The breasts everyone was so curious about were small and round and set way up high on her chest. Her skin was colorless in the moonlight and looked smooth as whipping cream. Pale nipples had drawn up into tight little beads aimed like miniature bullets straight at his heart.
The rest of her was slight. Her ribcage flowed into a narrow waist. Her stomach muscles were long and firm, her navel deep, and her hips had a curve so delicate as to be damn near nonexistent. But it was the apex of her long, firm thighs that drew his gaze. She had a soft little mons with a downy swirl of hair above plump denuded lips. Jon-Michael stared. And stared.
And could not look away. Every single oft-repeated word he had spoken that long-ago night rose up to haunt him anew.
Licking lips gone dry, he drew in a deep breath, eased it out, and managed to say in a reasonably wry tone, "I am glad to see suicide wasn't the agenda here."
A startled scream tried to rip Hayley's throat in two, and she danced in place for an interminable moment. Then the identity of the man in the shadows made its way to her blood-deprived brain.
She launched herself at him to do—she wasn't sure what. Before she could attain her nebulous objective, however, his hands reached out to grip her biceps. Holding her at arm's length, he stepped out of the darkness cast by the evergreen trees.
"I don't believe you!" She tried to kick him but he nimbly dodged her bare foot. "You scared the shit out of me, Jon-Michael! My God, I would have wet my pants if I had any pants on to wet." Abruptly she quit struggling. She felt her eyes go wide. Oh, perfect. How utterly...blooming...bloody...perfect.
Okay, it’s okay, she assured herself. At least she had kept her undies on. Except…
She glanced down and sure enough, thin nylon turned completely see-through when it was wet.
And he didn’t even have the courtesy to turn away. He just stood there watching the chilly rivulets of lake water drip from the ends of her hair and roll down her chest, down her stomach and into the soaked hip-band of her panties.
Abruptly releasing her, Jon-Michael reached over his back and grabbed his T-shirt, dragging it off over his head. He extended it to her. "Here, put this on."
She pulled the soft cotton garment over her head and thrust her arms through the appropriate holes, tugging the shirt down until it covered her to mid-thigh. The retained body heat sent a reactive shiver of appreciation skittering down her spine.
"Listen, Hayley, I'm sorry," he said.
Her head jerking up, she stared at him, skeptical to the bone. "Sure you are."
He blew out a breath and looked out over the lake. "Believe it or not, I didn't come out here to hassle you. And it was not my intention to scare you like that either." He hesitated but then turned to look at her and added grudgingly, "The truth is, I heard you had left Bluey’s upset and I was concerned. I felt bad about what I said earlier and I, uh, just wanted to make sure you were all right."
Her exercise-induced fatigue had already disappeared beneath a rush of adrenaline. Now her hard-earned equanimity was destroyed as well—and all by a few kindly spoken words from the last person she expected to be kind.
Jon-Michael's general motto was “don’t apologize, don’t explain,” yet he had just done both. And if his explanation was reluctantly given, he had extended it all the same with devastating sincerity.
She stared at him in confusion, then to her complete and utter horror, felt her lower lip begin to tremble and hot tears rise in her eyes. Dear God, not again. Did her supply of these damn things have no limit?
Apparently not, for just when she thought she had finally exhausted her quota for the night, here came more, cresting her lower lids to slide silently down her cheeks.
"Heyyyy," Jon-Michael crooned in alarm. "Hey, now, I didn't mean to make you cry. Shhh." He regarded her with consternation. "Ah, come on, Hayley, don't cry. Please. Oh man, do not do this."
His earnest entreaty only made her tears roll faster.
"Oh, hell." Reaching for her, he sank to sit cross-legged on the dock.
Hayley didn't worry about her awkward sprawl across his lap. She did not expend any energy thinking, period. Wrapping her arms in a death grip around his neck, she pressed her face into the warm, bare hollow just below his collarbone.
And bawled.
It was quite a while before she regained awareness of Jon-Michael as an entity separate from herself. All she knew at first was that he was solid and warm and something she could hold onto. She gradually took comfort from the strength of the arms that held her, the soothing voice that murmured reassurances and his fingers tunneling through her damp hair, stroking her back.
Eventually, her body quit shaking and her tears dried up. She lay limply, her face hot where it pressed against his chest. In fits and starts she grew aware of matters beyond her own flayed emotions. First it was Jon-Michael's scent: the man-smell of his skin, the barest trace of left-over cologne, a hint of sweat. Then it was the rustle of some night creature making its way through the woods edging the property.
Ultimately, however, what gained her complete attention was the breeze on her all but naked butt where the borrowed T-shirt had ridden up. With a sound of distress, she untangled an arm from around his neck, reaching back to pull ineffectually at the bunched material.
"I'll get it," Jon-Michael said, and she both heard the words he spoke and felt their resonance vibrating through the chest beneath her ear. Tough-skinned hands untangled the T-shirt and gently smoothed it over her hip.
Bringing her own hands to his chest, she stiff-armed herself away from his upper body and peered up at his face. A minute ago she had acquired comfort from him. Now she was beginning to feel like a first class fool, an unfortunately familiar sensation this evening. Her gaze slid away as she slipped off his lap.
"My purse is around here somewhere," she said hoarsely. "Could you find it for me?"
"Sure." There was a moment of rustling. Then he extended it to her.
She took it, dumped the contents out onto the dock, then pawed through the pile until she located a tissue. She blew her nose, stuffed everything back in the bag, and then reached for her small stack of clothing. Her panties had mostly dried and she donned her jeans. Her vulnerability decreasing in direct proportion to the amount of skin she covered, she speared her fingers through her hair to hold it off her face, expelled a deep breath, and finally looked up to meet Jon-Michael's level gaze.
"I'm sorry." The words were beginning to feel like her personal theme song.
"Hell, don't apologize. I feel like it's my fault."
She made a rude sound. "You always did flatter yourself you were the center of the universe," she said, but the statement lacked ire and she gave him a small, wry smile.
Jon-Michael did not dispute her, but neither did he engage her in their usual verbal wrangling. She didn’t know what to think when he merely stroked a fingertip down her cheek.
"Between your husband's murder, the trials and the upcoming execution, you have had a mountain of shit to deal with the past year or two. Having people remind you of it regularly must make for some damn difficult moments." He contemplated her quietly for a moment. "You used to have some pretty strong convictions about capital punishment."