Crash Into Me (27 page)

She
snuck a glance at Ben, expecting to see pity. Or disgust. What she saw was
fury.

“Go
on,” he said.

Sonny
had told this part of the story many, many times. Social services and court
officials had made her repeat it, again and again. Like always, she delivered
the lines flatly, her voice free of emotion, mind carefully blank. “One day
when I came home from school, Everett was waiting for me. Rigo had been going
to the local community college, playing on their soccer team, and he had
practice.” She looked through Ben, not really seeing him. “Everett followed me
into my room. We scuffled. He slapped me, and I fell against my dresser.”
Remembering the explosion of pain, she lifted her hand to the back of her head.
“By the time he was finished, I was barely conscious.”

A
lot was left unsaid, but she couldn’t bring herself to describe the fear, the
helplessness, the shame of reliving that experience every time she gave herself
to a nameless, faceless boy in hopes of dulling her senses.

When
she raised her eyes to Ben, she saw that his expression was fierce. “How did
your brother kill him?” he asked. “You said he beat me to it.”

“Rigo
was doing thirty days for possession when he met up with Everett in LA County
Jail. He’s never admitted it, but I think he got arrested on purpose. He
stabbed Everett thirteen times with a sharpened pencil.”

“How
long ago?”

“Ten
years.”

“And
he’s still in prison?”

Tears
flooded her eyes. “He got a twenty-year sentence. They made an example of him.
Called it a gang-style execution.”

Ben
ran his hand through his hair. “How old was he?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Jesus.
Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with the world? Did he appeal?”

“Yes,
but he already had a criminal record, so that didn’t help. And Everett’s
history was inadmissible.” She shivered, suddenly cold and very, very tired.
“Sometimes I think what happened affected Rigo more than me. He blamed himself
for not being there. Even before he got arrested, he wasn’t the same. He never
played soccer again.”

Ben
wrapped his arms around her, but her body was stiff and unyielding. “Tell me
what you need from me.”

She
lifted her head to look at him. “Breakfast?”

He
leaned down to kiss her.

“Don’t.”

“Why
not?”

“I
can’t deal with pity right now, Ben.”

“Good,
because I’m not offering any.”

“What
are you doing, then?”

“The
same thing I’ve always been doing. Trying to get you out of your towel.”

She
glanced away, gulped down her question. Then faced him and asked it anyway.
“You still want me?”

He
cupped her chin, ran his thumb alongside her jaw. “You amaze me. To have gone
through all that, and come out like you did? I can’t fault your brother for
murdering your stepfather. But it kills me to see you cry for him instead of
yourself.”

She
fought against his hold, tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her. “If not for
me, Rigo wouldn’t have gone after Everett,” she whispered, voicing her secret
guilt.

“No,”
he insisted, meeting her eyes. “None of it happened because of you.”

She’d
told herself the same thing a thousand times. The words didn’t erase the pain,
or the guilt, but they helped. Just having him listen helped. Knowing he still
wanted her helped.

She
studied him carefully. “Are you sure?”

“Of
course I’m sure. You think that five-minute romp satisfied me? Like you said,
you can do better by yourself.” He placed a hand over his heart. “My pride as a
man is at stake.”

“I didn’t
mean what I said. It wasn’t that bad.”

He
threw back his head and laughed. “You just laid down the gauntlet.”

“Your
ego knows no bounds,” she said in wonder.

He
bent his knees to pick her up, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. He
carried her to the bed and tossed her down on it, not trying to be gentle, not
treating her like she was damaged goods, or an object that might break.

He
stared at her for a moment, undecided, then turned to his chest of drawers and
put on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt.

“Where
are you going?”

“To
get your breakfast, princess.”

Smiling,
she stripped off her towel and dropped it over the edge of the bed, leaving it
lying on the floor. “It’s too clean around here,” she said, stretching out on
her stomach.

His
eyes darkened. “Not always.”

On the balcony, Summer polished off the
waffles and fresh fruit all on her own. She was wearing his fluffy white
bathrobe, the one he never used, and lounging in a cushioned deck chair, the
breakfast tray he’d brought her balanced on her lap.

A
smile played on his lips. She looked like a pampered hotel guest, and he was
happy to be of service. Carly and James had gone to an early matinee, so he was
quite literally at her disposal, ready to cater to her every whim.

Ben
stared out at the ocean, inordinately pleased with himself. It was another one
of those perfect winter days, vivid and bright. At high tide, the sun was hot
overhead, surf crashed against the rocks below, and sea gulls bantered noisily,
searching for tasty snacks in the crevices after each receding wave.

“Aren’t
you hungry?” she asked, looking down at her empty plate.

“Not
for food,” he returned, watching her lick a drop of syrup from her fingers.
Even with her newly black, poorly dyed hair, she was stunning, and the sun
loved her. It made her blue eyes brilliant and warmed her honeyed skin.

“You
have a one-track mind,” she commented.

He
murmured a vague agreement, his eyes traveling down her body. “Open your robe.”

“Out
here?”

He
glanced around. “No one’s watching.”

Smiling,
she set her plate aside and rose to her feet. Leaning against the balcony’s
decorative handrail, she looked out at the Pacific, the wind fluttering the
edge of her robe, teasing her short hair.

Ben
measured the rise of the handrail with his eyes. It was sturdier than an
ordinary metal handrail, with a cap wide enough to sit on, and slats below.

He
went to her. “You aren’t afraid of heights?” he asked, his mouth near her ear.

She
turned, slipping her arms around his neck and letting him boost her up on the
edge of the rail. “No.”

His
house was at the summit of the cliff, sitting taller than the rest, and the
view from this vantage point was incredible. He exhaled a deep breath,
unbelievably happy to be here with her. It was almost like…

Surfing.

