All I Want Is You Read online

  Amazing how intensely she felt it, that one tiny, scintillating touch, as it came over and over. Such a tiny movement—­and on that equally small spot on her body. But as they stayed still in every other way, the taut, sensitive tip of her breast felt like the biggest part of her.

  Well, except maybe for the area between her legs. It was as if a cord stretched from her breasts downward, each stroke of his thumb tugging at the needy, madly tingling spot that pulsed beneath her skirt.

  She’d never felt so comfortable with a man, so ready to connect. Suddenly, her relationship with Kyle seemed so . . . youthful, self-­indulgent—­even as nice as it had been. But with Jack, it was . . . about Jack. About who he was. About his body, but also about his heart, his mind. It was about things like sharing ice cream with him, or donuts on the motel’s dock. It was about the way he listened to her when she talked, the way he made her feel weak yet strong at the very same time. He’s the total package. He’s everything I could ever want in a man. Money be damned.

  When his hand dropped to the hem of her top, she was at first disappointed, missing it at her breast—­until she realized he was ready to start taking her clothes off. Her breath caught in her throat—­and then she pulled back slightly, ready to let him, ready to help him.

  “Lift your arms,” he rasped deeply—­and so she did, feeling gloriously open and eager as he removed the crocheted tank over her head, leaving her to stand before him in her flowy skirt and a transparent pale blue demi bra.

  It was her prettiest, sexiest bra, worn today merely because it worked well beneath this particular top, not because she could have anticipated this happening when she’d gotten dressed—­but now she was wildly thankful for the choice. She felt so pretty, the curves of her breasts rising feminine and round from the light blue cups, and she could see that reflected in his eyes as he gazed on her bareness. She wanted to bare herself to him even more.

  With that weighty desire pulsating through her every pore, she slowly reached up behind her for the bra’s hook, even as she kept her gaze locked on him. It hadn’t been long ago that she’d struggled to make eye contact with that beautiful blue gaze—­but that time had blessedly passed. As had the time for waiting.

  And heaven rested a mere heartbeat away as she deftly unhooked the bra, felt it loosen around her, then lifted her hands to her shoulders, ready to pull it off—­when Jack said, “Christy, honey—­don’t.”

  She tensed. Don’t? “Wh-­why not?”

  Because you want to take it off me instead? Please say it’s that. Please please please.

  She watched him take a deep breath—­and felt her heart beginning to implode even before he said, “Because I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  “The horror of that moment,” the King

  went on, “I shall never, never forget!”

  Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

  Chapter 13

  CHRISTY STOOD before him frozen in horror. Of so many kinds. Frustration that bordered on agony. Embarrassment that—­oh God—­he was really turning her down again. And hurt. There was no other way to describe that part of it—­it simply hurt, so unbelievably much that she wondered how she would survive it.

  As her lower lip began to tremble, she bit down on it, trying not to let him see. Not that that was enough to help this situation even one iota. She wanted desperately to rehook her bra, but she couldn’t do it from this angle and could only hold it helplessly in place over her breasts. She’d never felt so rejected in her life.

  Trying to swallow back her pain, a spark of anger erupted from her. “Why did you have to start kissing me? Why did you even start this at all?” She could no longer meet his gaze—­what had become easy and effortless had now grown impossible again. At some point her eyes had become stuck on his chest because, hot and masculine though it was, it still seemed a safer place to look.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” he said. “I . . . didn’t mean to exactly. I didn’t plan it. It’s just that you’re . . . really beautiful when you’re passionate about something, that’s all.”

  She pulled in her breath, both flattered and bewildered—­and Anna’s words came back to her. About going for it. About never knowing how things would have gone if you didn’t. So even now, even as reckless as it seemed, she didn’t hold back. “I’m passionate about you, Jack.”

  He let out a heavy breath. And her heart beat so hard it hurt.

  “I’m passionate about you, too, Christy,” he said. “Believe me, I am. I just . . .”

  “What?” she demanded.

  Now it was he who looked away, dropping his gaze to the flowered print of her skirt. “Maybe I’m just worried about . . . attachment.”

  “Attachment?” she asked.

  He spoke more directly this time. “Maybe I’m worried that I’ll get attached to you, or you’ll get attached to me.”

  I’m already attached to you. But this time she held the words in. Since putting it on the line didn’t seem to be working in this case. Who’d have thought getting lucrative consignment deals for her jewelry would be so much easier than giving herself to a man—­and getting him to take her.

  Somehow Anna’s simple story had made Christy believe that if she put her heart out there for him to see, she’d find out he loved her, too. Anna had made it sound . . . hard, and yet at the same time so very simple. Like the happy ending would just come if you willed it to. So where was her happy ending? And why had she been so foolish to believe it could be that easy?

  Instead of saying any of that, though—­instead of forcing out any more honesty and openness—­now she found herself trying to deal in logic. “I thought you said we’d come to Florida and see what happened. That we’d let things take their course, go with the flow. You’re stopping the flow.”

