Night Jasmine (2 page)

She'd thought she would never see him again.

She drew in another deep breath. She'd always thought his looks part California surf bum, part serious intellectual. He had the slim, muscular body of the beach enthusiast, the perpetual golden tan, the California blond hair. She had loved running her fingers through his hair, thick and straight and like silken gold against her fingers.

His face and eyes spoke of a different kind of man. One who could be moody. One who contemplated. So many times she had found his ocean blue eyes upon her, intently studying, telling her nothing, but seeming to absorb everything. He'd always held himself slightly apart from the world, from her.

Instead of being put off by his reserve, his quiet intensity, she'd been drawn by it. And to the well of pain that reserve hid so well.

She'd been young, impossibly starry-eyed. She'd believed she could bring him out, change him, his life. But then she'd still believed that life was her own personal oyster, and that she could, by force of will alone, make all her dreams come true.

She'd been such a fool.

Aimee lifted her chin. That hadn't even been four years ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime. If he expected to find the open and willing girl whose heart he had so easily caught and crushed, he was in for a surprise.

Hunter turned to her then, slowly, cautiously, as if concerned over her father's next move. His gaze met hers and in that moment it seemed as if time stood still, as if the world retreated, leaving only the connection of their gazes. Vaguely, she heard her father mutter an oath, heard the quiet creak of his chair being galvanized into motion, saw him wheel to the storeroom.

Hunter hadn't changed in the three and a half years that had passed. Strange. When she looked into her own mirror, she saw so much change in herself. What would he see when he looked at her?

Hunter searched her expression. She wouldn't have expected anything less. “Hello, Aimee.”

“Hunter.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Maman?” Oliver peeked around the corner. “Can I come now?”

Aimee turned to her son. She forced a calm smile. “It's fine, baby. Come on.” She held out her arm and he scurried over to her and wrapped himself around her legs. She put a hand on his head, gently stroking, and returned her attention to Hunter. She arched her eyebrows. “What can I do for you?”

“No hello for an old friend?”

Old friend? Aimee thought, her heart turning over. She'd once loved him so desperately, she'd thought she would die without him. But then, he'd never felt the same about her. “No,” she said simply. “Not now. Not after all this time.”

“I'm sorry. I know I hurt you.”

She stiffened. He'd always cut straight to the chase. There had been times she'd hated that about him. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

She lifted her eyebrows in disbelief and Hunter cocked his head, his gaze moving from her to Oliver and back. “Handsome boy.”

“Thank you.” Aimee drew Oliver even closer to her. What, she wondered, did Hunter see when he looked at her son? Did he see anything of himself in the sturdy toddler? Certainly not in the eyes and hair, both the deep, rich brown of chocolate; not in the skin, darkened to bronze by the Louisiana sun. But, as she did, could Hunter see the resemblance of father and son in Oliver's face? In the big eyes that thoughtfully studied? In the small cleft that cut his chin? In the high, broad forehead?

Hunter studied Oliver. “How old is he?”

Aimee stiffened, tightening her hold on her son. The question made her feel threatened. Unreasonably, she told herself. Hunter had no interest in being a father.

Ignoring his question, she asked one of her own. “Why are you here, Hunter?”

He paused, and for the first time Aimee glimpsed his hesitation, his discomfort. That this meeting wasn't easy for him either tugged at her. She wished it didn't; when it had come to Hunter, she'd always been too empathic.

“This past week I attended a medical convention in New Orleans and I…thought of you. I wanted to see you.” He looked away, then back. “I wanted to make sure you were…okay.”

He'd thought of her? After three years, he wanted to make sure she was okay?
The softening she'd felt toward him a moment before disappeared. “Well,” she said coolly, “as you can see, I am. If there's nothing else, Oliver and I will get back to our picnic.”

“
Are
you all right, Aimee?” He took a step toward her. “Are you really?”

