Part 13 (2/2)

But I do want him to see me now. I want him to look at me one more time. I didn't cherish that last touch; I didn't predict my own fort.i.tude. But I want to feel his eyes on me. I want that to be a memory I can fall back on when life gets so rough, fantasies become hard to conjure.

”You think you know what you want, but you don't,” I whisper. ”You think you want me but what you want is a string of stolen moments like this one. You think you see through my facade but you can't see that the facade is as much a part of me as the wildness beneath. You don't want me.”

”But you can get rid of the facade.”

”Don't you get it?” I scream. Suddenly I'm not the Harvard-educated businesswoman, I'm not the fiancee of a young lawyer from an old family. I'm anger, desperation, frustration, unrequited pa.s.sion.

”I don't want to get rid of it!” I grit my teeth against the violence that's welling up inside. ”You're asking me to toss aside my thick-soled shoes and walk barefoot by your side, but look down, Robert! The ground we're walking on is covered with rusty nails! I want my protections. They are part of me! I love them more than I love the . . . the savagery of my underlying nature and I want a man who loves the part of me that I celebrate! Why can't you see that?”

”Because I'm a savage,” he says simply. But his eyes are sad; there is no savagery on display.

”Then find yourself a woman raised by wolves. I was raised to be civilized.”

”This is your definition of civility?”

”We have business, Mr. Dade. Shall we get to it?”

He sighs, ”Ruby Tuesday” is gone, and its absence adds a small chip in my resolve that I can ill afford. I hold out my hand.

”Give me my clothes.”

He hands them to me without any resistance.

”You and I, we're not the good guys,” I say as I slip back into my pants. ”We did something wrong.”

”If you do this,” he says, watching me carefully, ”if you marry a man you don't love, you will not only hurt me but you will damage yourself. And most importantly, you'll torture him.”

I pause but only for a moment. ”I'm doing what I need to do.” The floor is cold under my bare feet.

”I think if you listen to me for even five minutes, you'll realize that you have choices.”

I look up at him. There's so much he doesn't know. So many secrets and skeletons. And I no longer know if I'm running away or being led to a fate. All I know is that I'm going to survive. It's more than my sister was able to do.

He examines me; his hazel eyes draw me in as they always do. ”There are things you want to tell me?” he asks.

I smile despite myself. No one has ever been able to read me so easily and I've known this man for less than two weeks.

He nods. ”I'm going to go up to the deck, pour two gla.s.ses of wine. I hope that once you've dressed we can talk.”

”Oh, now you want to talk? So it's really not just about s.e.x?” I say with only partial sarcasm.

”I told you, I want to know you in every way. I'm going to go up to the deck. If you come up to talk, then I'll know that at least there's some hope that you'll let me.”

And with that he leaves the cabin. I listen to his footsteps fade away only to hear them again after he goes above board and starts to walk the deck, which is now acting as my ceiling.

With a jolt I realize that Robert Dade is no longer pus.h.i.+ng me. He's not trying to tempt me or overwhelm me.

Robert Dade just asked me if we could talk.

Like I would talk to a normal person? Have we ever done that? It's always been pa.s.sion and teasing and excitement. Have we ever just sat down and had a conversation that wasn't about work?

No.

But maybe we could. The possibility bewilders me and then quickly builds up a mysterious appeal. We could be more than the roar of a sports car, more than a rash night in a luxury hotel.

I close my eyes for a moment. The images that swirl before me are different from the fantasies I've entertained over the last few weeks. In these imaginings I see Robert and me sitting side by side at a movie theater eating popcorn. I see us poring over the Wall Street Journal and LA Times while eating Sunday brunch. In my fantasy our brash impulses are supported by a bond that is every bit as strong as the beams that hold up his decadent house on the hill.

Robert is the man who unlocks my inhibitions and revels in their display. But if in addition to all that he could also be my friend and my partner . . . if he could be a man who willingly walks with me on firmer ground, maybe, just maybe that would change things.

Robert has always appealed to my devil, but what if I gave him the chance to befriend my angel?

If he could, then maybe, just maybe I could be a woman who has it all.

Little sparks of hope ignite inside my heart but the ringing of my cell phone jars me out of my musings. It's coming from my purse that sits discarded on the floor.

It's Dave's ringtone.

I pull out the phone but don't pick up. Letting my cool and collected recorded message greet him. I can't talk to him now, not while in this place and certainly not before I have more time to sort through my thoughts and emotions.

But then I hear that he's sent me a text. Which he never does.

I know where you are, I know what you're doing.

I try to make sense of the words. He can't mean . . . how . . .

The next text comes.

I'm supposed to call Dylan Freeland soon. He doesn't know what you're doing . . . yet. But if you don't get off that boat and meet me by your car in five minutes I will make sure Dylan, our families, EVERYONE knows.

I stare at the screen, my eyes wide and unblinking. Dave has never threatened me before, not with anything, let alone the destruction of my career. But then I have never betrayed him like this before.

I look down at myself; my pants are wrinkled and my s.h.i.+rt's still in my hand. I'm shaking. I'm ruined.

Another text.

Leave him, now. I'm giving you one chance. Take it. Take it or I'll take everything.

I have never felt so cornered or more scared. It's not just that he could cost me my job. He could cost me my entire professional reputation. He could cost me my parents' respect. He could take away their conviction that we, as a family, are good.

With unsteady hands I put on my s.h.i.+rt, gather up my purse, and go above board.

”Kasie,” Robert says, his tone so soft I could curl up in it like a blanket. ”We just need to talk for a bit. You don't have to leave. We don't have to play these games. . . .”

But his voice fades off as I walk past him without stopping. I get off the boat and walk away. I can feel him watching me. He thinks I've made a choice. He thinks I'm running away from him.

But I'm not. I'm not even being led. I'm being pushed.

And it occurs to me that I have never ignored him before. My lack of response to his conciliatory words might actually be the one thing that will keep him from pursuing me. It may be the thing that makes him give up.