“Justine,” Rosemary said sharply, “calm down.”

Flatware rattled and jumped beside the sink. Justine’s mouth was filled with the taste of ashes. The rage and hurt cut through her like blades.

Sage was white with astonished concern. “We only want to help you—”

“I don’t need your kind of help!” A paring knife and a few stray pieces of magnetized flatware shot across a counter and stuck to the side of the stainless-steel refrigerator. Justine was half blind with fury. Nothing was the way she’d thought it was; nothing was real or true. She heard them calling her name, Rosemary’s voice angry, Sage’s pleading.

Amid the turmoil, she was aware that Jason had come into the room. Rosemary told him harshly to stay back, that Justine was out of control and would hurt him. Somewhere beneath the rage, Justine was terrified that Rosemary was right.

Ignoring the warnings, Jason reached Justine in a couple of ground-eating strides and pulled her close. He took her head in his hands, forcing her to look up at him. “Justine,” he said, his voice low and urgent, “look at me. It’s okay, baby. Remember what I told you?… Whatever you do or say or feel. Look at me.”

Gasping, crying, Justine dragged her unfocused gaze to his. She was held by those midnight eyes, by the way he stared at her as if he knew her inside and out. He was calm and steady, compelling her to be there with him. Guiding her out of a storm, once again. “Are you hurt?” He smoothed her hair back. “Did you step on any glass?”

“I don’t th-think so.” She felt the white-hot energy draining away. But the anger, and the anguish, were still raging. She couldn’t look at either Rosemary or Sage. “This is why,” she told Jason, trembling and laughing, tears leaking from her eyes. “The truth or dare question, remember? Why I broke up with my boyfriend. He was afraid of me. You should be, too. You should—”

Jason hushed her, kissing her forehead, stroking back a lock of hair that had stuck to her wet cheek. He reached for a nearby roll of paper towels and tore one off. After blotting Justine’s eyes, he held the paper towel to her nose, and she blew obediently.

Sage sighed as she saw that the tempest had passed. “We’ll take care of this,” she said to Jason as he glanced over the mess in the kitchen. “Thank you, Jason. We’ll finish talking to Justine, now that she’s—”

“No.” He was staring at the flatware and the knife stuck against the refrigerator. “I’m taking her upstairs.”

Justine stiffened as she followed Jason’s gaze. He should run from her, like Duane would have. Instead he put a hard, bracing arm around her shoulders. “Careful where you step,” he said. “I’m good with hypothermia, but I’m damned if I can do stitches.”

“She has more ability than we thought,” Rosemary said to no one in particular. “Possibly more than I’ve ever seen in one individual. And she can’t control it at all.”

Exhausted and sullen, Justine remained silent. Her jaw trembled as she stiffened it against more crying.

“I think we’ll call it a night,” Jason said in a deliberately pleasant tone, guiding Justine from the room.

“There is something both of you must know,” Rosemary said.

“It can wait until later,” Jason replied.

“No it can’t. You see—”

“Rosemary,” Jason interrupted firmly, “with all due respect … it’s time to shut up now.”

The older woman opened her mouth to disagree, then closed it and glanced at Sage, looking rueful. “Perhaps it is.”

Fourteen

Consciousness came to Justine by degrees. The sound of rain … the bruised soreness in all her limbs … the scent and softness of clean cotton sheets. The bleak gray light of morning slipped beneath her eyelids, and she closed them more tightly. The air in the tower bedroom was cold, but it was warm all along her back and bottom and legs, as warm as sunlight. Jason was with her. He had slept in his clothes, on top of the sheets and blankets, using one of the quilts to cover himself. Justine was in her nightgown, cocooned deep under the covers.

Memories of the previous night came to her. She had talked without stopping, although it must have been difficult for Jason to make sense of the words wedged between hiccuping sobs. He had held her and listened patiently while she had told him things she never told anyone in her life. Whether Jason believed in anything she had said or not, he had held and comforted her when she had needed it most, and she would always be grateful for that.

Even now she still couldn’t believe that her own mother had cursed her. A controlling act disguised as love. It was impossible to accept the contradiction of that; there seemed no way to make sense of it.

“It will never make sense,” Jason had told her, “because it doesn’t.”

