A Winter's Rose (5 page)

He halted inches from her, his breath making frosty clouds in the cold air, fury flashing in his eyes. “You don't know anything,” he said, flexing his fingers. “Not about me. Not about Chloe.”

“No?” Bentley flung back. “Then why are you so angry?”

“Damn you.” He caught her arms and dragged her against his chest. “Damn you to hell.”

Bentley tipped her head back and met his eyes, hers filled with challenge. A muscle jumped in his jaw, betraying the depth of his fury. He tightened his hands at her back. She didn't flinch. She didn't beg him to forgive her hasty words, her unladylike emotions. She'd never been so bold, but then she'd never been so angry, never allowed herself to be. Now the adrenaline of fury, a lifetime's worth, pumped through her, and with it a freedom that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Damn me to any place you want,” she said softly, her voice as even and sharp as the edge of a razor blade. “It won't change a thing I said. It won't change the truth.”

In that moment, as the words slipped from her lips, something passed between them. Something hot and primal and teetering on the edge of control. Bentley sucked in a deep breath, wanting to deny the heat spiraling through her, but finding she could not. Sensations, like the perfume of winter roses, spilled over her, intoxicating her with their powerful sweetness.

He felt it, too. She saw it in the subtle darkening of his eyes, felt it in the way his fingers convulsed at her back, heard it in his quickly indrawn breath.

That Jackson felt the same as she only made the moment that much more dangerous. She told herself to move away from him before control topped that edge. Instead, she brought her hands to his chest, to his thundering heart, and curled her fingers into the fleece of his jacket.

“Damn you,” he said again, lowering his gaze to her mouth.

She swayed toward him, the blood thrumming in her head until she was dizzy with it. One moment became two, became a dozen. The night, with its subtle, sultry sounds, surrounded and enfolded them—the sigh of the wind, the murmur of distant traffic, the whisper of the small night creatures.

The sound of Chloe calling her father.

It jarred them apart. Bentley fought back a sound of disappointment even as relief barreled over her. The last minutes had been a mistake, they had been madness. If so, then why did sanity seem so empty?
And why did she wish so desperately that Jackson had kissed her?

The front door opened, light spilled through the rectangle and over them. Jackson made a move to leave, and for the second time that night, Bentley caught his arm. He met her eyes, his own glittering in the moonlight. “You have such contempt for me,” she said softly, battling for both breath and control, “yet you're encouraging Chloe to become me. Think about it.”

Jackson searched her expression for a moment, his own shuttered. Then, without a sound, he turned and walked away.

* * *

Hours later Jackson prowled the quiet house, his mood as dark as the midnight sky. What the hell had happened between him and Bentley?

He shook his head, scowling. She'd been right, he did have little but contempt for her. He knew her type, he knew how she'd been raised, what she stood for. He'd promised himself he would never again make a mistake like the one he'd made with Victoria.

Bentley Cunningham was so much like his ex-wife they could be sisters. And his marriage to Victoria Ellerbee had been a match made in hell. He shook his head. A shrimper's son and an oil baron's daughter.
If he hadn't been so besotted he would have seen it from a mile away—trouble with a capitol
T,
a lifetime of paying for one monumental mistake.

Now he saw it coming with Bentley so clearly it chilled him. Even so, electricity crackled between them, and his blood stirred every time he looked at her. And the arousal he'd felt only hours before had been undeniable. Jackson made a sound of disbelief. Undeniable? Earth-shattering had been more like it. Its intensity had stunned him. He'd felt that way only once before, and then he'd been a randy youth, ruled by hormones and an unquenchable sex drive.

Jackson swung toward the picture window that faced the garden where he and Bentley had angrily confronted each other only hours before. Good God, he was nearly forty years old. Too old for the lure of illicit sex in a moonlit garden. Too old to have considered throwing caution to the winds, even if only for a few, brief, shattering minutes.

Crossing to the window, he pushed aside the curtain. Moonlight soaked his wild garden in pale gold, and he imagined it falling over Bentley's smooth, white skin. Warming her. Softening her.

