Anne-Marie lowered the
brush, stared at her reflection. Dark green eyes, troubled and confused,
stared back her. Why was she even bothering? she wondered, flicking the
make-up on the dresser top a disinterested glance.
What was the point in
getting dressed up, putting on her make-up and going into town to sit on
a barstool and watch other people dance, other people kiss, other people
in love?
Or just in lust.
Lust.
Pressing one hand
against her flat belly, she closed her eyes. Oh, yes. She was familiar
with lust, had been since she had awoken sweaty and panting in her bed
the night of her sixteenth birthday. And it hadn’t been the sloppy,
badly aimed kiss from Dex Embry that had done it.
It had been Jazz,
dancing with her on the deck by the lake. How many dreams had she had of
him since then? Dozens, hundreds. Some bare wisps in her memory,others
so potent, so real, she had awoken in tears to discover he wasn’t there
with her.
God, it had always been
him.
Could a person be born loving
another? It seemed she had loved and needed him her whole life.
So why are you going into
town instead of out to his place?
A frown darkened her
face and she glanced around the room. The voice seemed too strong, too
certain, to have come from her. But, Anne-Marie mused, staring at her
reflection, what a very good question.
Why, indeed.
With the wind blowing through the open window, Jazz
took the turn off to his house at a brisk forty miles an hour. With
pleasure, he watched in his rearview as gravel dust filled the air. He
had the whole night to himself. And he didn’t have a clue as to what he
was gonna do with it.
How long had it been since he’d had a night to
himself?
More than three years, the last weekend Mariah had
spent with Sheri’s folks. The following Monday Sheri had gone to her
doctor and learned she had a brain tumor. Such a bright light, put out
so fast, just like Alex. He could still hear her laughter, that loud,
bawdy laugh, that low raspy voice. How could that fast living, fast
talking woman possibly be dead?
With a sigh, he ran his hand over his face. She had
gone so quickly, in under six months. Those six months had bankrupted
them.
Sheri, God rest her soul, had given him his salvation.
Rounding the final curve to his house, he decided he’d
take a little walk down memory lane, pay his respects to his wife’s
memory.
But as he crested the hill, he realized that he
wouldn’t be doing that tonight. There in his drive sat a shiny little
Mustang convertible, candy apple red, the rag top down. Perched on the
hood was little Anne-Marie, all grown up. Her thick black hair was
falling around her shoulders, shoulders left bare by a simple white
camisole styled top. Long legs were revealed by a pair of neatly cuffed
black shorts and her small feet were shod in a simple pair of canvas
tennis shoes.
She didn’t look like a doctor; nope, she looked like a
high school coed. Until she turned her head and met his eyes. His breath
caught in his chest as her gaze locked with his. Sweet God, how had she
grown up to be so beautiful?
A soft breeze fluttered her hair around her face,
framing it in dense black. As she slid off the car and moved towards
him, a hesitant smile tilted up the corners of her mouth.
“Hey,” she said softly, coming to a stop a few feet
away. Cocking her head, she studied him in the fading light. “You had
your hair cut.”
A soft, illusive scent floated to him on the air and
he was seized by an insane desire to bury his face against her neck.
Gruffly, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
Her shoulders lifted and fell and she said, “I wanted
to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to, so I came.”
Looking at her, he saw Alex. Though they looked
nothing alike, he saw his old friend in the arrogant lift of her chin,
in the confident way she held herself. The way she offered no
explanation for her actions. She was so alive, as Alex had been. And he
knew he couldn’t keep himself from reaching for her if she stayed so
close.
“Did you forget who I am, Annie?” he asked quietly,
moving closer, until his toes nudged hers.
She was forced to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
“I know who you are, Jazz. I’ve always known you.”
Shaking his head, he scoffed at her, “You don’t know
me any more than I know you.”
At that, she arched an elegant brow. “What’s my
favorite color?” she asked.
Blue, he thought, even opened his mouth to answer
before he clamped his lips shut.
“My favorite food?”
Strawberry shortcake. “How in hell am I supposed to
know? I haven’t seen you in sixteen years, sugar.”
She smiled serenely. “Why do I like rainy days?”
So you can curl up with a book and munch on popcorn.
Brows lowered, he merely stared at her.
She shrugged and said, “You like the color green.”
Green, like her eyes. “You love steak and potatoes, sour cream only. You
don’t like butter. Rainy days don’t bother you but you always liked the
sun better. When it rained, you were supposed to stay in out of the
rain. And that made it easier for Beau to find you.”
She caught his shoulder as he turned away. “You think
I don’t know what he did to you? To your momma? I was young, Jazz. Not
blind. I knew. I’m the one who saw you go into the barn that first time
after Beau nearly beat the life out of you. I told Alex about it because
I didn’t think you would want Daddy to know.”
Whirling around, he shrugged off her hand. “I don’t
need sympathy, Annie.”
“I haven’t any for you,” she replied evenly. “If my
heart breaks for the little boy who was beaten black and blue, so be it.
But what I felt about that little boy has nothing to do with why I am
here now.
“I do know you,” she whispered, reaching out, laying
one small, neatly manicured hand on his rigid arm. “You were my hero,
Jazz. And I wanted to talk to you; we were friends, of a sort.”
“We were never friends, angel. I was friends with your
rich brother and you were the nosy little brat who had a crush on me,”
he snapped. “Go home to Daddy, Annie. Go talk to him.”
In the fading light, he saw the delicate color wash
out of her cheeks and the hurt bloom in those green eyes. And then she
blinked, and as easily as that, a mask fell. She shrugged, carelessly.
“Your loss, Jasper,” she told him, turning on her heel and heading for
her car. The denim drew tight across her hips as she dug into the hip
pocket for her keys. Before she could reach for the handle, hard hands
closed over her elbows, twirled her, pinned her against a heavy male
body. Against her back, she felt the cool, smooth glass of the window
and the metal of the door against her legs. She raised her head, looked
into those deep brown eyes that had haunted her dreams for years on end.
“I don’t wanna talk to you,” he whispered as he
lowered his head to hers.
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