Close Proximity (17 page)

“My God,” she breathed. “Of all the stupid things to do. Now Joe Colton knows that we suspect Todd Lamb of the DMBE dumping. I don't get it. You told Joe, but you refused to go to the police with our suspicions.”

Rafe stood now and moved closer to her. She felt dwarfed by him. But she'd be damned before she backed down.

“I don't trust the police. But I trust Joe implicitly. And I told Joe he shouldn't say anything just yet.”

Their voices raised with each response.

“But he might tell Blake and you just said there's something between Blake and Holly. What if he tells her?”

“Joe won't say anything,” Rafe said. “He'll respect my wishes. I have no doubt about that.”

“But what if Joe doesn't respect your wishes?” Fury had the words rolling from her before she had time to even contemplate what she was saying. “What if he tells Blake? What if Blake already told Holly? What if Holly is with her father right this very minute? It was a stupid thing to do, Rafe. A stupid thing.”

“Don't do that.”

“Don't do what? Tell you the truth? Someone has to.” Then she repeated, “It was a stupid thing to do.”

He swooped toward her and was in her face before she had time to draw a breath.

“I'll tell you what's stupid.” The words sounded like the growling of a hungry panther. His fingers bit into her upper arms. “The fact that I can't conquer this need.”

His mouth angled down over hers, hard and vicious.

He meant to be cruel. He meant to be brutal. She knew it. But the only result of his kiss was that every devilish craving in her was released.

Her desire for him rushed to the surface, welling, disgorging, and Libby slid her hands around his neck. She
reveled in the scent of him. In the spicy, heady taste of him. In the hard mass of him.

He nipped at her bottom lip, and blood swam in her head, dizzying and giddy. He thrust his tongue, deep and plundering into her mouth. But rather than recoil from the harshness of it, she gently sucked. His groan only fueled the fire burning in her. In them both.

She didn't know how, but the buttons of her blouse came undone, his hot hands roving over the lacy fabric of her bra, his lips and tongue tasting the flesh high on her breasts. She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. Libby dragged frayed and jagged breaths into her lungs through parted lips, feeling smothered, deprived of oxygen. His hands kneaded her breasts, his thumbs roved over her nipples. His touch was rapturous, and her thoughts whirled, her desire burned, raging out of control. Shrugging her arms out of the sleeves, she let the fabric fall, unheeded.

His hair brushed against her shoulders, her chest, her arms. Not letting the filmy buffer of her bra deter him, he took her nipple between his lips and suckled right through the lacy fabric. Libby's body came alive. Arching her spine, she offered him more. And he took it. His hot, moist kisses scalded a trail up her neck, then he ravaged her mouth once more.

He slid his hands up her back, pulling her tight against him. There was no mistaking the hardness of his desire pressing low against her belly, and this set off a chain reaction in her. Her heartbeat hammered. Her blood whooshed through her ears. The desire pulsing through her electrified every nerve ending in her body.

“Oh, Rafe,” she whispered helplessly. “I love you.”

Those words were like the shock of cold water splashed on hot skin. Her eyes went wide. And then she blinked.

Rafe's head remained buried in the curve of her neck.
Her breast filled one of his palms. His other hand tangled deep into her hair. His teeth raked against her flesh, and Libby teetered on the very edge of sanity.

Evidently he hadn't heard her profession. He pulled away from her, straightening his spine until she was forced to look up into his face.

Passion clouded his mahogany gaze. He looked drunk with it. Drugged. And for an instant, Libby wondered if he even knew who she was.

He reached up and cupped his hands on either side of her face. But when he moved toward her, a spark of fear flashed in her gut.

She planted her palm on his chest. “No. No, Rafe.”

Her words did nothing to stop him. And his mouth crushed against hers.

Libby struggled, pushing at him, attempting to wriggle out of his embrace.

“No. No!”

From the first day she'd met this man, she'd felt utterly safe with him, protected. But not now. Now she was besieged by pure panic.

As if awaking from some stupefied sleep, Rafe lifted his head and studied her face.

“I don't want this,” she rushed to say. “Not like this, Rafe.”

A deep frown scored his forehead. And as his eyes cleared, his expression became more and more disconcerted.