He had sounded so certain that Justine had almost believed him. “Are you sure?” she had whispered, resting in the crook of his shoulder. “Rosemary and Sage believe it was for my own good. Does that put me in the wrong? Do I get to be angry about it?”

As he had replied, his hand played with her hair, gathering the long wild locks into a single stream. “Justine, whenever someone says ‘this is for your own good,’ it’s a guarantee they’re about to cause you some kind of damage.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“My father used to pound the hell out of me,” he had said. “With plumber’s line, lengths of chain, anything he could get his hands on. But the screwjob wasn’t the beating. The screwjob was when he said it was because he loved me. I always wondered how love could translate into an emergency room visit.”

Justine had put her arms around him and stroked his hair.

After a moment Jason had said, “My point is, when someone is hurting you, they can call it whatever the hell they want. They can even call it love. But words lie, actions don’t.”

There had been a measure of relief in hearing the truth, no matter how painful.

“You’re not in the wrong,” Jason had murmured. “And you do get to be angry about it. Tomorrow. But for tonight, sleep.”

Now she lay quietly while fretful wind gusts wrapped around the tower. It had been a long time since Justine had woken up with someone in her bed. Even through the layers of quilts that separated them, Jason radiated heat. A cozy shiver ran through her, and she inched back to fit more snugly against him.

Jason stirred, his breathing slow and even. His hand came to rest at the side of her rib cage in a reflexive gesture. Ticklish pleasure awakened all along her back and spine.

It occurred to Justine that this was the first time she had ever slept with a man without having had sex with him first. Jason could have taken advantage of her last night, while she was distraught. But he hadn’t. He’d been a gentleman. She wondered what it would take to make him lose that iron self-control. As she began to roll toward him, the underside of her breast nudged against his hand. The sensation went to the pit of her stomach.

Jason stretched and moved, sliding his arm more comfortably over her. She felt his breath against the back of her neck, lightly stirring the fine hairs. Was he awake? Should she say something? His hand drifted along her side, fingers cupping beneath her breast. Definitely awake. Excitement pulsed through her as she felt him begin to unbutton the long placket of the nightgown, every movement easy and deliberate.

His fingers slid beneath the thin white flannel. So gentle … such a contrast to the brutal strength of his grip on her yesterday. Her heart quickened, each heavy thump rolling forward into the next. He cupped her breast, lifting the soft weight, rubbing his thumb over the tip until it gathered into a tight peak. The subtle stimulation pulled up rich throbs from inside.

“Jason—”

His forefinger went to her mouth, resting briefly on her lips.

She felt an openmouthed kiss at the back of her neck, the tip of his tongue touching her skin … tasting her … as if she were some exotic delicacy. He reached into the welter of the white sheets and quilts, grasped a fold of her nightgown, and tugged it up to her waist. Gooseflesh rose on her legs as they were exposed to the cool air. His warm hand slid over her taut stomach, a fingertip tracing the rim of her navel.

Desperately Justine reached down to grasp his wrist.

“Patience,” he said against her hair.

“I can’t just l-lie here like a statue—”

“Maguro,” he said near her ear, his lips grazing the delicate edge.

“What?” she asked in bewilderment.

“The Japanese word for a woman who lies still in bed.” The pitch of his voice was low and morning-roughed. His hand returned to her stomach, rubbing a soothing circle. She felt the shape of his smile against her neck. “Also the word for tuna.”

“Tuna?” she echoed indignantly, trying to turn over.

Jason held her in place. Amusement rustled through his voice. “Sushi grade. An expensive delicacy in Japan. Something to savor.”

“They … they want a woman not to move?”

Jason pulled away the quilt. “Sexual passivity is considered feminine.” Drawing back the bedclothes, he lay behind Justine, close enough that she could feel the hard muscles of his body beneath the linen shirt and pants. “There’s always a passive partner and an active partner.”

Her stomach contracted with a sharp pang of anticipation as she felt the jutting pressure of his erection against her bottom. His thigh pressed between hers, holding them open.

“And the man is always the active partner?” she managed to ask.

“Of course.” He nuzzled at the side of her neck, while his hand slid into the wild mass of her hair.

