alone, and yet he would feel and hear and smell her so vividly that often he got confused.
His fantasies didn’t confuse him these days. They were what powered his art.
Max returned his gaze to the bed. The sunlight Deedee had imagined was spreading across the mattress, giving him his first clear view of her. Apart from a sheet that was wrapped around her ankles, her legs were bare. So were her arms. A satin nightgown was twisted in tight folds around her waist and hips. It revealed a woman’s body, not a girl’s.
The sight jarred him, but it shouldn’t have. Time hadn’t stood still for her any more than it had for him. She would be close to thirty by now. There was no trace of the baby fat that had rounded her limbs when she’d been a child. Her calves and thighs were slender. So were her arms. He could see the ridge of a hip bone beneath her nightgown and the sloping, feminine curve of her buttocks.
The differences in her weren’t only physical. The child he had known would never have produced a nightmare like the one he’d just witnessed. She’d been pampered and doted on. She’d embodied everything peaceful and good to him because she’d had no concept of evil or of pain. When had that changed?
Deedee rolled to her back on the mattress beside him and flung out her arms, as if abandoning herself to the pleasure of the scene she had imagined. The neckline of her nightgown was twisted to one side, revealing the graceful length of her throat. Ivory satin pulled taut across her breasts and outlined the contours of her nipples.
Max sucked his breath through his teeth. No, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She wasn’t his sister, either.
“Can you taste it?” she asked.
“What?”
“The rain. Tip your head back.”
“Deedee—”
“Don’t you remember how we used to catch the rain on our tongues?”
He slid his gaze from her breasts to her mouth. “Game’s over, Deedee.”
“C’mon, Max.” She opened her mouth and touched her tongue to her lower lip. The motion didn’t appear childish in the least.
Max felt an unaccustomed stir of conscience. He ignored it and leaned closer.
That was when he saw the strip of raised skin that curled around her right arm from her elbow to her shoulder. It had the shiny pink tightness of a healing burn. A similar, wider scar crossed her collarbone and split into ragged white fingers that disappeared beneath the edge of her nightgown. The satin was pulled taut across that, too. The puckered edges of the scar extended to the upper slope of her breast.
What the hell happened to you, Deedee?
Her eyes opened fast, as if his thought had been a shout. She stared at him.
He soaked in the contact as he soaked in the sunshine. Her eyes were the same warm green he remembered, the color of new ferns, but there was an unfamiliar murkiness in their depths. The nightmare was still there. Waiting. He touched his fingertips to her scarred shoulder. “What the hell happened to you?” he repeated.
The garden vanished, along with the mist and Deedee. And just like that, Max was back where he’d started. In his own bed. Utterly alone.
He reached for her instinctively, extending his mind into the darkness to follow her warmth, but she had shut herself off, curling her mind into a defensive ball the same way he’d seen her curl her body.
He pushed harder, trying to get her back. He needed more. He needed her. He couldn’t lose her this time . . .
Max drove his fist into the mattress, then rolled to his back and dropped his forearm across his eyes.
No.
He didn’t need anyone.
FIVE
DELANEY SCOOPED A FISTFUL OF CLOTHESPINS AND LIFTED a sheet from the wicker basket by her feet. Like so many things here, the smell of fresh air and her grandmother’s lemon detergent took her back to her childhood, effortlessly calling up the days when she’d run along the row of laundry, her hands slapping against damp cotton. She had read somewhere that scent memories were
His fantasies didn’t confuse him these days. They were what powered his art.
Max returned his gaze to the bed. The sunlight Deedee had imagined was spreading across the mattress, giving him his first clear view of her. Apart from a sheet that was wrapped around her ankles, her legs were bare. So were her arms. A satin nightgown was twisted in tight folds around her waist and hips. It revealed a woman’s body, not a girl’s.
The sight jarred him, but it shouldn’t have. Time hadn’t stood still for her any more than it had for him. She would be close to thirty by now. There was no trace of the baby fat that had rounded her limbs when she’d been a child. Her calves and thighs were slender. So were her arms. He could see the ridge of a hip bone beneath her nightgown and the sloping, feminine curve of her buttocks.
The differences in her weren’t only physical. The child he had known would never have produced a nightmare like the one he’d just witnessed. She’d been pampered and doted on. She’d embodied everything peaceful and good to him because she’d had no concept of evil or of pain. When had that changed?
Deedee rolled to her back on the mattress beside him and flung out her arms, as if abandoning herself to the pleasure of the scene she had imagined. The neckline of her nightgown was twisted to one side, revealing the graceful length of her throat. Ivory satin pulled taut across her breasts and outlined the contours of her nipples.
Max sucked his breath through his teeth. No, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She wasn’t his sister, either.
“Can you taste it?” she asked.
“What?”
“The rain. Tip your head back.”
“Deedee—”
“Don’t you remember how we used to catch the rain on our tongues?”
He slid his gaze from her breasts to her mouth. “Game’s over, Deedee.”
“C’mon, Max.” She opened her mouth and touched her tongue to her lower lip. The motion didn’t appear childish in the least.
Max felt an unaccustomed stir of conscience. He ignored it and leaned closer.
That was when he saw the strip of raised skin that curled around her right arm from her elbow to her shoulder. It had the shiny pink tightness of a healing burn. A similar, wider scar crossed her collarbone and split into ragged white fingers that disappeared beneath the edge of her nightgown. The satin was pulled taut across that, too. The puckered edges of the scar extended to the upper slope of her breast.
What the hell happened to you, Deedee?
Her eyes opened fast, as if his thought had been a shout. She stared at him.
He soaked in the contact as he soaked in the sunshine. Her eyes were the same warm green he remembered, the color of new ferns, but there was an unfamiliar murkiness in their depths. The nightmare was still there. Waiting. He touched his fingertips to her scarred shoulder. “What the hell happened to you?” he repeated.
The garden vanished, along with the mist and Deedee. And just like that, Max was back where he’d started. In his own bed. Utterly alone.
He reached for her instinctively, extending his mind into the darkness to follow her warmth, but she had shut herself off, curling her mind into a defensive ball the same way he’d seen her curl her body.
He pushed harder, trying to get her back. He needed more. He needed her. He couldn’t lose her this time . . .
Max drove his fist into the mattress, then rolled to his back and dropped his forearm across his eyes.
No.
He didn’t need anyone.
FIVE
DELANEY SCOOPED A FISTFUL OF CLOTHESPINS AND LIFTED a sheet from the wicker basket by her feet. Like so many things here, the smell of fresh air and her grandmother’s lemon detergent took her back to her childhood, effortlessly calling up the days when she’d run along the row of laundry, her hands slapping against damp cotton. She had read somewhere that scent memories were
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