Page 218 of Once an Angel
God, wouldn't he love to! he thought. Much later. While he was offering tender ministrations to her ravished body. "No. We have to talk about it now. What sort of position was it?"
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Oh, very well. He was lying on the ground all bloody and I was standing over him with a pitchfork." Groaning, Justin dropped his head to her breastbone. "He should never have stuck his tongue in my mouth. He was a most unpleasant boy. He had a tongue like a grubworm." She gave his hair a nervous pat. "I didn't kill him, you know. I only wounded him."
Justin feared his own wounds were mortal. He slowly lifted his head. "One more question, darling.
How long have you been without a man?"
New patches of scarlet tinged her cheeks. The stubby silk of her lashes shuttered her eyes. "Eighteen years," she mumbled.
He threw himself off her with a yelp that was half laughter, half despair. The stars winked down at
him, giggling behind their brittle shells.
He chose his next words with elaborate care. "Do you even know how a man and a woman make love?"
She sat up, hiding her breasts behind the indignant curl of her knees. "Of course I do. A man puts his—"
Justin clapped his hand over her mouth. An anatomy lesson taught in Emily's uncompromising terms
was the last thing he needed. His fingers lingered against the softness of her lips. The shine in her eyes threatened to flow over into tears. How could he explain the agonized delight her sheepish confession
of innocence was causing him?
All the masculine vanity and hypocrisy he despised welled up inside him, penetrating the haze of his
desire and bringing the blurred visions of his heart into sharp focus: coaches rocking through the English countryside on a spring day, their lacquered roofs garlanded with flowers; bells ringing a joyful peal through the crisp air; Emily adrift in a cloud of white satin, her eyes dimmed not by tears but by the shimmering gauze of a veil.
Hope. Hope for the future.
He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. Life had finally handed him something pure and fine,
and he could not bring himself to tarnish it.
Her tears spilled over his fingers. "What is it, Justin? Don't you want me?"
A groan escaped him in lieu of reassurances. If he dared take her in his arms, he'd never find the strength to let her go. He swung away from her, welcoming the gritty reality of the sand, praying it might dispel
the heady enchantment of her nudity. He tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere—on theFifth Symphonyof Beethoven, on Bach'sConcerto in D Minor, on Chopin'sbloody Funeral March, but she was the
only melody he could hear.
Emily stared at the bronze expanse of Justin's back, cringing inwardly at her own pathetic question.
Don't you want me?
As his damning silence stretched on, the shrill malevolence of another voice hissed in her mind.
He don't want you. Nobody does.
Doreen had been right. He always turned his back on her. But somehow this was worse. It left her shivering, abandoned to the night wind, naked and raw, shamed in both body and soul. The darkness no longer enveloped her, but hovered like a murky cloud, the stars shards of ice in an uncaring void. A vast loneliness rose like bile in her throat.
She swiped at her nose with the back of her fist as the familiar anger slammed like a shield over her pain. "There's really no need to explain. My friend warned me most gentlemen find virgins a bore. They're clumsy and predictable and they always cry at the wrong times." She dashed a hot tear away. "Like now."
Justin swung around, shocked by the bitter tenor of her voice. How could she believe he would think her clumsy? Or predictable? She was as clumsy as a she-tiger, as predictable as a summer storm at sea. He watched, paralyzed with disbelief, as she scrambled to her feet, snatching up her skirt.
"We'll just forget this ever happened, won't we? If you like, I'll send your darling Rangimarie back to
tend to you. I'm sure she's had scads of experience. Most of it with the almighty, all-potent Pakeha."