He stepped away from her, his eyes scanning her from head to foot. Standing before him, without her blouse, she felt nude. She didn't fight the need to cover herself. Instead, she lifted her arms and crossed them over her chest, acutely aware of her rock-hard nipples, the now clammy dampness of the fabric of her bra.

As the silent moments passed, Rafe became more agitated. Horrified, even. Finally, he whispered, “What the hell have I done?”

The question wasn't for her. Libby knew that and didn't try to answer. Her own mind was spinning. For the life of her, she couldn't fathom how a simple argument could have escalated into this…frenzy. It was frightening. How had they lost control to this degree?

Maybe because, all along, their power over the passions raging inside them had only been tenuous at best.

Libby hadn't realized she'd been staring at the fire until sudden movement caught her attention. Rafe had bolted for the front door.

“Rafe! Wait!” She reached for her blouse, fumbled to cover herself with it, fastening the one button located between her breasts. Then she raced across the room.

The fog was like a heavy velvet curtain, cloaking everything that lay beyond the front porch. The night air wasn't just chilly anymore, it was biting. And she worried that Rafe had left the house without a jacket.

“Rafe.” The thick moisture muted her voice. She called again.

But all she heard was silence, and then the muffled sound of horse hooves fading as he rode away from the house. Away from her.

S
he came awake slowly, not realizing at first where she was. Feeling the heat radiating from the embers dying in the hearth, seeing the dim glow of the lamp on the table, she remembered she'd been waiting for Rafe to return. She must have fallen asleep on the couch. The clock on the mantel told her it was nearing three-thirty in the morning.

Groggy, she sat up and was startled to find Rafe sitting in the chair, staring at her, his dark eyes expressing a mysterious concentration. Once she was over the surprise of seeing him there, she was flooded with relief that he was home, safe and sound.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

After he had thundered off into the cold night, Libby had replayed their argument in her head. And she'd continued to rewind her thoughts, going over and over their angry banter, until she realized she kept stopping at the same crucial point.

She'd called his actions stupid. That was what had sparked the anger between them. Before that, it had simply been a discussion.

She certainly hadn't been insinuating that he was unintelligent. She'd only meant to convey that she thought his revealing their suspicions regarding Todd Lamb had been a mistake. However, Rafe had zeroed in on one word. And he'd reacted to it.

Stupid.

Evidently, he'd somehow gotten the notion that she thought he was brainless or dull-witted. Worse yet, he'd acted as if she'd sewn that opinion into some sort of woolen cape and draped it securely around his shoulders.

It had been that one word—stupid—that had caused their argument to spiral out of control the way it had.

As the long hours had passed and she'd huddled on the couch, she'd remembered back to the very first time she'd met Rafe. How he'd remarked on the color of her eyes. Startling had been the word he'd used. And she remembered the anger that had flared in her—not because Rafe had complimented her, but because he'd unwittingly chosen the same descriptive word that Stephen had so often used to lull her into a false sense of security so he could exploit her so ruthlessly.

Just as Rafe's innocent utterance had triggered a response in her—a response prompted from her experiences in the past—so had her remark provoked a reaction from him.

Absently she smoothed a palm over the wrinkles of her blouse.

“I'm sorry, she said. “I'm really sorry.”

Although she hadn't thought it possible, his sharp features tightened even more. His dark eyes glistened with sudden emotion. He blinked. Looked away. Lifted a fist
and pressed it firmly against his closed eyelids. His sigh was shaky, saturated with emotion.

“You've done nothing to be sorry about,” he told her. Moisture still glittered in his gaze, clumping his long, dark lashes, yet not a single tear fell. “It is I who owe you an apology. And I hope I can make you understand me well enough so that you'll accept it.”

“Rafe, I—”

“No, Libby,” he interrupted. “Don't say anything. Just listen to me.”

It was then she noticed that something rested across his lap. A book… A photo album.

“I'm ready to admit it,” he said. “I'm finally ready to acknowledge that there's something between us. And I'm not just talking about the physical attraction that keeps taunting us. What's between us is deep. Meaningful.” He nodded slowly. “And I'm tired of trying to act as if it isn't there.”

As if it had sprouted strong, swift wings, her heart soared. Had he heard her profession of love? She wished she had the nerve to ask. Her pulse palpitated with budding promise about where this conversation was leading.

“I've already said I can't get involved,” he continued. “But now, seeing what I nearly did to you tonight, I'm ready to explain to you the reasons why a relationship between us is impossible.”

