Night Jasmine (10 page)

And what of Hunter? she thought, balling her hands into fists. Touching her son. Playing with him. Giving him direction as if he were Oliver's rightful parent.

Oliver climbed onto Roubin's lap, and they started for the house. Aimee saw that Marie had come out to see what the commotion was. Tears of frustration and embarrassment filled Aimee's eyes, and she swung back to Hunter. “Don't you ever presume to interfere with me and my son again. You have no right.”

“Don't you think all this is a little uncalled-for? You're angry at me, don't drag Oliver into it. He wasn't doing anything but having fun.”

“And what were you doing, Hunter? Having fun?”

He clenched his jaw. “What do
you
think, Aimee? Isn't that what this is really about?”

She flushed; she felt the color and cursed it. “He could have been hurt. You were acting irresponsibly, you—”

“He's not a baby, Aimee. He's a little boy. And maybe if you'd stop treating him as if he would break, he'd stop behaving as if he's afraid he will.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Isn't that obvious, Aimee? You coddle him. You baby him. That's why he clings, why he's so shy. At the same age, Pete—”

Anger charged through her, and she took a step toward him. “Don't you compare Oliver to Pete. Not ever. They're different children. Besides, Oliver is doing great. If you'd ever really looked at him, you'd know that.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and feeling like an idiot she swung away from him. She fought for control, even as she felt it slipping.

Hunter moved up behind her and placed a hand
on her shoulder. She knew he must feel her trembling. “You're exhausted,” he murmured. “Go lay down.”

“So you can win Oliver's love?” she snapped, swinging back around. “No way.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “No. So you can rest.” He lowered his voice and reached a hand out to her. “You look wiped out.”

She slapped his hand away and had to fight to keep from slapping him again. “Thanks for the diagnosis, Doc. But I'm fine.”

“I can see that,” he said sarcastically, moving his gaze over her. “Paranoia becomes you.”

He was right, damn him. She cocked her chin up. “Oliver is mine.”

Hunter narrowed his eyes. “I told you, I have no ulterior motives.”

“Then why are you here? Why were you…playing with him?”

“He wanted to swing. It was broken. I helped him out.” Hunter expelled a frustrated, angry breath. “I have no intention of becoming Oliver's friend…or father.”

Aimee brought a shaking hand to her head. She believed him; she believed he
thought
he meant what he said. But he hadn't watched the two of them together. He hadn't seen the way Oliver had looked at him, with adoration and a big case of hero worship. Nor had Hunter seen how relaxed and happy he had looked while pushing Oliver.

Aimee rubbed her temple. And he certainly hadn't been able to crawl inside her and feel how that terrified her. How guilty and inadequate it made her feel.

“Accept my offer,” he coaxed. “And I'm gone.”

She hesitated. All she had to do was say
yes.
And he would be gone. The threat of Oliver and Hunter becoming attached to each other would disappear. If he left, things could return to normal.
She
could return to normal.

But in the long run, wasn't the chance that Oliver would be hurt much greater?

She balled her hands into fists, fighting the tears that threatened. “I wish I could,” she whispered, the sound choked with emotion and fatigue. “But I believe it's the wrong thing…to…do.”

“Aimee—”

He reached out and touched her cheek. Tenderly but with infinite strength. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the urge to lean on him. The urge to rest her forehead against his chest and sob out her frustrations and fears, her exhaustion.

But if she did, he wouldn't be there for her.

“No, Hunter.” She shook her head, her tears spilling over. “I…”

Unable to continue without totally embarrassing herself, she turned and ran for the house.

* * *

Light spilled out Hunter's open windows and into the darkness. Beckoning. Welcoming. Aimee hesitated just beyond the circle of light, a tray of food balanced in her hands. From inside, she heard strains of music, something moody and romantic, something that combined with the night sounds of the bayou to create a melancholy, heady sound.

