He swiveled back to her, and after a long moment's silence, lifted a hand and laid it gently along her jaw. His thumb again stroked back and forth, just once and ever so lightly-a feather's touch-across her lips. "I just did," he said softly, and saw a tear quiver on the edge of her eyelid. Her throat moved convulsively against his hand. Cold with exhaustion, he went on gently. "I won't ever do that to you again, I can promise you that."
"But what-" she licked her lips and tried again "-what if I want you to?"
He gazed at her for a long silent moment before he took his hand away, shaking his head. "You don't know," he mumbled indistinctly as he turned.
Rebuffed, outraged and vulnerable, Jessie thought, I don't know? And you think you do? She wanted to shout at him, Look, Mr. Rip Van Winkle, you've been dead for eight years, and you're calling all the shots? What is this?
What was that? He'd never kissed her like that before-never. Not even in the first dizzy days of courtship when his slightest touch could turn her into a mindless bundle of simmering heat and thumping desire. It had scared her, sure it had. First, because it had made her feel things she'd never felt before. But-to be honest-mostly because she'd known instantly that the man kissing her wasn't the man she'd known, the husband she'd loved, the lover she remembered. It had been the most powerful, mind-blowing kiss she'd ever received in her life…from a stranger. What the hell was she supposed to do with that? How was she supposed to feel?
"We'd better be getting back," Tris said. He was standing over her, one hand extended to help her up.
Angry, confused and bewildered, she gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet, then stared, hot-eyed, at his back as he bent down to retrieve the camera. He dropped it into his pocket and reached for his cane, and her heart turned over when she saw his face. How gaunt and drawn he looked…there were hollows in his cheeks and deep shadows around his eyes.
Remorse and misery flooded her; she sniffed desperately and pivoted away from him before he could see her face. She felt his eyes on her but he didn't say anything, and they walked side by side down the trail to the car in shimmering, electric silence.
When they reached the car, Jessie asked Tristan in a choked voice if he wanted another sandwich. He shook his head and instead held out his hand.
"Give me the keys."
"What?" Her head was still fuzzy-with suppressed tears, not wine-and it was a moment before she understood. Then her mouth dropped open and she stared at him. "The car keys? No. No way. Tris, you're not driving."
"Yes, I am." His tone was stern, his jaw implacable; very much the old Tristan.
"But-you don't have a license. And you haven't-"
"Driving isn't something you forget," he said grimly. "I'm in better shape to drive than you are. You've had too much to drink. Come on-hand 'em over."
She gave an outraged gasp. "Too much to-I have not. What, a couple glasses of wine? Besides, I already drove-"
"Half a bottle. And you never could handle wine, remember?" His voice had gentled; his eyes caught and held hers with an unrelenting gaze that somehow both demanded and implored.
She drew a shuddering breath and said tightly, "What about your license? And your knee?"
"My knee's fine-it's my left one, anyway. The license won't be a problem unless somebody stops us, and I've no intention of that happening. Come on, Jess." He grinned crookedly. "I'm gonna have to drive again sometime. Might as well be now."
It's that grin, she told herself as she reluctantly handed him the keys to the Ford. I never could resist him smilin' at me; old behavior patterns are just damn hard to break. Anyway, I probably have had too much to drink. It's better this way.
But she didn't feel the slightest bit buzzed, pleasantly or otherwise, as she settled into the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt. She felt battered and emotionally frail.
Her misgivings began to fade, though, as they made their way slowly back along the river. Since they were backtracking and very little was required from her in the way of directions, she was free to watch Tristan-though surreptitiously under the pretense of sight-seeing so as not to annoy him-as he familiarized himself with the car and the process of driving. All signs of tiredness had magically disappeared; he sat straight and alert in the driver's seat, and his hands lingered over the controls with an almost caressing touch. He handled the steering wheel with the gentle assurance of an experienced mother bathing a new baby, while his eyes held a joyful light she hadn't seen in them since his release. How must it feel, she wondered as tears sprang to her own eyes, to be in control of your personal self again, after so many years?
