Page 62 of Rainwater
He gripped the fence and kicked the bottom rail, then leaned his head against the top rail and her heart surged with so much feeling for this man she could barely contain it. He pulled a long knife from his boot and she watched him test the edge with his thumb. Suddenly something inside her went cold.
He grabbed his hip again, his muscles bunched and he moved away from the fence with that same graceful prowling stride she’d seen him move with countless times. Panic fluttered in her like a thousand tiny birds trying to get loose. Sheran outside, later not even remembering her desperate run through the house. He was going to do something irrevocable, unspeakable. She could tell. He was going to the cottage to destroy something in himself with the act and she wasn’t going to let him do it.
The slashed canvases flashed in her head. She remembered the pain that finding those had caused her. It was as if in his need to heal himself, he refused the means by which to do it. Countless times punishing himself over and over again. Spiritually, irreversibly, permanently.
Corey had stoodat the fence, replaying the bull goring in his head over and over again until his hip ached with the remembered agony. The destructive force inside him was restless and savage tonight. He wanted to hit something, crush something with his hands. He wanted her. She was all that was good, beautiful and bright. Color in a gray world. Vibrancy in a dull, dark void. Fulfillment where there was only dissatisfaction.
His hand gripped tightly around the handle of the long blade in his hand. Dark destruction was all he knew. It was in his genes passed from father to son. He didn’t want to be like his father. That was the deep, imbedded, innate fear that ate like acid, burned like a white-hot fire with scorching, searing, relentless pain.
He strode into the cottage, leaving the door open because as soon as this was done, he was getting on his bike. He was going to get far away from them both, before he hurt them, before they found out what kind of monster they had given their trust.
He stopped in front of the canvas and just started at the soft brush strokes, the beauty of what he had depicted. Thecoalescence of all he had ever wanted since he’d first laid eyes on Jennifer Horn.
He stood before the canvas and felt deep, tortured pain and ruthlessly he squashed it. Banished it to somewhere else as he’d done as a child, though as an adult, he knew that the pain never went away until it was dealt with. Later, when all he had to comfort him were elusive, sensual memories of Jennifer, of holding her, of the sheer beauty of finding a woman he could be friends with as well as a lover.
And always the dream would haunt him. And before him was the dream. His most coveted wish brought to aching life. His arm raised as he looked at the masterpiece that sat before him. He knew he was good, but that didn’t seem to assuage the dark acid-like pain. He was even better than his father. That was what he had told him.You inherited my skill. You inherited my weaknesses, as well. You’ll grow up to be just like me.
Just like me. He closed his eyes, fear rising out of a dark, deep fissure in his heart. With a clarity that was terrifying, he saw Jennifer’s face bruised and battered. His heart squeezed with tight, unrelenting agony. He stiffened and cried out, the picture shattering in his mind. Destroy this and destroy himself. He didn’t want to be like his father.
The knife came down and her hand closed around his wrist, stopping the very tool of his destruction. “No, Corey.”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, knowing that he could easily break her hold. He could easily hurt her with his superior strength. He could shove her away and continue to do what he must.
He didn’t want to be like his father, who had hurt his mother countless times and who had beaten him, telling him over and over again how much he was like him.
“No, Corey,” she repeated. She didn’t look at him because she needed this unsteady anger. She knew if she looked at him it would dissolve along with her determination. Instead,she looked down at the first painting that hadn’t been slashed to ribbons. She looked down at true genius, true and genuine artistry. Smooth, masterful blending of colors gave the painting a rich, lifelike quality so that the people in it seemed real. It was the most beautiful painting she’d ever seen, touching her in a place that ached for him.
Tears scorched the backs of her eyelids. Scalding tears that wanted to fall. But she couldn’t…she wouldn’t let him see her this way. Calmness and tenderness were what he needed now.
She looked at the canvas again and was so very glad he hadn’t had a chance to destroy this painting. It was a beautiful replication of the three of them, and she smiled through her tears at the perfect copy of Two Tone sitting in Ellie’s lap. Ellie looked straight out at her, but the Jennifer in the painting was looking at Corey and he at her. His left hand was on her face and the turquoise band on the third finger of his left hand made her breath catch.
“Corey…” The sob caught in her throat. “This is what you were destroying? Why?”
His face twisted in pain and he bit his lip until it bled. “It’s fantasy, Jennifer. Just pure fantasy.” He looked like a wild thing, his eyes wide and unfocused. It scared her and she felt a chill. What would he have done this time after he’d slashed the painting? The thought sent shivers up her spine.
“This is what you want, isn’t it? To be part of us?”
“Yes,” he whispered, then in the next breath denied it. “No. No.” His anguished voice beat the air like birds’ wings and she heard the sheer desperation in his words as if denying what he’d just told her was the only thing that would keep him alive. His hair whipped around his face as he ripped his wrist from her grasp and knelt to pick up the knife. When he rose, the dark determination on his face scared her. He’d been doing this over and over again. Destroying his dream, his hope, and in thatinstant she realized how much he must love her and Ellie. How much it hurt him to do this. She couldn’t let him. “No! Corey, please,” she cried, and stood in front of the canvas, reaching for his face. Drawing him down, she kissed his mouth, tasted the coppery tang of blood, the stark fear and the seething anger. He tried to avoid her, but she held him firm. “I love you, Corey. Ellie loves you. We both love you so much. Don’t do this to yourself, please.”
He jerked against her at her words, a sob catching in his throat. “I don’t deserve you.” His voice cracked, his chest expanding in ragged agony.
“The hell you don’t. I’ve never met anyone more giving, more beautiful.” She kissed him again and tasted the salt of his tears. “I love you. I’ll only ever love you.”
“Jennifer,” he crooned, his hot seeking mouth capturing hers. A violent shudder coursed through him as her hands caressed his face, moving along his firm jaw, sliding deeply into his hair. “I can’t. I don’t know how.” His voice broke, the words rushing over her lips.
She grabbed handfuls of his shirt and shook him. “Of all the stubborn… Corey, what do you think you’ve been doing? You taught Ellie to barrel race, you held her on her birthday when she was upset over her father, you shared your own experiences with her, you’ve supported me, stood by me, protected me and saved my life. You’ve fed Two Tone, you’ve taken us to the dinner and the movies. What do you think all that is? It’s being a family.” She shook him again for emphasis.
He pulled away from her to look in her face. She could see how much he wanted to believe her. His eyes closed and his throat worked spasmodically.
Her hand clasped the one with the knife. She could feel the trembling of his body where her fingers were wrapped around his hand. She reached up and very gently pried his fingers fromthe handle of the knife. He put up no resistance. His hand stayed open as if waiting to be filled, waiting to be needed.
She dropped the knife, slipping her hand into his, and he closed his fist around her almost painfully. She drew him up the stairs into the bedroom and began unbuttoning his shirt. He didn’t protest. It was as if the fight had gone out of him, as if all of him had finally drained away into nothing.
“Jennifer,” he drawled softly, leaning his head against her forehead while she stripped his shirt from him.
Then she looked up and over his shoulder and her breath caught in her chest. Strong emotion clogged her throat with a rawness that left her feeling as if some protective layer had just been peeled from her body. It was another canvas, but the picture depicted was not of the three of them.
He sat on his motorcycle with her completely naked straddling his lap. In the painting, stark tenderness ravaged his face as his desire-filled dark eyes watched her moving over him, savage gentleness outlined in the long smooth fingers of his hands where he clutched her hips. And she could almost hear his words. “I’m hurting for you, darlin’. Give me what I need.”
