to doubt his love. And when she had laughed in his face and told him he’d been a fool to think she’d ever marry a loser like him, all the love inside him had died. Murdered by her cruelty.
Ashe got up and walked over to Deborah. He wanted to touch her, to put his arms around her and draw her close. She stood there, her shoulders trembling, her neck arched, her head tilted upward. Was she crying? He couldn’t bear it if she was crying.
“Deborah?”
She couldn’t speak; unshed tears clogged her throat. Shaking her head, she waved her hands at her sides, telling him to leave her alone.
“I did not pretend you were Whitney.” He reached out to touch her, but didn’t. He dropped his hand to his side. “I might’ve had a few drinks to dull the pain that night, but I knew who you were and I knew what I was doing.”
“You were—” she gasped for air “—using me.”
How could he deny the truth? He had used her. Used her to forget another woman’s heartless rejection. Used her to salve his bruised male ego. Used her because she’d been there at his side, offering her comfort, her love, her adoration.
“Yeah, you’re right. I used you. And that’s what I regretted. I regretted taking advantage of you, of stealing your innocence. But I didn’t regret the loving.”
The unshed tears nearly choked her. The pain of remembrance clutched her heart. He didn’t regret the loving? Was that what he’d just said?
He grabbed her shoulders in a gentle but firm hold. She tensed, every nerve in her body coming to full alert. She couldn’t bear for him to touch her, yet couldn’t bring herself to pull away.
“I told you I was sorry for what happened, that I regretted what I’d done.” Ashe couldn’t see Deborah’s face; she kept her back to him. But in his mind’s eye he could see plainly her face eleven years ago. There in the moonlight by the river, her face aglow with the discovery of sexual pleasure and girlish love, she had crumpled before his very eyes when he’d begged her to forgive him, told her that what happened had been a mistake. She had cried, but when he’d tried to comfort her, she had lashed out at him like a wildcat. He’d found himself wanting her all over again, and hating himself for his feelings.
“I’ve never felt so worthless in my life as I did that night.” Deborah balled her hands into fists. She wanted to hit Ashe, to vent all the old bitterness and frustration. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he’d left her pregnant and she hated him for not caring, for never being concerned about her welfare or the child he had given her.
He turned her around slowly, the stiffness in her body unyielding. She faced him, her chin lifted high, her eyes bright and glazed with a fine sheen of moisture.
“When I took you, I knew it was you. Do you understand? I wanted you. Not Whitney. Not any other woman.”
“But you said…you said—”
“I said it shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have. I didn’t love you, not like I should have. I couldn’t offer you marriage. What I did was wrong.”
She quivered from head to toe, clinching her jaws tightly, trying desperately not to cry. She glared at him, her blue eyes accusing him.
Dear God, he had hurt her more than he’d ever known. After all these years, she hadn’t let go of the pain. Was that why she’d gone to her father? Is that why she’d accused him of raping her? Or had she accused him? Was it possible that the rape charges had been Wallace’s idea? The thought had crossed his mind more than once in the past eleven years.
“Neither of us can change the past,” he said. “We can’t go back and make things right. But I want you to know how it really was with me. With us.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not any more.” She tried to pull away from him; he held her tight.
“Yes, it does matter. It matters to me and it matters to you.”
“I wish Mother had never brought you back.” Deborah closed her eyes against the sight of Ashe McLaughlin, his big hands clasping her possessively.
“She’s doomed us both to hell, hasn’t she?” Ashe jerked Deborah into his arms, crushing her against him. “I would have made love to you a second time that night and a third and fourth. I wanted you that much. Do you understand? I never wanted anything as much as I wanted you that night. Not Whitney. Not my college degree. Not being successful enough to thumb my nose at Sheffield’s elite.”
Her breathing quickened. Her heart raced wildly. She wanted to run. She wanted to throw her arms around Ashe. She wanted to plead with him to stop saying such outrageous things. She wanted him to go on telling her how much he’d wanted her, to tell her over and over again.
“Why…why didn’t you tell me? That night? All you kept saying was that you were sorry.” Deborah leaned into him, unable to resist the magnetic pull of his big body.
“You wanted me to tell you I loved you. I couldn’t lie to you, Deborah. I’d just learned that night that I didn’t know a damned thing about love.”
“Ashe?”
He covered her lips with his own. She clung to him, returning his kiss with all the pent-up passion within her. The taste of her was like a heady wine, quickly going to his head. It had been that way eleven years ago. The very touch of Deborah Vaughn intoxicated him.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth, gripped the back of her head with one hand and slipped the other downward to caress her hip. He grew hard, his need pulsing against her. She wriggled in his arms, trying to get closer. Their tongues mated in a wet, daring dance. A prelude to further intimacy.
When they broke the kiss to breathe, Ashe dropped his hand to her neck, circling the back with his palm. His moist lips sought and found every sweet, delicious inch of her face.
Deborah flung her head back, exposing her neck as she clung to him, heat rising within her, setting her aflame. Ashe delved his tongue into the V of her blouse, nuzzling her tender flesh with his nose. Reaching between them, he undid the first button, then the second, his lips following the path of his fingers.
A loud blast rent the still autumn air. Ashe knocked Deborah to the ground, covering her body with his as he drew his 9mm out of his shoulder holster.
“Keep down, honey. Don’t move.”
“Ashe? What happened? Did—did someone shoot at us?” She slipped her arms around his waist.
Lifting his head, Ashe glanced around and saw nothing but an old red truck rounding the curve of the road, a trail of exhaust smoke billowing from beneath the bed. He let out a sigh of relief, but didn’t move from his position above Deborah. He waited. Listening. Looking in every direction, lifting himself on one elbow to check behind them.
“Ashe, please—”
“It’s all right.” After returning his gun to its holster, he lowered himself over her, partially supporting his weight with his elbows braced on the ground. “I’m pretty sure the noise was just a truck backfiring.”
“Oh.” She sighed, then looked up into Ashe’s softening hazel eyes. Eyes that only a moment before had been clear and trained
