They lay panting in the aftermath. Ashton shifted to lie on his back and drew her snugly against his side. She fit against him with such blissful perfection that he closed his eyes to savor the moment. For a long time the only sound in the room was their breathing and the muted tick of the clock on the nightstand. Before long, however, as their bodies settled into normal rhythms, he realized the buzzing in his ears wasn’t the pounding of his blood through his veins, but the nighttime chorus of cicadas and frogs.
“Hear that?” Ashton whispered.
Beside him, Harper held her breath and listened. From far off came the sound of someone trying to get a chainsaw going with short quick pulls of the start cord. “Yes.”
“That’s a leopard call.”
A thrill of excitement raced down her arms. “It sounds close.”
“Probably a half mile away.”
Safe in Ashton’s embrace, she snuggled her face into the crook of his neck and smiled. No one could be in better hands than her right now. Absently she traced the scar crisscrossing his abdomen. When she’d touched it before, he’d seemed to withdraw from her. Despite her curiosity, she hadn’t asked him to expand on his days with the gang. This time, he might be more open to her inquisitiveness.
“More knife play?”
His answer took a long time coming. “Yes.”
Hearing the tightness in his voice, she held silent. They were old scars. From a lifetime ago. Long healed, but permanent reminders of what...?
Beneath her hand his torso rose and fell on a deep breath. The force of it ruffled the hair scattered across her shoulder and tickled her skin.
“Chapman didn’t hire weaklings.” His voice sounded ghostly in the dim room. “Everyone had to prove they could fight. Even a fifteen-year-old boy whose only knife experience had come from slicing vegetables.” His short laugh held no amusement. “He was a sadistic bastard. Once a week he pitted one of his crew against another in sporting matches. Some sport. Whoever drew first blood won. Three losses and you were out.” Ashton threw his forearm over his eyes. “Throat slit, dumped in the jungle for the scavengers to feast on.”
Harper couldn’t imagine what this had been like for a teenager. “Why’d anyone stay working for him?”
“He made them rich. How do you think Franco could open this place?”
“Why did you stay?”
“I was proving a point to my parents.”
“At the risk of your life?”
“Who doesn’t think they’re invincible at fifteen? I was big for my age. I’d gotten into a lot of trouble fighting the neighborhood kids. What I lacked was the technique to fight with a knife. Franco took me under his wing right away, but I didn’t learn fast enough and lost two weeks in a row.”
“So Chapman wanted you dead?”
Ashton shook his head. “I don’t think so. The pairings were random. It was bad luck is all. My second bout I almost took the guy out. His reach was longer, but he was bulky and I was fast.” He caught her fingers and drew them to a spot on his left side just below the ribs. “A wild swing caught me here. It took twenty stitches to sew me up.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t die from infection.”
“My luck turned when Chapman didn’t pull my name for two months. I spent a lot of time with Franco after that. Never lost again.”
The strain in Ashton’s voice betrayed the toll that had taken on him. He might not have killed anyone directly, but he had to know that by saving himself he was signing someone else’s death warrant. From missionaries’ son to criminal to world-renowned chef.
“You can’t forgive yourself.”
“Should I?”
“What happened wasn’t your fault. Chapman’s game went on whether you were there or not. Those men made a choice just as you did. And you got out.”
“But I never turned him in. When the opportunity presented itself I ran.”
And pursued by guilt he’d been running ever since.
“Do you really want the cooking show in New York?” she asked. “I can’t help but feel you’ll be turning your back on what made you successful.”
“And what is that?”