Surrender (27 page)

“He’s alive.”

I suck in a breath. “Thank God. Can you ever forgive me?” I brush his face with my fingertips. He pulls away. I slouch, suddenly emotionally drained. Beaten to a bloody pulp. I wipe tears from my eyes with both hands. “Please . . .” He doesn’t answer. Garrick has
never
shrunk away from my touch. Never. “I’m sorry, Garrick.” I stumble out of bed and run to the bathroom to get some toilet paper. I don’t turn on the light. I blow my nose. I’m horrible, the harlot my father lately accuses me of being. I throw the tissue in the trash can and feel my way back to the bed. My eyes are swollen and sore. I sit on the edge of the mattress. My life with Garrick is over.

“If I could go back in time and change the course of last night, I would.” I cough. “My intentions were honorable. Can’t you understand that?”

Silence.

My head feels fuzzy, and my body is numb all over. I can’t stop crying, and I can’t stifle my pathetic moans. Anguish, the deepest I’ve ever felt, descends on me. “I know we’re finished. I don’t blame you. How can a man like you love a stripper like me?” It sounds so cliché, but it’s the truth. I swallow a frustrated scream. “My parents are right. I’ll never amount to anything.” I stand. I’m dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Enough clothing to drive home in. I don’t want anything from this house. No reminders of the life I could have had—the life I’ve always wanted.

I drag myself to the bedroom door and open it halfway. My backpack is on his dresser. I swipe at it. It falls on the floor.
Damn it.
I bend over and pick it up. Standing, my gaze sweeps the floor for my sandals. I can’t find them. Fine; I’ll go barefoot. I stop. The necklace. I don’t want to take it off. I don’t want to give it back. But I have to. I reach behind my neck with both hands and disconnect the tiny clasp.

I turn toward the bureau. “I’ll leave the pendant on the dresser.”

There’s one last thing I want before I leave this bedroom, this house. I want to look him in the eyes. I want to remember his face. His smile. The shape of his perfect lips. I lift my gaze, ashamed to face him. He’s still sitting on the bed—seemingly immovable. Immune to me. Free of me. Finally. “Can you ever forgive me?” I ask a last time.

His molten gaze penetrates me. My whole body shudders. I hate this silence. It’s torturous. I want him to scream. Any response would feed my hunger right now. Hate is better than nothing. It means there’s still something alive in him for me. A spark is a spark no matter where it comes from. “Can you?”

“Can you ever love me, Robyn?”

He spoke. I didn’t hear the words, though—only the sound of his voice. The power it wields over me is mind-boggling. “Can you?” he asks.

“Can I what?”

He sighs. He’s not going to repeat it. Not now, not ever. I draw in a deep breath. Tears fill my eyes again. I turn away, too guilty and embarrassed to face him any longer. I’m through the door. The house is eerily quiet. The hallway light provides a pathway for my escape. Back to my little protected world. Away from anything Garrick. Away from happiness and hope. Away from passion and love.
Love.
I pause on the second stair. I’ve never told him. “Garrick,” I whisper.
“I love you.”
I know it’s too little, too late.

Before I reach the landing, Garrick’s arms encircle me from behind. I nearly collapse, but he’s holding me tight. “Say it again,” he demands hoarsely. “Say it,
now.
”

“I love you.” There’s no volume to my voice. I’ve sobbed it away.

We’re up the stairs and back in his room. I’m staring at the floor, facing away from him. I’m breathing like I just ran a marathon. He presses against me. My eyes shut. I hold my breath. His skin is so hot—his cock so hard. If someone touched me I’d shatter into a thousand pieces. His strong hands grip my shoulders.

“Turn around, Robyn.”

I do. I stare up at him. “Can you ever forgive me?” I’m sure he’s tired of me asking, but I desperately need him to say yes.

“I already have.”

My knees buckle.

“Can you ever love me?” he asks.

“I’ve loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you.” The exact moment, when I was on my knees next to his truck on the beach and I looked up. I knew then what I know now. My old life was over. I simply refused to let it go until this moment.
The truth shall set you free.

“My God . . .” he whispers. Then he rips my backpack off and flings it across the room. His gaze devours me. And I’m unprepared for the intensity of his soul-stealing kisses. As only Garrick can, he’s stripped me naked, and I’m underneath him on the bed before I can finish a complete thought.

“I’m going to make mad, passionate love to you, little bird. Every night for the rest of your life. Do you hear me now?”

