Upon a Mystic Tide (23 page)

“You swear?”

He blinked, then blinked again, his heart boulder-heavy at telling another lie. “Yeah, I swear.”

Her voice weakened to a reflection of sound. “On your mother’s grave?”

Oh God.
Oh God.
Pain
seared through him. He couldn’t lie. He couldn’t—and Elise knew it. He’d have to follow through on this. There was so much he wanted to say. So much, and yet the words wouldn’t come. If the dam broke, and he let the emotions walled behind it out, he’d never recover. She’d be comforting him instead of him comforting her. He couldn’t do it. But he could try with Bess. For Elise. He
could
try. “I swear.”

“Good. Good.” She swallowed hard, and groaned. “It hurts, John. Dying with dignity is so hard. I’ve lain here and regretted things I haven’t thought of in years.” She rubbed a fingertip over his thumb. “Remember the day I hired you to find Dixie?”

He nodded. “I remember.” He’d been elated. Finally, his break had come. His chance to prove himself. “I’m so sorry she isn’t here with you now.”

Elise stiffened. “You won’t give up. I knew it then, and I know it now. You’ll find my—” She gasped, reached up to touch his face, her blue-veined hand trembling.

A knot of raw terror slid up his throat, slammed against his ribs. “Elise?”

He palmed her fragile fingers against his jaw, his heart thumping like a jackhammer, threatening to burst through the wall of his chest. “Elise?”

“It
 . . .
hurts.”

She’s lingering for you.
A man’s voice sounded inside John’s mind.
Tell her it’s all right to go. Tell her you’ll be okay.

I won’t be okay. I’ll be alone!

Tell her, John. Give her peace.

Peace. Oh God, peace.
His conscience was right. She deserved peace—and so much more. Tears slid down his face, wetting their entwined fingertips on his jaw.
God, please! Give me the strength to let her go. Help me!

He dug deep, pulled up courage and gentled his voice, praying it’d be steady. “It’s okay, Elise.” Nothing should bring a person this kind of pain. Nothing! “I’ll be all right.”

He’d never be all right again. Never. He had no one left to lose. “You can
 . . .
”
Oh God, could he do this?

You can, John. Help her. You can.

He let his gaze lovingly embrace her, taking each line, each impression of her face into his heart and memory, knowing that too soon his memories would be all he had left of her. He’d miss her so much.

For God’s sake, John. She’s suffering. Help her!

Crumbling inside, cursing the cancer killing her, he swallowed a hard lump from his throat. “Let go now, Elise. It’s
 . . .
all right.” He blinked hard and fast. “I—I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”

Relief shone in her eyes. “I
 . . .
lo
 . . .
” Her hand fell slack.

And in her open palm lay a single flower petal from a yellow carnation.

He clasped their hands, palm to palm, crushing the flower between them. The dam inside him burst and the things he wanted to say spilled out on a rush of breath. “Oh God, Elise. I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry I never told you that I love you. I’m so sorry—”

She stared at him through sightless eyes. She couldn’t hear him anymore. Hadn’t heard him tell her he loved her.

She was gone.

Internally, his guttural moan of mourning grew to a tortured keening. Raw and wounded, he clenched her frail fingers tightly, leaned his forehead against her still breast, and cried.

The funeral had been held on Wednesday.

Not that it would have mattered to Elise, but all the New Orleans elite attended. It was the first time John saw some of the self-indulgent of the bunch sober, much less solemn. Their reverence, like their affection for her, pleased him. He’d been adamant that only those wishing to pay sincere last respects to Elise Dupree would be welcome in St. John’s Church or at the cemetery for the graveside service. Everyone cooperated, with the exception of Millicent Fairgate, who mourned a little too enthusiastically to be genuine. John had expected she would. The woman was a vulture and, now that Elise was gone, Millicent would reign as society’s new matriarch. But she would never, never, hold a candle to Elise.

Elise had assumed the crème de la crème embraced her because of her powerful connections, but the truth was the woman had been respected and loved. Knowing it would have stunned her, and that gentle, unassuming quality had been but one of many which had drawn him and others to her. Everyone had come to support John—except Bess. He’d hated her for not coming, never dreaming she hadn’t known about the funeral. But she was here now. Giving him now the support he’d needed then—and more.

She didn’t prod him. Instinctively, she seemed to know he had to relive this to collect his thoughts. To make sure that this time he said all he wished he’d have said then. He thought he might just love her for that.

