Listed: Volume II Page 4

  “Are you feeling all right?” Paul asked, walking over to pick up the towel and wipe some water Emily hadn’t noticed off the counter.

  “Yeah. Just needed some water. Sorry about all the ruckus.” She glanced over her shoulder to look at him again, and this time she got the profile view, highlighting his flat belly and the curve of his tight ass, since he'd turned slightly away from her too. Her eyes darted down, quite unconsciously, to his groin. He didn't have a hard-on or anything, of course, but the soft fabric didn’t leave anything to the imagination, and she definitely saw something there.

  She flashed briefly to the idea that they were married. They could be having sex. They could have sex tonight, if both of them wanted to.

  She wanted to have sex with him, a lot more now than she had when they’d first wed. She hadn’t known Paul as well before, so it was sex in general she was interested in. Now, however, she really liked him. And she really liked the idea of sex with him.

  Seeing him like this made her body like the idea of sex with him.

  But they’d taken sex off the table until her eighteenth birthday. It had been hard enough to bring the topic up the first time and mortifying when he'd rejected her, so there was no use to even think about it again until she turned eighteen. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to work up the courage even then.

  “I thought you’d already got a bottle of water before bed,” Paul said with a frown.

  She rolled her eyes, her unexpected physical response to him making her feel flustered and a little irritable. “I finished that one and needed another.”

  She turned around to face him again, determined not to act like a trembling virgin just because Paul appeared without a shirt. He would probably be appalled if he knew the direction of her thoughts.

  She saw him draw his eyebrows together. “Are you okay? Do you have a—”

  “I don’t have a fever,” she snarled, “I’m just thirsty. Stop fussing.”

  Paul blinked at her tone.

  “Sorry,” she said, tempering her voice and feeling like an ungrateful ass. “I’m really fine. Sorry I woke you.”

  He gave a half-shrug and walked over to the refrigerator himself, evidently deciding he wanted water too since he was up and they were talking about it.

  Emily couldn’t help but check out his bare back, since she was offered the view. The strong lines of his shoulders and the planes of his back were graceful and powerful—nothing over-developed or ungainly about him. But Emily was immediately distracted by something else.

  She gasped loudly and stepped toward him. “God, Paul, what happened?”

  “What—” he began, glancing at her over his shoulder. Then he must have realized what had diverted her.

  He stiffened. “It’s nothing.” He tried to turn around, but he was trapped by the open refrigerator door and by Emily, who had moved in closer.

  “Nothing?” she repeated, overwhelmed by horror and outrage at the sight of the network of ragged scars all over Paul’s lean back. The lines were white, so they must have been old. The idea of his being hurt so badly made her sick. “This is horrible, Paul! Who did this to you?”

  “Emily, I said it was—” Paul began, sounding awkward and uncomfortable.

  As he spoke, without any conscious volition, Emily’s hand reached out, and her fingers traced one of the longest scar lines, just at his shoulder blade.

  As soon as she touched him, Paul broke off his words and jerked away, his sudden motion causing the bottles in the refrigerator door to clatter. “It’s no big deal,” he gritted out, pushing her backward slightly so he could close the door. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  “Melodramatic?” she repeated in astonishment. Her heart throbbed and her vision almost blurred as she tried to process his being hurt so badly. This was so much different than the faint bruises he’d noticed on her arm a week ago. “Paul, please, what happened?”

  Paul’s tight face softened slightly, but he stood with his back against the counter, evidently so she couldn’t see the scars. “It’s really not as bad as it looks. Several years ago, I…I fell.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Fell on what?”

  “Against the doors of a china cabinet.” He swallowed, not meeting her eyes. “The glass panes shattered.”

  Emily covered her mouth with her hand, the visual his words had evoked appalling. “How did you fall?”

  Someone wouldn’t accidentally fall backward into a china cabinet.

  When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Did he…did he push you?”

  “He didn’t mean to. We were arguing, and I got in his face. He never hit me or anything.”

  Her heart almost broke at the sight of his stiff, guarded face.

  Emily had lost her father, but he had loved her.

  Poor Paul hadn’t been so lucky.

  She couldn’t believe she’d thought his life was easy—just a few weeks ago.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Paul said again, his eyes darting over to check her expression. “All the cuts were fairly superficial.”

  “Superficial?” she breathed, stepping over to the counter and nudging him away so she could see again.

  The scars crisscrossed his whole back, some thicker than others, and she’d never known his back was torn up this way.

  “Do they hurt?” she asked softly, tracing the line of one of them gently with her fingers, even though he’d pulled away from her before. It was a stupid question, but her heart ached for him. Something tender and protective rose up inside her, stronger than anything she’d experienced before.

  “Not anymore.” He stood very stiffly with his head lowered, but he didn’t jerk away this time.

