Hardy shook his head, backing away. "Haven." His voice was low and guttural. "Get out. If you stay . . . I'm not in control. I'll use you. Hurt you, understand? Get the hell out."
I didn't think Hardy was capable of hurting me, or any woman. But the truth was, I wasn't completely sure. At that moment he seemed like nothing so much as a large, suffering animal, ready to tear apart anyone who came near him. And this was too damned soon after my divorce from Nick. I was gun-shy. I was still dealing with my own anger, my own fears.
But there were certain moments in life when you had to step up to the plate or lose your chance forever. If Hardy was capable of hurting me, I would find out now.
Every vein in my body was lit with the burn of adrenaline. I got dizzy with it. All right, you bastard, I thought with grimness and fury and love. Absolute scalding love, in that moment when he most needed it and least wanted it. Let's see what you've got.
I walked into the darkness and closed the door.
Hardy was on me the second after the lock clicked. I heard the thump of the shot glass as he dropped it. I was gripped, spun around, pushed against the door by two hundred pounds of hard-breathing male. He was shaking, his hands too tight, his lungs laboring. He kissed me with bruising force, lewd and whole-mouthed, going on for minutes until the tremors had eased and his erection was grinding against me. Every emotion, anger, grief, self-hatred, need, had found an outlet in pure hundred-proof lust.
He pulled at my T-shirt and sent it flying to the side. As he ripped his own shirt off, I moved blindly toward the living room, not to get away from him but to find a more comfortable place than the entryway floor. I heard a possessive growl, and I was grabbed from behind.
Hardy pushed me over the back of the sofa, bending me forward. He yanked the waistband of my sweatpants down. Gooseflesh rose all over, and I felt the weight of panic like a block of ice in my stomach. This was so much like what Nick had done. Another flashback was hovering, waiting to strike. But I gritted my teeth and braced my feet, and stiffened every muscle.
As Hardy stood behind me, I felt the brush of burning skin, a heavy shaft against my backside. I wondered if he was too far gone to recall that I was afraid of doing it this way, that this was how I'd been raped. Maybe he was doing it on purpose, to punish me, to make me hate him. One of his hands ran over my frozen spine, and I heard his breathing change.
"Go on, damn you," I said. My voice cracked. "Go on and do it." But Hardy didn't move except for the hand on my back. His palm glided up and down, and then around my waist to my stomach. He bent farther over me, his other hand cupping my breast. His mouth came to my shoulders, my spine, and he was groaning and kissing me while his fingers worked down below, opening me. I could only breathe in gasps, my body relaxing, yielding. I pictured his hand with those star-shaped scars on them . . . the last time we'd been in bed I'd made a project of kissing each tiny mark. And remembering, I went wet, responding helplessly to the touch, scent, warmth, that had become familiar.
"Do it," I said again, panting.
He seemed not to hear, intent on fondling the soft pleated flesh beneath his fingers. His legs pressed between mine, widening my stance.
The last traces of fear melted away. I pushed my h*ps back, quivering as I felt the stiff length of him. But he wouldn't give it to me, only massaged with agonizing gentleness until I clawed the velvet sofa, my breath coming in sobs.
Darkness wrapped around us, cool and cradling, while he centered himself. I whimpered, my entire being focused on the place where he pressed me, inner muscles working in anticipation.
He thrust forward, and I came from the thick-skewering pleasure, and he rooted deep while his hand stayed on my sex, stroking and stroking. He took me down to the floor, kneeling, pulling me against his chest. My head tipped back on his shoulder. I was raised and lifted, moaning in rhythm with the full slippery pitch of flesh into flesh until the delight broke and spread and flooded me with fresh heat.
Hardy let me rest on his thighs, his arms locked around me.
When my breathing had slowed, he carried me into the bedroom, His grip was tight. He was in a dominating mood. And it was primal and even a little threatening, but at the same time I was aroused beyond belief, which stunned me. 1 would have to figure out why . . . I needed to understand . . . but I couldn't think with his hands on me. He knelt on the bed, reaching beneath my bottom to hoist my h*ps off the mattress.
I was filled in a slow plunge, one of his hands going to the wet triangle between my thighs. The steady pumping and teasing, while he kept me lifted and supported, sent me hurtling into new sensation, cresting, easing, surging again. When my pleasure had finally spun out, Hardy pushed me flat, my arms and legs spread wide, and he spent inside me with violent pulses. I curved my arms around him, loving the feel of his shuddering body over mine.
