The Man from Her Past. Anna AdamsЧитать онлайн книгу.
towels,” he said. “And those dishwashing sponges. Hundreds of them.”
“What?” She stared at him underneath the porch light.
“In the guest rooms. I’ve cleaned your room and his and your old playroom, and I cleaned off and remade the daybed in there. But the others—I called the women’s shelter in town to see if they could use anything.”
He actually blushed, but for no valid reason. Obviously, his mind had gone to the women’s shelter because of what had happened to her. They’d be well sponged and paper-towel clean, because she’d forgotten she’d left her bathroom window open one night five years ago.
“Get over it, Van. I have.”
“Have you?”
His simple question rattled all her doubts. “I had to.” She glanced down at Hope’s head.
He wiped his mouth again. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”
“Fortunately,” she said, trying to be kind because she didn’t want grudges between them, “we don’t need to talk. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done. We’ll both have beds to sleep in, and I can go by the grocery store.”
“Let me.”
“We’re not your problem. Good night.”
“Come on, Cass.” She’d known Van nearly all her life, but never had she heard the kind of anger he was fighting to quell—all the more frightening because he was normally so controlled. “Give me a chance,” he said. “What did you expect me to do when I found out?”
She looked down. Hope’s eyes had drifted shut. “I expected the reaction you had. That’s why I left town and never meant to come back.”
“Not because you didn’t love me anymore?”
She stopped, feeling naked, sensing the eyes of everyone who’d ever known her in this town. “You stopped loving me,” she said, praying Hope was really asleep and not just pretending.
“I always told you I was the problem.” He edged closer to her shoulder as if emotion brought him there. His nearness and her unaccountable urge to remember what it was like to be in his arms made her want to scream.
“I know. It’s not you. It’s me.” Hearing Cassie’s frustration, Hope tried to lift her head, but she was too tired. “Go home, Van. I’m busy.”
“Let me help you carry your things in. The house will be a shock.”
“I don’t need your help.” She opened the door. Something smelled awful, and the kitchen looked darker than she remembered.
Van stepped inside.
“Bad man,” Hope muttered.
“Not overly bad.” No doubt Hope would have to see him again. Cassie walked around him and tried to shut the door, but he wouldn’t let her.
“I feel as if I’m barging in, but the house is going to come as a shock.” The past, moments in time that should have ended, reopened the gulf between them.
“I’m fine.”
Her little girl looked up. “Mommy, what are you talking about?”
“Old stuff,” Cassie said. “And what you and I should have for dinner. Can you stay awake long enough to eat something?”
“I’m pretty hungry.”
“Me, too.”
Hope wrinkled her nose. “Something smells funny.” She covered her face with both hands. “Are you sure this is your daddy’s house?”
“The smell is bleach.” Cassie sniffed harder. “And garbage?”
Van nodded ever so slightly.
She stared at the faded paint and worn appliances. How had this looked before Van started cleaning? “Can I see Dad tonight? Does the hospital have late visiting hours?”
“What about—” He looked at Hope.
Cassie had known people would treat her and Hope like freaks, but she hadn’t expected Van to be the first. “I’ll manage. Thanks for your help.” She went to the door, forcing him to follow, and then ushered him through. “And for looking after Dad.”
On the porch, Van turned, opening his mouth, but Cassie had stopped worrying about manners. She shut the door.
And locked it. Tight as a drum.
THE MOON HUNG above thick trees. Van stared at it as he measured each step to his car.
His hand shook so much he could barely hit the button for entry. He stared at the house and wished he’d opened all the blinds. Whatever Cassie was doing, she wasn’t letting in light or prying eyes.
Whatever she was doing…Finding something to feed her daughter. He got in the car and grabbed the steering wheel to keep from crashing his fists through his windshield.
His wife had given birth to that rapist’s child.
His wife loved that animal’s child. Love for Hope was a coat she wore—a second skin—a part of her he’d seen the moment the girl had called her name.
Damn her. Damn her to hell along with that bastard who’d stolen everything from him.
No.
That made it sound as if the rape had been her fault. He’d never thought that, never blamed her, never wanted her anywhere but at his side.
But it didn’t feel as if five years had passed. He was still living that last night they’d tried to make love. His head swimming with images of that guy forcing her, he’d had to get away or punch the damn wall.
She hadn’t understood. It was almost as if she’d preferred thinking he couldn’t stand being near her.
And tonight, she’d sprung Hope on him like another test. He’d failed again, but how could she expect the people who’d loved her to accept a constant, living reminder of the worst moments in their lives?
So, he hadn’t thrown a party. He hadn’t said anything to hurt Hope or Cassie, either. Why couldn’t Cassie give him a break?
He looked up at the closed windows and the door whose locks still clanked and clicked in his ears. Five years, and it was as if she’d left last night and come home this morning.
All the feelings were so familiar. Fear, anger, dread.
And somewhere down deep, the love he hadn’t been able to abandon or smother. No other woman had ever made him forget Cassie.
He’d been stranded in a time capsule since the evening she’d left him outside her lawyer’s office. Him still swearing he’d make her love him again. Her looking sad. Out of his reach.
And early on, whenever he’d suggested he come to Washington to see her, she’d refused. Finally, she’d said her life would be easier and she’d forget the past better if she never again saw anyone connected with it.
Especially him.
He took a last look at the windows, like eyes closed against the world. Cassie had made enough rules for him and her father. Surely Leo was a living illustration that Cassie’s way led to disaster.
Van made his own rules in every other part of his life. If Cassie wanted to throw away love, she’d have to say so, flat out.
He turned the key in the ignition and then pulled his cell from his pocket. Cassie took three rings to answer.
“Hello?”
If she’d sounded certain, instead of wary, maybe he’d have backed off. If she hadn’t sounded afraid…
“Don’t start dinner. I’ll bring something