  She followed the line of another scar, brushing it with her fingertips. Then found another one, lower, near his waistband, that looked deeper and more jagged than the rest. His skin was warm and firm, even at the scars. She had no idea why she felt compelled to touch them—just wished her touch had the power to heal. “Oh, Paul,” she murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

  She heard his breath hitch strangely, and he muttered, “Emily, please don’t.” He took a couple of awkward steps away from her. He opened the refrigerator again and stared inside, as if he remembered he’d never gotten his bottle of water.

  Emily gazed at him, bewildered and disoriented. He’d sounded almost bad-tempered with her, and it hurt her feelings. She made herself think through it rationally, though, and she realized she’d pushed too hard, forced an emotional intimacy on him that he wasn’t comfortable with.

  Just because stroking his scars made her feel like she was somehow helping him didn’t mean that was what Paul himself would want. She’d gone way beyond the bounds of their relationship. They didn't pour their hearts out to each other. They respected each other's privacy, and they didn't make each other uncomfortable.

  She had no idea what she was thinking in trying to do all three just now.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He shook his head, a little jerkily, still staring into the refrigerator. Only his head and shoulders were visible above the door, so she could no longer see most of his scars. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Can I have a bottle of water?” she asked, since that was her purpose in coming out here at all.

  He handed her one without comment. Then told her goodnight. And he was still standing there staring into the refrigerator when Emily hurried into her room to hide.

  * * *

  Things returned to normal in the morning.

  When Emily woke up, she lay in bed for a few minutes and reoriented herself.

  Last night had been a stumble, but it was recoverable. She'd slipped into acting like she had a normal friendship with Paul, but that just wasn't the case. There were forced limits on her relationship with him. Those limits were set by her impending death.

  Their friendship didn't have a future, so it had to be about keeping each other company in the present. That didn'
t mean she couldn’t care about him—she did, a lot more than she would have imagined she could—but there was no sense in pushing it deeper. That would be hard, for both of them, and there wasn't any point to it.

  She was self-aware enough to know that, if she hadn't been dying, she would have been in danger of falling head-over-heels in love with Paul. It wasn't just that he was an incredibly attractive man. He was also funny and intelligent and generous and more considerate than she'd known him to be. But Emily's life now was all about moments—experiencing moments, enjoying moments, living moment by moment. And the nature of love assumed a future.

  She had no future.

  So, after assessing her emotional condition, she determined that things were going well with Paul. She was enjoying his company, and she thought he must be enjoying hers too, at least to a certain extent. They cared about each other, and the sacrifices Paul was making for her would be rewarded with the knowledge that he'd done something incredibly good, something worthwhile.

  That would matter to him.

  Hopefully, after she was gone, he could think back on her sometimes as a fond memory of a girl to whom he'd once given an incredible gift.

  She emerged from her bedroom, fully dressed and ready to be cheerful and natural. She wasn't surprised that Paul was already up and dressed himself. They had a quick, pleasant breakfast in the room, with no hint of the awkwardness of the previous night, before they went to visit the Empire State Building.

  Paul had made arrangements for them to get a private visit to the 103rd floor of the building, the very top usually available only to visiting dignitaries and celebrities.

  Emily was quite sure she wasn’t either a dignitary or a celebrity, but she wasn’t about to complain. She had a great time gawking over the view. Paul was well-informed on almost everything, and he seemed to be in a light, charming mood. While she didn’t like this mood as much as the dry, fond humor that seemed somehow more genuine, she wasn’t about to complain about having a fun, intelligent companion to see New York City with.

  It was much better than the awkward tension of the night before.

  After they finished at the Empire State Building, they strolled through Central Park and ended up having brunch in a trendy little bistro on 5th Avenue that specialized in cheese. It was packed out, but Paul had made reservations and had predictably snared the best table in the restaurant.

  Emily stuffed herself on scrumptious pancetta and gouda soufflé and hot beignets that melted in her mouth. Paul kept her giggling with stories about his trips to New York with friends in college and with every random detail he knew about cheese.

  “Did you want to do some shopping?” Paul asked, after they’d finished their meals and had drifted into a satiated quiet.

  Shopping was exactly what she wanted to do, but she had almost no money of her own, and she was determined not to spend Paul’s money on a pointless splurge for herself. He’d already spent a small fortune on her.

  She just gave a little shrug, “Since we’re right here, I wouldn’t mind doing some window shopping. Maybe look around at the stores you’re supposed to see when you come to New York.”

  Paul gave a faint sneer. “I’ve never seen a woman who shops like you.”

  Emily giggled at his expression, but she didn’t try to justify herself. She knew whatever she bought wouldn’t make a dent in Paul’s bank account, but that wasn’t really the point.

  They strolled down 5th Avenue and stopped in some of the high-end designer stores, where Emily gaped at the ludicrously expensive, stylish clothes. Paul tried to talk her into buying some of them, but she managed to refrain from caving, much to her husband’s annoyance.

  She sustained her resolve with admirable strength until she passed the small boutique of a designer Emily wasn't familiar with. She saw the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen in the window display.

  She stopped abruptly and stared at it, lusting for that dress more than any piece of clothing she’d ever laid eyes on.

