He opened his mouth, hesitated, then apparently changed his mind. His eyes said that the words he finally settled on were not his first choice. "Don't look at me like that. We..." Jake's gaze dropped to where he'd unconsciously laced his fingers around hers. Her hand felt cool and fragile in his. In the glow of ripening sunlight, her skin looked very white, his own very dark and coppery.
"...can't." Stronger, he repeated, "We can't."
Amanda had never been brazen in her life. Miss Henry wouldn't have allowed or condoned it. Therefore, she was shocked to hear herself say, "All I want is for you to kiss me again, Jake. Like you did last night. Is that so wrong?"
"Hell yes, it's wrong! It's even more wrong that you can't see why it's wrong." His eyes narrowed, his glare swept her assessively. "You really don't understand, do you? You really don't see the difference between us. Jesus!" He shook his head and plowed the fingers of his free hand through his hair.
Amanda, in turn, lifted her hand to gently cup his cheek. His skin felt warm and smooth beneath her palm. It felt nice. His lashes swept down. His expression tightened—in pain, or in pleasure? There was no way to tell. "No, Jake, I don't see it. Why don't you explain it to me?"
Jake meant to answer her with one of the curt, seasoned rebuttals he gave to anyone who pried into his personal life. He was never sure where the answer he finally settled on came from. A place buried in a dark, hidden corner of him? Could be.
"Look at this," he growled. He lifted her hand until their entwined fingers were right under her nose. "Don't you see it?"
Amanda's breath caught. She blinked hard, and studied his hand. She saw the rich copper skin; the long, thick fingers; the red and calloused roughness that made her burn wherever and whenever it touched her. She saw a hand that could make her forget she was lady, a hand that made her want to be anything but. Was that what he wanted her to see?
"You're bigger than I am," she said finally, cautiously. "And stronger. I see that."
"Yeah, right," he snapped, frustrated now. "Bigger, stronger... and redder. Or did you forget about that part?"
"I didn't forget. I just—" she shrugged. "I didn't think it was important."
With jerky motions, Jake disentangled their fingers. Her hand dropped limply to her side. His balled into an iron-hard fist. He needed to hit something. A tree, a rock... anything inanimate would do. The urge was countered by a stronger, inexplicable desire not to frighten Amanda. "It's important, princess. Damn important. To me."
"I can see that."
"Can you?"
She nodded. "Yes. I just don't understand it."
"No? Well understand this."
He tunneled his fingers through his hair, the side with the braid, drawing the long, thick black curtain back and away from his face. He pointed to a place on the back curve of his neck.
Amanda's stomach muscles knotted. She didn't need a mirror to see that her face had paled, she could feel the icy drain of color.
The scar he'd pointed to was four inches long, thick, and curved like a half-moon. It narrowed at the tip, and faded from sight beneath his collar. The skin was puckered and pink; the scar obviously was not new. Not the one creasing his flesh, anyway. Who knew how old the scars on his soul were? Or how deeply they cut?
Jake let her look her fill. Only when he saw her swallow hard and glance away did he let his hair sift through his fingers, sliding back into place. His voice was gritty and hard. The cold glint in his eyes said there would be no compromise between them. "Listen to me, lady, and listen good. Because I'll only say this once." He held a rigid index finger up close to her face. "In my entire life I've slept with exactly one white lady. One. That scar was what I got for my pleasure."
She still wasn't looking at him. Dammit! Jake wanted her to look at him when he drove his point home. To that end, he reached out, hooked her chin with the crook of his index finger, and roughly dragged her gaze back to his. He didn't label the emotion he saw shimmering in her eyes. He didn't dare.
"Ask. Come on, baby, I know you're dying to."
She shook her head. "Well, yes, but—"
Jake cut her off sharply. "I was working a spread in Texas about five years back. The lady in question was the boss's daughter," he sneered, and took perverse pleasure in the way Amanda flinched. Good. He needed to hurt her right now. Not physically—he'd never hurt a woman like that, and he'd be damned if he'd start now—but he had to lash out and make her feel just a little of the pain eating away inside of him.
Jake leaned into her, his voice edgy and flat. "Her name was Cynthia. Cynthia Reed. You would've liked her, princess. She was all sweet and ladylike. So damn refined," his chuckle was short and merciless, "and so damn far above the likes of me it was scary. But, hell, I was young and stupid enough to believe her when she said she wanted to marry me. That she loved me. And why not? At the time I was just gullible enough to believe I deserved to be loved just like any other man. I should be grateful to Cynthia for setting me straight, don't you think?"
Amanda sucked in a sharp breath and glanced away. Jake increased the pressure on her jaw, forcing her gaze back to him.
r />
"Oh, no you don't. You're the one who wanted to hear this. Listen up, dammit!"
"No, Jake, I don't want—"
"Shut up and listen!"