  He looked so pained for her now that she knew her own pain was written all over her face. It didn’t matter what she said—­she’d already made herself as vulnerable as a person could be. And the thing about vulnerability was—­once it was out there, you couldn’t take it back. She couldn’t take it back. Anymore than she could rehook her bra.

  “That seemed like a good idea at the time,” Jack said, eyes still fraught with distress. “But I’m not sure it’s that simple now. I mean, it’s like I said—­I’m afraid . . . one of us will get attached.”

  “Don’t you think,” she began desperately albeit still logically, “that most sex attaches ­people? In some way? Even if they pretend it doesn’t?” Oh crap, what was she doing? Spilling her heart out onto the floor some more, that was all. And maybe saying things she didn’t even really know she felt until this very moment. “And the truth is—­I wouldn’t want to have sex with anyone I might not get attached to. It’s a connection. It’s supposed to mean something. Even if the whole world has tried to make it into nothing more than a recreational activity.” She stopped, sighed, let her gaze drop—­because she realized she’d met his eyes again in the course of spewing out all this stupid honesty. And she felt all the more naked, but it had nothing to do with her state of undress.

  When she next spoke, her voice went softer. “Or that’s how it feels to me anyway. So if getting attached sounds so horrible to you, then I guess it’s just as well you stopped.”

  The accusing words hung heavy in the air between them, Christy wondering how her greatest success had been so quickly squelched by the agony of rejection, until Jack said quietly, “It’s not that I don’t want to get attached to you, Christy. It’s that . . . that I’m just not sure it’s wise.”

  Oh. Oh God. She got it now. Finally. How had she been so thick-­headed?

  She’d forgotten the ideas she’d let Jack have about her. She’d forgotten that maybe these last nice days still hadn’t made him see past that. “You still think I’m awful,” she said quietly.

  “It’s not that,” he claimed. “I know you now.
And I’m not judging you for anything.”

  “Then why . . .” God, this was hard to ask. Because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. “Why don’t you want to be attached to me?”

  “Because . . .” He stopped, shook his head, looked exasperated. When she thought she was very clearly the one who deserved be exasperated here. “I can’t explain.”

  Oh brother. Was he serious? “Try,” she demanded.

  He let out a tired-­sounding breath. “Because . . . I know it sounds all easy and fun and sexy right now. But what happens when we get back to Cincinnati and you find what you were looking for before we got here? What happens when you find your rich guy?” He shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other. “I just don’t want anybody to get hurt here, okay?”

  Christy had run out of replies. She was weary of baring her soul to him. She was tired of hearing that he didn’t believe in her—­since apparently believing in her ability to sell jewelry successfully was a whole different thing than believing in her as a person. Even if it was her own fault he’d ever gotten those ideas in his head, she didn’t care—­she was tired of letting him see the real her and finding out it didn’t matter.

  So she was ready to end this conversation and just try to figure out how to push on through the rest of this trip from where they now stood. And despite herself, it turned out that led to her spilling one more piece of heart-­baring honesty. As she bent to pick up her crocheted tank, still holding her bra in place with one hand, she said, “I’m going in the bathroom now to get my top back on. But for your information—­if you got attached to me, if . . . if I thought you cared for me and wanted something real with me, Jack . . . well, if that ever happened, there isn’t a rich guy in the world who could take me away from you.”

  And with that she stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Jack stood in the middle of their motel room staring at the door that had shut in his face, wondering what the hell just happened. Mainly the last part—­what she’d just said. He swallowed back the emotions battling within him and tried to replay it in his mind, make sure he’d heard her correctly.

  Because if he had, she was saying . . . she was crazy about him. That this wasn’t just about fun and wasn’t just about sex. That it mattered to her. That he mattered.

  And maybe if he was honest with himself, he’d known that all along, or at least picked up on it somewhere along the way. But the totally new part here was . . . she was saying he mattered enough. Enough that she didn’t care whether or not he had money.

  And that—­that was . . . huge.

  And yet . . . could he trust it? He’d trusted Candy once, and even if she’d had good intentions, she just hadn’t been mature enough to know her own heart.

  But damn, he wanted to trust Christy. With everything in him. He wanted to let go of all his worries, all his fears, and just be in this, all the way.

  He let out the breath he’d accidentally been holding since she closed herself up in the bathroom. Yeah, what she’d just said was huge, but there was so much else to think about here. He’d just hurt and embarrassed her. She had every right to be angry with him. He’d been all wrapped up in worrying about the ramifications of going forward without considering the ramifications of . . . not. He’d tricked himself into believing that stopping protected them both when, in fact, it had injured her pretty damn badly. He’d realized it too late, when there was no way to fix it, no way to rescue her from standing there half undressed and looking like a wounded animal.

  Hell, this was a lot to juggle in his head at once. What a fucking mess he’d created. With a girl he really cared about. Not that anyone would know it from the decisions you make with her. God, the full measure of what he’d just done to her hit him harder with each passing second.

  How was he going to repair things here?

  He had no idea.

  But he had to do something.

