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  (And pointy-toed nude flats. No heels for a while.)

  Finally Jonah puts one arm around my shoulders and steers me away from the crowd. "Thank you," I whisper. "Wow, that was overkill."

  "You deserve all the credit," he says, warm and steady. "But you also deserve some space. They shouldn't force you to dwell on it."

  "They haven't. I'm all right." I point toward my own contribution to the show. "Recognize this?"

  It takes Jonah a moment, but then he smiles. "I should. Or I'd never again be able to say I knew something like the back of my hand."

  There, in deep green ink on cork-colored paper, is one of the first prints I've made of my most recent etching: a portrait of Jonah's hands, fingers interlaced, resting on a table. He has magnificent hands--broad and rugged, yet long-fingered enough not to look brutish. I take pride in the way this etching captures the essential dichotomy within Jonah: strength and vulnerability, intertwined and inseparable.

  "I don't remember posing for this one," Jonah says. The low, tantalizing note in his voice tells me he remembers the first time he posed for me, which evolved into his posing in the nude, which led to some of the best sex we've ever had. "Where are the ones we . . . collaborated on?"

  "Those drawings are private. For now." I give him a sly sidelong glance. "I'm not ready to show off just how lucky I am."

  Jonah raises an eyebrow. "But you will someday?"

  "Oh, I was just teasing. I'd never turn those into etchings." Jonah is so fiercely private.

  But then he surprises me. "If you ever want to, you have my permission." His thumb rubs along my bare shoulder. "Just don't show my face."

  "They'd know who it is," I point out as I surreptitiously stroke his side. "There aren't many guys with bodies like this."

  Jonah's physique is almost aggressively masculine, with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles. Even the loose white shirt and black pants he wears don't disguise the shape of his bicep and thigh muscles. Yet he would never be mistaken for some Renaissance ideal in marble--he seems almost stretched thin along his lengthy limbs and his tapered waist. He is powerful, even dominant, but not invulnerable. It is this mixture of strength and gentleness that intoxicates me every time.

  He doesn't respond directly to my compliment. That's not his way. He says only, "I don't even care if they know it's me, as long as I have plausible deniability."

  I laugh and lean closer to him, which is when I hear a woman say, "What's this? Jonah Marks, out socializing of his own free will? Or is blackmail involved?"

  We turn to see Rosalind Campbell, a local doctor and perhaps Jonah's closest friend outside his own family. The silky cream-colored top she has on contrasts beautifully with her dark, burnished skin and her wide smile as Jonah hugs her. As he does, I greet the woman at Rosalind's side, her partner, Candace. We've only met a few times--mostly at Candace's restaurant, which dominates Rosalind's free time--but I've liked both of them since we met.

  Well. Almost since we met. When I first saw Rosalind, I thought she and Jonah were more than just friends. Looking at Candace--who's short and perky, with cropped blonde hair and a sequined red dress--I think, Wow, was I wrong about Rosalind's type.

  Jonah says, "You're two to talk. Normally if you both get off work at the same time, you collapse."

  "Normally, yes," Candace agrees. "But a friend of mine runs the catering company that's here tonight. Turns out they're getting a chance to show off for the administration--it's an incredible break for him. So I thought we'd show up and provide moral support."

  "And get free wine and snacks," Rosalind chimes in.

  So the caterer thinks he's receiving a favor instead of doing one? Damn, Kip is good.

  "Besides," Rosalind adds, taking Candace's hand, "we wanted to celebrate."

  "Celebrate?" I hardly get the word out before I see the diamonds glittering on Rosalind's left finger, and on Candace's.

  "It's legal now, so--we finally got engaged." Candace practically glows with happiness.

  Jonah wraps Rosalind in another hug. "Roz. That's wonderful. Congratulations."

  "Don't get too sentimental yet," Candace cautions him. "Because you realize where this is going, don't you?"

  When Jonah gives Rosalind a puzzled look, she puts her hands on his shoulders. "Jonah Marks, as a bride to be, I hereby ask you to be my man of honor."

  His smile widens, and my heart lifts to see him finally, completely relaxed and happy. "Did you just ask me to be a bridesmaid?"