She hadn't needed warming or softening tonight. The picture-perfect beauty had been transformed into a real woman, one alive with anger and indignation. And heat.

His gut tightened. That woman had been unbelievably, dangerously alluring.

Jackson fisted the material in his fingers, pushing away those disturbing thoughts to focus on even more disturbing ones. What was he going to do about Chloe? As much as they had infuriated him, Bentley's words made sense. In the last hours he'd replayed those words in his head, and each time they had sliced deeper, closer, carving out tiny pieces of his heart.

Bentley was right. He hadn't been paying attention to what his daughter was doing. He'd been so relieved that she wasn't climbing out of windows and disappearing, so relieved that he hadn't had to deal with a new sitter and new crisis every day, that he let her do whatever she wished. He hadn't wanted to rock the boat.

Jackson swore. When it came to Chloe, he'd done everything wrong. She had owned his heart from the first moment he saw her, red-faced, wrinkled and howling with indignation. He'd never felt that way before. He remembered smiling stupidly at her through the nursery window, his heart near bursting with pride and love, the thought that he was a father playing over and over in his mind.

Had the guilt started then? Jackson pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Or had it started when he'd allowed Victoria to take his daughter without a fight? Or when that first sweet wave of relief had hit him at Victoria's leaving?

Even now, twelve years after the fact, guilt twisted in his gut. He'd let her go. He'd felt relief. What kind of father was he?

And what would he do if he lost her?

Needing air, Jackson wheeled away from the window, crossed to the front door and yanked it open. He stepped outside, the punch of the December air stunning him. He breathed deeply, welcoming its shock, letting it steady him.

When Chloe had been small, he'd been able to cuddle her, buy her an ice cream or a doll, and she'd loved him for it. He'd been able to fascinate her with stories about growing up in a fishing village, been able to hold her rapt with nothing more than a card trick. Being a parent had been easy.

It wasn't anymore.

He had to do something.

Jackson shoved his hands into the front pockets of his denims and looked at the moon. A cloud moved across it, momentarily obliterating its light. This time, he vowed, he wouldn't make any mistakes.

* * *

Fingers of sunlight inched across her bed. Bentley gazed at them, thinking of Jackson and wondering what madness had occurred between them the night before. Reaching out, she touched one of the warm rectangles. She hadn't slept. She'd tossed and turned and relived every one of those heady minutes in Jackson's garden.

Bentley frowned. She hadn't found the answers she longed for. Reassuring ones. Ones that made sense. That calmed.

Instead, she'd had to face the truth. And the truth was far from logical or calming. A sexual pull existed between her and Jackson, one so strong that it had left her weak and wanting. She'd never felt that way before. Never.

Dismayed, she sat up. She didn't want the pull; she didn't like it. She would deny it. Bentley inched her chin up. She wouldn't allow herself to be caught up in a destructive relationship with an egomaniac. Once in a lifetime had almost destroyed her.

Throwing aside the covers, she climbed out of bed and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Ship's Mechanic Row and its restored nineteenth-century buildings. Cracking the blinds, she gazed down at the still-deserted street.

Bentley smiled, remembering the way she had faced Jackson. She'd told him exactly what she thought, without worrying about how her anger made her look, without worrying that the world would think less of her for having expressed her true feelings. Without doubting herself.

And she'd stood up for Chloe. Even though she'd known Jackson would not be receptive, even though she'd known that, put on the defensive, he would attack.

Every other time in her life she'd backed down. She'd never told David what she'd thought of him. Oh, she'd divorced him, but quietly. She'd let other people—even her own mother—whisper and cluck about
her,
had let them believe that the reason the marriage had ended was that she was selfish and spoiled. She'd allowed David to get away with trying to break her—then with telling the world that it was
she
who was the loser.

She'd let him. She'd given him all the power.

Bentley spun away from the window, her breath about to choke her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought the wave of helplessness and self-criticism that flooded her, threatening to drown her.

