Night Jasmine (7 page)

Tears filled her eyes, and she crossed to him. Bending down, she pressed her cheek to his. “You're not useless, Papa. You're still the head of this family. We depend on you.”

He snorted with disgust. “How can a man be the head of his family when he is unable even to make a decision about his own body? I'm not sick, yet you insist on taking me to see the
traâitre.
” He shook his head. “
Non,
my life, she is over.”

The newspaper crackled, and Aimee slid another glance at Hunter, this one withering. If he possessed an ounce of compassion or sensitivity, he would excuse himself. Annoyed, she stood and positioned herself behind her father's chair. Well, if he wouldn't leave, she would.

“It's time to open up, Papa. I'll wheel you over.”

But she thought, narrowing her eyes, she wasn't about to let Hunter get off so easily. They
would
discuss this later.

“Oliver,” she called, “I'm wheeling your
Pépàre
to the store. I'll be right back.”

Fifteen minutes later Aimee stalked back into the kitchen. Hunter still sat at the table, reading the paper. She quickly checked on Oliver, then returned to face Hunter.

She stopped in front of him, drawing in an angry breath when he didn't acknowledge her in any way. “How dare you eavesdrop on my conversation with my father?”

Hunter looked up at her. He lifted his eyebrows coolly. “If you were worried about my overhearing your conversation, perhaps you should have had it elsewhere. I was just sitting here minding my own business.”

“I doubt that.” She rested her fists on her hips. “Besides, if you had any manners, or sensitivity for that matter, you would have excused yourself. After all, my father is bound to a wheelchair. He can't just pop up and walk out like you can.”

“That's what he'd like you to believe.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me? Are you saying my father can walk?”

“Of course not.” Hunter folded the paper, then tossed it on the table. “I'm talking about his pitiful woe-is-me act.”

Heat flew to her cheeks. “Great bedside manner, Doc. Really sensitive.” Furious, Aimee swung away from him. She crossed to the sink and began to fill it.

“And he has you falling for it hook, line and sinker.” Hunter stood and crossed to her. “Your father is manipulating you, Aimee.”

She met his gaze. “That's not true.”

“He's using your feelings for him to get his way. Your guilt. Your frustration and love.”

“And that's absolutely untrue.” She shut off the water and with jerky movements began to wash the dishes. “I resent you saying it.”

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

He lifted one corner of his mouth in a lopsided smile. “You didn't give in to him?”

“Give in to him?” She lifted her chin. “I don't know what
you're talking about.”

He leaned toward her, trapping her gaze. “Did you cancel his doctor appointment, Aimee? That's what he wanted. It's what that whole conversation was about.”

A glass slipped from her hands and into the soapy water. She heard it crack on the bottom of the sink. “I thought you were minding your own business?”

“You gave in then, didn't you?”

The heat in her cheeks became fire, and she swore silently. She didn't have to explain anything to Hunter Powell. He was neither a friend nor a family member, nor was he her father's doctor. It infuriated her that she felt the need to anyway.

She shot him a withering glance, then turned back to her dishes. “I agreed to cancel the appointment. But not because he manipulated me into it. He's in pain. He feels his life, his entire reason for living, has been taken away from him. And he was right, it is
his
body.”

At the look in Hunter's eyes, guilt curled through her. She told herself she had nothing to feel guilty over, that she'd done the right thing. She buried her hands in the soapy water. “What's wrong with letting him have some dignity? How you can stand there and judge us when you're not in our—”

Aimee cried out and pulled her hands from the water. A long gash marred the side of her right hand and blood ran down her arm and into the pillows of white suds. She stared blankly at the growing circle of red.

“God, Aimee.” Hunter grabbed the dish towel she had taken from a drawer only moments ago. He pressed it firmly against the cut. “Sit down.” When she didn't move he led her to a chair, still holding the towel in place. “You're white as a sheet. Put your head between your knees.”

“I'm fine. Really, I'm not going to fain…” She moaned as her senses began to swim. Feeling like a total idiot, she lowered her head to her knees and began sucking in deep, steadying breaths.