“That’s sexist.” She gasped as his hand gripped the hair close to her scalp, exerting a light but riveting tension. “What are you—”

“Quiet.” The heat of his breath collected in the shell of her ear. “Don’t ask anything. Don’t move unless I tell you to.” Bringing his lips close to her ear, he whispered, “Be a good girl for me.”

No one had ever spoken to her that way. Justine would never have expected herself to tolerate it. But she was caught firmly, with his fingers in her hair and his leg holding hers open. She couldn’t seem to breathe fast enough, deep enough. Her muscles went lax, as if she’d been drugged. All she could do was wait, helpless with anticipation and need.

His hand slid from her hair. He pulled her top leg back, widening the flection of her thighs, and his fingers slid over the tender furrow. Gently he separated the fullness, teasing the swollen center. The sensation was so sweetly excruciating that she moaned in surprise. He found an intimate seep of moisture and stroked through it.

Her thigh muscles tightened and loosened in a rhythm she couldn’t control. A sound of frustration trembled in her throat as his hand pulled away and his thigh withdrew.

Desperately she twisted to reach for him. “Jason—”

His fingers touched her lips, a wordless imperative. A light saline perfume rose to her nostrils, the intimate scent of her own body. She fell silent, trembling with confusion and heat, her inner muscles clasping on emptiness.

“On your back,” he said quietly.

She obeyed, gasping as he pulled at the open neckline of her gown until her br**sts were uncovered and the tight fabric trapped her arms.

His fully clothed body lowered between her na*ed thighs. She felt a soft touch on her breast … his mouth … surrounded by the electrifying roughness of morning bristle. He covered the tip and tugged lightly, and stroked with his tongue. She gritted her teeth to hold back the plangent sounds rising in her throat.

“Open for me,” he said against her breast.

Her legs parted, revealing a slow leak of wetness.

“Wider.”

She obeyed, burning with embarrassment, aroused beyond anything she had ever thought possible. His thumb came to rest at the center of sensation, stroking and tickling with butterfly lightness. Craving more pressure, dying for it, she hitched upward against his hand.

Instantly his touch was withdrawn.

She sobbed his name, her h*ps lowering, her hands clenching at her sides. Jason waited, his discipline absolute. The silence was punctured only by the agitated gusts of her breathing. Pleading words hovered at her lips … Do something. Anything. After what felt like an eternity, he touched her again, parting the fervid flesh, massaging gently. Tension gathered like folds of silk, layering until it accumulated in the weight of pleasure.

He slid two fingers in her, his touch gentle but insistent. She felt him stretching her. Another finger, the inner pressure uncomfortable. She began to protest, but he wouldn’t stop, thrusting slowly as he told her that she would take everything he gave her, and then he slid lower on her body, licking and nibbling. She was lost, her breath coming in sobs and gasps.

His mouth closed over her tender flesh in a long sucking kiss. She cried out and shuddered, unable to stop the rush, unable to control anything. More visceral sensation, and more, until she thought she would pass out, but instead she was pushed into a lush, hot, briary release that bore no resemblance to the weak spasms she’d felt in the past.

The feeling came from all directions, coursing wildly through her. Gradually it broke into slow-ebbing ripples. His tongue rested on her, soothing every intimate quiver and twitch. His fingers flexed inside her. Justine moaned, her body replete.

But he wasn’t finished. He pressed deeper, more of a pulse than a thrust, over and over. Using his mouth, he built the sensations with fiendish patience, staying with her, not letting her twist away. Unbelievably, the heat was flooding her again. “No,” she whispered, certain that she couldn’t survive it again, but he wouldn’t stop, only drove her ruthlessly into another cl**ax. By the time he had finished, she was limp and half conscious.

Pressing a kiss to the skin of her inner thigh, Jason left the bed and went into the bathroom.

As she heard the shower running, Justine sat up, blinking and rubbing her eyes. “What about your turn?” she asked dazedly, but he didn’t hear her over the running water.

Standing on unsteady legs, Justine went to the bathroom and opened the glass stall. She flinched as a mist of cold water hit her face. He was taking a cold shower, his body facing away from her to allow the spray to hit his chest and run downward over his aroused body. He was a magnificent sight, his skin honey colored under a shimmer of water, his shoulders and back and buttocks a mass of bulging muscle.

“Jason,” she said, bewildered, “why are you doing that? Come back to bed. Please—”