Aimee cocked her head, listening, trying to make out the music's source. It came from neither the radio nor a tape; the sound reminded her of the jewelry box she'd had as a teenager. When she'd opened it, a tiny ballerina had pirouetted to a tune much like this one.

Aimee shook her head and stepped out of the darkness and into the light. She wasn't here to speculate on his choice of music or to wonder what he was doing, if he were thinking of her.

Or to wish for things that would never again be.

Aimee muttered an oath, annoyed with herself and the direction of her thoughts. She'd come to apologize for her earlier behavior and her wild accusations. And to bring him dinner. He hadn't shown up for the meal; she knew he'd stayed away to give her time to cool down.

She crossed quickly to his door and knocked. Get this over with, she told herself. Deliver the food and the apology, then leave. No fuss, no muss. No embarrassing scenes or almost embraces.

Hunter opened the door and Aimee's resolve of a moment before evaporated like a breath of cool air in July. Hunter stood before her, his gloriously male body unclothed save for a pair of running shorts.

Her pulse scrambled, and even as Aimee told herself to keep her eyes on his face, she lowered them. She hadn't forgotten how beautiful he was, nor had time embellished her memories of him. He was subtly muscled and strong; he had the body of a man who had been active all his life. His skin was tan and firm and would be warm against her hands, becoming hot when sexually aroused. His broad shoulders and chest tapered down to narrow hips and a flat, hard stomach. A dusting of golden hair covered his chest, forming a vee that disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung shorts.

Aimee followed the line of the vee with her eyes, stopping when she realized just what she was looking at. She jerked her gaze up to his, her cheeks hot with color.

Although he said nothing, a smile tugged at his mouth. He knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was feeling. The heat in her cheeks became fire. She cursed both the color and her response to him.

She took a deep breath. “May I come in?”

For a split second she sensed hesitation in him, then he swung the door wider. “Sure.”

Aimee moved past him and into his room. She'd seen this room hundreds of times before, but tonight it looked different to her. It
felt
different. As if his presence had changed it, charged the atmosphere with his own personal energy.

That energy crackled along her nerve endings, heightening each of her senses. She could smell the subtle male scent of him, that of his spicy soap in the bathroom, the yeasty scent of beer. She could feel the warmth of his body and the gentle breeze kicked up by the fan above, could hear her own thundering heart, his even breathing.

Dear Lord, she was losing it. She told herself the room was no different than it had been last week, that she was still exhausted, that she was coming down with something.

She didn't believe her own reassurances. Everything was changed. She was changed.

Aimee turned her gaze to him. She tried to smile and failed miserably. “I brought you…dinner,” she said. “Marie's
étouffée
is the best in the parish—it would be a shame to miss it. Besides, I don't think she'd ever forgive me if you did.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth and he took the tray. “She takes good cooking seriously.”

“It wasn't just that.” Aimee met his eyes, then looked uncomfortably away. “She thinks you're the best thing since cayenne pepper. She spent the entire meal talking about your visit.”

“Sorry I missed that,” he said solemnly. “Obviously, she doesn't know me the way you do.” Turning, Hunter placed the tray on the bed, then faced her once more. “You didn't have to do this, Aimee.”

“Yes…I did.” She slipped her hands into the front pockets of her shorts. “But your missed dinner isn't the only reason I'm here. I wanted to…apologize for earlier. I was out of line.”

“Forget it.”

“I can't. I need to…get this off my chest.” She cleared her throat. “You were right, I was exhausted. Today was a nightmare and when I came home and found you and Oliver having such a…good time together, my imagination took wing and I just lost it. I'm sorry.”

Hunter reached out and touched her cheek, just once and lightly, then dropped his hand. “You're human.”

The urge to cry hit her so hard it took away her breath. For the second time in a matter of hours she wanted to lean in to him, wanted him to hold her and stroke her; she wanted him to absorb her tears and give her his strength.

Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and held tightly to her control. “And I wanted to thank you for fixing Oliver's swing. I kept promising him and putting it off. I feel bad about that.”

