The Long Road Home (23 page)

She waited until Toto was settled before driving to John’s house. She didn’t dare linger; it would be too tempting to play the coward and avoid a confrontation with him. For a full minute she sat parked in front, staring at John’s gray brick townhouse. A lush green lawn rolled from the front porch to the tree-lined sidewalk. She continued to gaze at the four-story building and tell herself she wasn’t intimidated.

She hadn’t had the nerve to call ahead. What if he wasn’t home? What if he became furious at finding her at his front door unannounced? What if—no. She could filter through different scenarios all night long. She needed to act, not ask questions.

Slipping from her car, she straightened her shoulders and walked to the front door, then paused on seeing a yellow compact car in the driveway and no sign of John’s Explorer. She shrugged, climbing the steps to the door. It didn’t matter. In seconds, she would know whether or not he was home.

She rang the bell and waited, holding her hands to stifle their trembling. The door opened, and Clarisse didn’t know who was the more stunned, Vivian or herself.

The redhead was the first to speak. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see John.” She straightened her shoulder. “Why else would I be here?”

“Well, he’s not in.” Vivian stood in the middle of the threshold, effectively baring the entrance.

“Then I’ll wait.”

One finely plucked brow rose in mockery. “And here I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

Clarisse wanted to slap that snide smile from her face. “Sorry to disappoint you, but a picture and a bunch of lies aren’t going to make me go away. In fact, that’s why I’m here. Your story wasn’t half as effective as you planned. No intelligent person will take that tabloid seriously, but then again we’re not questioning your intellect. And,” Clarisse doggedly continued, drowning Vivian’s protest, “I bet you didn’t get much money for it, either. Then again, you weren’t in it for the money, were you? Just plain spite.” She shook her head in disgust. “I don’t understand people like you who—”

“Why you!” Vivian’s nostrils flared. “You have no right talking to me like that! Why I should—”

Unfazed, Clarisse pushed past, knocking Vivian’s arm from her path. Vivian would never again have her doubting herself.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m going to wait until John gets back,” Clarisse tossed over one shoulder as she dropped her purse by the coffee table and looked around.

An antique grandfather clock ticked softly in the ensuing silence, while a leather sofa and chair in deep mahogany circled the gray stone fireplace dominating one wall. Very masculine. But then again John was a very masculine man.

The redhead marched into the room. “And what will you do if he’s doesn’t get back until tomorrow? Camp out at his door?”

Fingers itching, Clarisse restrained the urge to throttle the woman. Instead, she sank down on the leather chair and smiled coolly, which seemed to enrage Vivian even further. “I guess I’ll have to worry about that when the time comes.”

“You can’t stay.” Vivian’s hands clenched at her sides. She didn’t appear so confident now. “I won’t let you.”

“Do you plan on physically tossing me out?”

Vivian looked taken aback at the bald question. “John’s not going to like this one bit.” She tapped a heel in impatience and changed tactics. “Do you really think he wants anything to do with you and that gimpy leg of yours? It’s got to be sick looking. And why would he look at you when he has his pick of beautiful women? You might have had something once, but now—” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t
think
so.”

Clarisse gripped the cool leather armrests with tense fingers, determined not to let Vivian see how her words were eroding her confidence. The other woman would ruthlessly use it as ammunition. Granted, John might not be able to look beyond her leg. Clarisse fully knew that risk the moment she stepped on the plane, but she was willing to take that chance.

Raising her chin, she stared back. “It’s not working, Vivian. It’s obvious from the way you’re acting, you’re losing ground with John,” Clarisse guessed. “He never did help you with your portfolio, did he?”

Her nostrils flared. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch. I know he doesn’t mix his professional life with his personal—at least not anymore. He’s also got this instinct when it comes to who’s got what it takes to be a model.” She shook her head almost sadly. “Don’t you know that even with the best photographer available, you can’t get far as a model if you don’t have that look?”