Loud and clear.

He tips my chin up. I nod—violently. “I love you.” I wrap my arms about his neck, silently willing him inside me. I want to feel every glorious inch of him. “Now.” I hug his waist with my legs.

He moans into my hair. I pump my hips and he thrusts inside me. It’s the most incredible feeling—first entry by the man I love. His lips ravage my mouth with slow, scorching kisses, and he gives methodical thrusts from his hips to match. I’ve learned a valuable lesson tonight: love shouldn’t go unspoken.

Time stands still with Garrick. If it weren’t for calendars and clocks, I’d be lost. I’m alone in his bed. It’s late afternoon and the room is unusually cold. I still can’t believe everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours. There’s a comfortable hush over the house, or maybe I’m just unaccustomed to the new sense of peace inside me. I slip out of bed. There’s an envelope propped against his dresser mirror. I turn on the light so I can see. The envelope isn’t sealed. The faint scent of Garrick’s cologne teases my senses. I’m already saturated with his essence after our lovemaking last night. I smile.

The simple elegance of the lace-edged card touches my heart. He knows my taste so well. The message is handwritten. My company is requested on the veranda at four. The formality is exhilarating. Of course there’s a P.S.:
Special attire has been provided, look in the bathroom.
I get goose bumps. I lay the card aside. Garrick’s parents’ house is a plantation replica—complete with a grand veranda overlooking the large backyard. I rush into the bathroom. There’s a one-shouldered deep burgundy cocktail sheath hanging by the shower. It’s beautiful. Sitting on the floor, underneath, is a pair of black lace stiletto boots. I’m speechless.

Garrick
really
doesn’t do anything half-ass.

I bathe quickly. I’m nervous as I turn off the shower and towel dry. I don’t hear anything going on downstairs. Where is he? Did my simple declaration of love really make all the difference in the world to him? Will it set this relationship on a new path? Bring us the stability we need? Everything has been so crazy and volatile. Weeks of struggle. Some of it necessary. I comb my hair first, then apply a little bit of mousse. I braid the sides of my hair, letting the bulk of it hang loosely down my back. I find my backpack on the far side of the bed and dig my makeup kit out.

I’ll go dramatic tonight. Black cat eyes and shimmery lip gloss. I dab perfume between my breasts and behind my ears. I love the smell of Black Orchid. Next, I put on a pair of black lace panties Garrick bought me. I eye the dress before I take it down. He has wonderful taste in clothes. It fits perfectly (of course). I slide into the heels, which are also the right size. How does he do that? His closet doors are mirrored, so I walk into the bedroom and do a slow turn in front of them. I can’t help approving of the way I look. I feel beautiful. Wanted. Safe. I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face that’s been plastered there since I woke up.

I head for the bedroom door. I look back at the bed. Whatever he did to me last night is still with me now. I feel alive. I walk downstairs. The first thing to hit me is the fascinating mixture of scents of food. I’m famished. But I avoid the kitchen and turn down the long hallway to the living room. I stare out the large front-facing windows. It’s overcast and windy. I like afternoon darkness, especially today. There’s a roaring fire in the stone fireplace and classical music, I think Beethoven, playing. A small sitting room off the living room is where French doors open to the grand veranda. I take measured steps and stop at the double doors. There’s still no sign of Garrick. My heart flutters. He’s hiding from me; I know it.

The veranda is cobblestoned like the front walkway and screened on three sides. I step outside, my eyes feasting on everything. Garrick has outdone himself. His mother’s gold-leafed white china and linens grace the table. A half-dozen candles are lit, and there’s another fire in the outdoor fireplace. Two dozen white roses, tied with a blue ribbon, are waiting in the chair I presume is my designated seat. I’ve done nothing to deserve this. Nothing. I rush to the table and pick up the bouquet. The sweet fragrance is wonderful.

“Robyn.” Instant chills. I turn around. He’s wearing white linen Tommy Bahama pants and a light green polo shirt.

His dark gaze drifts over me. His mouth opens, then closes. The air between us is charged with electrifying emotions. “You’re the closest thing to heaven I’ve ever seen.”

The sensuous movement of his lips and the worshipping tone of his voice sends a tremor through my body. Romance—tenderness—is all so new to me. I feel awkward, like a babbling fool, even before I utter a sound. “Thank you for everything, Garrick.”

In two strides he closes the distance between us. He looks down at me. “Will you have dinner with me?” We both jump when thunder rumbles.