  So he squared his shoulders and walked closer to the door. “Um . . . did you want to go to the Hungry Fisherman? The early bird special is probably over, but we could get the buffet anyway, my treat.”

  The sound of her harrumph echoed through the door.

  God, I’m lame. Trying to make up with cheap seafood. “Or . . . we could go somewhere else. Anyplace you want.” That was better.

  After a pause lengthy enough to keep him on edge, she finally issued a terse reply. “I’m not in the mood to go out now.” Because you made me feel like shit. She didn’t say that part, but he heard it just the same.

  “I . . . can go get something if you want.”

  And when she didn’t answer, he realized he had to say more—­he had to get real here and go deeper than talking about food.

  “Christy, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to be an ass. But . . . I’m trying to make up here, and . . . you’ve gotta eat something. So let me take you to dinner—­or at least bring something back, okay?”

  And just when he’d decided she still wasn’t going to answer and that he’d really blown things to bits with her, one quietly spoken word echoed through the door. “Pizza.”

  And his heart relaxed just a little. “Pizza’s great!” he said. “In or out?”

  “In,” she said. “I just feel like keeping to myself tonight, and I should work on my jewelry anyway.”

  “That’s totally cool,” he said. Then he told her once more, “Anything you want.”

  Of course, maybe he should have taken that simple anything-­you-­want attitude a few minutes ago. But he hadn’t, and despite himself, he still felt the reasons why. Stronger than ever now.

  And if you keep passing up sex with a gorgeous, sexy-­as-­hell girl who wants you like crazy with no promises and no commitments, then . . . it must mean you’re pretty damn crazy about her, too.

  And that meant . . . he had a lot of thinking to do.

  CHARLIE had had a good day. And it just kept getting better. First, he’d gone fishing on the pier with Jack, John Romo, and Anna’s boyfriend, Duke. Other than the fact that his knees ached and he was tired as hell from so much distance on the walker, he’d felt . . . downright normal. No, better than normal. He felt alive. Like maybe there was something left and it wasn’t all just about waiting to die now.

  He and John had split the day’s catch, and a few of the evening nurses had taken him and the other patients in his wing out on one of the patios, where they’d grilled them up and made a regular picnic out of it. Mr. Ritter from across the hall hadn’t been able to quit talking about how long it had been since he’d tasted fresh fish and how much he envied Charlie the outing today, and Nurse Angie had suggested that maybe they could start organizing more off-­premise activities in small groups for the patients who were physically able. Mrs. Glass, a frail-­looking and usually silent woman had looked across the picnic table at him several times to say things like, “Good fish,” and “This is nice. Real nice.” All in all, he felt like his little adventure today had brought a lot of good to a lot of ­people when he’d least expected it. He’d have to thank Jack again—­and Christy, too, for suggesting it.

  And if that wasn’t enough, after he’d gotten back to his room a little while ago, Christy had called to surprise him with some news—­she’d made awfully big progress in her jewelry business today. “I wanted to tell you in person tomorrow, but decided I couldn’t wait,” she’d said, then filled him in on the details. He told her he couldn’t be prouder of her and he’d meant it. She was a resilient girl, but he felt, just in the short time she’d been here, as if he was seeing something new and strong begin to blossom inside her.

  Though there had been an odd underlying sadness in her voice. He hadn’t wanted to pry, so he’d written it off to her being tired—­but now he wondered if it had to do with her feelings for Jack.

  He hoped Jack had heard him today, really heard him. But it wasn’t his place
to try to push them together—­all he could do was try to make sure both of their heads were in the right place about certain aspects of the situation. Damn, he regretted ever letting his sweet grandgirl know about his financial hardship—­he’d never meant for her to take it on as her personal responsibility.

  One of the big problems in the world was that ­people tried to take on too much for other ­people. All in the name of helping and caring. Sometimes plenty of good came from that, sure. Sometimes ­people really needed help. And there were certain folks who thrived on that kind of giving. But mostly, he believed it was best to let ­people take care of the biggest parts of their own dilemmas and responsibilities. Because he thought most ­people were more capable than they realized. And because it was when you started taking care of others that you sometimes forgot to take care of yourself.

  He was afraid that was what Christy had done by taking on his burden. He only hoped he’d said enough to fix that. And seeing his granddaughter go after what she really wanted with her jewelry gave him a lot of hope that she’d work things out in her life for the best.

  A look out his room’s wide window allowed him a last glimpse of a purple sky before it faded entirely to black. And somehow that ethereal purple glow took him back to a particular night in his youth in Destiny, a night that had also been about dilemma and responsibility.

  It had started innocently enough with Susan that summer he and his father had built her husband’s barn. They seldom saw Mr. King at all—­he worked in faraway fields from sunup until dark. But the new barn sat close enough to the house that Susan brought them out sandwiches for lunch, wrapped in gingham cloth in a basket, and more bottles of Coke. Sometimes she would linger, quietly watch them work from a distance. And he’d liked just having her near, feeling her eyes on him, feeling her interest in what he was doing.