  "A bridesman," Rosalind corrects him. "Times are changing."

  "For the better," Jonah says. "Of course I will."

  "When's the big day?" I ask. "Or have you not set a date yet?" My friends have run the gamut, from Arturo and Shay who got married about three weeks after they got engaged, to Liz, my friend back home in New Orleans, who accepted her fiance's proposal two years ago and is still in no hurry to schedule the ceremony.

  Rosalind puts her arm around Candace. "August. Neither of us wants a big do, and we've been together so long that, honestly, we're married already in almost every way that counts. This is more a party to celebrate what we've known from the start."

  "But you still have to wear a tux, Jonah!" Candace chimes in.

  Then it's all happy chatter about the arrangements for a while, except for some talk about the food (which is excellent) and my etching (which Rosalind recognized in a flash). Jonah's less intrigued by the question of a wedding venue than I am, but I can tell he's basking in his best friend's elation.

  Many people who grew up the way Jonah did--under the control of a brutal, manipulative stepfather--wouldn't have turned out so steady. So centered, or so able to take such simple pleasure in a friend's happiness.

  But Jonah defies the odds every time.

  ***

  Thanks to Kip's flair for entertaining, the art show opening becomes a smash. People usually stop in, politely look around, make some chitchat and then escape within half an hour. But when Jonah and I push our way through the crush to the door, around 10:30P.M., it looks like we might be the first to leave. Laughter bubbles up in every corner, and the free-flowing champagne has combined with the happy spirit to work the best magic of all: Several pieces have sold, including mine.

  "Five hundred bucks," I say to Jonah as we walk from the parking garage to the elevator of his apartment building. "I hope you understand that I'm very rich now."

  "Oh, absolutely."

  I flutter my eyelashes at him, deliberately camp. "You know, I may be in the market for a kept man."

  Jonah shakes his head in amusement. "What would the qualifications be? If someone wanted to apply for the position, I mean."

  The elevator doors open for us, and I wait until they begin to close again--ensuring we're alone--before I caress his ass. "Well, you'd have to be prepared for some on-the-job training . . ."

  But the smile fades from Jonah's face. "I didn't think--you can't want to."

  "What? Why not?" He looks amazing, I'm not half bad myself in this cocktail dress, and we've spent the whole night in each other's arms, nursing glasses of champagne and talking about love and romance with a newly engaged couple. "This isn't about me. Do you not want to go to bed together?"

  Jonah puts one hand to my cheek; his fingertips brush the area just beneath my black eye. "I can't play. Not again. Not yet."

  "That's all right." I fold his arm in mine. "We're past it now, remember?"

  For the longest time, I couldn't have an orgasm unless I pretended I was being raped. Most of my life, I fantasized inside my head. Jonah and I acted things out for real, but we were both frustrated that my fantasy was necessary. We even tried to stop completely.

  You see how that went.

  Finally, after Mack's would-be assault, we took several weeks to simply learn who we were in bed together without the role-playing. It was tough for me to accept that I just wouldn't come for a long time, even tougher for Jonah to accept that I might enjoy sex without orgasm. But we lear
ned how to enjoy each other. I finally trusted myself enough to let go. Now the fantasy is something we explore together--intensely--but it no longer defines our sex life.

  Jonah, however, can't always compartmentalize. "When I see you like that, and I know that you got hurt because I was careless . . . Vivienne, I can't."

  This, too, is part of Jonah's overprotectiveness. I resist the urge to point out that I was careless too, or to impishly suggest that there are things we could do that wouldn't involve him looking me in the face. Jonah needs some time, and I need to respect that. "Okay," I whisper, snuggling closer to his side. "It's enough just to be near you."

  He folds me in his arms and kisses my forehead. I feel as if he's wrapping himself around me to try and shield me from any harshness or harm in the world.

  We go to bed right away, each of us wearing one of his T-shirts. Although it's good to be held by him, I can tell that Jonah's still very much awake. He's still troubled by what happened, so much so that he can't even rest. Come to think of it, he seemed kind of tired this morning, too.