Ready, John raised up onto a bent elbow and looked down at her face. “I loved you, Elise. I don’t know why I was afraid to tell you that. Maybe I thought you’d stop caring about me. I never told you a lot of things I meant to tell you.”

“What things?”

“How much I admired you, for one. No matter how many times the FBI insisted Dixie had left, you had faith in your daughter, and you stuck with the search. You never stopped believing in her. You were a good mother, Elise. The best.”

“What else?”

Bess didn’t sound like Bess. Her voice had deepened to a rough rasp. Was she crying? “I should have thanked you for not giving up on me. You never did. Not even when you were facing death without your daughter. I’m so sorry I didn’t find her in time to be there with you then. I’ll always regret that.”

“Anything else?”

Not a trace of bitterness lingered in Bess’s voice. What had changed? “I’ll miss you.” He pressed a kiss to Bess’s forehead, his voice as gritty as sandpaper, his heart doubly raw. “I’ll never forget you, and I’ll miss you until the day I die.”

Bess pulled herself up and wrapped her arms around him. “I’ll miss you, too.”

Whether she was speaking for herself or for Elise, John didn’t know. He didn’t want to know; the words were precious to him either way, and would be for a long time to come.

He held her for a long moment, letting the hurtful hold on his heart ease. When Bess drew back, he forced himself to let her go: a damned hard thing to do.

She lay back against her pillow and adjusted the covers. “Do you feel better?”

“Yeah.” She’d said it for Elise. To comfort him. And Bess
had
comforted him. Yet a tiny part of him suffered a sharp stab of disappointment that she wouldn’t be the one missing him.

He lay back down. Playing this role game had to have been hard for her. She’d openly admitted she’d envied Elise. And yet Bess had done it. For him. Just for him. “Thanks, Bess.”

She didn’t answer; he guessed she’d fallen asleep. The minutes stretched out and his lids grew droopy, though with her in his bed, smelling of
Ritz
and wearing only that flimsy robe that taunted him with all he was missing, how in God’s name he was supposed to sleep, he hadn’t a clue.

A good half-hour later, she whispered, “Jonathan?”

An adrenaline rush surged through his veins. “Hmmm?”

“Are you all right?”

She meant about Elise. “I’m fine, Bess.” Fine? He was losing his mind. Awash in memories of kissing her, holding her, being held by her. Memories of his hands and mouth caressing her body, of him sinking deep inside her, and her cradling his warmth. Memories of her eager for him
 . . .
and loving.

“Good.” She turned from her back onto her side.

Three minutes ticked by, then ten. He tried to be patient, knowing she’d get to the heart of whatever was preying on her mind in her own time. Working through it at their current rate of progress, she’d spill it out along about dawn.

“Jonathan?” Her whisper sounded even softer, as if maybe she hoped he’d be asleep and didn’t want to risk waking him.

Another adrenaline kick. “Hmmm?”

“Since you’re okay now, can I have my hug?” She drew in a sharp breath. “I’m—I’m not
 . . .
okay.”

Too emotional to speak, he opened his arms, but, he swore, not his heart.

Bess breathed against John’s neck. “I don’t love you anymore.”

“Of course not.”

She quirked a brow at him. “Are you mocking me?”

“No. I’m a logical man, Bess.” He curled his arm around her shoulder and drew her closer to his chest. The sheet bunched between them. “I know your feelings have changed. Hell, we’ve changed. How could our feelings be the same?”

They had changed. Though she was scared stiff, being in John’s bed and feeling his strong arms around her, well, it helped to keep the demons away. Right now, with it storming outside, she couldn’t think about Tony or his
boo.
She didn’t dare to think about it or she’d fall apart.

John let out a little sigh.

Irked that she lay in his arms nearly tattered and he could sound so content, she didn’t fight feeling grumpy. Let him hear it, by gum. “I don’t want you, either.”

“Of course not.”

She couldn’t tell for sure but she had a sneaking suspicion the foul man smiled. He clearly knew she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. And because he was under the misconception that she was in love with Miguel, she didn’t know whether to be insulted or comforted by that. A flighty female in love with one man, lusting after another, or a fool in lust with the man she was divorcing. Pretty sorry choices. And darn tragic. At least John wasn’t calling her a liar to her face.

But he knew she’d lied.

And he knew that she knew he knew she’d lied.

