Justin's Bride

“Please.” He motioned to the chair, giving her a mocking half bow.

They stood close, now. Close enough for her to see the pure color of his eyes. No flecks of gold or green marred the deep brown irises. She’d never been able to see what he was thinking, and today was no exception. She was close enough to count the individual whiskers on his cheeks. Close enough to study the scar on his chin. Her fingers curled tightly against her palms as she remembered what it was like to touch that chin. The contrast of textures. The rasp of the stubble, the hard line of the scar, then the damp heat of his lower lip.

His scent surrounded her. The fragrance of his body, a unique blend of man and temptation, filled her lungs and made her knees tremble. It had been so long, she thought as she swayed toward him. So very long. His eyes locked on hers. She felt her fear fade as a fiery weakness invaded her. Her breath caught in her throat and she exhaled his name.

“Sit down, Megan,” he growled, holding the chair in one hand and pushing her shoulder with the other. “Sit down and tell me what the hell you’re doing in my office.”

His anger completed the job his nearness had already begun. Her knees gave way and she sank onto the seat.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Embarrassment flooded her, making her duck her head in shame. How could she have reacted to him that way? She stared at her hands, twisting them together on her lap.

She didn’t hear him move, but when she finally gathered the courage to look up, he was back behind his desk, straddling his chair. Nothing in his expression gave away his feelings, but his anger lingered in the room. She could smell it when she breathed.

“This was a mistake,” she said. “I should never have come here.”

“Why did you?” he asked and folded his arms on the back of the chair.

He wore a black vest over a white shirt. Convention required that all the buttons be fastened, even on the warmest of days. There was still a bite of winter in the air, but Justin wore his shirt open at his throat. She could see the hollow there, his tanned skin and the hint of the dark hairs on his chest. Once, when they’d sat on the edge of the creek on a summer night, once, when she’d sipped from his flask and felt the heat in her belly and the languor in her limbs, she’d kissed that spot. She’d tasted his skin and felt his heat. Once, he’d moaned in her arms.

Foolish memories best forgotten, she told herself. He was angry at her. She couldn’t blame him, of course. He had every right to be angry, more than angry. He should hate her.

“I came to find out if you were really back.” Megan reached up and unfastened her cloak. It slid off her shoulders and onto the chair back. “And you are.”

His gaze narrowed. “Don’t play your games with me, Megan. You could have asked any number of people if I was back,” he said. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“Oh, I couldn’t have asked about you. People would have wanted to know why. I couldn’t have them think—”

She bit back the rest of her sentence, but it was too late. For the second time, he rose from his seat. He didn’t bother concealing his anger. It flared out from him, tightening the line of his jaw and pulling his mouth into a straight line. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his hands were balled into fists. She shrank back as he approached.

“What couldn’t you have them think?” he asked. He came to a stop in front of the desk.

“I—I didn’t mean to say that, exactly.”

“What did you mean? Exactly.”

She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear to see the censure in his eyes. He did hate her. She saw it as clearly as she saw the man before her.

She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry for all the things I said.”

“But not for what you did.”

He spoke so softly that at first she thought she’d imagined the words. She looked up. He sat on the corner of the desk in front of her.

“You’re sorry you called me the town bastard, but you’re not sorry you didn’t come with me.”

He said the words flatly, as if they had no meaning. She searched his eyes, hoping for a clue to his feelings. Nothing. The brown depths offered nothing except tiny twin reflections of herself.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said, hoping her apology would be enough.

“Oh, no, Megan. It’s not that simple.” He moved quickly, stepping in front of her and crouching down. He stared at her face. “It’s the words you used that bother you. Not the deed.”

“Stop it,” she commanded, but her voice was weak, and she had no power to make him stop. She couldn’t even escape. She would have to push him away. To do that would require her touching him, and as surely as she knew her name, she knew if she touched him, all would be lost. “What do you want from me?”

“The truth, Megan. For once in your sorry life, tell me the truth. I’ll accept that instead of your apology.”

Now her temper flared, quarreling with the confusion inside of her. She didn’t know this angry stranger. He wasn’t the Justin Kincaid she remembered from her childhood, or the young man who had made her fall in love with him seven summers ago. He was hard and frightening, mocking and cold. She wanted to run away and forget she’d ever been here. She wanted to forget the heat of his stare and the scent of his body and the way his hands reached for hers, holding them tight.

“The truth,” he growled. “Say it.”

His fingers squeezed hers. His hands had always been hard from his long hours working in the livery stable. Time hadn’t changed that. He pressed until her fingers dug into her own palms. The sharp pain shocked her into action. She jerked free of his touch and sprang to her feet. Stalking across the room, she drew in deep cleansing breaths.

“Yes,” she said loudly, turning to face him. “Yes, I’m sorry I said those things, but I’m not sorry I stayed here. I’m not sorry I didn’t go with you.”

He stood and smiled at her. There was no humor or kindness in the curve of his lips or the flash of his white teeth. She felt chilled and folded her arms over her chest.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked.

His smiled faded. He returned to his seat. “No,” he said without looking at her. “But you told me the truth. At last. Does your husband know about your habit of avoiding the unpleasant?”

“Husband?” Oh, Lord, he thought she was married. Megan was glad her gloves hid her bare left hand from him. Married. When he found out she wasn’t, was he going to assume she’d waited for him? Oh, he couldn’t. She hadn’t, of course. There were plenty of reasons she hadn’t married, and none of them had anything to do with Justin Kincaid.

“I don’t avoid the unpleasant,” she said, staying well away from him. “What about your wife? Does she know you accost strange women in your office?”

This time his smile was genuine. She’d forgotten about the dimple in his left cheek, and the way his eyes crinkled when he was amused. Against her will, her own lips turned up at the corners. Justin had always had the ability to charm her, no matter how hard she tried to hold on to her anger, or her sensibilities.

“You were hardly accosted, Megan.”

“You know what I mean.” Cautiously, she approached the chair he’d given her. She sank onto the edge of the seat, prepared to spring up at the least provocation.

“No, she doesn’t know I accost women in my office.”

His words shouldn’t have surprised her, but she felt as punctured as a pincushion. Who would have thought he had married? She recalled her worries of that morning. How she’d wondered what she would do when she came face-to-face with him. She’d been torn between hoping he would remember what had gone on between them, and fearing that he would want to continue the relationship. Now there was no question of that. Married.

“Who is she?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her smile had faded.

He folded his arms over the chair back. “Who?”

“Your wife.”

He gave her a lazy wink. “What wife?”

She sighed. “Justin, even you cannot treat your wife with such disrespect. Who is the woman you married?”

She could see his humor fade, and with it the man that she remembered. The cold, angry stranger returned. “You mean, even the town bastard should know how to treat a lady? What makes you think I married a lady?”

“Your time away has taught you a quickness I cannot match.” She picked up her cloak and drew it over her shoulders. “I apologize for any insult I may have spoken. It was, I assure you, unintentional. I wish you and your good wife well.”

“There is no wife, Megan. A widow woman tempted me once, but I managed to escape.”