He
stilled, feeling a wave of panic rush over him.

“Are
you
afraid of heights?” she teased.

“No,”
he said, but his voice sounded strange, far away. He couldn’t compare a woman
to surfing. He
loved
surfing.

Then
she pressed her lips to his, and he forgot about surfing. He forgot about
everything but her hot mouth and gorgeous body, splayed before him, ripe for
the taking.

He
kissed his way down her silken throat to the valley between her breasts, aware
of the cool breeze in his hair and the sweet salt smell of the ocean mingled
with the scent of her body. He kneeled and dipped his tongue inside her navel
while she moaned, threading her fingers through his hair.

Then
he went lower, sliding his palms up her thighs. “You’re not going to fall, are
you?”

It
was a joke, but she made the mistake of looking over her shoulder. And clutched
at his T-shirt, as if losing her balance.

He
stood, securing his hands around her waist. It took several seconds for him to
catch his breath. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Like
what?” Her voice was shaky.

“I
thought you were going to fall.” He studied the drop to the rocks below, his
gut clenching with apprehension. It was a very long way down. “This is kind of
dangerous, now that I think about it.”

“How
did your wife die?”

The
question made him feel like he was about to tumble over the edge. “I’m trying
to go down on you three stories up, and you want to talk about my wife?”

“Maybe
this is the perfect time to talk about it,” she countered.

“Oh,
yeah. Perfect.” He swallowed dryly, looking out at the dark blue Pacific. The
waves weren’t epic, but they were good enough for practicing some tricky
technical maneuvers. If only he could make with a quick cutback right now, to
get out of this situation.

“She
was murdered by a drifter,” he said evenly. “Strangled to death.”

“Oh,
Ben,” she whispered, pressing her face to his shoulder.

“I
found her,” he blurted, unable to help himself. He’d never been able to
describe the scene to another person, not even the detective who’d taken his
statement. Maybe if he could get the words out now, he could honor Olivia’s
memory without being paralyzed by guilt. “She’d been drawing water for a bath,
and it was the sound that first alerted me.”

She
tilted her head back to look at him, and he knew his face was bleak.

“I
heard the water running, so I went to look. The tub was overflowing, soaking
the carpet, and she was…there.”

Summer
covered her mouth with one hand.

“I
pulled her out,” he muttered, still hating himself. “I didn’t realize…I was so
stupid. I didn’t even see the marks on her neck.” He drew in a shuddering
breath. “Later, they said she’d been alive when he left her. She had water in
her lungs. He hadn’t finished the job.” A tide of emotion welled up, but he
shook his head, refusing to let it overwhelm him. “I don’t know how long I held
her before I started CPR. By the time the ambulance arrived, I was out of my
mind. The EMTs had to physically restrain me. I broke two of her ribs.”

“Ben,”
she said kindly, “accidental injury isn’t unusual when performing CPR.”

He
knew that, but it didn’t matter. He would never forgive himself. “If I’d been
home, I could have protected her. But I wasn’t home. I was out surfing.” His
mouth twisted bitterly. “The story of my fucking life.”

She
regarded him with sympathetic eyes, but didn’t offer any platitudes.

“If
I’d treated her right while she was alive, maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad. But I
didn’t. I was a shit husband. And a shit father. Jesus, I didn’t even marry her
until Carly was in elementary school. I was never there when she needed me.” He
knew he was getting maudlin, but he couldn’t stop. The words were like a poison
inside him, and he couldn’t keep them there any longer. “At least when I was
drunk, I had an excuse. But giving up drugs and alcohol didn’t make me a
superhero. I was still a selfish, irresponsible ass.”

He
didn’t expect her to argue with him, and she didn’t. Maybe that was part of his
attraction to her. Like Olivia, she didn’t cut him any slack.

“Why
didn’t you marry her?” she asked. “Until later, I mean.”

“I
wanted to,” he admitted. “I asked her before Carly was born, and every year
after until she said yes.”

“What
made her give in?”

“I
got sober. She wouldn’t have me until I’d been a year sober, and celibate.”

“Celibate,
too?” Her tone was light. “This woman was a paragon.”

He
gave her a wry smile. “It’s one of the recommendations of AA anyway. And I’d
already fucked everything that moved, so it wasn’t much of a sacrifice.
Besides, she was the only one I wanted.”

Easing
herself off the edge, she slipped out of his arms. “I should go.”

“Hey,”
he said softly, reaching out to grab her wrist. She turned her head, trying to
hide her tears, but he saw them. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.” Then
comprehension dawned. It wasn’t the story about how his wife died that made her
cry, it was his description of how much he’d loved Olivia. Still loved her.

What
woman wanted to hear that the man she was about to go to bed with was in love
with someone else?

“Fuck,”
he said, wanting to kick himself. “I didn’t mean to make her sound perfect. She
wasn’t. She cursed at me in Spanish all the time, and laughed because I
couldn’t understand her. She was vain about her looks and that bugged the hell
out of me.” He searched for something worse, something convincingly bad. “And
she cheated on me.”

Wiping
her cheeks with the sleeve of his robe, she said, “She didn’t.”

He
smiled, knowing he had her. “Yes she did.”

“With
who?”

He
shrugged, with some difficulty. “It didn’t really matter, because it was a
one-time deal, and it was my fault anyway. I left on a three-month tour the
week after our honeymoon. Laird Hamilton backed out at the last minute, and
when they asked me to go, I said yes without even thinking about her, much less
asking her opinion. The next day I was in Tahiti, getting pounded by
thirty-foot waves with a six-foot drop to the reef.”