silence. Desiree heard the house creak as it settled. The wind howled and whistled and rattled her windowpanes. The furnace kicked on. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
Two sleepless hours later Desiree sat bolt upright, shoved the covers off and lowered her feet over the side of the bed, searching for her slippers in the glow from the tiny night-light that burned beside her bed.
“Damn!” she muttered. “Damn!”
She had spent two hours lying there pretending to sleep. Maybe a cup of hot chocolate would help. She opened the door to her bedroom and swore again. Apparently Carter had turned off the light she always left burning in the living room. It was her own fault, because she hadn’t told him to leave it on. But that meant she either had to brave the dark or turn on a light upstairs in order to see and take the risk of waking Carter.
Frankly, the darkness was less terrifying than the thought of facing a rudely awakened Carter when she was wearing a frayed silk nightgown, a chenille robe and tufted terry-cloth slippers. Desiree knew her naturally curly hair was a tumble of gnarled tresses worthy of a Medusa, and since she had washed off her makeup, her scar would be even more vivid.
She knew the spots on the stairs that would groan when stepped on. She had learned them as a child so she wouldn’t awaken her parents when she snuck down to shake her Christmas presents and try to determine what they were. She slid her hand down the smooth banister, walking quietly, carefully. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned on the tiny light that was usually always lit.
With the light, it was easy to make her way to the kitchen. The old refrigerator hummed as she opened it, and there was a slight clink as the bottles of ketchup and pickles on the door shifted. Even though she was careful, the copper-bottomed pot she planned to use to heat the milk clanked as she freed it from the stack in the cabinet beside the sink.
She was standing at the stove with her back to the kitchen door, when she heard footsteps in the hallway.
Someone was in the house!
Her heart galloped as she searched frantically for somewhere to hide, a place to escape. Then she realized Nicole was trapped upstairs. In order to get to her daughter she would have to confront whoever was in the house. She was halfway to the kitchen threshold, when she halted. Her hand gripped her robe and pulled it closed at the neck. She stared, wild-eyed, at the man in the doorway.
When she realized it was only Carter, bare-chested, barefoot, wearing a half-buttoned pair of frayed jeans that hung low on his hips, she almost sobbed with relief.
“Desiree? It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing down here? Are you all right?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I—”
He didn’t wait for her explanation, just crossed the distance between them and enfolded her in his arms.
Desiree stood rigid. She was aware of the heat of him, the male scent of him. She was appalled by the way her nipples peaked when they came in contact with his naked chest. She became certain that he must be able to feel her arousal, even through the layers of cloth that covered her, when she felt the hard ridge growing in his low-slung jeans.
“Desiree,” he murmured.
As his arms tightened around her, memories of the past rose up to choke her. And she panicked.
“No! Don’t touch me! Let me go!” Desiree struggled to be free of Carter’s constraining hold. She slapped at his face, beat at him with her fists, shoved and writhed to be free. But his hold, although gentle, was inexorable.
Desiree didn’t scream. She had learned not to scream. There was no one who would come to her rescue; she would have to save herself. She continued fighting until she finally realized through her panic that although he refused to release her, Carter wasn’t hurting her. At last, exhausted, she stood quivering in his arms, like a wild animal caught in a trap it realizes it cannot escape.
“There, now. That’s better,” Carter crooned. “Easy now. Everything’s gonna be all right now. You’re fine. You’re just fine.”
As Desiree recovered from her dazed state, she became aware that Carter was speaking in a low, husky voice. She was being held loosely in his arms, and his hands were rubbing her back as though she were a small child. She looked up and saw the beginning of a bruise on his chin and the bloody scratches on his face and froze.
“I hurt you,” she said.
“You’ve got a wicked right,” he agreed with a smile. He winced as the smile teased a small cut in his lip.
“I’m so sorry.”
He looked at her warily. “Would you like to explain what that commotion was all about?”
“No.”
His blue eyes narrowed. “No?”
“No.” For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to let her evade his question.
Then he sniffed and said, “Something’s burning.”
“My hot chocolate!” When she pulled away, he let her go. Desiree hurried to the stove, where the milk had burned black in the bottom of the pan. “Oh, no. Look at this mess!” She retrieved a pot holder and lifted the pot off the stove and settled it in the sink.
“You can make some more.”
“I don’t think I could sleep now if I drank a dozen cups of hot chocolate,” Desiree said in disgust.
“I heard a noise, and I came down to check it out,” Carter said in a crisp voice. “You’re the one who went crazy.”
“I didn’t—” Desiree cut herself off. Although she didn’t like the description, it fit her irrational behavior. She shoved a hand through her long brown hair and crossed the room to slump into one of the kitchen chairs. “Good Lord! I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”
Carter joined her at the table, turning a chair around and straddling it so he was facing her. “Do you think it would help to talk about it?”
Desiree wondered how much she should tell him. And how little he would settle for knowing. “My first marriage was a disappointment,” she admitted.
“I guessed something of the sort. How long were you married?”
“Two years. Then we divorced.”
“I was married for five years.”
“You were married?” Desiree didn’t know why she was so surprised. But she was. Suddenly she had a thought. Perhaps there was a good reason, after all, for Carter’s strange, distant behavior toward Nicole.
“Do you have children?”
“I have…had a five-year-old daughter. She died along with my wife in a car accident six years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” No wonder he didn’t want to be around Nicole! Her daughter must be an awful reminder of his loss. Desiree knew there really was no comfort she could offer, except to share with him her own grievous loss. “My parents died the same way.”
“I’m