Her hopes plummeted. He had told her early on that he didn't want to become involved. At the time she'd been glad to hear it, because she'd felt the same way. But she'd lost her heart to him—and that had changed everything.

However, her immediate concern was the guilt he obviously suffered over what had happened between them before he left the house. She felt compelled to respond.

“We didn't do anything I didn't want to do. I'm just as responsible for what happened as you are.”

She'd wanted his kiss, his touch.

“Don't, Libby. Don't try to make me feel better about this. It isn't going to work.”

He hesitated, his gaze burrowing down to her bones.

“I got angry,” he said. “And I let that anger become all mangled up with the attraction I feel for you. It was wrong. I shouldn't have let that happen.”

Softly she said, “But I provoked you.”

“Damn it.” His tone was quiet, controlled. His jaw clenched. “You sound just like Onna. That's exactly what she said every time Curtis James decided to make himself feel like a big man at our expense.”

He stared into the glowing embers for a moment. Then he said, “Libby, nothing—and I mean
nothing
—you could ever say or do should cause me to lose control. My behavior was deplorable. And I won't allow you to excuse it.”

She remembered the dazed look in his gaze when he'd kissed her and fondled her so roughly. She remembered the fear that shot through her. Libby's chin dipped. She felt ashamed that she had been about to disregard her own feelings of well-being in order to assuage his guilt.

Never before had she been willing to disrespect herself. When she'd discovered that Stephen had been married, she hadn't hesitated in booting him out of her life. Why, now, would she ignore her own self-worth when she had clearly seen that Rafe's motivation for passion hadn't been as pure as her own?

“Here.” He handed over the photo album that had been resting on his knees. “I want you to see this.”

“She's beautiful.”

The old black-and-white photo had yellowed with age.
The Native American woman had dark, deep-set eyes. Her black hair was long and flowing. Her cheekbones were high, her nose regal, her mouth full. The baby she cradled in her arms was dark-eyed as well.

“That's me she's holding.” Reaching over, he fiddled with the stiff pages. “I want you to see her just before she died.” He flipped two pages on the large wire rings.

Libby stifled a gasp. Surely, this hollow-eyed, haunted-looking woman wasn't Lorna Running Deer. Her hair was gray at the temples and she looked thinner, almost gaunt.

“That's what living with Curtis James did to my Onna.”

Glancing up at his face, Libby saw his eyes had frozen to chips of ice.

“I tried my best to protect her from him. I did.”

She felt as if her heart was melting right behind her ribcage.

“When we moved to Prosperino so that Onna could clean Curtis James's house, I was starving for affection. I had lost my father. And I was looking for someone to…I don't know. Give me some attention. Curtis looked at me from the first day we entered his home as if I was something nasty he'd stepped in. Something he couldn't wait to scrape off his boot.” Rafe scratched his jaw. “Onna would tell me not to get in his way. That she needed the job to provide for us.

“When she came to me and told me she had a baby growing inside her, and that she was marrying Curtis James, I felt physically ill. Yet at the same time, I was eager for the baby to arrive. Excited about having a baby brother or sister.”

As he spoke, Libby perused the pictures in the album. She saw Lorna posed with another newborn. Rafe's brother, River, she surmised. The boy standing several feet
from Lorna looked to be about five. Rafe. Unsmiling. Forlorn.

“Curtis adopted me. And when those papers arrived in the mail stripping me of the name Running Deer, I thought sure I'd die. Onna was so happy, though. She thought we'd be a family. But Curtis had no intention of being a father to some half-raised heathen who, in his estimation, had been spared the rod too many times. I honestly believe he adopted me because then, he thought, he couldn't get into trouble for doling out what he called discipline.”

His hand lifted in the air and Libby saw that he was shaking.

“I tried hard to be happy. For Onna's sake. But I soon realized that having a sibling only meant more responsibility for me. More worry. You see, Curtis James liked his liquor. And when he got drunk, he teased and taunted the people around him.” Absently Rafe scratched his forehead at the hairline. “The man was heartless. Cruel and violent. He abused all of us physically, psychologically, emotionally.” His gaze locked onto hers as he admitted, “I learned early on how to take the brunt of that abuse on myself.”

Sitting there listening to Rafe's horrible story and not reaching out to him was the hardest thing Libby had ever done.

