From the Heart

the china pot into china cups. The set had a delicate pattern of violets on an ivory background. Michael counted each petal before he spoke.
    “Jessica.” Her fingers tightened on the handle of thecreamer and he swore silently. Strange that he’d never wanted her more than at the moment he was sure he’d never have her. He’d been too confident that when the time was right, everything would simply fall into place. “I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.”
    Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Michael—”
    “No, you don’t have to say anything, it’s written all over your face. The one thing you’ve never been able to do well is hide your feelings.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “You’re not going to marry me.”
    Say it quick, she ordered herself. “No, I can’t.” Rising, she walked over to stand with him. “I wish I felt differently, Michael. I wish I’d known what your feelings were sooner.”
    He looked into his brandy—the same color as her eyes and just as intoxicating. He set the snifter down. “Would it have made any difference if I’d asked you a year ago? Two years ago?”
    “I don’t know.” Helplessly, she lifted her shoulders. “But as we’re basically the same people we were then, I don’t think so.” She touched his arm, wishing she had better words, kinder words. “I care, Michael, you must know that I do. But I can’t give you what you want.”
    Lifting a hand, he circled the back of her neck. “I can’t tell you I won’t try to change your mind.”
    “Michael—”
    “No, I’m not going to pressure you now.” He gave her neck a gentle squeeze. “But I have the advantage of knowing you well—what you like, what you don’t like.” Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss in her palm. “I also love you enough not to hound you.” With a smile, he released her hand. “I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow.”
    “Yes, all right.” Jessica pressed her hands together. She’d felt nothing but regret when he’d pressed his lips to her palm. “Good night, Michael.”
    When the front door closed behind him, she stood where she was. She had no taste for coffee now, nor the energy to carry the tray to the kitchen and deal with Betsy or the cook. Leaving things as they were, Jessica headed for the stairs.
    “Jess?” Slade stopped her with a word. He came down the hall as she paused on the second step. “Okay?”
    All of a sudden she wanted badly to cry—to turn, run into his arms, and weep. Instead she snapped at him. “No, it’s not okay. Why the hell should it be?”
    “You did what you had to do,” he said calmly. “He’s not going to drive off a cliff.”
    “What do you know about it?” she tossed back. “You haven’t got any feelings. You don’t know what it’s like to care for someone. You have to have a heart to be hurt.” Whirling, she dashed up the stairs, making it almost halfway before she stopped. Shutting her eyes tight, Jessica slammed a fist onto the railing. After a deep breath, she turned and walked back down. He stood at the bottom, waiting.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Why?” Because her words had cut deeper than he liked, he shrugged. “You were on target.”
    “No, I wasn’t.” Wearily, she rubbed a hand over her forehead. “And I haven’t any right to use you for a punching bag. You gave me a lot of support today, and I’m grateful.”
    “Save it,” he advised as he turned away.
    This time it was her turn to stop him. “Slade.” He took two more steps, swore, then turned back to her. His eyes were dark, smolderingly angry, as if her apology had flamed his temper more than her insults. “I realize you might think differently, but you don’t go to hell for being kind.”
    With that, she left him staring after her as she continued up the stairs.

5
    T WO A . M . Jessica heard the old Seth Thomas clock in the hall strike two musical bongs. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to settle. Slade’s spurts of stop-and-go typing had silenced over an hour before. He could sleep, she thought in disgust as she rolled to her back to stare, again, at the ceiling. But then, he wasn’t in an emotional whirl.
    Thoughts of Michael drifted to her and she sighed. No, let’s be honest, Jessica, she ordered herself. It isn’t Michael who’s keeping you awake, it’s the man two doors down on the left.
    Alone in the dark, in the tangle of soft linen sheets, Jessica could feel the scrape of sand against her back, the heat of the sun