Vivian’s face turned a bright, angry red, and with hands raised in a threatening manner, she stepped toward Clarisse. “I swear, I’m going to tear you into—”

The doorknob rattled. Dressed in khaki slacks and polo shirt, which emphasized his large athletic build, John stepped into the room and paused when he spied the two women. His face paled beneath his tan as he closed the door quietly behind him.

“Clarisse—what are you doing here?”

“Vivian let me in.” Rising to her feet, she eyed the redhead with distaste. Inhaling deeply, she turned back to John and summoned the nerve to say, “I wanted to talk to you. Privately, that is.”

He glanced at Vivian with narrowed eyes. “That’s fine. Vivian was just leaving.”

“But—”

“Not buts,” John cut in angrily. “How did you get in here? You said you lost my key.”

The redhead shrugged, though she looked intimidated. “I found it again.”

“Then you can give it to me now, and leave.”

“John, let’s talk about this.” Vivian sauntered over and placed a beseeching hand against his chest.

“Get out.” He knocked her hand away. “I thought I told you not to come within a foot of me. Someone who steals my personal property and has it plastered on the front of that—that thing they call a magazine, is not someone I want to associate with!” His gaze raked her savagely. “Get out, before I wring your neck.”

Vivian paled. “You’re going to regret this. She’s not worth losing me over.” She threw Clarisse a venomous look, then sneered at John. “If you want it that way—fine. It’s not like you’re any great loss. Near the end, you couldn’t satisfy me or any woman for that matter.”

Vivian heaved the key through the air. It hit the wall and clattered against the wood floor. She rushed from the room, flinging the door shut with such force that the windows rattled.

Stunned at witnessing such a heated exchange, Clarisse stared at John.

He closed his eyes briefly. “Sorry you had to witness that.”

Clarisse attempted to lighten the charged silence. “I don’t think she was too happy when she left.”

“I think you’re right.” He grimaced. “She doesn’t like the word ‘no’. I don’t think it’s in her vocabulary.” He rocked back on his heels, his face cautious, but curiously vulnerable. “I hope you know that I would never give those photos to Vivian or anyone else without your permission—”

“I know.”

“Good,” he said, clearly relieved.

She nodded and awkwardly clasped her hands in front of her, thinking of a way to approach the subject of their breakup. “I thought I should explain—”

“About what?” His expression closed and his jaw hardened into a stubborn angle. “I think we covered everything in San Diego. You said more than enough, or should I say—didn’t.”

She flinched at the bitterness in his voice. “You’re making this very difficult. Can you at least listen? I flew here to talk to you.”

“But I thought you were terrified of flying—”

“I still am.”

Uncertainty crept into his expression. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“Where should I start?” Swallowing down the sudden constriction in her throat, she thought of the plane crash and forgot his rigid posture and tight lipped expression. “We left Heathrow Airport late that Saturday. It was windy that night. A storm was fast approaching. The pilot—I later learned he wasn’t very experienced—hadn’t anticipated a wind shear as we took off from the runway.” She dragged in an unsteady breath. “It was like a large hand catching us and flinging us to the ground. I remember the smoke, the smell, the screeching metal. Then I realized it wasn’t the shrieking metal but my screams. And the metallic smell of jet fuel was everywhere. It was terrifying. Then the fire. The pain. I never experienced anything so agonizing in my life. I-I wanted to die.”

John strode across the room but halted a few feet away, his body tense, as if transfixed to the floor. He raised his hand in mid-air, then dropped it. “Don’t. You don’t have to tell me. It’s over.”

She backed away, her vision blurring from unshed tears. “No. I want you to hear. I want you to understand why I did what I did.” She stepped to the front window and looked outside, only half seeing the neighboring houses, the sparrows darting from tree to tree, and the darkening sky. “I woke up in the hospital, and felt like my leg was still on fire. And there was nothing to stop the pain. Oh there was medication, but not a thing to ease my mind.

