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Authors: Jenna Mills
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kittens with her forefinger. Sugar had died young of undetected heart disease, but Spice…Spice had still been alive when Jack left for the Air Force. That would have made him six or seven.
“Mama still has him,” she whispered, and Christ, through the shadows, he saw the moisture in her eyes. “And he remembered…” Her voice broke, and Jack couldn’t do it one second longer, couldn’t do nothing while she knelt on the floor of her childhood bedroom, and talked of the kitty who’d once slept against her chest.
He crossed to her, went down on one knee. “Camille…don’t.”
“He licked me,” she said, somehow still smiling despite the tears in her eyes.
Jack’s throat tightened. “Come on.” He reached for her hand. “This was a bad idea—”
“No.” She pulled back with a near violence that stunned him. “This is why I’m here…to remember.”
He knew that. He knew she wanted to remember. For some crazy reason, she wanted to go back, to walk through those final days once again.
But the memories swimming in her eyes had nothing to do with the crime that had been committed at the other end of the house.
“Do you?” she asked. “Do you remember?”
He’d fought in two wars. He’d flown combat. He’d faced death—and buried a wife. Her question should not have twisted through him…should not have made him feel as if he stood on a sheet of very thin ice and the thaw was coming.
He thought about lying. That was the right thing to do. It was kinder, more merciful. No. He didn’t remember. Anything. Because that’s what he’d trained himself to do. That’s what he’d demanded of himself. What he expected. The past was the past, and just like the furniture that had once occupied this house, it was gone now. Over.
But the house still stood, strong and sturdy, a placeholder against a world that tried to move on. Not even a category four hurricane had changed that.
“Yes.” With the word he swiped at the tears beneath her eyes. “I remember.”
Marcus says you kiss with your mouth open…That’s not true, is it, Jacques?
She’d been seven or eight at the time, her hair in pigtails.
Marcus had never talked to her of kissing again.
Teach me, Jacques…pleeeease. Teach me how to kiss….
She’d been sixteen then. Her father was dead. Crazy Cami, the kids at school had called her…sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Because no one wanted to kiss a freak.
He hurt me, Jacques…. Her lip had been swollen, bruised. Her eyes dark. Because he’d told her no. Jack had turned her down as gently as he could, told her he wasn’t the one to teach her how to kiss. So she’d asked someone else. She’d asked Shawn Paul…and spinning on a six-pack of old Dixie, he’d been happy to oblige.
He hadn’t been so happy after Gabe and Jacques got through with him.
Jack looked at her now, kneeling in the shadows with her hand on his knee, his hand still against her face. Her eyes were huge, dark, not with fear and pain, but a longing that fired through his blood.
“Jacques.”
A stranger, he tried to tell himself. God, he wanted her to be a stranger. But her voice wrapped around his name the way it always had. Hero worship, Gabe had once called it.
But Jack was nobody’s hero.
If he were, he would have pushed to his feet and taken her hand, led her out of that house, that place, led her back to New Orleans and deposited her with her mother. If he were, he would never have let her lean into him, would never have slid his hand to the back of her neck as she looked up at him…would never have crushed his mouth to hers.
Chapter 6
T each me, Jacques…
He’d said no. He’d smiled gently and put his hands to her shoulders, pushed her back. She’d gone shopping that day. She’d gotten Saura to take her to a department store, had Saura pick out something trendy. Her jeans had been faded, her top black with a plunging neckline.
Jack hadn’t even noticed.
He’d pushed her away, told
“Mama still has him,” she whispered, and Christ, through the shadows, he saw the moisture in her eyes. “And he remembered…” Her voice broke, and Jack couldn’t do it one second longer, couldn’t do nothing while she knelt on the floor of her childhood bedroom, and talked of the kitty who’d once slept against her chest.
He crossed to her, went down on one knee. “Camille…don’t.”
“He licked me,” she said, somehow still smiling despite the tears in her eyes.
Jack’s throat tightened. “Come on.” He reached for her hand. “This was a bad idea—”
“No.” She pulled back with a near violence that stunned him. “This is why I’m here…to remember.”
He knew that. He knew she wanted to remember. For some crazy reason, she wanted to go back, to walk through those final days once again.
But the memories swimming in her eyes had nothing to do with the crime that had been committed at the other end of the house.
“Do you?” she asked. “Do you remember?”
He’d fought in two wars. He’d flown combat. He’d faced death—and buried a wife. Her question should not have twisted through him…should not have made him feel as if he stood on a sheet of very thin ice and the thaw was coming.
He thought about lying. That was the right thing to do. It was kinder, more merciful. No. He didn’t remember. Anything. Because that’s what he’d trained himself to do. That’s what he’d demanded of himself. What he expected. The past was the past, and just like the furniture that had once occupied this house, it was gone now. Over.
But the house still stood, strong and sturdy, a placeholder against a world that tried to move on. Not even a category four hurricane had changed that.
“Yes.” With the word he swiped at the tears beneath her eyes. “I remember.”
Marcus says you kiss with your mouth open…That’s not true, is it, Jacques?
She’d been seven or eight at the time, her hair in pigtails.
Marcus had never talked to her of kissing again.
Teach me, Jacques…pleeeease. Teach me how to kiss….
She’d been sixteen then. Her father was dead. Crazy Cami, the kids at school had called her…sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Because no one wanted to kiss a freak.
He hurt me, Jacques…. Her lip had been swollen, bruised. Her eyes dark. Because he’d told her no. Jack had turned her down as gently as he could, told her he wasn’t the one to teach her how to kiss. So she’d asked someone else. She’d asked Shawn Paul…and spinning on a six-pack of old Dixie, he’d been happy to oblige.
He hadn’t been so happy after Gabe and Jacques got through with him.
Jack looked at her now, kneeling in the shadows with her hand on his knee, his hand still against her face. Her eyes were huge, dark, not with fear and pain, but a longing that fired through his blood.
“Jacques.”
A stranger, he tried to tell himself. God, he wanted her to be a stranger. But her voice wrapped around his name the way it always had. Hero worship, Gabe had once called it.
But Jack was nobody’s hero.
If he were, he would have pushed to his feet and taken her hand, led her out of that house, that place, led her back to New Orleans and deposited her with her mother. If he were, he would never have let her lean into him, would never have slid his hand to the back of her neck as she looked up at him…would never have crushed his mouth to hers.
Chapter 6
T each me, Jacques…
He’d said no. He’d smiled gently and put his hands to her shoulders, pushed her back. She’d gone shopping that day. She’d gotten Saura to take her to a department store, had Saura pick out something trendy. Her jeans had been faded, her top black with a plunging neckline.
Jack hadn’t even noticed.
He’d pushed her away, told
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