As her head cleared she became aware of Hunter—the warmth of his body pressed close to hers, the low, comforting sound of his voice against her ear, the feel of his hand in her hair, softly stroking. He meant to comfort and calm. Not to arouse, not to seduce.

Even as she told herself that, tongues of fire began to lick at her. She groaned and called herself a fool.

“Aimee? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she whispered, lifting her head.

“You've got some color back,” he murmured thickly, not taking his hand from her hair.

She couldn't quite meet his eyes. “It's total embarrassment. I feel like a big baby.”

“Don't.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “You had a shock.”

She told herself to inch away from his touch, to ask him to stop, to tell him she could take care of herself. She didn't move a muscle. “It's just a little cut.”

“That remains to be seen.” He searched her gaze. “Feel steady enough for me to take a look?”

Steady? With him so close? What a laugh.
She nodded. “Go for it.”

Hunter let up on the towel, easing it carefully from the cut. She turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut, her head beginning to swim again. “How bad?”

“Hmm.”

He poked gently at it and she winced. “What does `hmm' mean?”

“That it could be a lot worse.”

She swallowed hard. “Do I need…stitches?”

He laughed and touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. “Nope. I think once we get it cleaned up and bandaged you'll be okay. Which way to the first-aid kit?”

Aimee led him to the bathroom, then sat on the commode while he got out the antiseptic and bandages. He squatted down in front of her, then met her eyes. “This is going to sting.”

She sucked in a sharp breath as he applied the antiseptic. “I can't believe I forgot about that glass,” she said, uncomfortably looking away. “Dumb.”

“It happens.”

He finished cleaning the wound, then bandaged it. Aimee watched him work, gazing down at the top of his golden head, studying his hands as they moved on her skin. He had the best hands—long and strong, with blunt-tipped fingers. She'd always thought them sexy. A doctor's hands. Or an artist's.

Or a lover's.

Memories of other times those hands had been on her body filled her head. Times they had pleasured, times they had stolen both her breath and her sanity. Heat began to lick at her again, heat that had nothing to do with her cut and everything to do with Hunter.

She sucked in a sharp breath and he glanced up. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, her mouth dry. “Fine.”

He returned his gaze to his work. “You always did have an aversion to the sight of blood. Remember the time you stepped on that piece of glass in the park?”

“You had to carry me back to the car,” she managed, her voice thick.

“Mmm.” He rubbed his fingers softly, rhythmically across the bandage. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Some hero. It practically killed me.”

“It was almost a mile.”

“Almost two.” He looked up again. Their eyes met. And held. “Do you remember how you thanked me?”

Her heart stopped, then started again with a vengeance. The breath shuddered past her lips. “Yes,” she whispered, lowering her head. “I remember.”

He tangled his fingers in her hair and tugged gently. Her head lowered more; her eyelids fluttered shut. She parted her lips.

“Maman! Where are you?”

Aimee jerked her head up, stunned. Dear Lord, what had she been thinking of? She'd been about to kiss him. If Oliver hadn't interrupted, she would have.

Fighting for breath, she sneaked a glance at Hunter. She saw her own feelings mirrored in his eyes—relief, disappointment. Unrelieved desire.

She folded her shaking hands in her lap. “I'm here, baby. In the bathroom.”

Oliver raced into the room, stopping abruptly in front of them. He looked from one to the other, then he saw her bandage. His baby face filled with concern. “Owie?”

“Yes.” She smiled tremulously. “Bad owie.”

“Kiss make better?” he asked.

Aimee found Hunter's gaze, arousal tightening in her gut.
Kiss make better.
She'd wanted his mouth on hers so badly it hurt. It still did.

Aimee looked away, her cheeks hot. Why was she so weak when it came to this man?

“Maman?”

Aimee looked at her son once more and nodded. Oliver bent and kissed the bandage, then solemnly met her eyes. “All better.”