“You can't do everything.”

“No? Sometimes it seems like there's no one el…” Her voice cracked and she choked the words back, forcing a weak smile. “Never mind. I guess I'll be going so you can eat before it gets cold.”

“Don't go,” Hunter said, catching her arm. She stopped and met his eyes. “I want to show you something.”

He released her arm and crossed the room to retrieve the music box. As he picked it up, he glanced back at her. Standing in the soft light of his lamp, she looked younger than she was and heartbreakingly lonely. How had he ever let her go?

Hunter shook his head at the thought. It had been for the best. It still was. Most times, the reasoning of the mind hadn't a thing to do with the gut. And even less control over it.

Hunter carried the box to her and held it out. She looked at it, then up at him, surprised. “It's beautiful.”

Hunter gazed at her, taking in the features that were unconventionally beautiful—the almost exotically almond-shaped eyes, the nose that turned up on the end, the too-full mouth that had fascinated him endlessly.

The beauty of the music box, of its belle inside, couldn't hold a candle to Aimee's. “Yes,” he murmured. “Beautiful.”

Her cheeks grew pink. “It doesn't look like something…you would own.”

“I know.” He smiled, still amazed by his own behavior. “That's exactly what I was thinking as I shelled out an exorbitant amount of money for it.”

Aimee reached out and touched the glass lightly. “Just before I knocked, I heard music. This was it?”

“Yes.” He wound the key and the melody surrounded them.

Aimee was quiet for a moment. “Why are you showing me this?”

He didn't know, that was the damnable part. Just
as he hadn't been certain why he'd bought it in the first place. It had just felt like the right thing to do. He wasn't accustomed to acting on impulse or feelings. He found the fact that he had unnerving.

“Because,” he answered finally, “it's one of the things that brought me here.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “Then I suppose I should despise it.”

“But you can't.”

“It's too beautiful.” She took the box from his hands and crossed to the light to look at it more closely.

Hunter followed, stopping directly behind her. If she leaned back just a fraction, she would rest against his naked chest. Even though she held herself ramrod straight, he could imagine the weight of her against him, imagine the feel of her fragrant hair against his fingers.

He reached around her to touch the box. As he did, his arm brushed against her cheek. “I felt compelled to buy it,” he murmured. “Just as I felt compelled to come here to see you.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, searching his gaze with her own, her eyes full of questions. She left them unasked and turned back to the music box.

“Look,” he said, touching the dome's glass. “Night jasmine. In the belle's hands. The shopkeeper pointed it out. I remembered you telling me about it.”

“Yes,” she whispered, looking back at him once more. “I remember, too. It's potent tonight.”

“Yes.”

Their gazes met and held. The room grew suddenly too warm, too still. The smell of the jasmine surrounded them, almost overpowering in its sweetness. Her lips trembled and she lowered her eyes to his mouth. Hunter leaned toward her.

Aimee took a step back. “I have to go.” She set the music box on the bed and started for the door.

He caught her hand. “Stay.”

She shook her head. “I can't. I—”

“Please.” He laced their fingers. “I've always hated eating alone. Yet I almost always do.”

He had her with that. He saw the empathy, the understanding soften her eyes. Still, she hesitated a moment more. “Oliver—”

“Is no doubt asleep. And Roubin is the last person you want to be with right now.”

“Unfair,” she whispered. “You know me too well.”

Hunter smiled. “Yeah, but you have the same advantage.”

She smiled then, a gentle curving of her lips that he felt like a punch to his gut. Hunter retrieved the tray and carried it out to the porch. They sat side-by-side on the steps. The air was warm, heavy with both moisture and the scent of the jasmine. In the distance they heard the hoot of an owl, the cry of an egret; closer to them, the song of the crickets and the sound of their own breathing.

Hunter uncovered his food, he smelled the sting of the spice a moment before he tasted it. “This is delicious.”

“It's probably cold.”