  Why is he torturing himself so much about what was clearly, obviously an accident?

  I won't pry any further tonight. Jonah and I have gotten so much better at being open and honest with one another--but sometimes, each of us needs space to work through something on our own. I sense that's what Jonah needs now.

  Despite my resolution, the question haunts me. As we lie together in the dark, I remember how Jonah walked away from me when he first learned I was a rape victim. How he broke things off between us again when he thought we'd never be able to put the fantasy behind us. Even the way he approached me in the hospital after the Mack incident, so careful, stooping so that his height and power wouldn't intimidate me while I was so raw.

  Guilt shuts Jonah down, I realize. Rather than do more harm, he'll pull back entirely. In some ways, that's been my role in our relationship since the very beginning: the one who absolves him of guilt he shouldn't feel, the one who allows him to start moving forward again. Without someone like that in his life, I think Jonah could easily become paralyzed by his past.

  I've finally learned how to let the past go. But Jonah's not there yet.

  Snuggling back against him, I pull Jonah's arm more firmly around me. He waited a long time for me to work through my issues. I can wait for him too. As long as it takes.

  ***

  A phone's ringing startles me from my sleep. As I push myself up onto my elbows, blinking, I try to remember where I left my phone--but it's not mine. Jonah's phone sits in its charging dock, screen glowing brightly.

  And even from across the room, I can read the name displayed there: REBECCA.

  Jonah throws back the covers and goes for the phone. I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest as drowsiness is replaced by worry. Rebecca is Jonah's younger sister. She's currently doing fieldwork as a botanist in Central America. And she's not the type to call at three A.M. for no reason.

  "Rebecca? What's wrong?" Jonah listens for a moment, then sucks in a breath sharply, as if he's in pain.

  Oh, no. I want to go to him, to ask what happened, but it's more important for him to hear what his sister has to say.

  Besides, his half of the conversation tells me enough. "Oh, my God. Are you all right? . . . You're sure? . . . What did the doctor say? . . . No. I don't want you going back there tonight. . . . Tell me the name of the hotel, and I'll call, all right? And hang tight. I'm flying down tomorrow."

  As soon as he hangs up, I say, "What happened to Rebecca?"

  "She got mugged. Walking down the street, some guy on a moped comes up and grabs her purse. Knocks her down, drags her a few feet, then drives away and leaves her sprawled on the asphalt." Jonah sits down heavily on the bed, as if even envisioning this happening to his younger sister has hurt him too badly to stand. "Thank God she had her phone in her pocket instead of her bag. But that's about all she has left."

  "Was she injured?"

  "Cuts and bruises, she says. And I can tell from the way she was talking that her lip is split." He puts one hand to his forehead, steadying himself. "I told her not to go home tonight, because that guy now has her address and her keys."

  For a moment, the memory of Mack's assault flickers in my mind--the way he grabbed me from behind, pushed his way through the door into my kitchen, ski mask over his face--

  I force down the panic by remembering what happened next, namely my picking up a marble canister and smashing Mack's face in. Once I can breathe again, I say, "So you're going down to Belize, right?"

  "Yes." Jonah pauses. "You know you're welcome to come. And you know you don't have to."

  "I'll come. I want to help."

  "I'm sure Rebecca will appreciate that."

  Although I nod, I know I'm not just going down there for Rebecca.

  Strong and powerful as Jonah is, he can't fully defend himself against the wounds of his childhood. And when he's with his family--even the ones he loves and trusts--those wounds reopen.

  I want to be by Jonah's side when he once again confronts his past.

  Chapter Three

  Central America sounds so far away, but it turns out the flight to Belize only lasts about five hours. Jonah's late father was a cofounder of Oceanic Airlines, so he's pretty much able to just call up, ask if two business-class tickets are available, and then claim them. We'll leave in the early evening, about four P.M., so that gives me time to head home, pack a few things, and check in with everyone.

  Jonah remains troubled. I don't think he slept at all after Rebecca phoned.

  "Are you sure you're all right?" I ask as I pull on a T-shirt from my drawer in his dresser.

