Upon a Mystic Tide (11 page)

“You leave Miguel out of this.” Bess narrowed her eyes. “And knock off the sarcasm. It’s counterproductive.”

“And not telling me why you’re ending our marriage isn’t?”

“Would you stop already? What’s the difference anymore?”

Their relationship really was over. There wasn’t a shred of hope. A sick feeling settled in his stomach. Anger, denial, rose to fight it. He’d promised Elise. “No difference at all. In fact, you should check with Francine. Maybe there’s some obscure legal precedent set where a man wanting his wife to be financially secure qualified as abuse. You could sue the socks off me. Humiliate me some more—though with you being seen all over town hanging onto Santos, you’d have to work hard at it. What are the odds of pulling it off, do you think?”

She rolled her gaze ceilingward. “I do not
hang
all
over anyone, and I refuse to listen to this. Miguel is my friend and he has nothing to do with this. You’re making a mockery of—of this entire situation.”

John stepped closer. Her back to the wall, they stood chest to breasts, and he dropped his voice. “This situation is our marriage,
darling.
And if anyone is making a mockery of it, it’s you.”

She shoved against his shoulder, passed him, then entered her room—the Great White. Just inside the door, she spun around to face him.
“You
are
making a mockery of this, John. You’ve told me I’m going to jail.” Hopping on one foot, she tugged at her sandal strap, then slung the shoe to the floor.

It hit the planks with a firm
thunk
that sent Silk scurrying under the bed, diving for cover. John half-considered joining her.

Bess reached for her other shoe. “You’ve had your fun. Now would you please just
 . . .
go away?”

“Fun?” Taking five to cool down, he glanced around the large room decorated in blues and soft greens. The adjoining turret room windows were open. The shades were up and the sheer curtains billowed in a sea-scented breeze. “Right. I always thought the idea of you behind bars was a real hoot, Bess. Hey, if Francine pulls off the abuse bit, maybe we can get adjoining cells.”

“That’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth and there have been some real winners.”

He stepped closer and looked down his nose at her. “Another thing we have in common.”

She glared up at him. The fire died in her eyes. They went soft, vulnerable, and she was trying so hard not to let him see either. The anger drained right out of him and the urge to kiss some sense into her, to kiss her until she understood he only wanted reassurance she’d be independent and cared for, slammed into him with the force of a sledge. “God, why do we still have the ability to hurt each other so much?
Why?”
He didn’t want to hurt Bess. He’d never wanted to hurt her.

“Jonathan, don’t,” she whispered breathlessly, her chest lifting with rapid breaths and brushing against his, the pulse at her throat pounding against her creamy skin.

Sliding his hand up her arm to her bare shoulder, he gave her a puzzled frown.

“Don’t kiss me.” She swallowed hard and her lips parted.
“Please.”

She feared him kissing her. Feared it. And yet her lips parted invitingly and the tip of her tongue touched the back of her teeth. Remembering the feel of her mouth mating with his, his body hardened. God help him, the magic was still there. He’d hoped it wouldn’t be—prayed it wouldn’t be. But it was. And he’d never expected it’d be so
 . . .
strong. “Bess, I—”

“Please.”

There is hope. See it in her eyes. Give it time.

John let her go then stepped back, damning his conscience and himself for wanting that kiss. The look of relief on her face stung. “When you’re ready, I’ll, um, carry down your things.” He nodded toward the neat row of tapestry luggage just behind her.

She turned to look, then went rigid.

Silk parked on her haunches at the foot of the bed, alert, ears perked. She, too, sensed Bess’s sudden tension. John frowned. “What’s wrong?”

No answer.

“Bess?” A creepy feeling slithered up his back. “Answer me.”

“My bags.” She stared at them. “They’re packed.”

“You did say you were leaving.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “I didn’t pack them. When I left here, my luggage was empty and in the closet.”

This rattled her. Why exactly, John didn’t know. But he didn’t like it. “Maybe Miss Hattie packed for you.”

“Why would she?” Bess frowned at him then looked back at the bags as if they were betrayers. “I’m booked here for another two weeks.”

“I arrived.” Seeing her upset got to him. Okay, they’d once loved each other, so upset was natural, he supposed. But it sure shouldn’t produce an almost irresistible urge to take her into his arms and kiss her until her fear gave out. That it did irritated him. She’d walked out on him, damn it. What more proof did he need that she couldn’t care less about him? And knowing that, why couldn’t
he
care less about
her?

You promised.

He frowned at his conscience. It’d become a real nuisance lately.

For Elise, you swore you’d set matters right with you and Bess. Have you sunk so low that you’re comfortable lying to Elise and breaking your word? A man’s word is his bond, Jonathan.

Jonathan?
John’s skin prickled. His conscience never before had niggled at him using Bess’s name for him. And it never had used anyone else’s voice either. This time, it had done both.

It wasn’t his conscience.

John looked down the long shadowy hallway. Empty. Who owned this man’s voice?
Where
was he? Had Bess heard—? Wait a minute. John paused to remember and analyze, mentally sifting back to the last time he’d had this odd feeling and heard this stranger’s voice. It had been at the hospital. When Elise was dying. This man, whoever he was, however he was doing this, had helped John then. Had told him to give Elise peace. To let her go, and to tell her he’d be okay without her. A shiver raced up John’s spine and set the roof of his mouth to tingling. How was the man getting into John’s head?

