“Rebecca, I can’t,” he pleaded.
She just looked at him. So hurt. So confused. It was written into every sweet line of her face, clear in the knit of her brows. Damn it. Even when trying to protect her, all he did was make things worse.
Maybe he should tell her the truth. Maybe she needed to know who she really was, so she could leave him and move on with her life. Claim her wings.
Would it be so selfish to wish she’d never remember? They could live as friends, like this. He’d never let himself touch her, no matter how he craved. It was better than losing her completely.
But he’d be denying her something she’d worked so hard for. He’d be taking over her life, and taking away the most important thing in that life.
He’d be a monster if he did that.
The silence stretched between them—his guilty, hers increasingly angry. Finally she snorted and pulled away from him. “Right. You can’t. I remember that much, at least. Am I really that disgusting?”
“It’s for your own good.” He dropped his hands to his lap, helpless. “You’ll thank me later. You will.”
“I doubt it,” she said, and thrust herself to her feet. He watched her retreating back, the tight set of her shoulders, the angry stiffness to her steps. But he didn’t call her back. He couldn’t even move until she was out of sight. Muttering, he sank down against the couch and flopped an arm over his eyes. He wanted to scream. Instead, he thought, he’d make dinner. Chicken parmesan. Maybe he’d take his frustrations out with the meat tenderizer.
That chicken wouldn’t know what hit it.
…
Rebecca sank against the couch cushions and discreetly loosened the top button of her jeans. She’d eaten too much at dinner, but Tony had made a chicken parmesan so tender it melted in her mouth, and she couldn’t resist a second helping. Maybe she’d been stalling, too. Trying to drag dinner out, with Miranda as a buffer between them. Even with the girl there to distract her, Rebecca had been thinking too much.
And she didn’t like what she was thinking.
She glanced down the hall. Tony was in Miranda’s room, putting her to bed. She could hear the faint murmur of his voice, spooling out a bedtime story. He loved his daughter so much. His daughter. Not Rebecca’s. For some reason, some reason she couldn’t remember, children were never meant to be a part of her life. She’d had some other purpose. Something that made her personal life very complicated.
It still bothered her that she cared so much. Her personality, she thought, shouldn’t have changed. And as far as she knew, she was definitely not the type to buy into the modular unit of the corporate husband, stay-at-home wife, and two-point-five kids. This ache, this desire for a family, had something to do with Miranda and Tony, and with who Rebecca really was. All the puzzle pieces were there.
But she couldn’t fit them together, though she had an idea that Tony knew exactly where each piece went.
He was hiding something big. More than his confession about Jane. That should have been cathartic for him, and should have given him relief. Yet he’d only been more tense, more furtive. Rebecca couldn’t handle being lied to, no matter how good his intentions. Fragments of memory painted pictures of a life of desperation and despair. An aching need to belong somewhere. A fierce sense of betrayal.
And she wouldn’t accept more betrayal from Tony.
Not when his strange behavior made her doubt his every word. Was he using her for personal reasons? Or was he really just trying to protect her in his own awkward, stupid way?
What did she need protecting from, that he’d break her trust and lie to her? Was this secret so terrible that it was worth the torment he put them through?
She glanced up as Tony appeared in the archway of the hall. He looked exhausted, worn ragged. “She’s down for the night. She said to tell her angel good night.”
Rebecca smiled faintly. “I still don’t understand why she calls me that.”
Tony shrugged. “Would you like some wine before bed?”
“Sure. I’ll help.”
She followed him into the kitchen. His movements were jerky and uneven. Damn it, she couldn’t take this anymore. Something deep down inside her broke. What if this was her last chance to touch him? To know him?
What if, even when she regained her memory, she’d never be able to get through to him?
“Tony.” She clenched her fists and slipped around the counter, toward him.
He paused, fingers on the cork of a bottle of Sauvignon. He watched her from the corner of his eye. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I know I promised.” God, she was shaking. This shouldn’t be so hard. “But I can’t keep that promise. I’m sorry. I love you. I need you.” She wound her hands in the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. She distantly heard the wine bottle thud onto the counter. “I need you to love me, too.”
She rose up on her toes and kissed him—wildly, fiercely, with all the longing that had built up over the past week. His mouth went slack against hers, and she seized the chance to explore him, taste him, stroking deep. She relaxed her grip on his shirt and smoothed her hands down his chest until she found the waist of his slacks. Her fingers feathered lower and found him hard and ready. With a low moan she gripped him, kneading, and arched to press herself against the hard, heated solidity of his body.
For a few blissful moments, his tongue teased her. He traced her lips until they tingled, and she gasped and sank into the burning depths of his mouth. But then he tore away, gasping for air and gripping her arms.
“Rebecca!”
“Please don’t push me away anymore.” She kissed him again, but he tore back. Her lips trailed down his neck. She nibbled gently at the base of his throat. He groaned, and she licked the little bite-mark, tasting the salt of his skin. “Love me,” she whispered.
“No,” he moaned, even as his eyes sank closed. He caught himself and straightened. He carefully pushed her to arms’ length. “No! I can’t!”
“Damn it.” Rebecca dragged her hair back out of her face and jerked free of his hands. She slumped onto a barstool and dropped her burning face against her folded arms. She was ready to cry, her throat thick and clogged. Why was she doing this to herself? Why was she just throwing herself at the man and humiliating herself?
“I’m so—”
“Don’t say it. I know,” she mumbled against her forearm. “You’re sorry. You can’t. You want to, but you can’t. I’ll regret it later. We’ve never been together before, and you want to wait.” Exhaling heavily, she pushed herself up. “I don’t care about before. I might never be that Rebecca again. But this Rebecca wants you, Tony. This Rebecca loves you. Why is that so wrong?”