They stopped to eat in one of the larger river towns, in a restaurant that no doubt catered to tourists during the summer and autumn harvest season. They ate on an enclosed deck overlooking the river where they were the only diners at that hour, far too late for lunch, yet early for dinner. Jessie ordered Wiener schnitzel, which was the only thing on the menu she was sure she recognized. Tristan chose something that turned out to be pork chops-huge, thick and smothered in sauerkraut and browned potatoes. He ate every bite, and part of Jessie's dinner besides, while he told her what he knew of his father's boyhood in the vineyards and on the river.
He looks so normal, she thought. Right then he seemed almost himself, even flirting with the plump middle-aged waitress until she blushed like a rose. And was it wishful thinking, or had he even gained a little weight? Were the hollows in his cheeks a little less deep? Were his eyes a little less haunted? Dared she hope it might be so easy?
Like an alarm going off somewhere in a distant room, she heard the faraway voice of Lieutenant Commander Rees. I'm not gonna lie to you…he's got a rough road ahead of him and so do you. It's not gonna be easy. The last of the afternoon's winey glow faded away, and though she tried hard to suppress it, a shiver ran through her.
Traffic was light on the autobahn, and although Jessie's heart did a little skip when Tristan moved into the fast lane first thing, she told herself it was only what she'd have expected him to do, especially after the cracks he'd made about her speed-or lack of it. She tried not to look at the speedometer, but she couldn't help it. And her heart began to beat faster as the needle crept relentlessly around the dial.
"Tris…" she breathed when it reached 130…then 140.
"Relax," he drawled, "no speed limit here, remember?"
"I know, but-" Her body tensed involuntarily as the speedometer needle edged up to 150. "Tris-" This time it came out sharp and scared as another car loomed ahead, growing larger at an alarming rate. She held her breath while he calmly tipped the blinker and moved into the next lane, and went around the other car as if it were standing still. "Tristan," she ground out on the exhalation, "Dammit, slow down."
His only answer was a confident chuckle, and she threw him a furious glare. And then the anger left her like the air from a popped balloon, and she knew all at once that what she really was, was afraid. And that it wasn't the car's speed that was scaring her…not anymore. It was something she saw in Tris's face, in the profile that had been so familiar to her but was now subtly changed by a nose that had been broken at least once. The profile that used to make her heart skip a beat and her pulse quicken, as she rode beside him in the sweet, sultry darkness of a Georgia summer night, country music thumping on the stereo… The profile that was still strong and arrogant, even aristocratic in spite of the nose, teeth bared in a smile, a comma bracketing his mouth and an irresistible fan of wrinkles at the corner of his eye. But now there was something dark about the smile, and the eyes held a glitter of excitement…and danger.
The speedometer needle wobbled unsteadily-she couldn't see the number through the mist of her fear. But she could feel the vibrating of the car's engine in her bones. "Tris-" she cried out, trembling. She didn't know what was happening to him. To her shame, she had begun to cry.
When she thought she wouldn't be able to stand the terrible tension another second, she saw speed limit warning signs flash past through the shimmering haze of her tears. Tristan muttered something under his breath and the car's engine vibrations eased. The speedometer needle swiveled slowly back to 120. And as it fell, Jessie's fury returned.
Helpless to stop it, unable to express it, she ranted silently to herself: What was that? What did he just do? What am I supposed to do with that?
Because at the same time she felt so angry, she also felt guilty for it. How could she be angry at somebody who was back from the dead, for God's sake? This was a man who'd spent the past eight years in an Iraqi prison, Lord only knew what they'd done to him there, and she was supposed to be patient with him, wasn't she? Give him time, they'd told her.
But, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind, what if Tris isn't going to give himself time?
I don't think I can do this. It played over and over inside her head as she sat in furious, trembling silence and Tristan drove the rest of the way back to the guest house sedately within posted speed limits. I don't think I can do this.
It was a lone voice at first, but gradually she came to realize that what was going on in her head wasn't a monologue or a mantra any longer, but rather an argument. And what the dissenting voice-was it Momma's? Tristan's? Her own? Who knows?-anyway, what it was saying was, Sure you can. Suck it up, girl. If he could survive eight years in prison, you sure as hell can handle his return.
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