Well, hell. Either way, she looked like a fool. She frowned down at his chest. Her heart raced like a rabbit’s, but his rose and fell in smooth and even rhythms. That unfairness irritated her, and she deepened her frown. “I don’t love you, I don’t want you, I’m not backing down on the settlement or accepting your proposition, and I’m leaving here just as soon as Jimmy gets my car fixed.”

“I know, I know, you’ll back down or stay married to me, and I expected you would leave.” He sighed. “And it’s a proposal, not a proposition.”

What the heck was the difference? The end result was the same. And why didn’t he sound bothered by her refusal? If he was hell-bent on this proposal—proposition is what it was, and at least one of them should call a spade a spade—why did he sound so calm about her leaving him? Actually, the man sounded bored, which didn’t do her disposition a bit of good. “Well, you were right. I will leave. Just as soon—”

“As Jimmy fixes your car.” John inhaled deeply and rubbed her arm, shoulder to elbow. “I heard you, Bess.”

Bored and indifferent; the manners of a pig. “Right.”

He turned, pinning her to the bed. Hovering over her, chest to breasts, he whispered against her mouth. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying, Jonathan,” she insisted, knowing darn well she was lying through her teeth. If she went home now, she’d next see John across a courtroom, be tossed in jail for nonpayment of the fine. She had to stay out of Louisiana until she figured out a way around Judge Branson’s order. Francine wasn’t going to be a bit of help. And John’s kind of help was worse than offensive. What kind of man propositioned his wife, for God’s sake? And what was she going to do to get out of this first-rate fix?

“Either tell me the truth or I’ll kiss it out of you, Bess. That’s a promise.”

Cursing her fluttering heart, she let out an indelicate snort. “Sounds like a threat.”

“Whatever.” He rubbed the end of her nose with his chin. “It’s a fact.”

Arrogant jerk. He knew the effect he had on her and he was taunting her with it. Again. Bess sighed. Why did he take such pleasure in humiliating her? “All right, I’m lying. I do want you. But I don’t want to want you, and that’s the truth. In fact, I resent wanting you. It makes me angry with me, and with you—which is only fair since you don’t want me and yet you’re doing everything humanly possible to entice me to want you. I really don’t understand why you’re doing that when—”

“I never said I didn’t want you,” he interrupted her lengthy monologue. “How did you twist around my proposal and draw that conclusion?”

“For two weeks, you want me.” She sounded disgruntled, and she was disgruntled—and just fed up enough to not give a flying fig who knew it anymore. The man would probably go to his grave laughing at her because she’d been so easy to humiliate and rattle and yet she still wanted him. He’d surely be telling jokes about her long after he hit heaven.

He cupped her face in his hands. “If the two weeks bit bothers you, we can eliminate it as an obstacle.”

Her heart slowed to a deliberate thump. Did he mean he wanted her back forever, then? She studied him to make sure he wasn’t baiting her, but there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Its absence confused her. He
was
angry with her, she’d have to be an idiot not to see that, but he did want her. She’d felt it in his kiss, seen it in his eyes far too often during their good times to deny seeing it now. Yet he was holding back from her; that she didn’t see but sensed, and it had her wary of him and of his motives. “The time stipulation doesn’t sit well with me and, if I didn’t admit it, I wouldn’t be honest.”

“No problem.” A devilish lilt in his voice left her breathless. “If it makes my settlement offer easier to swallow, we can cut the time back to one week.”

She shoved him away from her. “You are one sorry jerk, John Mystic.”

He laughed, the demented man. Couldn’t he tell she was furious with him? “I came to you for comfort, damn it. Not for you to seduce me, or to threaten me—or to humiliate me. I’ve had quite enough of that lately without you adding more, thank you very much.”

John stilled, his cobalt blue eyes no longer twinkled in the lamp light. Now they glittered with an anger so intense it had her wincing. “Who’s humiliated you?”

“Who hasn’t?” she spat. “And anyone who missed will certainly get another chance when the media gets a hold of this dog-custody lawsuit of yours.”

His voice dropped a notch. “You can avoid it. You have a choice, Bess.”

She snorted. “Some choice.”

“Jail and bad press, or me. Those are your options.”

“Yes, they are.” With a sigh that ruffled the linens, she jerked at the quilt, leaving him as bare as the day he was born. “I should be furious with you for pulling this stunt.”

He stacked his hands behind his head. “You are furious with me.”

“I mean even more furious than I am, and I darn well shouldn’t be coming to you, especially not to you in your bed, for comfort.” Determination lit in her eyes and she tossed back the quilt then rolled toward the edge of the mattress.