No. David had been wrong. He was a cruel, sick man. From now on she didn't second-guess herself, she didn't whip herself for decisions and choices she couldn't change. Bentley took a deep, healing breath, then another. Never again would she punish herself for other people's sins.

With that thought, she started to dress.

Within an hour she was not only dressed, but stepping through Jackson's front door. As she did, Chloe raced down the stairs, eager to start for Houston. She had obviously forgiven Bentley their exchange of words the day before.

Bentley angled Jackson a questioning glance from the corner of her eye. He hadn't acknowledged her other than with a generic good morning. He hadn't acknowledged their confrontation of the night before.

A thread of irritation wound through her. She had expected something to have changed. She had expected some sort of reaction to the worries she had expressed about Chloe. She'd been sure he would leave orders that Chloe do something today. Or even that they go nowhere.

Instead, he wished his daughter a good day, gave her an absent smile and headed out the door. So she and Chloe shopped, and again the youngster did as she wished and used her charge card with abandon.
And as the hours ticked past, Bentley's irritation turned to anger.

By the end of the day, she was furious. Jackson Reese was a stubborn and arrogant man, she fumed as she waited for him to return from work. He hadn't even thought about what she'd said! Instead, he had thumbed his nose at her and her opinion. Well, she wasn't going to stand for it. If all he wanted was a brainless playmate for his daughter, he could hire a chimpanzee.

When Jackson finally stepped through the front door, Bentley glared at him, ready for a fight.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Something wrong?”

“Daddy!” Chloe came barreling down the stairs. “Can we go out to eat tonight?”

Jackson smiled at his daughter. “Sure, honey.”

The youngster beamed at him, and Bentley rolled her eyes. Jackson had no idea he was being manipulated. And even if he did, she thought sarcastically, he probably wouldn't care.

“Can we go to Tony's?”

“Sounds good. Anytime you're ready.”

“Great! I'm going to wear one of my new outfits.” She started up the stairs, then stopped and turned to him. “Can Bentley come, too?”

“Sure.” He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the chair. “Anything you want.”

Bentley muttered several unladylike expletives and grabbed her coat.

“You say something?” He angled her an amused glance.

She tipped up her chin. “Not anything I'd care to repeat. Good night.” She marched to the door and yanked it open.

“Not coming to dinner?”

Bentley arched her eyebrows in disbelief. “I don't believe so.”

“Party pooper.” He grinned.

She felt the curving of his lips to the tips of her toes, and swore. “I'm not a party pooper,” she said haughtily, “I'm just choosy about who I break bread with.”

She started through the door. He laughed, caught her hand and pulled her back. She glared at him.

“Are we upset about something?”

“We?”
Bentley flexed her fingers. “
You
don't seem upset about anything.”

“Should I be?”

She sucked in a quick, angry breath. “You didn't even think about what I said last night, did you? What you did tonight is a perfect example of what I—” She bit the words off. “Never mind.”

She tugged at her hand; he laughed again and tightened his fingers. “Come to dinner. It'll make Chloe's night.”

Bentley narrowed her eyes. “She'll survive.”

“Come on.” He tugged her hand once more, inching her farther inside. He deepened his voice and met her eyes teasingly. “It'll make mine, too.”

Her blood pressure skyrocketed, her knees turned to Jell-O. She fought the sensations off. “
Did
you think about what I said?” she asked, the huskiness of her voice shocking her.

He paused, his smile slipping, the teasing light fading from his eyes. “Yes,” he murmured. “I've thought of almost nothing else.”

“And?”

He paused again, searching her expression. “And I don't know.” He laced their fingers and tugged her the rest of the way inside. “Come to dinner. As a thank-you for your concern. As an apology for reacting like a horse's behind.”

Bentley hesitated. This time not because she didn't want to go, but because she now wanted so desperately to go. Because now her pulse hammered and her senses were swamped with him. Damn it. If only he wasn't being so sincere.