Mr. Imperfect(29)

"I want to give you what you need," he said. "But I can't believe in a  house full of children and happy-ever-afters." Not when his memories  smelled of death and terror and dust-under-the-bed where a  twelve-year-old still cowered on his belly and listened to his bereaved  father scream that it was Christian's fault that his wife had died.  "Kez, I just can't."

"It's okay," she said, though plainly it wasn't, and Christian forced  himself to say nothing. He'd never love her more than he did at this  moment of letting go.

"It's okay," Kezia repeated, and reached out a hand to smooth away the  lines of strain on his face, to memorize its contours. He was a man who  couldn't let himself be vulnerable. She'd forgiven him the past. Now,  she forgave him the future. "I knew what your answer would be."

Denial flashed in Christian's eyes and was gone, replaced by a steely  resolve. His hands cupped her buttocks, brought her closer. He was hard  again. "Tomorrow I'll leave as promised." Savagely he claimed her mouth.  "But tonight, by God, you're mine."

Hunger, equally insatiable, rose in Kezia. He wanted to conquer her but  he couldn't because she was reckless in her willingness to surrender  everything she had. And by her passionate compliance, forced him to  surrender to her.

With Christian she journeyed to places rich with erotic pleasures. He  evoked needs she'd never acknowledged, needs no good girl should ever  have, then absorbed them, transformed them and gifted them back to her  shiny and new.

When there wasn't an inch of their bodies that hadn't been sated they  lay facing each other on the white bed, physically and emotionally  spent. Kezia had a sense of resting in the eye of a storm. She knew the  worst was still to come but the disillusion that had kept them at war  with themselves and each other was gone and a fatalistic acceptance  filled the vacuum.

Her eyelids began to droop; she forced them open.

"You need sleep." His voice vibrated out of the dark.

"So do you."

In answer, Christian began to stroke her, starting at the nape of her  neck. His palm, warm and sure, slid down her back to the slope of one  buttock, before skimming lightly across and up the curve of hip, waist  and shoulder back to her neck. And he did it again. And again.                       
       
           



       

He stroked her as though they'd spent every night of the intervening  years together-with a tender familiarity. He stroked her as though they  had years ahead of them instead of a precious few hours. Relax, his  hands told her, let go. Rest in me.

And despite her resolve to make every last second count, Kezia felt her  body soften and melt into his. Her eyes closed, she fantasized that all  the obstacles keeping them apart no longer existed, imagined that his  arms were home. His hand swept up and down her back with slow, rhythmic  caresses. Deeper and deeper she sank into the oblivion of his chest,  warm and dark and safe.



CHRISTIAN LEFT WATERVIEW BEFORE dawn, while Kezia slept. The main street  looked like the movie set for a ghost town and the bleak isolation  suited his mood. At the crossroads he waited while a stock freighter  passed with a hiss of air brakes.

Still Christian sat there, letting the engine idle. The last time he'd  been here at this hour he'd had a thumb out for a ride and a duffel bag  slung over one shoulder. Winter had crystallized the roadside grass, and  it crunched underfoot as he'd jogged on the spot trying to keep warm,  while the knuckles on his right hand burned and stung.

The last time his eyes had been dry and he hadn't looked back. This time he was braver than that.



KEZIA WOKE UP HOT WITH THE SUN in her face. Rolling away from the glare,  she felt paper crackle under her cheek. She opened her eyes, saw the  note on Christian's pillow and shut them again. Too late. Her heart had  already started pumping adrenaline. She sat up and reached for it.

I read somewhere that long goodbyes prolong the parting, not the being together. Love. Always. Christian



Kezia refolded the note carefully, recalling that any square piece of  paper could be folded in two up to seven times, and folded it again. And  again. On the fourth fold tears blinded her.

He was gone.

Kezia blinked them back and got out of bed. She showered, dressed and  ate breakfast-two pieces of buttered toast and a cup of coffee-then sat  at her grandmother's writing desk and looked at her list of things to  do.

A fly buzzed erratically, calling her attention to the window. It  struggled in a web that fanned across a lower pane and as she watched, a  spider materialized and began to swaddle the fly in silk with an almost  military efficiency.

With an effort, Kezia looked at her list again. Tradesmen needed to be  called-the sooner the hotel was back in business, the sooner she could  set up the trust. Apologies needed to be made-God knows what Suzie had  made of her sudden flight from the wedding. She had to get busy.

Another hour went by while she watched the sun creep across the carpet  like a tide. She looked at her list again then tore it up into little  pieces and flung them on the carpet. Lying across the desk with  outstretched arms, she gave in to wrenching, agonized sobs.

Tears poured down her cheeks and into her mouth, her nose began to run.  Gulping and gasping she tried to stem the flow of grief with tissues,  with logic-she knew it would hurt-with stern admonitions to be brave,  unselfish. Nothing worked.

In desperation she held her breath, but the giant fist holding her heart  squeezed tighter and tighter until she capitulated with another sob.  Slumped across the desk again, she could only wait for the grief to run  dry.

It took a long time. When the sobbing had dwindled to sporadic shudders,  she lay exhausted, the mahogany cool against her cheek, the scent of  lemon polish soothing her blocked nose. Her eyes felt puffy and swollen;  wearily she closed them.

Okay, it would take longer than she thought to get over him. Acceptance  of that fact would be her first step toward recovery. It seemed to be  the only step she could manage today.

"Are you here, Kez?" Marion's voice echoed up the stairs. Kezia's eyes  flew open as she jerked upright, then nearly passed out under a wave of  dizziness. Carefully she rested her elbows on the desk and cradled her  aching head.

"Wait here, John Jason, and don't touch anything, do you hear me?"

A child's murmur of assent, the sound of Marion's tread on the stairs.  In a panic, Kezia scrambled for the French doors, edging them shut  behind her. On the deck she stepped out of view and pressed her body  back against the weatherboards. She couldn't cope with sympathy right  now; she had to believe she could bear this.

"Kezia, are you in here?" She heard her friend open the door to Muriel's  bedroom, then the creak of floorboards as she came down the hall.  "Kez?" A silence suggested Marion stood at the doorway, scanning the  empty office.

Kezia's heart jumped as her friend started talking under her breath.  "Where are you? I need you!" There was a catch in Marion's voice and  Kezia stirred, pricked by her conscience.                       
       
           



       

Things must be getting back to normal. Someone needed her. Still she  hesitated, rooted to the spot by a weariness that went bone-deep. Right  now, she had nothing left to give.

Marion sighed.

And although she knew it was selfish and unfair, Kezia's exhaustion  smoldered into resentment. Couldn't someone else carry the load for  once? Did it always have to be her? She listened as her best friend's  footsteps receded, crossing her arms to stop herself from going after  her.

Marion could find another shoulder to cry on for once. Or better yet,  toughen up and sort out her problems herself. She was better off without  that loser of a husband anyway.

The horror of her thoughts made Kezia drop her face into her hands, but  some part of her broke free. I'm sorry but I can't ignore my own needs  anymore. Otherwise I would have given Christian up for nothing.

"I said, stay down there, John Jason!" Marion sounded fraught. "I'm just  getting that last box from your old room … Wow, this is heavy, what'cha  got in there? Blocks?" Now her tone was conciliatory as if to make up  for her earlier sharpness. "No, honey, that's okay. I don't need you to  carry the other end. But you're my big strong boy, aren't you? Let me  just feel where the stair is … ."

The banister.

Kezia wrenched open the French doors, raced across the room and hit the  hall running. She was opening her mouth to shout a warning when the rug  shot out from underneath her. Instinctively she threw down a hand to  save herself and muffled a scream as agony splintered through her wrist.