Delaney's Shadow (27 page)
Authors: Ingrid Weaver
Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub
He’d barely finished forming the thought when ivory silk drifted to the ground. Mist dampened her nightgown. He drew back, wanting to admire how the fabric clung to her curves, how much she looked like her portrait, but he didn’t get the chance. She pulled his face to hers, her hands shaking.
The tension that swirled from her was due to anxiety, not eagerness. Max enclosed her hands between his. “Relax.” He flicked the tip of his tongue across her fingertips. “We’ve got as long as we want.”
“No, we need to do it now while the memories are still fresh. Help me see the rest.”
“The rest?”
“Why Stanford was in the car. Where we were going. What happened. You already helped me loosen the block tonight, and we hadn’t even kissed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You. It’s the reason I brought you back. You unlock all the thoughts that I’ve buried. It took me a while to figure it out, but I’ve realized you’re the key to my subconscious, Max. You do tell me the truth. That’s why when you help me let go, I remember it.”
“Let go of what?”
“My inhibitions, my reason. You cut straight through to my emotions.”
“That’s why you asked me to kiss you.”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s why you were so agreeable when I showed up tonight. You’re using me to remember your husband.”
The answer was in her eyes. They shone with tears and with the passion he hadn’t been able to stir himself. “I’ll use anything that works.”
He wished he could laugh. It would ease the tightness in his chest.
She didn’t care about him. She only wanted to use him. He’d been aware of that from the start, but he’d needed this reminder of just what he meant to her. The husband who had abused her trust was still her priority. Max should have remembered that pattern. Would he never learn?
He looked at the birch grove where they stood, at the gentle mist and the golden sunrise he’d dreamed up for Delaney’s benefit. This was the kind of thing the boy he used to be would have done. He’d wanted to please her, to give her tenderness. He would have been content to simply hold her.
The hell with that.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the branches above them, knocking loose a shower of moisture from the leaves. The dawn faded as clouds rolled over the sun. Lightning strobed stark white, searing away the softness. Thunder vibrated through the soles of his bare feet.
“Max, what’s happening?”
He clamped his hands at her waist, lifted her from the ground, and pressed her back to the nearest tree trunk. “I’m giving you what you asked for.”
“But—”
“You want to feel passion?”
“Yes.”
“You want to let go?”
The mist became rain. The leaves overhead dissolved from the onslaught, leaving no shelter from the storm. Water dripped from her hair and gleamed on her face and shoulders. Her nightgown clung like a second skin to her body, revealing every curve and dip. She didn’t seem to notice. She kept her gaze on him. “Yes!”
“Open your mouth. Taste the rain on your tongue.” He rubbed his mouth over hers. “Taste me.”
She turned her head to follow his movement. Her pleasure flowed across him like the rain. It wasn’t gentle or cool but warm. Demanding. Driving. Her mood had switched, adding power to the storm faster than he did.
He licked her lower lip. “That’s it. Think of what you like. Think of me inside you. Deep. Hard.”
Thunder crashed, closer than before. The wind whipped the bottom of her nightgown against his legs. He reached for the hem, gathered the wet satin in his fist, and pulled it to her waist.
He would give her what she asked for, but he’d be damned if he left any room in her head for thoughts of another man.
She whimpered as the first shudders of pleasure rippled through her mind. The colors were pure enough to burn tracks across his vision.
Max dropped to his knees and stroked the insides of her thighs until she eased them apart. She’d asked him to kiss her. He could tell by the catch in her breathing that she hadn’t expected him to kiss her in such an intimate spot. It made no difference. He could have imagined touching her anywhere. Her mouth, her breasts, the dip of her elbow, the base of her throat; anyplace that gave her pleasure could have served to focus their passion. It was just an illusion anyway.
She grasped his shoulders. A bolt of pure sensation fused his thoughts to hers so tightly that tears filled his eyes. For an instant, he felt as if they were one heartbeat, one soul, closer than real lovers could ever hope to be.
But he needed no reminder that love was the biggest illusion of all.
EIGHTEEN
THE RAIN THAT HAD BEGUN ON FRIDAY CONTINUED OFF and on throughout the first weekend of Willowbank’s annual Waterfront Festival. Although there were a good number of visitors, it wasn’t the crowd the organizers would have hoped for. Only a few dozen music fans clad in plastic rain ponchos braved the drizzle on Sunday afternoon to gather on the benches in front of the band shell. Undeterred, a group of folk musicians were taking their turn onstage, scraping out a tune on their mandolins and fiddles. The rides of the midway that had been set up near the lakeshore twinkled with more lights than customers. Most people had gravitated to the central food tent and the open-sided beer tent.
“They can plan for everything except the weather,” Helen muttered. She closed her umbrella, put the tip on the ground, and twirled it back and forth to knock off the water. “Hardly anyone’s here.”
Delaney shook out her compact umbrella and collapsed it. They had paused at the entrance to the arts and crafts tent, which had been pitched between the food tent and the band shell. The smell of mustard and hot grease wafted through the rain, blending with the pungent odor of damp canvas. She glanced back to the roped-off area of the lawn where she’d left her car. Normally there were so many visitors that the closer parking spots were packed solid by this time of the day. “True, but it was easy to find a parking space.”