Gasping, he rolled us both to our sides. I heard my name carried on a taut breath. For a long time he held me to him. His hands compressed my body at slow intervals, molding me closer.
Resting my head in the crook of his arm, I slept for a little while. It was still dark when I awoke. I felt from the tension in Hardy's body that he was awake too. I rocked slowly against the insistent throb of his erection, my temperature rising. His mouth came to my neck and shoulder, kissing the soft skin, tasting.
I pushed at his shoulders, and he went over easily, letting me straddle him. Gripping his sex, I positioned him and sank down. I heard the faint whistle of his breath through his teeth. He steadied my h*ps with his hands, letting me find a rhythm. He belonged to me absolutely . . . I knew it, I felt it in that moment of masculine surrender. I was riding him, giving it to him, and he groaned and arched his h*ps to meet every downward pump. His hands slid up my thighs to the center, caressing with his thumbs until I came, and that set him off too. He stiffened beneath me, the pleasure spiking. His hand closed behind the nape of my neck as he pulled me down to kiss him. A forceful kiss, flavored with desperation. "It's okay," I whispered afterward in the quiet room, feeling the need to comfort him. "It's okay."
Morning was nearly over by the time I awoke. The covers had been drawn up carefully around me, and my discarded clothes had been retrieved and draped neatly over the back of a chair. I called out sleepily for Hardy, wanting him to come back to bed. But as I was greeted with silence, I realized he'd left me alone in his apartment.
I rolled to my stomach, wincing a little as I felt an accumulation of tiny strains and pulls. An embarrassed grin spread across my face as I remembered the previous night. I might have thought it had been a long erotic dream, except that my body was letting me know it had definitely happened.
I felt curiously light and buoyant, almost feverish with happiness.
The night had been different from anything I had ever experienced before. Sex on a new level . . . deeper, more intense, opening me emotionally as well as physically. And it had affected Hardy the same way, which had probably scared the crap out of him.
I realized Nick had always regarded sex as a kind of annexation. I had never been an individual to him, certainly not someone whose thoughts or feelings mattered. Which meant that when Nick had sex with me, it had really been nothing more than a form of mast**bation.
Whereas Hardy, even in his wildness, had made love to my mind and body, to me. And he had let me in past his defenses, however unwillingly.
I no longer believed in the idea of soul mates, or love at first sight. But I was beginning to believe that a very few times in your life, if you were lucky, you might meet someone who was exactly right for you. Not because he was perfect, or because you were, but because your combined flaws were arranged in a way that allowed two separate beings to hinge together.
Hardy would never be the easiest man to have a relationship with. He was complex and strong-willed and rough-edged. But I loved those qualities about him. I was more than willing to take him exactly as he was. And it didn't hurt that he seemed equally game to take me on my own terms.
Yawning, I went to the bathroom, found Hardy's robe, and tugged it on. The coffeemaker was all set up in the kitchen, with a mug and a clean spoon laid out. I pushed a button, and the air filled with the cheerful gurgle of brewing coffee.
I picked up Hardy's phone and dialed his cell number.
No answer.
I hung up the phone. "Coward," I said without heat. "You can run, Hardy Cates, but you can't hide forever."
But Hardy managed to avoid me all Saturday. And while I wanted badly to talk to him, pride wouldn't let me chase after him like a lovestruck skink, a Texas lizard which was known to lunge and circle around the male it was interested in. I figured I could afford to be patient with Hardy. So I left a couple of casual messages on his machine, and decided to wait him out.
Meanwhile, I got an e-mail from Nick.
CHAPTER NINTEEN
The whole thing is crazy," I said when Susan had finished reading Nick's e-mail. I had printed it out and asked her to take a look at it during our Saturday therapy session. "He's turned everything backward. Upside down. It's like Alice in Wonderland."It was ten pages long and filled with accusations and lies. I had felt dirty and tainted after reading it, but most of all, outraged. Nick had recast our entire marriage, with himself as the victim and me as the villain. According to Nick, I had been an insane, histrionic, and unfaithful wife, and he had tried in vain to pacify me and my moods and rages. And in the end, when he had lost his temper with me, it was because I had pushed him to the edge, by rejecting his honest efforts to fix our relationship.
