Safe Harbor by Christine Feehan

waited for hours that first night, terrified for him. Then she'd cried for a day, waiting by the phone, not leaving the house. And finally she had to accept that he took her for granted, and that he wasn't going to call and reassure her—or thank her—or even acknowledge that she might be worried. She didn't matter; her feelings didn't matter; once he no longer needed her, she slipped from his mind. She swallowed hard, her eyes burning.
    "Why are you insisting on going to New York? You don't even like New York. It's total bullshit, Hannah. And you can forget ignoring me like you do when you don't want to tell me things. We're going to talk." Jonas settled his fingers around her arm.
    The action brought her attention instantly to his strength. That was what Jonas was all about—strength. He had it all and she had none. He never physically hurt her, not even when he was angry with her. And she could make him angry in a heartbeat—it was the only protection left to her.
    As if reading her mind, he gave her a small, impatient shake. "Don't think you're going to drive me away with all your nonsense this time, Hannah. We have to settle this."
    She sent him the haughty, over-the-shoulder look she'd perfected while dealing with his arrogance for years. "You mean you'll talk and I'm supposed to listen. I don't think there's anything at all to settle. I have a job and I'm going to New York. There isn't anything else to say." She couldn't talk to him. Once she said the things she needed to say, she'd lose him forever. There would be no going back, no hope at all. She'd have to accept that she was absolutely nothing to him.
    "Really?" His hand transferred to the nape of her neck, his fingers brushing her skin intimately and sending a shiver of awareness through her body.
    She was fairly certain he did it on purpose—that he knew her physical reaction to him—but she couldn't be certain so she took the coward's way out and simply walked the few steps left to the kitchen. "I made you something to eat."
    "But you're not eating." He made it a statement, clipped and harsh—accusing.
    She took a breath and let it out, going straight to the stove to put on the tea kettle. Jonas stopped halfway across the room and she could feel his penetrating gaze on her, demanding an answer. "I have a show, Jonas."
    He said something ugly under his breath and she stiffened. "I'm not doing this with you again, Jonas. I model. I have an assignment. You don't have to like what I do, but it's my job and I keep my word when I say I'll be there."
    "I don't have to like it, Hannah, you're right about that, but considering what it does to you,
you
at least have to like it and you don't. Don't bother lying to me. I see liars every day in my line of work, and a child does a better job than you."
    She waved her hand at the stove, too tired to argue with him and make tea at the same time, although the ritual often soothed her. The stove leapt to life, burning with a ring of tiny flames, the tea kettle whistling a demand instantly. She caught up the kettle and splashed water into a teapot, pressing her lips together to keep from telling him to leave. She didn't want him to leave, she wanted him to sit quietly and have tea with her. She
needed
him to sit quietly and talk with her. Before she left, she had to reassure herself he was unharmed.
    She sneaked a quick glance. He looked a little pale, tired, lines etched into his face, but tough as nails. That was Jonas. Hard as a rock. He didn't need anybody, least of all her. She was fluff to him, nothing more. He'd always made that so clear. Her life was falling apart and he was like the sea, a constant, steady anchor she counted on.
    "You just can't resist being the Barbie doll, can you," he said bitterly.
    "Why do you have to do that, Jonas?" She turned, anger and hurt waning in her eyes. "I've never made fun of you being a sheriff. I could, you know. You're bossy and arrogant and you think you can control everyone and