She pressed her pretty lips together and met his eyes defiantly. “You don’t know what happened?”
He frowned. Between her and her mother? He had no fucking clue. He sighed and shoved his hand into his hair. “Look. Your father would want me to look after you. Can’t we just forget about what happened seven years ago?”
She sighed, fatigue drawing her features down, but she straightened her shoulders and looked him square in the eye. She spoke in a calm and quiet tone that made him listen. “I told you already I don’t need to be looked after. I’m a grown woman, even though you don’t seem to realize that. I’ve been on my own for seven years, and I can look after myself.”
Oh, yeah, he knew she was a grown woman. He was disturbingly aware of that particular fact.
“Fine. I won’t look after you. But we still have to get along for the next couple of days.” When she continued to hold his gaze, he sighed. “I’ll go stay at a hotel,” he said gruffly. “You stay here with your mother. She’s your mother, flesh and blood. She loves you, and she’s hurt by the way you’ve treated her.”
“The way I’ve treated her?” Samara’s voice rose again, her fingers curling into her palms. “After what she did...oh for the love of Gilbert Godfrey.” She paused and visibly drew in a deep breath. The way she was trying to control her temper and her silly curse made his lips twitch. “Oh never mind. It’s all history.”
Travis’s head started to hurt. He rubbed away the tension between his eyes. “What did she do to you?” he asked, bewildered.
She stared at him. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her gaze dropped to the stone patio. “Never mind,” she muttered.
What the hell could Dayna have possibly done? Fuck, he didn’t have it in him to press her right now. “You need your mother, Sam,” he said. “Whether you want to or not. I know you’re all grown up now—”
“No, apparently you don’t,” she interrupted.
“At a time like this, family needs to come together. If nothing else, with Parker dying, you should be thinking about how you’d feel if your mother was gone. Samara...you really need to reconcile with her.”
She was silent, nibbling her bottom lip.
“Hell. I’m sorry. I sound like an old man preaching at you.” He shook his head. He stood and brushed his hands off. “I guess it’s none of my business. Just think about it, okay, Sam?”
She glared back at him mutinously. Shit. He should know better than to tell her what to do. She’d just do the opposite. Her defiance and the strength of her convictions had always driven him crazy but also added to her appeal, making him crazy for her, crazy to get his hands on her, his hands and his mouth and... That hadn’t changed. The breeze teased tendrils of her long hair back from her face, a pale oval in the deepening gloom, her big eyes dark shadows.
Her took her silence for refusal, and his patience evaporated with his rising urges to grab hold of her and kiss her senseless. “Okay, don’t think about it.” He clenched his jaw. “Don’t ever think that someone else might know something you don’t. Don’t think about anyone’s feelings but your own. I know you were spoiled rotten. Hell, teenagers are supposed to be self-centered. But, by your age, you’d think you’d have a bit more empathy, that you’d know that life isn’t all black and white.”
“Oh for the love of Gilbert Godfrey.” She stood too, stalked over to him and jabbed him in the chest. “Spoiled rotten? I have never been spoiled rotten! Do you think it was easy starting a new life all on my own? Do you think I’ve ever taken a penny from my parents after I finished college? That I’ve ever had any special treatment because of who I am? And I am sick of you lecturing me!” He was horrified to see her lower lip quivering. “I’m not self-centered. I do have empathy!” She moved as if to hit him again, and he instinctively grabbed her hand and held it away from him. He grabbed her other one for good measure, in case she decided to swing at him with her left.
Her words pierced his heart with a sharp stab. Dammit! Once again, she’d pushed his buttons, and once again, he’d let her get to him. He’d gone too far and now—once again— he’d hurt her feelings.
She tried to wrestle away from him, and he tugged her closer. Ah, sweet Jesus. She felt so good in his arms, soft breasts flattened against him, the scent of warm vanilla and woman filling his nostrils. Her long hair trailed over his arms, tickling him. His body hardened, and he resisted the urge to push his hips against her.
She struggled more, then she kicked him—kicked him!—in the shin. Luckily her small foot in the flimsy flip-flop didn’t even hurt; in fact, it probably hurt her more.
“I know self-defense,” she muttered, wriggling against him and making him go even harder. “I’ll knee you in the nuts, so help me god. Let me go!”
He wanted to laugh. Some threat. He probably had seventy pounds on her. He thrust a knee between her thighs to prevent her from damaging his junk, and then she went still, making a funny little noise somewhere between a sob and a moan. He was suddenly aware of the moist heat he felt against his thigh, only the thin cotton of her dress and his jeans separating his flesh from the hot softness between her legs.
She moved against him, a small tilt of her pelvis that told him she was aroused too. Oh Christ. Oh hell. He’d resisted her the last time he’d held her like this; where the strength had come from that time he had no goddamn clue because now he was hot and hard, and the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this had disappeared like the sun below the horizon.
“Samara,” he groaned.
“Travis.” She fell against him, pressing her face into his neck. He felt the wet tears and released her hands to encircle her shuddering, small-boned body with his arms. He wrapped his arms around her so gently as she sobbed against him. “Oh, Travis.”
One hand slid up her back, encountering bare flesh above the top of the dress, smooth and hot. He rubbed her back slowly, up and down, up higher to the nape of her neck, into her silky hair. He pressed her face against him as she cried, his cheek against her cool, silky head. and closed his eyes as she wound her arms around his neck and clung to him.
His chest ached, and the rest of his body throbbed painfully. He wasn’t going to push things any further, but dear god, if she did, he didn’t think he’d be able to resist.
He dug deep for control, dragging in a long breath. He knew all the emotions she’d been assaulted with the last few days were engulfing her. She was grieving for her father, vulnerable and emotional, and that was probably pissing her off as much as she was pissed off at him about what had happened years ago.
All good reasons that nothing—nothing—should happen between them.
She’d stopped sobbing but still quivered and sniffled in his arms, her wet face pressed to the side of his neck. He breathed in her warm scent and held her for long moments as she calmed herself and regained control of her breathing. Then she pressed her lips to his neck in a long, open-mouthed kiss.
Heat shot straight to his groin. He fisted a hand in her long hair and tugged her head back so he could look into her face—her tear-streaked, pink-nosed, swollen-eyed face. Mascara smudged under those big eyes made her even more of a mess. Still, she was a beautiful mess.
“Samara...” He wasn’t sure if he was asking a question or telling her something. Their eyes met and held, something pulling between them, connecting them, drawing out fine and fragile. For once they were on the same page about something, the unwilling attraction they both felt creating a shared understanding.