"What pisses me off the most," I continued heatedly, "is how detailed and convincing it is . . . like Nick believes his own crap. But he doesn't, does he? And why would he write this to me? Does he actually think I'm going to buy any of this?"
Susan's brow was furrowed. "Pathological lying is the MO for a narcissist . . . they're not interested in the truth, only in what gets them what they want. Which is attention. Supply. So basically Nick is trying to get a reaction from you. Any kind of reaction."
"Like, me hating him is just as good a supply as me loving him?"
"Exactly. Attention is attention. The only thing Nick can't tolerate is indifference. That creates what's called 'narcissistic injury' . . . and unfortunately this e-mail is sending strong signals in that direction."
I didn't like the sound of that. "So what happens when Nick gets a narcissistic injury?"
"He may try to frighten you in some way, which to him is another form of supply. And if you refuse to react, it may very well escalate the situation."
"Oh, great. Does that mean more phone calls? More unexpected visits?"
"I hope not. But yes, probably. And if he's angry enough, he may want to punish you."
There was silence in Susan's small office while I digested the information. It was so unfair. I had thought that divorcing Nick would be enough. Why did he have to pull this crap with me? Why did he expect me to go on being a supporting player in the movie of his life?
"How do I get rid of him?" I asked.
"There's no easy answer. But if I were you, I would save this e-mail and document every interaction with him. And try to go no-contact, no matter what he does. Refuse gifts, don't answer e-mails or letters, and don't discuss him with anyone who might approach you on his behalf." Susan looked down at the e-mail, frowning. "If a narcissist is made to feel inferior to something or someone, it eats away at him until it's relieved. Until he feels he can walk away as the winner."
"But we're divorced," I protested. "There's nothing to win!"
"Yes there is. He's fighting to retain his image of himself. Because without that image of superiority and dominance and control . . . Nick is nothing."
The session with Susan had not done a lot for my mood. I felt anxious and angry, and I wanted comfort. And since Hardy was still not answering his cell phone, he had moved close to the top of my shit list.
When my phone finally rang on Sunday, I checked the caller ID eagerly. My hopes were deflated as I saw it was my dad. Sighing, I picked it up and answered morosely. "Hello?"
"Haven." Dad sounded gruff and self-satisfied in a way I didn't like. "I need you to come over. There's something we have to talk about."
"Okay. When?"
"Now."
I would have loved to tell him I had something else going on, but no convenient excuses sprang to mind. And since I was already bored and moody, I figured I might as well go see him.
"Sure thing, Dad," I said. "I'll be right over."
I drove to River Oaks, and I found Dad in his bedroom, which was the size of a small apartment. He was relaxing in a massage chair in his sitting area, punching buttons in the control panel.
"Want to try it?" Dad offered, patting the arm of the chair. "Fifteen different kinds of massage. It analyzes your back muscles and makes recommendations. It also grabs and stretches the thigh and calf muscles."
"No, thanks. I prefer my furniture to keep its hands to itself." I smiled at him and sat in a nearby, ordinary chair. "No how's it going. Dad? What do you want to talk about?"
He took his time about answering, taking a moment to enter a massage program into the chair. It began whirring and adjusting the seat position. "Hardy Cates," he said.
I shook my head. "No way. I'm not talking to you about him. Whatever it is you want to know, I'm not — "
"I'm not asking for information, Haven. I know something about him. Something you need to hear."
Every instinct urged me to leave right then. I knew my father kept tabs on everyone and would have had no compunction about digging up dirt from Hardy's past. I didn't need or want to hear anything that Hardy wasn't ready to confide. Besides, I was pretty sure I knew what Dad was going to tell me: about Hardy's father, and his prison time, and the DUI arrest. So I decided to stay and hear Dad out, and put him in his place.
The room was quiet except for the whirring of mechanical gears and rollers. I summoned a cool smile. "All right, tell me."
"I warned you about him," Dad said, "and I was right. He sold you out, honey. So it's best to put him out of your mind and go find someone else. Someone who'll be good to you."
"Sold me out?" I stared at him in bewilderment. "What are you talking about?"
"T.J. Bolt gave me a call after he saw you with Cates on Friday night. He asked me what I thought, about you taking up with a rascal like Cates, and I told him."
"What a pair of busybodies," I said in annoyance. "Good Lord, with all the time and money each of you has, you can't think of any thing better to talk about than my love life?"