He stopped in front of her. Whereas each time Jon’s gaze traveled over her, she felt vivid and alive, purely sensual, Cole’s raking perusal turned every exposed inch of her flesh into something crawling, putrefied.
A moment ago she’d felt gorgeous, a creature of pure sensation. Her still-damp hair had brushed her bare neck, curling blonde strands a sexy frame for her face. The erotic dress had held her generous breasts firmly, the high ride of the hem and stiletto heels showing off her toned, slim legs. Now her hair was a disheveled mess, the far-too-scanty dress and tottering heels revealing an older woman’s inappropriate foolishness. Her nipples were embarrassingly obvious.
As his focus moved over Jon’s collar on her throat, she almost cried out at the pain of having the significance of that stripped from her, tossed aside with no chance of grabbing it back. It was no different from a fancy poodle’s collar, something ridiculous instead of beautiful, full of personal meaning. Cinderella had been discovered by the stepsisters, and Cole’s gaze was their rough, cruel hands, tearing away all the pretty trappings to leave her a worthless cinder maid again.
“So I guess you found what you were looking for.” He spoke in a flat tone, and she had enough sense to think he might be in as much shock as she was. She managed to hold her position, but her knees were wobbling, and not from sensual overload. She couldn’t find a single word to say.
In the awkward silence, his face got hard, tight. “God, Rachel. I guess there’s at least one good thing about Kyle being dead. He never had to see his mother like this.”
At one time, she hadn’t realized that words, as well as silence, were weapons far more potent than a gun. They could tear open the heart far worse than a mortal wound. She’d known that, the day she’d fitted the gun under her chin. Only a spasm in her nervous hand had turned the weapon, shot the bullet not into her brain, but past her throat. After that, she’d figured out how to live with the horrible pain of spoken and unspoken wounds. But this took her back to all of that, reminded her what had pushed her to that awful, isolated day in her apartment.
Through the roaring pain, she was vaguely aware of Lucas being joined by Peter on the other side of her. She hadn’t even realized Peter had followed Jon out, but now she had a fortress of heated male muscle around her, as well as a heady, lethal aura of barely leashed fury. It pushed in on her, held her up like bracing a mannequin, but Lucas and Peter had stabilizing hands at her elbows, reinforcing it. Then Jon stepped squarely in front of her.
Chapter Seventeen
There wasn’t a lot of space between her and the man Jon knew had to be her ex-husband, but after hearing that last line, Jon moved into it without hesitation, forcing Cole back a step. While he might not have Peter’s shoulder breadth, his were wide enough to block Cole’s view of Rachel and focus him on the most important thing right now—his own well-being.
“You’ll walk away now, without another word.”
Like the men behind him, Jon excelled at what he did by correctly assessing others. Through the few guarded things she’d said, and his interpretation of those things, he found he’d had a pretty accurate picture of Cole. Perhaps at one time he’d been a man who’d loved his wife, but time had changed him, made him harder. Jon saw a resentful beta personality. Cole had likely seen himself as an alpha, and taken a wrong turn with it, probably in many aspects of his life. His son’s loss would have shut a lot of avenues down, made him even more bitter. Now Jon saw a cauldron of discontent and disappointment, and a bullheaded refusal to look inward to resolve any of it. It was everyone else’s fault, not Cole’s.
Before ten seconds ago, he could have pitied the man. But he’d heard the missile Cole had fired. The words had hit Rachel dead center, shattering her fragile confidence with bull’s-eye accuracy, for it had targeted the things she feared most about herself, as well as the unhealed wounds. Every scrap of joy and pleasure she’d earned tonight had been blasted away. He’d seen it happen right in front of his eyes, the tightening of her face, the anguish in her hazel eyes, the way her body almost crumpled in on itself in front of him, so that she was ashamed of everything about herself, inside and out. When that transition happened, his pity changed to something else.
The rational nature and pacific tolerance that characterized him was replaced by something Jon had rarely felt in his life. Since the others were so in tune with him, he wondered if Ben had stepped up to his side to support him or to prevent murder.
When Cole’s expression got surly, probably fueled by a six-pack or two imbibed at the golf course and over his steak dinner, Jon’s lips barely moved. “I mean it. One word, and you will regret ever being born. More than you already do.”
The man had the good sense to pale beneath his golfer’s tan. Whatever Cole saw in his face, he apparently believed, and of course it was reinforced by the three men at his back. However, frustration and alcohol were overriding good sense, and Cole’s hands closed into half fists. Jon could tell he was trying to get one more look at Rachel, and he shifted, engaging the man’s gaze again. “You had your shot. She’s not for you. She’s mine now. You have no rights here. Let it go and walk away.”
Cole’s jaw was hard as glass and as breakable, but he gave a short nod, turned on his heel and moved away. Jon saw a curious group of three golfers standing by a car, waiting for him. Apparently they’d shared a meal, but they hadn’t wanted to get involved in whatever this was, even boozed up as they probably were. Cole wasn’t as fortunate in his choice of friends as Jon was, for certain.
Peter alone was intimidating enough to back down most aggressors, but when Jon turned, Lucas’ silver eyes were still cold enough to have frozen Cole’s dick off. And of course Jon had known from the first the most dangerous of their group stood to his left. Devoid of his deceptively pleasant lawyer fa?ade, Ben had the face of a man who could murder someone in the middle of a crowd, and then talk his way out of it while cleaning the blood off the knife. It was something he didn’t appreciate enough about Ben. Jon made a note to mention that to him, send him a Hallmark card that expressed it, if he could find an appropriate one.
But any satisfaction about that disappeared when he focused on what was most important to him right now. Rachel was looking down, her fists locked in a knot under her breasts. He slid his arms over her, brought that curled, wounded body in to his, holding her close. But she reached up between them, fumbled at the fastener of the collar. “Take it off, please.” Her voice was hoarse, raw.
“No, Rachel. That’s not—”
“Now. Now!” She shoved away from him, pulling at it. “Let me go.”
She was constricting her breathing, pushing hard against her windpipe by tearing at the velvet strap. As she spun away, the slim heels weren’t made for that kind of uncontrolled movement. One broke and she stumbled, but Jon caught her before her knees hit the rough asphalt. He lifted her, screaming and struggling. Peter had already sent an urgent gesture to Max, where he sat in the limo at the entrance area, and he quickly maneuvered over, stopping near the men. Lucas got the door and Jon ducked in, still holding her. They shut the door after him, leaving him in the roomy and private compartment to deal with the hysterical woman in his arms. Max wisely already had the privacy screen rolling up between them.