Helen tsked. “We should have parked on the gravel lot and done the walk. The grass is going to be a mud bog by the time we leave.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. The rain makes my joints ache, so I’m a bit grumpy today.”
“Only a bit?”
Helen laughed and pointed her umbrella at her. “Cheeky girl. I’m off to see Ada’s quilt.”
Delaney slipped the strap of her umbrella over her wrist and trailed behind Helen. The large, wooden racks that held the quilts had been set up in rows along the back wall of the tent. Several local artisans had erected booths along the center aisle. One table held a collection of waterbirds carved from wood; another had an array of framed collages of pressed wildflowers. Quirky, feathers-and-beads jewelry was displayed next to hand-painted glazed pottery that wouldn’t have been out of place in an art gallery.
Delaney stopped to admire a table of stained glass ornaments. A miniature blue butterfly caught her eye.
The middle-aged woman behind the table smiled. “That’s one of my favorites,” she said. “Although, I shouldn’t admit that. It’s like saying I have a favorite child.”
“It’s lovely.” She leaned down to take a closer look at the ornament. “And so delicate.”
“Go ahead and pick it up.”
“Are you sure?”
She laughed. “The floor’s grass, isn’t it? You’d have to try hard to break it.”
Delaney set the butterfly on her palm. It was heavier than it appeared. Sturdier, too. For some reason that disappointed her. Had she been expecting it to be as weightless as the one she’d imagined in her fantasy last week? The one that had alighted on Max’s shoulder?
She understood the difference between fantasy and reality. She knew perfectly well that the pleasure she experienced in any of her make-believe scenarios wouldn’t be possible in the real world.
Her wet umbrella swung against her side, sending a trickle of water down her bare calf. She saw an image of birch trees. Dark clouds. Rain. Max’s wet hair plastered tight against his head as he pressed his face between her legs and—
“I did one in violet, too. Would you like to see it?”
Delaney blinked, stunned by how vivid the recollection had been. She
did
know the difference, didn’t she? She cleared her throat. “I’d like this one,” she said, handing the butterfly to the woman. “Do you have a box for it?”
did
know the difference, didn’t she? She cleared her throat. “I’d like this one,” she said, handing the butterfly to the woman. “Do you have a box for it?”
“Sorry, no, but I’ll wrap it in tissue. Is that okay?”
“The paper’s fine.” She paid for the ornament and slipped it into her purse, then went to look for Helen.
Initially, she hadn’t planned on attending the festival, but she’d jumped at the chance when her grandmother had asked her to come along today. First of all, the idea of being near the lake didn’t bother her as much as it used to. Learning the reason behind her aversion to water was helping to deflate it. And secondly, she needed to make the effort to get out more. She needed to be around people,
real
people.
real
people.
That fantasy in the storm had been incredible, but it hadn’t triggered more memories. Her thoughts had been too filled with Max. It was just as well. She should take a break from her memory hunt until she came to terms with the bombshell she’d already remembered.
Although, what remained to come to terms with? She’d been leaving Stanford. In her heart, she must have known that all along—it had likely been the source of the itch in her mind—but she’d had to work through her own mental blocks before she could face it. Her subconscious in the form of Max had guided her. He’d consistently told her the truth. Two weeks with him had accomplished more than six months with Dr. Bernhardt.
It was odd to think that Elizabeth had actually told her the truth, too. Part of it, anyway. Delaney remembered the phone call the night of the accident vividly now. Elizabeth had revealed Stanford’s affair with Jenna, and she’d been eager to bring up the topic of a possible divorce. The issue of Stanford’s will had never arisen, though. There hadn’t been time, since their conversation had lasted less than a minute.
Helen hadn’t seemed surprised in the least when Delaney had told her what had happened. That in itself spoke volumes. The age difference alone had given her grandmother concern about her marriage to Stanford, but she had kept her doubts to herself because Delaney had appeared happy. Then again, they both had a history of sweeping unpleasantness under the carpet.
Stanford’s infidelity hadn’t been the only problem with the marriage. It had been a symptom of his complete disregard for her as a person. The proof of that was he’d felt no remorse over betraying their intimacy. There must have been rumors about his wanderings. That helped explain why so few of her and Stanford’s circle had kept in touch with her after the accident. Jenna couldn’t have been the only one of Delaney’s so-called friends who had slept with her husband, which would have made it awkward to console his grieving and apparently oblivious widow.
God, she had been a fool. How relieved Jenna must have been to hear that she couldn’t remember the night of the accident.
Max never encouraged her to remember, did he? He maintained she should let the past stay buried. That was a contradiction, since being with him had the opposite effect.
Something twitched inside her mind. Warmth whispered across her hand as his presence drifted through her consciousness. He seemed so nearby, she glanced over her shoulder to see if he was there.
A group of people stood inside the entrance to the tent. They appeared to be in the midst of a spirited discussion as they peeled off rain ponchos and furled umbrellas. One waved to the woman at the table of glass ornaments as the others hurried over to the wood carvings.
Delaney gave herself a mental shake and kept walking. So far, Max came to her only when she was alone. She wasn’t going to imagine him here, of all places. That would really be nuts.
She found Helen beside a large quilt done in an interlocking log-cabin pattern. It was dominated by eye-popping shades of orange and red that were difficult to look at for more than a few seconds.
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