“This is it,” she said, her voice still standoffish.
It had taken them only minutes to cross the little village of Hope’s Crossing. From what he saw of the town, through his haze of red, was that it was that Norman Rockwell, picture perfect type of place. Cutesy, put-it-in-a-snow globe type of village. But he wasn’t really interested in the town. His mind worked overtime trying to process everything. He felt like he was starring in some bizarre movie of himself. When had his life become so unpredictable?
He stared through the window at the red brick Victorian before him and his throat constricted involuntarily. It was so damn idyllic. It was small, ornate. There was cedar roping with dark red ribbons that framed the heavy molding on the windows and the pristine white porch. Urns were overflowing with cedar and other greenery. The white plump snowflakes that floated down from the sky only made it more magical.
He actually found himself unable to speak for a moment because never in his life had something ever evoked in him such a need to have a home. A real home. A house. With a wife. With kids. Hell, maybe even a white picket fence. But Jackson Pierce was not your white picket-fence kind of man. No, he was the guy who lived in a penthouse surrounded by skylines and anonymity. Steel and glass. Money and ambition. Shallowness and greed. Loneliness.
“It may not be a mansion, Jackson, but it’s perfect for me.” He heard her unlatch her seatbelt and he knew she was seconds from jumping out of the SUV.
“It’s you. Totally you.” It’s beautiful, sentimental, nostalgic, pure Hannah. Her cheeks bloomed with that gorgeous blush he found himself utterly hooked on and those lips that made him curse the fact that they’d never slept together that night.
“Oh,” Hannah said, furrowing her brow and looking out the windshield.
“What, no smart-ass retort?” he teased, feeling better for a moment. Then he pictured some jerk’s hands on Hannah and he felt the need to bash his fist through the windshield. So he frowned. And then she frowned back at him.
“Let’s go inside and see how we can straighten out this mess you got us into.” She didn’t give him a chance to argue as the door shut on his reply. Funny how she was the one giving him the cold shoulder.
He followed her up to the covered porch. They had a lot of straightening out to do, all right. He braced himself for a hell of a battle. She was so damn secretive about her life he wondered how he could feel such an intense connection with someone he knew so little about. But he’d found out way more than he’d bargained for thanks to that Jean woman.
He waited while Hannah fumbled with the old lock. Moments later he stood in her entranceway while she walked around turning on lights. He was struck by the hominess. Feminine and cheerful, with pale yellow walls, deep trim and molding, and wide-plank pine floors scattered with brightly colored rugs. He followed her into the kitchen, where she had already started brewing a fresh pot of coffee. She took out cups and was banging things around a little too loudly.
“Hannah.” His voice came out harsher than he intended, but he needed answers. He didn’t want a cup of coffee and he didn’t want to beat around the bush. “Care to tell me what that battle-axe was talking about back there?”
“What do you mean?” she asked stiffly, her shoulders squared, her back ramrod straight. A part of him wanted to cross the distance between them and knead the tension out of her slender shoulders, to whisper and coax whatever she hid out of her. But he knew she wouldn’t respond to that. He knew that she would see it as being weak.
“Don’t play games with me, Hannah.”
“I don’t play games,” she said, whipping around to face him.
He nodded, softening his features, his tone, hating that he had to ask something that was already killing him to think about let alone speak about. “Hannah, she said you were beaten and almost raped.” He watched as every single speck of color drained from her face. “What happened?” He caught a faint quiver in her chin when he spoke.
“That’s what this is about…what you’re angry about?” she asked, her voice shaky, her eyes wide and so heartbreakingly vulnerable that he just wanted to walk over and hold her. Hannah never let her vulnerability show, which meant…he clenched his stomach, not able to breathe at the thought…it confirmed what he already suspected…her reaction to things…the night he’d touched her arm…her withdrawal from him sexually.
“Jackson?”
He focused in on her pale face and nodded. “What did you think?”
“About your sister.” She took a deep breath, her eyes filled with pain. “It’s my fault that she killed herself. I missed the signs—”
“God, you can’t blame yourself. Of course I don’t blame you for that. How could anyone?” He walked across the room, unable to stop himself from offering her comfort. “Hannah,” he said roughly, gathering her against him. “I could never blame you.” His arms tightened around her. He felt all the tension leave her body, and she wrapped her arms around him. He wanted to reassure her, comfort her. How could she blame herself for Louise’s death? How could she hold more guilt than he? He had failed his sister. Not Hannah. He kissed the top of her head, the soft hair at her temples, his hands moving to stroke that tender spot on her neck. He wanted to shut out the rest of the world and stay in this Victorian cottage.
“If anyone is to blame it’s me. I’m the one who turned my back on her.” He had never admitted that out loud. He had spent most of his adult life feeling angry at Louise, but deep down he knew he’d given up on her. He could have tried one more time. He felt Hannah take a steadying breath against him and slowly step out of his arms. Just like that, like a flurry of clouds suddenly taking away the sun, Hannah put distance between them.
She looked up at him and he wanted to know what she saw, uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t given a damn in a long time what someone thought of him. Once he’d become wealthy and successful he’d thought that was all he needed. He had made it and nothing could touch him. But now, standing here in this tiny kitchen, with her beautiful face and glorious eyes staring up at him, he questioned all of it. Everything he had achieved, he wondered if it was enough.
“We all do what we have to do to survive. You gave her so much. No one can blame you for finally taking care of yourself.” How did she do it? How could she see through him like that?
She turned to get the coffee.
“Hannah?”
“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, stepping around him to pull out a carton of milk from the fridge, as though nothing had happened, as though they were merely casual acquaintances about to share a cup of coffee.
“You never answered my question.” He caught the tremor in her hand as she poured the coffee. She was a master at avoidance.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, peering into her fridge.
He shut the fridge and she frowned up at him.
“You’re not going to let this go are you?”
He shook his head.
“It’s really not as dramatic as she made it sound,” Hannah said, and he knew she was trying to act casual as she walked passed him to sit at the round table. He followed her, picking up his mug of coffee, sitting across from her at the table.
“So then it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to talk about it,” Jackson said, watching her eyes flash with annoyance. He took a sip of his coffee, his fingers gripping the handle tightly, waiting for her to speak. He was half expecting her to tell him she wasn’t going to talk about it.
She cleared her throat after taking a long drink. “It was one of my first cases I’d been assigned to. She was a teenager, living with an abusive, alcoholic father. Long story short, when she didn’t return my calls I found out she had gotten approval to get out of our system.” She traced the rim of the smooth cup and he could tell she was getting lost in the memory. He felt his muscles tense in anticipation of where this story was going.
“I had a gut feeling that things didn’t magically get better at home. So one night, I stopped by their place. I was a total rookie,” she said with a small laugh that didn’t hold an ounce of amusement. “I heard yelling. Men’s voices. Then I heard Jen’s voice, but it was more of a scream.”
Jackson held his breath and waited for her to continue.
“At that point I should have called in for help, but I was young, and stupid, and I ran in there and, God, did I learn a lesson that night,” Hannah said with laugh that was so self-critical, so deprecating that Jackson felt his throat tighten. She looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears that she couldn’t hide from him. “Her dad was gone and two of his friends had her pinned down on the sofa, half naked. And uh…I was no match for them,” she said, turning her eyes to him. And at that moment he hated more than he ever thought he could hate someone. Hannah’s eyes didn’t leave his when she continued.