  It was a dark gray silk shirtdress with a knee-length pencil skirt, a wide collar, and a belt with a beautiful onyx buckle. The dressed looked both vintage and stylish, and Emily could vividly see herself in it.

  She swallowed and forced her eyes away, starting to walk again, although leaving that dress in the window was almost painful.

  With an impatient shake of his head, Paul took her arm and dragged her into the boutique.

  He made her try it on, and the saleswoman found some shoes to try on with it. The outfit looked so good on her Emily couldn’t lie when she emerged from the dressing area and Paul asked if she wanted to buy it.

  “How much is it?” she asked the saleswoman, in the futile hope that it wasn’t as expensive as she feared.

  Paul had already pulled out his credit card. He handed it to the saleswoman with a murmured, “Don’t tell her.”

  Emily gasped indignantly and glared at him.

  He met her glare evenly as the saleswoman happily rang up the dress and shoes.

  Emily was trying to hold on to her righteous indignation, but she saw Paul hiding a smile. Then, always unable to take herself too seriously, she relaxed into a little laugh. “Fine. Thank you very much for the dress you forced on me. You’re a shopping bully. You know that, don’t you?”

  He chuckled, his eyes warm and fond the way they’d been on Tuesday evening when they were eating on the terrace. “Since you’ve given into me once, I’m guessing I can bully you into a few more purchases.”

  “Don’t count on it.” Emily firmly believed she was right.

  She was wrong, of course. He somehow convinced her to let him buy her a gorgeous tote, which she justified because she might need it on the trip to Egypt. Then, at Tiffany & Co., he insisted on getting her a pair of emerald earrings she was pretending not to stare at that would match her ring and necklace.

  But that was all. It certainly could have been worse.

  Paul was pretty pleased with himself as they returned to their suite to rest before dinner. The truth was—Emily was pleased with him too.

  * * *

  That evening, Emily gazed at herself in the mirror and was forced to conclude that she’d never looked more stylish and sexy in her life.

  She was wearing her new dress, and the fitted shape and slippery fabric flattered her figure, hugging the curve of her breasts and sliding over the contour of her hips. She’d been worried about the pencil skirt, since she didn’t have the incredibly long legs of a model, but with her new snake-print pumps with very high heels, even her legs looked svelte.

  She tried unbuttoning one more button at her neckline and decided the cleavage exposed was deep but not inappropriate. She liked the way the dress draped better that way, and her breasts had always been one of her better features.

  She’d spent much more time on eye makeup than normal, and she’d put on dark lipstick, which she almost never wore. She liked the effect. She looked polished, almost like she could belong with Paul.

  Her uncharacteristic sophistication was compounded by the addition of her wedding necklace and her new earrings, which both looked perfect with the dress.

  Her only frustration was her hair. She’d been growing it out for a couple of months, and it was at a weird in-between length. When she pulled it up into the French twist she always wore to dress up, it was too bulky in the back.

  She unpinned it again, letting it fall down on her shoulders, and took a breath before she raised her arms to twist it up again.

  A knock on her bedroom door startled her, and she let her hair fall back down.

  “Emily,” Paul called from the other side of the door. “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah,” she said, wrapping her hair up with her hand one more time. “I’m ready.”

  Paul must have taken her words for an invitation to come in. As he opened the door, he said, “I made reservations for six-thirty to give us plenty of time before the show starts, but I can move them if…”

  His w
ords trailed off as he processed her appearance. He wore all black—black trousers, black dress shirt, black jacket, and black shoes—and he looked scrumptious enough to eat.

  Emily dropped her hair again and displayed her outfit, a little self-consciously. “What do you think?”

  He just kept staring at her, his eyes moving up and down her body with unusual intensity.

  “Does that mean it’s good?” she asked, blushing slightly as she turned back toward the mirror to verify that she still looked as pretty as she thought. “Hopefully, you’re not speechless in horror.”

  “It’s good,” Paul said hoarsely, dragging his eyes up to her face.

  She smiled at him in the mirror, feeling strangely shy. He was still frozen in place, and he looked astonished or something. He hadn't been particularly effusive in his compliments, but she was sure it was admiration in his eyes. She figured he must be surprised that she’d managed to look so sexy and sophisticated this evening.

  “Just let me finish my hair,” she told him, feeling a ripple of pleasure as she looked again at her reflection in the glass. She’d felt something similar when she'd dressed to go to the prom with Chris that spring, and she’d felt something similar on her wedding day. But the way Paul was looking at her now made her feel even prettier today. “I’m having trouble getting it up.”

  She tried once more to twist it into place and ended up with an unattractive bump of hair on the top of her head. She dropped her hands once more, groaning in frustration.

  “Just leave it down,” Paul murmured, still watching her in the mirror.

  She looked at her loose, rumpled hair rather dubious. “It’s all messy now.”

  “I like it like that.”

  Emily felt a little thrill at his words, but she gave him an ironic look over her shoulder. “You just say that because you want to get out the door.”

  Paul smiled, his expression taking on that light, charming look he'd had all morning. “Of course.”