Bedded for His Pleasure: Bedded by a Bad Boy / In the Gardener's Bed / The Return of the Rebel

He shrugged, as if it weren’t important. ‘Yeah. Corruption of a minor, that’s what I did time for in juvie. The girl was fifteen. I was just sixteen, so technically they were right. She was hot and she was as eager as me. I didn’t stop to ask for ID.’

He picked up one of the small pebbles nestled by his feet, skimmed it absently across the sand. She noticed the ridged skin on his back and had to force the next question out.

‘What happened when your mother found out?’

‘One of her friends from the country club saw us together.’ His shoulders hitched as he turned back to her. ‘When I got home that night she was wired on the prescription drugs she popped like candy. She tried to go for me with the belt. Kept shouting at me, saying all this really ugly stuff. It didn’t take much to wrestle the belt away from her. She told me then about what it had been like for her with my old man. How I was just the same.’ He shook his head slowly, his breath coming out on a long sigh. ‘First time I ever saw her cry.’

Jessie could hear the pity in his voice, but couldn’t begin to share it, for a woman who had terrorised and despised her own children. ‘What did she tell you?’

He looked at her, his eyes shadowed. ‘That he’d raped her, repeatedly. That he’d wanted sons and even when she’d had several miscarriages, even after she’d begged him not to get her pregnant again, he’d forced himself on her. Forced her to have us.’

Jessie recoiled at the horror of it. What should have been a proclamation of love had become for Monroe’s parents a proof of hate. Could it really be so?

‘Did you believe her?’

He nodded. ‘My old man was in his late fifties when she met him. She was seventeen, just off the plane from London, keen to find the American Dream. He was from one of Newport’s richest families. She held out till she got his ring on her finger, then I guess she found out that it wasn’t just sex he wanted.’

‘What was your father like?’ Jessie tried to keep her voice steady, not to let her disgust for the man who had sired him show.

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t know him. He died when I was still a kid. We didn’t see him much. My mother sent us back to stay with our grandmother in Britain every summer.’ He shrugged. ‘When we had to be with her, we lived on his Rhode Island estate, but he had several other properties.’ He looked up and gave her a hard look. ‘He died of a heart attack. He was busy balling an eighteen-year-old showgirl in Vegas when it hit.’

He picked up a fistful of sand, watched it run through his fingers. ‘He wasn’t interested in us. Linc and I, we knew that, we were just a means to carry on the family name. But we never understood why our mother hated us. Her own mother, our granny, she was strict, but she wasn’t twisted like her; she never once raised a hand to us like our mother did. After a while, I just kind of accepted it, but I know it screwed up Linc real bad. She beat on him the worst, because he would stand up to her.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I guess the more he did that, the more it reminded her of the old man.’

‘She hit Linc, too?’

‘You don’t know about that?’

‘No. Linc and Ali have never spoken about his mother or father.’

He pondered that for a minute.

‘Did you tell Linc,’she asked, ‘what your mother told you?’

‘No, he was long gone by then. He left when he was twelve and I was only ten. Our grandmother had died that summer. I guess he couldn’t stand knowing we’d be stuck with her all the time.’

‘You mean, until this summer, you hadn’t seen Linc since you were children?’

He shrugged. ‘Not since the day he ran off.’

Suddenly, so much became clear to Jessie. These men had been trying to forge a relationship after over twenty years apart, after the abject horror of their childhood, and she’d nearly messed it all up. ‘I’m so sorry I behaved like such a silly cow when you arrived, Monroe.’

‘Red.’ He brushed a finger down her cheek, smiled. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you were feisty and gorgeous and you felt great wriggling around in my arms, so there’s no need to apologise.’

The blush became more intense as she thought of their first meeting. ‘Will you tell me about prison, Monroe?’

She wanted to know about the boy he had been—and how he had become the man she loved.

Monroe huffed out a breath. He had to do this. She had the right to know what he’d come from, how ugly it was.

‘The first stretch was okay.’ He couldn’t even remember the green kid he’d been then. ‘It was only six months in juvie.’ He’d been wild and angry, he realised now, but determined to see it through and get out. ‘I behaved myself, didn’t attract too much attention. I was more bored than anything.’

The experience in juvie had made him think doing time wasn’t so bad. It was three square meals a day and they didn’t shout at you or beat you simply for existing.

‘Ali said you did two terms?’

‘Yeah, the second stretch was…’ He paused. ‘It was different.’

‘How?’ She said the words on a fragile whisper.

Monroe’s gaze lifted to hers. Could he tell her? Would she despise him, for what had happened, for what he had let them do to him?

He took a slow breath. ‘It was real time. After juvie I skipped parole, took to the streets. A year later, I was picked up in Buffalo after a bar fight. One of the local barflies went after me with a broken bottle. I defended myself and hit him back but then loads of others piled in. Glass and fists were flying everywhere. A guy got hurt bad that night. I wasn’t from around there and I had a record, so it was me who ended up doing a stretch in the local pen. One of the meanest pens in the whole state of New York I found out after I’d been there less than a day.’

He could still remember the horror of that night, could still remember the fear afterwards, during two years of tests to make sure he was healthy. Looking at her, he could see the compassion, the understanding in her eyes. Maybe she wouldn’t judge him, maybe she would understand.

‘I had a pretty face. I was seventeen, cocky and stupid with it. I thought I knew the score.’

Jessie could see the shadow of bitterness in his eyes and felt her heart race in sympathy.

‘They cornered me in the shower on the first night,’ he continued, his voice low and thick with tension. ‘Two of them. I fought back at the start, but what was the point? It was two against one and I didn’t stand a chance.’

The tears slid down Jessie’s cheeks. How had he survived?

He stared down at his feet in the sand. His words came out on a low murmur. ‘They held me down, took turns.’

Leaning forward, she pressed herself against him, wrapped her arms around him and held on tight. She could feel the solid beat of his heart against her ear as she rested her head against the warm skin of his back. He didn’t say anything, but slowly she felt his shoulders relax. He put his hand on top of hers.

After a long time, she let go, moved round, knelt in front of him. She gripped his face in her hands, made him look at her.

‘You survived, Monroe. That’s all that matters.’ She could see the shadow of humiliation in his eyes, fought to control her anger at what he had been forced to endure, at what he was still enduring. ‘Don’t ever feel ashamed.’

‘You don’t think I’m less of a man?’

Where the hell had that question come from? he wondered. He’d never known the doubt was inside him until he’d asked her.

She flashed a seductive smile at him through the veil of tears. ‘Monroe. I don’t think I could cope with you if you were any more of a man.’

He brought his arms round her then, held her close, sank into the comfort and support she offered. He’d told her the worst of it and she hadn’t been disgusted. She hadn’t judged him as he had so often judged himself.

‘Did it happen more than once?’ she asked quietly.

‘No, that was it. I got beat up a few more times after that, but mostly I kept to myself.’He folded his legs, settled her onto his lap, but kept his arms around her. And thought about how much he was going to miss her when he had to let her go.

As they walked back towards the garage apartment, the noon sun heating the grass beneath Jessie’s feet, she considered what Monroe had told her of his past.

He’d been through so much, as a child and as an adult. Yet the only person he really seemed to blame was himself. She could feel the rough skin of his palm as he held her hand. He’d worked so hard, in dead-end jobs, yet he had such great talent as an artist but didn’t want to promote it. Now she understood why—because he lacked the confidence.

She loved him. It wasn’t just a silly girlish dream. It couldn’t be. She understood him now. This was more than she’d ever felt for Toby.