A cold front is blowing in. The cool air feels good on my bare legs. “Anything you want,” I whisper. He takes my hand and pulls my chair out. I sit, the roses cradled in my arms like a newborn.

He gives me a smile before he disappears inside. Five minutes later, he returns carrying a tray. “Barbecued shrimp with lime and ginger, branzino with tomatoes, capers, and lemon, and spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette.”

My stomach growls and my mouth waters. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon. “You made all this?” I didn’t know I was dating a gourmet chef. What else can this man do with those amazing hands?

He places the plates on the table, then stashes the tray on a lawn chair. He sits next to me, scooting his chair over until our shoulders touch. “I did it for you, darlin’,” he says with an adorable Texas-boy accent. I watch him slide six jumbo shrimp off a skewer and pop one in his mouth. I do the same, luxuriating in the tangy taste.

He hand-feeds me another, and like a sap, I offer him a forkful of spinach in return. There’s not much conversation over dinner. Plenty of laughter and stolen glances. A smile or two, and a growl when I lick salad dressing off the corner of his mouth. After swallowing my last piece of shrimp, I neatly fold my napkin and lay it on top of my empty plate. I sigh with satisfaction.

“Full?” he asks.

I cup my stomach. “Stuffed.”

He chuckles and stands. “I’ll be right back.” He scoops up our plates.

I watch him go, enjoying the way his pants hug his backside. I close my eyes, lamenting how close I came to losing him. I wonder where Carlos is. Lying in a hospital bed, licking his wounds like the dirty animal he is. The music changes suddenly—Justin Timberlake’s “Mirrors”
comes on. Happy thoughts return and I stand, wondering where Garrick is. I walk to the French doors, where he meets me.

“Dance with me.” He claims my hand and twirls me. We end up doing a strange pop variation of a two-step, his arms gripping my hips possessively, my arms draped over his, my head resting on his chest. I love the feel of his hammering heartbeat. “Mirrors” is a long, sexy song. The lyrics remind me of something Garrick would say. I trust that he’ll always be here for me. I groan when the song ends. He kisses me passionately, then releases me. His index finger curls under my chin. I look up.

His gaze is purposeful. “Robyn . . .” He reaches inside his front pant pocket. I step back—almost sure I know what he’s about to do. I see the delicate black lace ring box he’s holding. I cover my mouth with both hands. He drops to one knee, his gaze never leaving my face. “Everywhere I look, everything I feel brings me back to you. I want to spend my life with you, baby—I can’t breathe without you.” There’s a slight hitch in his voice. “Will you marry me?”

My heart skips a beat—my throat tightens. I love him. I nod, biting back joyful tears. My real life begins today. Suddenly nothing else exists. “Yes.” He stands; we’re both enraptured and silent.

He slips the ring on my finger. It’s a perfect fit. Beautiful twin sapphire and diamond solitaires sparkle on my hand. I wouldn’t care if it were from a Cracker Jack box. I throw myself at him. He scoops me up and spins me around once.

“I love you, baby.”

I meet his gaze levelly—my heart overflowing with happiness and peace, my wounded spirit healing by the second. “Thank you, my sweetest love—thank you.”

Garrick catches a tear from my eye with his finger. “Sit with me.” He leads me back to the table. I sit down. Holding both my hands, he looks me in the eyes. “There’s more, baby. The greatest gift I can give you and you can give me.”

I arch a brow, racking my brain to think of anything more wonderful than committing to a lifetime together.

“I don’t
ever
want you to think I regard you in a negative way because you’re a dancer. I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished.
Everything.
”

I catch my breath on a little sob.

“My father taught me to reserve judgment of anyone until they have ample time to prove their character. I know how proud you are, darlin’, and I am, too.” He thumbs my cheek. “This ring . . .” He picks up my hand. “Represents more than our engagement. It’s a symbol of my responsibility to take care of you. I
want
to be a good provider, a loving husband to you. Do you understand?”

Garrick turns his head in the direction of the house. “We have a home. Gretchen will be married soon. She’ll move into her fiancé’s house. This place is ours. I want our children to grow up here. I want you to be happy—secure. No more dancing—no more Devil’s Den. I’ll never forget our time together there, believe me.” His eyes shut on that thought. “But . . .” His dark eyes open, and his gaze intensifies. “I can’t handle other men touching you, lusting after you. It’s not right, little bird. And the next son of a bitch that hurts you won’t be as fortunate as Carlos.”