“Comfort?” John pulled her back. “From the storm?”

“Yes,” Bess licked at her lips and scooted farther away from him, “but not the one raging outside.” This storm raged within, and attacked her on all fronts. She had so many worries and fears she didn’t know which to fight first. And that had her feeling overwhelmed, and too weary to fight any of them. “I really just want you to hold me.” God, but that was hard to admit. And she’d done it in a whimper, no less. Again, she could kiss off grace. Yet, she didn’t regret it. He’d understand now that she really was asking him for that which her parents had trained her never to ask from anyone. That god-awful, weakness-provoking “H” word. And John would be decent about it. He wouldn’t force her to say the word
help.
He’d give her what she needed without making her ask; he always had.

“Just to hold you?” He laughed in her face. “Now what would your sorry Spaniard think about that?”

Miguel wouldn’t be in the least surprised, Bess supposed, but, grumpy and embarrassed, she didn’t disclose that tidbit to Jonathan. Couldn’t he react as she expected him to—as he would have before—just once?

“Never mind. You don’t have to speculate.” John let out a sigh and took her into his arms. “If my wife wants comfort then, by God, I’ll give it to her.”

“Grudgingly,” she muttered against the crook in his neck.

“Don’t push, Bess.”

“I’m sorry.” She truly was. He didn’t sound very controlled, though he clearly tried to, and he didn’t sound very compassionate either. But at least he was holding her and that, shameful as it was, did bring the comfort she sought and make all her troubles a little easier to bear. Maybe, if he held her long enough, she could sort through them and figure out what the hell she was going to do. Right now, her biggest worry was Tony. She shivered hard.

“Are you cold?”

“Freezing,” she lied. Not being honest with John rankled but it disturbed her far less than the truth about this particular worry—and it would be far easier to discuss in the dark. She turned off the lamp.

John pulled her back into his arms, tight against his chest, then he slung a leg over her thighs. The heat was wonderful—and nearly as disturbing as her fear. That lust with a kick had her hormones rocketing to warp-speed mate-mode, and raging. “I could explain, but . . .”

Could she really?
Boo
from a man thought to be a telepath was pretty darn hard to believe, much less to explain. Especially to John. He would believe her, all right. He’d believe she’d gotten too tied up inside some patient’s head and had slipped beyond twilight herself. “I guess I can’t explain, after all.” Feeling forlorn, she plucked at the edge of the quilt. “Even to me, the whole thing sounds just too bizarre.”

John felt her despair. Tension had her neck muscles knotted. Her head against his chest, he rubbed at the lumps until they melted. Finally, he had a clue; in addition to all her other troubles, which even he admitted numbered many and no small part of them were due to him, she had come to some realization. About them? About herself? About Santos?

Tony had told John to expect
 . . .
Ah, hell. Tony.

She rubbed at John’s foot with the arch of hers. Glad that some things hadn’t changed, he pecked a kiss to her forehead then gave her an opening he half-hoped she wouldn’t take. This Tony situation
was
pretty bizarre. But it wasn’t threatening. “Bess, does this internal storm have something to do with your weird caller?”

“Tony?” she asked, sounding as weak as a beggar.

“Yeah.” Tony
had
been talking to her, too. He’d admitted that.

“Yes, it does.”

The anguish in her voice hit John hard. He rubbed tiny circles on her back. Should he admit that Tony also had been talking to him? With Tony’s cryptic messages, John felt as if he’d been plunked down in the middle of a play and no one had bothered giving him a copy of the script. He didn’t like it. Evidently, Bess didn’t like it either.

At least she wouldn’t think he was crazy. Small solace, and one he wasn’t convinced should be a solace. She’d been genuinely surprised that he’d felt offended at her siding with the FBI about Dixie and lacking faith in John’s judgment. Maybe Bess had learned something here. Maybe he should take the risk and see if now she would hold onto the faith.

The truth slammed into him like a hurricane’s storm surge hits the shore. Mystic tide. Leap. Island.

No, it couldn’t be that simple. Tony’s message couldn’t be that damn simple.

“Bess,” John made his decision. “Has he been talking to you
 . . .
without a phone?”

Bess sat up and clicked on the bedside lamp. Its pear-shaped shade had suffused light pooling on the nightstand and on the bed. She sat up, folded her long legs Indian-style, and faced John. “I do need to talk about this, but I don’t want you think I’m . . . unstable.”