For the life of him, he couldn’t understand Jade. Every time he thought he had her figured out, he was thrown another curve ball—like tonight. He never would have predicted that a woman would show up at Jade’s house after supper, claiming Jade’s son for her ailing husband.
She had mentioned Hutch. There had been a story in the local newspaper over the weekend about Palmetto’s sheriff, Hutch Jolly, being in a Savannah hospital awaiting a kidney transplant. Unless it was a crazy coincidence and Palmetto had two men named Hutch waiting for a kidney donor, Hutch Jolly was Graham’s father. Graham was obviously unaware of that, and Jade intended to keep him in the dark.
Had Jade known about Jolly’s illness before she moved back? Was she dangling Graham in front of the critically ill man like a carrot? If Jolly was Graham’s father, where did that leave the Patchetts? How did they figure into it? Jolly’s wife hated Jade, too, but not for the expected reason. Ordinarily, the wife would want to deny her husband’s paternity of an illegitimate child.
Experience had taught him that nothing was ordinary where Jade Sperry was concerned.
Evidently, she needed help. Yet, when he had offered it, she threw up that icy armor of hers and flatly refused. What kind of fool would reject an offer of help when it was so desperately needed?
Dillon shoved his fingers up through his hair. “Christ.”
He recognized Jade’s foolishness because he had been guilty of it himself. At Debra and Charlie’s funeral, he had been downright rude to the Newberrys and all their friends. He had spurned every sincere expression of sorrow and rebuffed every offer of help, because being with people whom Debra had known and loved was too painful for him. He had shut them out, believing that he might find numbness in solitude.
Only after accepting this job had he contacted the Newberrys. He had written them a letter, apologizing for the seven years of silence and advising them of his whereabouts. He had been able to write down Debra’s name without feeling as if it were being carved into his heart with a razor blade. The Newberrys had written him back, expressing their joy over hearing from him and extending an open invitation for him to visit them in Atlanta.
He was now able to remember Debra alive—loving and laughing—instead of envisioning her lying dead with their son in her arms. In spite of his dogged attempts to cling to his misery, he had healed.
He adjusted the thermostat on the window unit and went into his bedroom. He removed his boots, stepped out of his jeans and underwear, and slid naked between the sheets of his bed. He stacked his hands beneath his head and stared at the ceiling. Just as he had been seven years ago, Jade was reluctant to accept help because her problem was something she couldn’t bear to confront.
“But what?” Dillon didn’t realize he had spoken out loud until he heard the sound of his own voice. “What?” What had made her so afraid of trusting others, of her own sexuality?
Until he met Jade, he had thought the word frigid was a catch-all phrase to describe coy bimbos. The ingenues in B-movies were called frigid before they put out for the smooth-talking male lead. It was the antonym of nymphomaniac, a word with numerous applications but no real definition. Unfortunately, it perfectly described Jade Sperry. She was terrified of a man’s touch.
Had Hutch Jolly robbed Jade of her right to gratifying sexuality? If so, Dillon hated the bastard, sight unseen. Jade was intelligent, savvy, and beautiful, but she had a scary secret locked away in the closet of her mind. It would continue to haunt her until someone exorcised it.
“Don’t even think it,” he muttered into the darkness. You only work for her, he reminded himself. You’re not her shrink or her lover or even a would-be lover.
But Dillon lay awake for hours, thinking about opening Jade’s heart and banishing her fears.
* * *
The sleeping body in the ICU bed was a human effigy being kept alive by machines devised to prolong a life no longer worth living.
Jade gazed down at her former classmate, her rapist. Hutch had never been handsome, but he looked pitifully ugly now. The bones of his large face were grotesquely pronounced, his cheeks sunken. His pallor clashed with his rusty-red hair. He had always been a strong, robust athlete; now, oxygen was being pumped into his nostrils. Medical technology was performing for him the functions his body no longer could.
While his vital signs were being electronically monitored and recorded, while he was struggling for life, the two attending nurses discussed the stifling heat outside and the Civil War epic starring Mel Gibson that was being filmed on location nearby.
“Only two or three minutes, Ms. Sperry,” one said as they withdrew.
“Yes. Thank you.”
She must have struggled subconsciously with the decision all night, because the knowledge that she would drive to Savannah and see Hutch had awakened her that morning. It wasn’t that she doubted the severity of his condition. She certainly hadn’t changed her mind about having Graham tested as an organ donor. She simply felt compelled to come and confront Hutch, for what would probably be the last time.
She had talked her way into the ICU. Luckily Donna Dee hadn’t been there to dispute her claim that she was a relative who had come all the way from New York City to say goodbye to Cousin Hutch.
She was glad she had come. Hate required energy. Sometimes her hatred for the three men who had caused Gary’s suicide was so consumptive, it left her replete. After today, she would have more energy, because it was hard to work up hatred for the man in the bed.
Suddenly he stirred and opened his eyes. It took a moment for him to focus on Jade, and even longer for it to register with him who she was. When it did, his dry, chalky lips parted, and he rasped her name in disbelief.
“Hello, Hutch.”
“Jesus. Am I dead?”
She shook her head.
He attempted to wet his lips, but his tongue looked pasty. “Donna Dee told me you were back.”
“It’s been a long time.”