  "I'm fine," he says shortly. He stands at the door of his closet, staring at his clothes as if they'll announce which ones he should pack.

  It's not indecision holding him fast. I know Jonah well enough for that. I've seen him like this, but only at certain moments--always when he was thinking about how I had been hurt before. To some degree it helps, knowing that Jonah's reaction isn't all about me. This is how he gets when anyone he loves is injured or endangered: silent, moody, and still, but with anger boiling hot just beneath the surface. Nor does he lash out the way immature, violent goons do. Instead he bottles it up inside.

  That can't be good for him. I open my mouth to ask him whether he and his therapist have talked through this, but I shut it without saying a word. Jonah's process with his therapist has to be his own to navigate. I can't do that work for him, any more than he could solve the problems I take to Doreen.

  "I'll be back by two," I promise as I go to his side. When I go on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, Jonah slides his arms around me and holds me close, only for a moment. This is as close as he's ever come to asking for comfort.

  I close my eyes as we embrace. It feels good, being able to be there for him the way he's been for me. I wish it happened more often.

  I wish he'd let that happen.

  ***

  At my little rental house on the south side of town, I water my plants, take out the trash and pack a few things in my lavender duffel bag. One of the few things I know about Belize is that it's in Central America, which means it's going to be even hotter and more humid than Texas in summer. So I stick to simple, practical basics: a couple of cotton skirts, a pair of wide-legged linen pants, tank tops, an old button-up Jonah left over here that now gets worn mostly as my cover-up, and comfortable sandals.

  In other words, flat sandals. The high-heeled ones are staying home.

  On my way out of Jonah's apartment, I had texted both Geordie and the Gillespie-Ortizes to find out if they could meet me for a quick meal at Kerbey Lane. Normally we'd have to wait thirty minutes at least for a table at any of the popular brunch places in town, but between semesters, the crowds aren't as fierce. Geordie gets back to me right away with a yes, but only as I pull into the Kerbey Lane lot does my phone buzz with Shay's reply. Once I've parked, I look down and read: We can't today, sorry. Have fun
in Belize!

  Well, okay. But it hits me just how long it's been since I did anything fun with Arturo and Shay. We went from hanging out all the time to mostly meeting up in groups when Carmen made plans, to a point where I don't think I've even seen them in a month.

  New babies, I tell myself. That's just how it is. New parents don't have as much time to hang out.

  Maybe that's all there is to it . . . but maybe not.

  I remain deep in thought as I walk inside the diner, which means I don't even see Geordie waiting for me in a booth until he waves with both hands. "You were a million miles away there," he says in his soft Scottish burr, chuckling, as I sit opposite him. Then his smile fades. "Oh, my God, what happened to your face? I put that poorly. It's still a lovely face. But--"

  "High heels and a dark stairwell. You know how it goes."

  "Oh, definitely. Remember the time I went arse over kettle in my stilettos?"

  Despite my preoccupation, I have to laugh. Of all the guys I know, Geordie's probably the last one who'd ever cross-dress. This is kind of ironic, given how he insists on wearing his kilt to formal occasions, but if I get Geordie started on how kilts are actually so much more badass and masculine than trousers, we'll be here for a week.

  "Now, what's this about Central America?" Geordie says. "Don't tell me--you're fleeing the police." Then he goes pale. "Oh, dear God. Not funny at all. Forgive me, Vivienne."

  He just tripped over the very uncomfortable fact that Jonah was briefly suspected of being the Austin Stalker, an accusation that made it to the press. However, since Mack's arrest, that particular shadow has faded. "It's okay. I know what you meant. Or didn't mean. Whatever."

  "Nobody's giving him shit about what happened to your eye, are they?" Geordie shakes his head. He instinctively trusts Jonah not to hurt me, or trusts me to tell the truth. Probably the latter.

  That trust allows me to say, "No one blames Jonah except Jonah himself. Though it really was about high heels and a dark stairwell--"

  "No more details!"

  "You weren't getting any."

  Geordie's face looks like he just drank milk that turned out to be sour, but he manages to say, "You've got to be careful, you know."

  "I know. We both know. It was just an accident, that's all."