His voice was low, intimate. Full of the kind of concern reserved for only those who had shared the most personal, private kind of relationship. It moved over her, pulling at her in ways she couldn't have imagined after all this time. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Why do you ask? Do I look sick, doctor?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You look good. Beautiful, in fact. But you've…changed.”

She stiffened. “It's been a long time.”

“Yes, it has. Three and a half years.”

Aimee curved her fingers possessively around Oliver's shoulder. “Well, you've seen me. You can go now.”

Except for a flicker of emotion in his eyes, he appeared unaffected by her blunt words. “I don't blame you for being angry.”

She understood suddenly. He'd come out of guilt.

Damn him, she thought angrily. She didn't want his guilt. She didn't want his regrets. She had enough of her own.

“You're a little late for that,” she murmured. “I'm not angry. Not any more. So if you're after redemption, you're going to have to look elsewhere.”

Her father wheeled back into the room, his shotgun across his lap. “Move aside, Aimee,” he ordered. “Take my
petit-fils
back to his lunch.”

“Papa?” She shook her head disbelievingly. “What are you doing?”

“This, it is between us men.” He curled his big hands around the gun. “Go. Now.”

She held up her own hands, trying to calm him. “Put the gun away. There's no need to—”

“Enough!” her father said, lifting the weapon and aiming it at Hunter's chest. “What do you plan to do by my Aimee?” he demanded, cocking the gun.

Aimee took another step toward her father. “This is ridiculous, Papa. Put the gun away.” When he still didn't move, Aimee glared at him. “You don't understand.”

He spared her a glance. “I may be old,
chère,
but some things, they are the same since forever.” He narrowed his eyes once again on Hunter. “So, how do you plan to make it right by my Aimee and her
fils?
Or are you no better than the snakes that slither through the bayou?”

For a moment, the silence was deafening. Then Hunter looked from Aimee to Oliver, then back again. She could almost see the wheels turning in
his head, putting two and two together. Stunned disbelief crossed his face. “Aimee?”

She cleared her throat. “Hunter, I—”

Disbelief became a dawning fury. “How old
is
he, Aimee? You never said.”

Heart hammering, Aimee faced her father. His expression mirrored Hunter's. She cleared her throat again. “Papa, I can handle this. Please take Oliver outside.”

Hunter caught her arm, his fingers circling her like bands of steel. As he did, her father lifted the shotgun again, and Hunter released her. “How could you…not have told me?”

Beginning to shake, she swung back to Hunter. She'd worried about this moment; she'd dreamed of it. She had never truly believed it would come. Now it was here, and she hadn't the faintest idea what to say.

“Oliver,” she commanded, “take your
Pépàre
out to our picnic. Hurry, before the squirrels get our lunch.”

He clung to her legs, obviously frightened. “You come, too.”

Aimee's heart twisted. He'd picked up on her emotions, her alarm. How could he have not? She should have sent him from the room long ago. Guilt twisted through her. What else had he picked up in the last minutes?

Forcing a reassuring smile, she ruffled his hair. “I'll be out in a moment. Go on, baby. Everything's fine.”

Giving her a hesitant glance, Oliver crossed to his grandfather. After leveling her an angry glance, Aimee's father let Oliver lead him out.

Watching them go, Aimee sighed. After Hunter, she would have to face her son's confusion and her father's anger—and disappointment.

As the screen door slammed shut, Aimee turned back to Hunter. His expression had lost all surprise and disbelief. All that remained was the anger. His eyes were dark with the emotion, his jaw tight with it.

“The boy is mine?” he asked, his voice tight.

“The
boy
has a name,” she snapped, furious herself. At Hunter for having put her in this position in the first place, at his being here now. “Oliver.”

“Is…he…mine?”

Aimee folded her arms across her chest. “Yes.”

Swearing, Hunter swung away from her. For long moments, he stared at the doorway and the light that funnelled through the screen. She stared at his stiff back, the rigid line of his shoulders, the silence tautening between them as the seconds ticked past.

