted to make me feel better. Trust me, Annie, being close will do it.”

“Coward.”

He draped an arm over his upraised knee. “In this instance, I believe the term applies to both of us.

Maybe we should hold hands and face our dragons together, hmm?”

Annie grasped his dangling hand. “You first.”

He threw back his head and laughed. Somehow, she knew the sound was rich and deep, the kind of laugh that would have warmed her clear through had she been able to hear it. As his mirth subsided, he turned his hand to curl his fingers around hers. “Me first, huh? You’re priceless, Annie, girl. Two hours ago, I felt as if someone had sliced my insides to pieces with a knife, and now you have me laughing.”

“I didn’t mean it to be funny.”

He grew suddenly sober. “No, I don’t believe you did.” After studying her for a moment, he said,

“You’re actually serious, aren’t you? If I take you up on it, you’re prepared to let me make love to you.”

“Not prepared, exactly, but ready.”

He tightened his hand around hers. “That means a lot to me. That you trust me enough to take a chance like that. It means more than I can say.”

Annie’s throat felt achy and tight. “I wish you trusted me half as much.”

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. “Oh, Annie. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that—well, you have no idea what you’re asking.” He raised his lashes to regard her. “Talking. It sounds so simple. But it isn’t. My feelings about Douglas are anything but simple, and they stem, in part, from something that happened years ago.”

“What?”

A muscle along his jaw bunched, and his grip on her hand tightened until it was almost painful. “I killed our parents. My father and Douglas’s mother, Alicia. I killed them. It was my fault Douglas was left an orphan at only six. All my fault.”

Of all the things Annie had expected him to say, that wasn’t it. She stared at him in stunned disbelief,
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convinced she must have misread his words. The stricken expression on his face told her otherwise. “Oh, Alex...”

His grip on her hand grew more bruising. “I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. But in the end, they were both just as dead as if I’d put a gun to their heads and pulled the trigger. The guilt I felt—” He took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips. “Jesus. It never turned loose of me. I’ve spent the last fourteen years trying to make it up to Douglas, and now, looking back on it, I think I did him more harm than good.”

Annie didn’t try to draw her hand from his. Despite the pain of his grip, she was afraid to move for fear she’d distract him, stop him from talking. As though the dam had finally burst, the ugliness was pouring from him. He scarcely paused between sentences to draw breath as he told her about the accident that had killed his father and stepmother.

“I was, um ... about sixteen when it happened. I had just started college that year up in Portland, and I’d come home for the summer to work for my father at the rock quarry.” He fell silent for a bit, his gaze growing distant with memories. “Boys that age—well, I was feeling pretty full of myself that summer. It was heady stuff, coming home from college, working alongside grown men, having my father ask me my opinion about business matters.” He smiled slightly and shook his head. “It was the first time he’d ever really treated me like an adult. I was part of everything. On a work crew. Helping fill orders. I wanted to prove myself. You understand? I saw everything as some sort of test, pass or fail, the cumulative score a measure of my manhood.”

Annie had no idea what “cumulative” meant, but she got his gist and nodded, wishing with all her heart that his smile would reach his eyes. But all she saw in those amber depths was pain. An awful pain that had been with him far too long.

“Toward the last part of June,” he went on, “everybody was getting excited about the approach of Independence Day and the celebration they were going to have in town. Up at the quarry, we had access to explosives of all types, and some of the men started experimenting, their original intent to create their own firecrackers.” At her puzzled look, he quickly explained what a firecracker was, describing the loud blast one made. “Anyway, one thing led to another, and men being men, they started playing pranks. One day when I was in the privy, my father lit a homemade firecracker and tossed it in the door. It went off right at my feet and scared the—’’