Ann Christopher - Redemption's Kiss

“I’ve told you.” His low voice was hoarse now, overflowing with emotion. “We’re not done.”

The violent contraction of her heart nearly doubled her over, but she gathered her strength and tried to get free. This man would not do this to her, not in her own damn kitchen.

“No, Beau—”

Keeping her hand, he pressed it to his chest, where she felt the unrelenting pounding that matched what was going on with her own haywire pulse.

“We have a lot of work to do, Jill, but we can heal our marriage.”

With rising desperation, she yanked on her hand again, ready to part with it if that was what it took to get him to stop touching her. But he let her go and she backed up a step, fueled by her fear.

“The fact that there’s been a divorce means there’s no marriage. You should check that out when you get a free minute. Divorce and marriage—they’re mutually exclusive.”

The sarcasm rolled right off him, deflected by an unholy light in his eyes that looked like determination to the millionth power. “I don’t mean to scare you and I’ll try not to pressure you. But I won’t give up, either. There’s too much between us.”

If only she could deny it. If only she could open her mouth, laugh and say, “Screw you, buddy! I felt nothing when you touched me just now! Nuuuu-thing!”

But the lie wouldn’t come and her hand still tingled from his touch.

So she went on offense, which was the next best thing.

Shrugging, she did her best to look bored and indifferent. “Do what you want. It’s your time to waste. But I’ve moved on. I’m dating someone now.”

The little bit of remaining color leached away from his face, but she gave him high marks for a quick recovery and managing his shock.

“Dating? Who’s the lucky guy?”

Jillian opened her mouth, ready to rub his nose in it, but that was pretty hard when she suddenly couldn’t remember the guy’s name or face.

“None of your business,” she said instead.

Beau absorbed the blow like a man. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Wow. That’s a first. Have you called the people at Guinness?”

A flash of dark humor lit his eyes, but he said nothing.

“I have to get working on lunch, so—buh-bye.”

At last— at last, Lord, glory hallelujah —he pressed himself to his feet, gathered his cane in one hand and Seinfeld’s leash in the other, and headed for the door.

Jillian all but vaulted across the kitchen to open it for him and hold it wide.

Just as he passed through and she was beginning to breathe easier, thinking she’d survived another encounter without a second panic attack so maybe she should go buy a lotto ticket because this was her lucky day, he stopped, right in front of her, close enough that he took up her whole field of vision and threw waves of heat from his body to hers.

Looking down at her, he stared with those remarkable eyes.

Oh, God. There was more. She should’ve known he wouldn’t go quietly.

Please, she wanted to say, don’t, but her voice locked down when he was this near, and she was exposed and entirely at his mercy.

“I see you’re still wearing the locket,” he said gently.

It was the worst kind of blow, hard and punishing, and she absorbed it in every cell in her body. Her hand moved on its own and went to her throat, to the chain of white gold and, at the end of that, to the flat oval that was warm from her body.

She held it. Protected it. And didn’t answer.

They stared at each other. Hitching up her chin, she tried to manage a defiant glare, but it was hard when the sudden sparkle of her tears nearly blinded her.

“I’ll see you later, Jillian.”

Turning away from the infinite understanding in his expression—she didn’t have to see him clearly to know that it was there—she shut the door in his face.

There they were, Beau saw with knee-weakening relief. Finally.

Jillian, who had the stiff march and impassive expression of a soldier in a military drill, and Allegra, the light of his life, bouncing alongside wearing what appeared to be a ballet costume and tiara.

He stepped back from his living room window and tried to regain some chill, but it was hard with Christmas walking down the street toward him, coming early this year. He was paralyzed with hope, if not outright happiness. But he and happy had never been friends for long, so he couldn’t say for sure.

The late-afternoon sun hit their heads just right and threw off flashes of gold. Their hair was exactly the same sandy color, although Allegra had long ringlets that bounced around her shoulders and Jill had one of those short bob-type dos, with curls around her ears. They held hands, his girls, and Allegra had her chubby dimpled face turned up to her mother, chattering like a squirrel.

God, he loved those two.

Moving to the door, he waited for the bell and wished he could breathe.

“Are you ready for your surprise?” Jillian asked.

“What is it? Tell me, tell me, tell me, please—”

“Ring the doorbell and find out,” Jillian told her.

Allegra rang the bell, one of those twenty-second rings just to make sure anyone up in the attic or down in the basement could hear. Even though his heart was in his throat and there was no air anywhere close to his lungs, he laughed and was still laughing when he swung the door open and saw the astonished delight on his daughter’s face.

They stared at each other for one breathless second during which even her curls seemed to quiver with anticipation. A smile began at one corner of her pouty mouth and spread so wide so quickly that he could almost believe he was—or could one day be—a worthwhile human being who deserved this angel’s absolute adoration.

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