Finally, he swung back around, pinning her with his furious gaze. “How dare you, Aimee?”

“How dare I what?” she asked, jerking her chin up. “Get pregnant? It happens all the time, Hunter. Didn't you know?” She laughed without humor, her chest heavy and aching. “Especially to silly girls who have stars in their eyes.”

“Give me a break!” He took a step closer to her, the movement almost menacing. “You were hardly a teenager. You weren't even a virgin.”

She'd never seen him really angry; in all the time they'd spent together he'd never become more than annoyed. The emotion that emanated from him now was awesome, daunting. Drawing a deep breath, she held her ground even as instinct urged her to run. “Would it have changed anything if I had been?”

“Stop it. You were always so good at manipulating reality. Twisting it to fit your own perspective, your own needs.” He curled his fingers into fists. “We're talking about why you kept your pregnancy a secret from me, about why you felt that was your right. Don't try to change this discussion into anything else.”

“Fine.” She met his gaze directly. “You made it clear you didn't want me. That you
never
wanted another child. What would have been the point of telling you I was pregnant?” She narrowed her eyes on him. “Or were you lying?”

“You know I wasn't.”

His baldly spoken words weren't a surprise. They cut like a knife anyway. “I repeat, what would have been the point? I wasn't interested in trying to `trap' you into a loveless marriage. I wasn't interested in hurting you or making you feel guilty.”

Hunter made a sound of frustration. And fury. “Because it was my right to know.”

“I didn't see it that way. I still don't.”

“It took two, Aimee. Half of that child is me.”

She took a step back, alarmed by his tone, the expression in his eyes. He couldn't want rights to Oliver. He couldn't, not this man who had professed never to want another child.

Aimee curled her fingers into fists. “Oliver is mine,” she said softly but clearly. “It's always been just him and me. He's secure and happy. He would be confused if suddenly…” She took a deep, calming breath unable to even finish the thought. “If circumstances had been different, I would have told you. If I'd thought you had
any
interest in being a father again. But I'd rather Oliver think he had no father, than one who didn't want him. I thought it would be better if you were unknown to him. I still do.”

Hunter opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it again. Pain, mixed with relief, spiraled through her. Relief that she could finally let go of the fear that someday Hunter would show up and demand rights to Oliver. Pain that he could have seen their son and not ache with love for him.

Aimee brought a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed wearily. “We're not doing each other any good here. We never did each other any good.”

“Aimee, that's not true. I don't want you to—”

She shook her head, cutting off his words. “I'd like you to leave now. Whatever we had ended a long time ago.” She started to walk away. “Have a nice life, Hunter Powell.”

“Did I do this to you?” he asked softly, stopping her.

She looked back at him, meeting his eyes. In them was an expression she'd never seen before. “Do what?”

“Change you? Did I hurt you so badly?”

A dozen different emotions barreled through her. Hurt. Anger. Grief. The urge to cry. Before today, she'd thought she was over feeling anything for Hunter Powell, even anger. She flexed her fingers. Damn him for coming back, for stirring up memories best forgotten, for rekindling past pain.

“Did I, Aimee?” he asked again.

Yes, she wanted to shout. You hurt me so badly I thought I would never be whole again. Instead, she shook her head and met his eyes evenly. “You give yourself way too much credit, Hunter.
Au revoir.
”

She turned and walked away, not wanting to afford him the opportunity to answer, knowing that another moment would bring tears. He called her name again, softly, and she held her breath, wondering if he would come after her, torn between hoping he would and praying he wouldn't.

He didn't.

A cry caught in her throat as she heard the shop's screen door slam. A moment later she heard an engine roar to life, followed by the sound of tires on the shell drive.

She swallowed. No surprises—Hunter never had come after her. This was for the best; it was what she wanted.

Aimee drooped against the doorjamb, needing its support. She sucked in a shuddering breath, willing her legs and arms to stop shaking. Willing her heart to slow and her tears to dry.