“I remember once when River was just able to sit up on his own—he couldn't even walk yet—he'd dropped his bottle and milk had dripped onto the carpet. I thought Curtis was going to raise the roof, he yelled so loudly. He'd smacked my mother, and I knew he would be going for River. So I grabbed his cup of hot coffee and spilled it down his leg. On purpose, of course. The beating I got kept me in bed for two days. But the incident had a positive outcome. Curtis stayed sober for nearly a week.” He
swallowed. “I have dozens of those stories locked in my brain. Dozens.”

Darkness is like a protective blanket that shields.
Had Alex Featherstone had some otherworldly knowledge of Rafe's purpose in life when he'd said those words, gifted him with that name? Had he known Rafe would turn out to be a protector of those he loved?

Finally Libby could keep silent no longer. “Why would she stay with him? Why did she put her children in such danger?”

“Come on,” he said, his tone harsh. “It wasn't her fault. This happened thirty years ago, Libby. Where could she go? Where could she work? She felt lucky that Curtis hired her to clean for him. And she felt terribly grateful to him for marrying her once he'd made her pregnant. She was stuck. She had no other alternatives. At least, in her mind she didn't.

“Oh, she tried to protect us, but she was just no match for Curtis. But me…” His chuckle was humorless. “I was devious. I found out real quick that it was simple to out-smart my stepfather. Becoming the scapegoat was easy. All I had to do was look for ripe opportunities to make that drunken bum angry. Stupid, he'd call me. Stupid became my nickname for a very long time.”

Her blood froze to slush. Now she understood his angry reaction.

Rafe sighed. “Onna got sick while she was pregnant with Cheyenne. She died bringing my sister into the world.” His tone became sharp as steel. “Onna was in the ground less than a day before Curtis James dropped me and Cheyenne off at Crooked Arrow. Like we were some kind of refuse he didn't want to be associated with. He took River with him, though. And I worried about my brother for years.” He pinched at his chin, once, twice.
“Curtis died eventually. Cirrhosis of the liver. It was an easy way out for the bastard, if you ask me. And I was able to see River again when he was placed at Hopechest Ranch.”

Libby reached over and touched his forearm, but he withdrew from her, and she felt as if she'd been stung.

“Don't, Libby. Don't try to console me. That's not why I told you all this. I want you to understand…I
need
you to understand that all that I went through had an effect on me. My heart is hard. It's like granite. I've got walls built up. Barricades I hide behind. I'm no good for you, Libby. No matter what I feel for you. I can't give you what you need, what you deserve.”

Tenderness swelled in her heart. He didn't mention the word love, but he had implied that he felt
something
for her. It pained her to think that she'd come so close to finding the love of her life only to have him turn away from her.

“There are people who can help you, Rafe. People who would make you understand all the anger you feel. Manage it. Channel it into something productive.”

He shook his head. “No one can help me. I've been living with this for too long. What's inside me is like calloused skin. It's there to protect. And it isn't going away. Ever.” His dark eyes narrowed. “You need to realize that.”

Rafe stood up then and walked away from her. She heard his steps retreat down the hallway. She heard his bedroom door close.

And Libby had never felt more shut out.

 

The next morning after his meditation, Rafe entered the house and was surprised to see Libby's suitcase sitting by the front door. She entered the living room from the hall
way, fastening an earring to her earlobe. His pulse thudded dully, and his groin tightened with desire. He knew he'd never live to see a day when he didn't react to her in this manner. Although it was very early, she was dressed for a day at court.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“I'm leaving.”

For good, the finality in her tone filled in for him.

“Don't be foolish, Libby. You can't do that.”

She planted her hand on her hip. “I'm not going to argue with you. I can't stay here. I can't work here. There are too many…distractions. The judge and opposing counsel are pressing me. I've got to get myself together. Nailing down my case strategy should be my only focus right now. Dad's future depends on how well I do that.” She was quiet a moment, and then she added, “I can't do that here.”

When she turned and headed toward the kitchen, he followed her.

“This is about last night—”

Libby whirled on him. “Of course it's about last night. It's also about every single moment since I've been here.”

The tension. The sensual energy that had plagued them. The desire they had both tried to suppress. That's what she was talking about.

“I'm sorry I can't be what you need me to be,” he said. “I'm sorry—”