She was embarrassed that he was seeing her small apartment like this. She usually kept it clean and cleansed, a tranquil space for reading, meditation, regrouping. But the clothes she’d worn to the club were still crumpled beside the coffee table, her purse left there. In the kitchen, dishes piled in the sink and dirty countertops showed the remains of the lackluster meals she’d made. Though he seemed to take all that in with a quick glance, his steps didn’t falter as he headed for her bedroom, following the easy-to-discern path to it.
She’d never had a man carry her. Didn’t even remember her deceased father doing that, because the last time it had happened she’d likely been too young to remember it. She’d scoffed at the way they did it in the movies, so smooth and easy, even if the woman wasn’t expecting it or resisted, which would, in reality, result in an awkward flurry of limbs, a hitch in his movements to handle her weight. With her yoga muscles, heavy breasts and curvy hips, she was a solid one-thirty, but he’d plucked her off her feet as if she weighed much less. But of course, this was a man who could easily hold his own weight on his arms.
She’d started shaking again and she didn’t want to fall to pieces. But it was as if her body and mind had been waiting specifically for this. While she was apprehensive, she couldn’t deny pretty much every part of her was glad to have him here. And that was bad.
Laying her down in the rumpled nest of covers, he planted his very fine backside on the edge of her bed, keeping her hemmed in. He glanced at the side table. “Aspirin and compresses?”
She shrugged. “It’s the best thing for helping it do what it needs to do. What are you doing here? And how did you…”
“I came to check on you. Leland and I know one another. He noticed my card in your purse and assumed something about you that I was more than pleased to have him assume. That you’re one of mine.”
Digesting the mortifying shock of him knowing Leland Keller took a moment. Then she blinked. “Excuse me?”
He put a hand on her face, the uninjured side. “Rachel, why did you do this?”
When he was little, her son had taken martial arts training. For some reason, at Jon’s direct look, the firmness in the hand on her cheek, she remembered one of Kyle’s instructors. He’d been gentle, careful, intelligent. Yet when he helped the boys spar, there was a concentration in his gaze that suggested it was best not to underestimate the power of a gentle, focused man.
She closed her eyes. “Jon, we can’t have this conversation. I can’t have this conversation. It was stupid and pointless. That part of my life was over a long time ago. I’d accepted it. It was just…”
“I started something I didn’t finish, and left you nowhere else to go.”
“No.” She opened her eyes immediately. “This was my stupid decision, Jon. You weren’t responsible. I appreciate you coming by to check on me, but…”
It was as if he were weighing the significance of every word that came from her mouth, noting every minute change in her expression, the uncomfortable shift of her body. Since he was sitting on her bed, his hip brushing her thigh, he now slid his hand from her cheek to her shoulder, his thumb resting on her collarbone. It effectively stopped her babbling. She couldn’t seem to continue, to tell him she was fine, that he needed to leave.
“Breathe,” he said. “Like when you start your class. Three count. And keep your eyes on mine.”
His thumb shifted so it was on the pulse in her throat, making short strokes there as she drew in a breath. She felt foolish, but she took that deep breath, drew it in for a count of three, even as she remained conscious of those two points of contact, his hand on her throat, his hip against her leg. When she let it out, emotion welled up in her chest, making it tighter. She got the second breath out, and it got worse, such that more tears spilled forth.
“I don’t want you to see this.” Her voice broke. “I can’t—”
“One more,” he said, not unkindly, though his hold on her throat increased, underscoring the relentless command.
It was a shudder of sobs, more than an indrawn breath, and as it crested, they broke. She’d cried a lot over the past day and a half, but this was different. This was the way a person cried when someone was there to hear, to help. Pulling her into his arms, he turned them so they were stretched out on the bed together, one of her arms wrapped around his back and the other around his neck, her face buried into his chest. He stroked her, crooned to her as she shook and cried, until she’d cried out the fear and shame, and was left limp with exhaustion.
If she was going to experience soul-deep weariness, she couldn’t have asked for better immediate surroundings. He smelled like sage and sandalwood aftershave, and beneath that, more faintly, something that was like motor oil and burning wood. His hair was under her fingertips, silk she was able to stroke in nervous movements, trying to regain her composure. Since he was wearing slacks and dress shirt, his tie loosened, she realized he’d come from work. Because she’d had her cheek pressed to the tie, it was now water spotted. Drawing back enough to see it, she saw it had a subdued silhouette pattern of dark blue dolphins against a deep ocean blue, like seeing the magical creatures leaping through the waves at night.
“I like your tie,” she rasped. She smoothed her hand over it, the man beneath. “What you said, ‘one of mine’. I don’t understand. I can’t—”
His hand closed over hers, held it still. “I want to know more about you before we start talking about me,” he said. That velvet voice became irresistible when it dropped to a rumble, like now. “What did you mean when you said this part of your life was over a long time ago? Have you served a Master before?”
He made it sound so normal. Of course, it was part of his life, like yoga class or going to work. It made her want to cry again, but she had no tears left.
“No. My husband…he and I divorced some time ago, and he wasn’t into that. I’ve never been able… I’m not really, either. I got confused. Chalk it up to midlife crisis.” Her other hand pleated and worried at the tie under his grasp. Her fingers were cold compared to his.
“Hmm. So if it’s never been a part of your life at all, why did you say this hasn’t been part of your life in a long time?” Catching both her hands now, he brought them into a prayer mudra and folded his over them, giving her warmth but also bringing her gaze up that pointed direction of their fingertips, to his penetrating gaze.
“Jon.” Why was she saying things she couldn’t possibly explain, to him or anyone? “It was a mistake. Can we please leave it there?”
“The only mistake you’re making right now is not trusting me.”
“I’m not going to tell a man young enough to be my son that sex hasn’t been part of my life for nearly six years.” Longer, if she counted when she’d stopped being able to enjoy it.
Then she realized what she’d said, and panic clutched her stomach. If he asked her about Kyle…
“All right,” he said gravely. “You don’t have to tell me that. But maybe you could tell me why. And I’m only old enough to be your son if you had me when you were barely a teenager.”
The relief that he hadn’t taken it as a direct reference to her being a mother was quickly replaced by another sick feeling. He was going to make her say it. Despite the blow to her already nonexistent pride, maybe it would push him the necessary step back from her. It still shamed her to speak the words.