Page 82 of The Shape of Night

“Ava, slow down.”

“How does a door slam shut by itself? Explainthat,Ben.” I haul the suitcase off my bed. “It’s easy foryouto be calm about this.Youdon’t have to sleep here.”

“Neither do you. You can stay with me. Stay as long as you want to. As long as you need to.”

I don’t answer him, but simply head out of the room. Silently he takes my suitcase and carries it downstairs for me. In the kitchen, he’s still silent as I pack up my precious chef’s knives and tongs, my whisks and my copper pot, all the gear that a dedicated cook cannot live without. He is still waiting for me to respond to his offer, but I refuse to answer. I pack up two unopened bottles of wine (never let a good bottle of Cabernet go to waste) but leave the eggs and milk and cheese in the refrigerator. Let whoever cleans up after me take it; I just want to get the hell out of this house.

“Please don’t leave,” he says.

“I’m going home to Boston.”

“Does it have to be tonight?”

“I should have left weeks ago.”

“I don’t want you to leave, Ava.”

I touch his arm, and his skin is warm and alive and real. I know he cares about me, but that is not a good enough reason for me to stay.

“I’m sorry, Ben. I have to go home.”

I pick up the empty cat carrier and carry it outside to the driveway. There I scan the yard, looking for Hannibal, but I don’t see him.

I circle the house, calling his name. From the cliff’s edge, I scan the path leading down to the beach. No Hannibal. I go back into the house and again call out his name.

“Don’t do this to me, goddamn it!” I yell in frustration. “Not today! Not now!”

My cat is nowhere to be seen.

Twenty-Eight

Ben carries my suitcase up the stairs to his spare bedroom, where I find a braided green rug and a four-poster bed. Like Ben himself, it all looks like it came out of the L.L.Bean catalogue, and right on cue, Ben’s golden retriever tip-taps into the room, tail wagging.

“What’s your dog’s name?” I ask.

“Henry.”

“What a sweet boy.” I crouch down to stroke the dog’s head and he looks at me with soul-melting brown eyes. Hannibal would eat him alive for breakfast.

“I know you didn’t plan on this,” says Ben. “But I want you to know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. As you can see, I’ve got this big house all to myself and I can use the company.” He pauses. “I didn’t mean it that way. You’re far more to me than just someone to keep me company.”

“Thank you,” is all I can think of saying.

We stand in awkward silence for a moment. I know he is going to kiss me and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I stand perfectly still as he leans in and our lips touch. When he wraps his arms around me I don’t resist. I’m hoping to feel the same heat I felt with the captain, the same delicious anticipation that kept luring me up those turret steps, but with Ben I feel no such excitement. Captain Brodie has ruined me for the touch of a real man, and even as I respond by mechanically looping my arms around Ben’s neck, even as I submit to his embrace, I’m thinking of the climb up that staircase and the firelight glowing through the doorway above. I remember the hiss of silk skirts around my legs and the accelerating beat of my heart as the firelight grows brighter, as my punishment looms closer. My body responds to the memory. While these are not the captain’s arms wrapped around me, I try to imagine they are. I long for Ben to take me ashedid, to trap my wrists and push me against the wall, but he makes no such move. I am the one who wrenches him toward the bed and invites his assault. I don’t want a gentleman; I want my demon lover.

As I pull Ben down on top of me, as I strip off his shirt and peel away my blouse, it’s Jeremiah Brodie’s face I picture. Ben may not be the one I want, but he will have to do because the lover I truly crave is the one I dare not return to, the one who both thrills me and terrifies me. I close my eyes and it’s Captain Brodie who groans into my ear as he thrusts into me.

But when it’s over and I open my eyes, Ben is the one I see smiling down at me. Ben, who is so predictable. So safe.

“I knew you were the one,” he murmurs. “The woman I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

I sigh. “You hardly know me.”

“I know enough.”

“No, you don’t. You have no idea.”

“What shocking secrets can you possibly be hiding?”

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