Resting on her side, Nikki watched Carson's perfectly sculpted face as he slept, not a peaceful nap, but restless, mixed with the occasional twitch as if he might wake at any second. The tiny digital clock blared three in the afternoon, plenty of time to let him relax a while longer. She stretched her arm from under the fluffy weight of the comforter and clicked off the tiny light, casting the cave-like cabin and Carson's features in shadows.
She'd sensed a tension in him while they made love, connecting in some way that scared her to her toenails. She hadn't known the emotions would come so fast, so thick, swamping her in more—deeper—feelings for Carson than she'd ever dreamed. She wasn't so naive that she couldn't recognize the explosiveness of how he made her feel in bed.
Four orgasms in one afternoon was nothing to sneeze at, although he seemed to tease them from her as easily as an achoo.
She'd thought their first time making love had been special, even their abruptly ended encounter months ago. Now she knew none of it had come close to what had been waiting for them. .
Because they knew each other better? Or cared more? Could things grow stronger?
The caring part scared her. Really scared her. Because she didn't trust him not to break her heart again if they got closer. Her cold toes warming between his legs, she allowed her hands the unobserved pleasure of touching him, stroking along his muscled arms that had held her close, down his chest and lower still to his six-pack, tanned even in winter.
She couldn't avoid hearing whatever he'd wanted to say much longer. She'd chased off admissions with sex earlier. But whatever he was holding back, his reasons for leaving her that had nothing to do with work, would all come out soon.
Along with his connection in knowing Billy Wade's father, a man with a gambling problem.
Nikki flipped to her other side, away for distance, her toes already chilling just seconds after leaving the warmth of Carson's legs. Deja-vu jiggled the vision in front of her as she fell asleep, taking her back to that strange night.
Strange room.
Strange bed...
How had she gotten here in this strange hotel-like place? And who was talking, their masculine voices so low she could barely distinguish the two from each other as she sprawled on the bedspread?
She couldn't remember anything after she'd climbed into Gary's car, sleepy. So sleepy. Her head pounded. Her stomach roiled. A couple of drinks shouldn't have done this to her. What was wrong with her?
Voices. In the hall or in the room? She struggled to focus, but her heart in her ears pounded louder than the whispers. She peeled her eyes open. Gary and another man stood at the foot of the bed. So close, she should be able to hear them but the world kept kaleidoscoping in and out.
She studied the back of the second man. He seemed familiar, even in jeans and a leather jacket, his hair trimmed military short.
His blond hair.
Panic clenched a vise grip around her throat.
The man in jeans and an aviator jacket turned in slow motion. No! built in her chest, crawling up her throat to stop him and what she didn't want to see but already foresaw. The denial lodged in her throat and he kept pivoting until she saw...
Carson.
Carson cranked the anchor up, prepping the boat to set sail back to Charleston. Before they reached shore, Nikki would know every dark secret from his past. Although he almost wished now he'd broached the subject with her earlier, when she'd been in a more receptive mood.
Nikki had gone silent since he woke from his catnap, refusing to meet his eyes and he didn't have a clue why. Now she sat back by the wheel, studying the other boaters in the distance, hugging her knees as she stared out over the stretch of murky water. No ponytail or ball cap, just wild windswept hair and the elegant curve of her neck he'd explored with kisses a couple of hours ago.
Before she'd shifted to deep freeze mode.
Women were tough enough to understand on a regular day and never had understanding a woman been more important. Stepping over lines and a loose life preserver, he made his way toward her. She flinched. Flinched?
Once under full sail power, autopilot set, he asked the question burning his brain. "Is something wrong?"
She dropped her forehead to rest on her knees. "I'm just confused, that's all." She turned her face to stare back at him, tears in her eyes. "I want to trust you, but it's difficult when I can't help but think you're not being straight with me."
Had her father already spoken to her? Regardless, the time had come to tell her what he'd only discussed with J.T.—and a room full of people sworn to uphold the anonymity of the program. "I'm an alcoholic."
"What?" Her head jerked up, confusion chasing away tears. "Wait. I heard you, I just don't understand. You hardly ever drink. Even with your flaming Dr Pepper call sign, I can only think of one time I've seen you with alcohol."
One time, the night they'd been together.
But if she hadn't been questioning his drinking with her initial comment, what had she thought he was keeping from her? They would get back to that shortly.
"Yes, I was drunk the night we slept together." Guilt hammered all over again, as strong and fresh as the morning he'd dragged his hungover butt to A.A. "I'd been working on staying sober for two years until then."