“When they told me about the burns on three-quarters of my leg and my broken knee cap, something in me snapped. Back then I was such a vain fool, so all I could think about was becoming a disfigured cripple. Before the accident, for as long as I can remember, I’ve used my beauty, so much so that it became ingrained. I didn’t know how to live without counting on my looks. And I didn’t think anyone would see beyond my leg—especially when I couldn’t. Then losing my career just seemed to compound my insecurities.”

Turning from the window, she faced John with difficulty. “It wasn’t until I did some soul-searching that I realized, it wasn’t that I didn’t have faith in you but that I didn’t have faith in myself. I couldn’t see past the injury.”

“If only I had known.” He shook his head. A silken lock tumbled to his brow, giving him a vulnerability, a softness to his dark, good looks.

“How could you have known?” she insisted. “I made Laura and Jennifer keep quiet; the letter I sent severing our relationship never mentioned the accident. Even if you hadn’t been in Brazil doing that shoot, you would never have heard about the crash in the States. After all, it was a small airline, and I wasn’t using my professional name.”

“I guess you’re right.” Brows drawn, he nodded, searching her face with serious, gray eyes. “I want you to know I was very angry when I left San Diego. But I’ve had a chance to think long and hard. I know I must have given you cause to think of me as shallow, always focused on money and image. And I’ve always been a visual person. It goes with my work. But I want you to know I’m not that same person. Your leaving forced the change, made me re-examine my life. I wish I had the maturity you needed three years ago, and for that I am sorry.”

She looked at him, only yards away, but to her the distance was more like a chasm lined with jagged rock that could tear her apart with one wrong step. Inhaling sharply, she stepped over its edge. “After the plane crash, you were always in my thoughts. There were days I managed to forget and get on with my life, but never for long. And then there were nights I couldn’t...I never stopped loving you.”

“Oh, damn it Clarisse,” he groaned, took two steps, and swept her up into his arms. He carried her to the sofa. Sitting down with her on his lap, he smoothed her hair away from her face with tender hands and gazed at her with dark, tormented eyes. “Don’t talk about those days anymore. They’re gone. There’s just now, this minute. All I can think about is that I finally have you back in my arms.”

Brushing her lower lip with a thumb, he stared at her mouth as if transfixed, then lowered his head and replaced his thumb with the pressure of his mouth, molding his lips over her own. With unsteady hands, he cupped her head and pulled her closer to deepen the kiss.

She pressed into him, wanting him, his hands, his mouth, the feel of his skin against her own. Impatiently, she tugged at his shirt, slipping it from his waistband, and sighed against his mouth when her palms finally touched the naked flesh of his back. He sucked in a breath at her caress, and his hands grew more urgent as they roamed over her back and glided around her waist to slip beneath her shirt. At the delicious sensation his hands were creating, she arched, wanting him to touch every curve and indentation of her body.

“Here. I want to look at you.” Inching away, John unbuttoned her blouse with shaky hands. The hunger in his eyes robbed the breath from her lungs as he released each button slowly, painstakingly. Once done, he parted the material, unveiled her breasts in a lacy white bra and cupped their weight in his large, dark hands.

She quivered from the heat in his gaze. He wanted her. Even a fool could see that. But a tiny sliver of fear lingered as his hands strayed from her breasts and lowered to the waistband of her jeans. He paused on the top button and looked up, a question in his gray eyes. “From here, there’s no turning back. I want
all
of you.”

She nodded, unable to deny him anything. Oh...but she was afraid. Her heart lay exposed, and he could so easily crush it with one word or look.

He flicked open the top button of her jeans and slowly lowered the zipper. Metal against metal whispered and mingled with their breathing.

Limbs rigid with tension, Clarisse raised her hips, enabling him to slide the denim over her thighs and ankles. She watched his face as he looked at her naked thighs, expecting some sign of aversion. Curiosity flickered in his eyes and something ... and something else that tugged at her heart.