“All better,” she repeated, lifting her gaze to Hunter's. But he'd already retreated from her. In his expression she saw nothing of the moment they had just shared, nothing of the longing, the memories.

Hurt, she straightened her shoulders and eased her hand from his grasp. Again, she said a silent thanks that Oliver had shown up when he had.

“That ought to do it,” Hunter said stiffly and stood. “I suggest a couple of aspirin and a nap. If you have any problems, give me a…I'll be around.”

And then he turned and walked away. Aimee watched him go, the strangest sensation in the pit of her stomach—a combination of sadness, relief and hurt. Telling herself it was for the best, she turned her attention back to her son.

Chapter Four

A
s the days passed, Hunter couldn't forget those electric moments between him and Aimee. They'd shaken him, shaken his faith in his ability to remain emotionally distant from her. Shaken his belief in his ability to simply do the right thing by her and Oliver and move on.

Hunter leaned his head against the rocking chair's high back and gazed up at the crazily spinning ceiling fan. He'd almost kissed her. She'd almost let him. They'd both known better; neither wanted an involvement with the other.

He shifted his gaze. A handful of tourists, eager for mementos of their visit to the Louisiana bayou, had been milling around the store for twenty minutes now, Aimee helping them. Hunter smiled as he heard her speak—she laid the patois on pretty thick for the tourists. Not to try to sell more of the crafts and trinkets Roubin hated so much, but because the customers enjoyed it.

Aimee liked people; she always had. And people had always responded to her. Watching her now with the tourists, she reminded him more of the woman he had known three and a half years ago. The woman who had wowed and charmed everyone she met. Including him.

As she directed a customer to another part of the store, Aimee caught him watching her. Their eyes met, then she turned quickly away. Hunter wasn't surprised. Ever since their near kiss, Aimee had given him a wide berth, keeping a room's distance between them—at least—all the time. She'd not spoken directly to him, nor had she met his eyes. But he'd felt her gaze upon him when she thought his attention was elsewhere. He'd felt her tension, her turbulent emotions. Her annoyance at his constant presence.

Oliver seemed to have taken his cue from Aimee. He kept his distance; he, too, studied Hunter when he thought Hunter was unaware. He'd sensed Oliver didn't quite trust him, whether because the boy had picked up on his mother's feelings or Hunter's own mixed emotions Hunter wasn't certain.

But whichever, Oliver's wariness suited Hunter perfectly. The last thing he wanted was Oliver's interest or attention. He hadn't taken up residence in La Fin to be drawn into Oliver's life, only to fulfill his fiscal responsibility to him.

Besides, Hunter was accustomed to hanging back, to separating himself and observing. He preferred it that way.

Hunter frowned down at the technothriller he held in his hands, at the paragraph he'd reread three times in the same number of minutes. The truth was, he was already too involved. He found himself thinking about Roubin, Aimee and their relationship, found himself thinking about Roubin's illness. He'd even toyed with the idea of contacting Roubin's doctor himself, before reminding himself to butt out.

His frown deepened. Just being around Aimee had been difficult. Since the incident with the broken glass, damn near impossible, really. He looked at her and remembered touching her, making love to her. He remembered what it had been like to bask in her smile, her warmth. He found himself wanting to reach out a hand to stroke, found himself feeling possessive of her, as if it were his right.

It wasn't his right, he reminded himself. He had nothing to offer her; he had hurt her. He would hurt her again if he gave in to his need to touch her.

During the day, those reminders had kept things in perspective. Nothing helped vision like the harsh light of day. But at night, alone in the heat, the only breeze the one stirred by the ceiling fan above his bed, reminders weren't worth dip. Impulse came with the dark; passion overrode sense during those still, sultry hours.

So, night after night he lay alone in his bed, remembering, longing for her, battling the ache in his loins and the urge to cross the lawn and make her his once again.

Giving up all pretense of reading, Hunter made a sound of disgust and shut the book. Even more potent, he admitted, more painful, were the memories conjured by being around Oliver.