“Miss Hattie was with me at the cafe.”

Reeling, John blinked and looked at Bess. It took him a moment to mentally shift back to the luggage problem. “Miss Hattie was here when I arrived.”

“You’re right.” Bess looked relieved. “She joined me there. She stayed behind because she was expecting a guest. Obviously, you.”

Something strange was going on here. A man talking to John inside his head. Bess’s luggage being packed. He didn’t think for a second Miss Hattie had packed it. She hadn’t even come upstairs to show him the Cove Room. That friend of hers, Jimmy, had given John the nickel tour. But John darn well intended to ask her—just as he intended to find out the identity of this man talking to him. Evidently, whoever he was, the man was trying to help. Someone bent on harm sure doesn’t help a guy get through the death of a loved one as the man had with Elise. But why would he want to help John? “Apparently, Miss Hattie figured you’d run.”

Bess grimaced at him, clearly at ease again now that, in her mind, the mystery had been solved. Should he tell her it hadn’t been? No. She was stressed already. Her lip was twitching double-time. He’d solve it first and then tell her.

“I’m not running, John.” She grabbed the handle of her case, then slung the shoulder strap of the garment bag over her shoulder. “I’m leaving. There’s a difference.”

“Not where we’re concerned.” Silk barked near his ankle, wanting attention. He picked up the dog and scratched her ears.

Bess held out her hands for Silk. When John passed her, Bess flashed him a pleading look. “I don’t want your money.”

“You have no choice, darling.” Damn if she was going to toss yet another guilt trip on him. She’d be self-sufficient or married to him, and that was where the buck stopped.

“I’d rather spend a month in jail.”

The barb hit home. Hard. “Fine. And when you get out and this still isn’t settled, then you can spend another month in jail. I wonder if Sal Ragusa will do remote tapings of your program. Be a shame to lose your job, too. Oh, but I guess WLUV wouldn’t have much use for a jailbird counselor, would it?”

“Sometimes you are a total and complete ass as well as a jerk, John Mystic. Sometimes you’re a vicious jerk. And sometimes—”

“I’m adorable. I know.” He smiled, doing his best to melt the meanness right out of her. “But try to control yourself, hmmm?”

“Not a problem.”

“Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me you’re unaffected at seeing me again? Hell, Bess, you might pull that stunt on your sorry Spaniard, but I know you. It’s always been there between us, and it probably always will be.” Better to acknowledge it and watch its power fizzle than to hold it in and let it gnaw at him.

“It
—what?
The only thing between us is a divorce.”

“The magic.”

She screwed up her mouth to say something—scathing, he felt sure—then changed her mind. That damned mask of indifference slipped solidly back into place.

“Stop calling Miguel that. Stop needling me. Just stop everything.” She raked her hands through her hair, squeezed her eyes shut, and hissed in air between her teeth. Quickly, she dropped her hands and sent him-a cool, droll look. “The truth is, for me, the magic is gone. I don’t want you, John. I just don’t. Okay?”

“Uh-huh.” He let his gaze drift down to her pulse throbbing at her throat, to her nubbed nipples straining against her thin blouse, then down to her fisted hands. The lady hadn’t come unglued, true, but she was a far cry from unaffected. Though he knew he risked one wicked backfire, he wanted more. He wanted unglued, snapped, and out of control. Just once. Just
 . . .
once. “Right.”

“That
is
right.”

“Sorry, synapse misfire. I forgot you said you hated me.”

“Not you. Your actions.” She headed toward the door. “If you’re going to throw my words back into my face, at least get them right.”

He had gotten them right, but her surly expression proved she wouldn’t appreciate the reminder and, while he wanted her unglued, he didn’t want her unraveled. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t the heartless bastard Meriam Richards and half of New Orleans had accused him of being. “No problem. Though I don’t typically repeat lies. Or rumors.”

Bess’s jaw dropped open—no doubt to blister his ears—but, without uttering a sound, she snapped it shut, snatched Silk, then shrugged. “I guess that brings this conversation to a close.”

“I guess it does.” He let his gaze slide down her length. “You’ll look great in stripes, darling.”

“Shut up, John. Would you just shut up?”

Bryce had been right. She
had
changed. But John hadn’t expected this. He kind of liked it. Sassy, saucy. Not a loss of control, but certainly not indifference. A surefooted step in the right direction. Yeah, he liked it a lot. Except
 . . .

He grimaced. Except it evidenced how much pressure she was under. Bess endured. She survived; took whatever life tossed her on the chin, then went on to pursue her goals. And no matter what happened, she never,
never,
showed her emotions like this. Definitely riding the edge. And knowing it aroused those husbandly instincts to nurture, to surround, and to protect her. She’d hate that. More likely than not, she’d throw one helluva fit. And that prospect stirred his blood. She’d never let him, or anyone else, see her riled, but he’d imagined it a million times. And when he did, few things could rival Bess. She was magnificent.

She left the room then headed down the stairs, struggling with her heavy luggage.

He followed her. The second time she misstepped and nearly tumbled, he couldn’t bite his tongue anymore. “I’d be happy to help with that.”