Perfect (Second Opportunities 2)

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Sitting in the dark in a lounge chair beside the fireplace in his bedroom, Zack leaned forward and put his head in his hands, trying not to think or feel. He had done what he set out to do and more; he had proved to himself and to her that he didn't need her, not even sexually. And he had proved to her that he wasn't worth caring about or worrying about after she left here in the morning.

He had accomplished his goals brilliantly, eloquently, indelibly.

He had never felt more desolate or more ashamed.

She wouldn't imagine she was in love with him after tonight, he knew. She'd hate him completely. But not nearly as much as he hated himself. He despised himself for what he'd done to her and for the unprecedented weakness that made him yearn to go to her and beg her forgiveness. Straightening in the chair, he looked across the room at the bed they'd shared, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep in it, not when she was lying in the next room, hating him.

Chapter 39

The keys to the Blazer were on the dresser when Julie got out of bed at dawn the next morning, and the house was eerily still. The agony of last night had receded to a dull numbness, and she pulled on clothes without any particular awareness of what she was doing. All she wanted to do was get out of here and never look back, never think back. Forget everything. All her attention was focused on that, on forgetting that she had ever met him and been foolish enough to love him. She never wanted to love anyone again if it meant being this vulnerable. She got her empty nylon duffel bag out of the closet, dumped her toiletries into it, zipped it closed, and picked it up.

At the bedroom door, she paused, looking around the room to make sure she'd left nothing behind her, then she turned off the lights. Quietly, she twisted the doorknob and stepped out into the darkened living room, then she stopped short, her heart slamming in shock and dread. In the watery gray light of early dawn, she could see Zack silhouetted at the windows across the room, his back to her, his left hand shoved into his pants pocket. Jerking her gaze away, Julie turned and started silently down the hall, but before she took the second step, he said without turning: "The list of everyone who was on the set the day of the murder is on the coffee table."

Ignoring the sudden knot in her chest at the realization he'd conceded after all, she forced herself to keep walking down the hall, past the closet.

"Don't go," he called hoarsely. "Please."

Her heart twisted at the harsh desperation in his voice, but her ravaged pride screamed that only a fool without pride or sense would let him near her after last night, and she kept walking. She reached for the knob on the back door and his voice came from somewhere closer behind her, raw with emotion. "Julie—please don't!"

Her hand refused to turn the knob, her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs, and Julie leaned her forehead against the door, tears streaking down her face, the duffel bag sliding from her hand. She wept with shame for her lack of will and with fear for a love that she couldn't control. And even as she wept for herself, she let him turn her into his arms and pull her against his chest.

"I'm sorry," Zack whispered fiercely, helplessly trying to comfort her, his hands rushing over her shoulders and back, clenching her to him. "Please forgive me. Please."

"How could you do that to me last night!" she sobbed. "How could you!"

Swallowing, he turned her wet face up to his because it seemed to him that he didn't deserve the protection of anonymity when he admitted, "I did it because you called me a murderer and a coward and I couldn't stand it—not from you. And I did it because I'm a heartless bastard, exactly as you said."

"You're right, you are!" she choked, "and the horrible part of it is that I love you anyway!"

Zack pulled her back into his arms and fought down the words he knew she wanted to hear, the words he felt. Instead, he crushed her to him, kissing her forehead and her cheek, then he rested his jaw against her fragrant hair, letting her words bathe him in their sweetness. At thirty-five, he had finally discovered how it felt to be loved for no reason except for himself … to be loved when he had neither wealth nor fame nor even respectability to offer as an attraction … to be loved unconditionally by a woman of extraordinary courage and loyalty. He knew it now, just as surely as he knew that if he told her how he felt about her, those same qualities would make her wait for him for years after he disappeared. Even so, he couldn't let her sweet avowal pass without comment, and so he rubbed his cheek against her hair and tenderly spoke another truth: "I don't deserve it, sweetheart."

"I know you don't," Julie joked tearily, refusing to be crushed that he hadn't said he loved her, too. She'd heard the aching emotion in his voice just now and the torment when he thought she was leaving. She'd felt the reflexive tightening of his arms and the increased pounding of his heart against her face when she'd told him. It was enough for her. It had to be. She closed her eyes as his hand slid under the hair at her nape, his long fingers stroking sensually, but when he spoke, he sounded incredibly weary. "Would you consider going back to bed with me for a few hours and postponing our discussion about the murder until I've had some sleep? I've been awake all night."

Julie nodded and walked with him into a room she'd never expected to see again.

He fell asleep with his arms wrapped around her and his cheek against her chest.

Unable to sleep herself, Julie watched his face, her fingers toying with the soft hair at his temple. Sleep didn't soften his rugged features, she noticed, probably because he found no real peace, even then. His brows were dark and thick, and so were his eyelashes, she suddenly noticed—spiky lashes so dark they looked black. She shifted a little to make him more comfortable, but his arms tightened instantly—to prevent her from leaving, no doubt. The unconsciously possessive gesture made her smile because it was so unnecessary. She had no intention of slipping away.

Years before, she'd come across a quotation from Shakespeare that life was a stage on which each man must play his part. Ever since she graduated from college, she'd felt as if she was standing just off the stage where her own life was supposed to take place, waiting in the wings, waiting for someone to give her a cue that it was time to step on that stage and do whatever she was meant to do. Julie drew in a shaky breath, smiling a little tearily, because she'd finally gotten her cue. Now she knew what she had been waiting for all these years, why she had been created, and who she had been meant for. Despite all her diligent efforts to remake herself into a model of propriety, when it came to falling in love, she'd reverted to form and fallen in love with a man who was a renegade, a black sheep; a daring, cynical, tough social outcast who in some ways reminded her of the boys she'd known on the Chicago streets. She loved him with a fierce protectiveness that made her feel strong and wise and maternal; she loved him with a desperation that made her feel helpless and fragile and under his control.