Page 78 of Finding Amanda

"Gorgeous," he said.

She looked at him to see he was staring not at the view, but at her.

Amanda fingered the sweatshirt. Mark had looked at her that night as if she were the most beautiful girl in the world. She'd given him the sweatshirt, since it was far too large for her, and though he'd never worn it, for some reason he'd tossed it into the pile of clothes he wanted to keep. The trouble he'd gone to that day, just so she could ride a Ferris wheel. He'd loved her once, loved her more than she ever deserved. A painful lump formed in her throat.

She couldn't do this, not now. She dropped the sweatshirt and looked up to find Mark watching her.

She swiped her cheeks with the sweatshirt and began to fold it.

"I love you as much today as I did then," he said.

A sob escaped her clenched throat, and she hid behind the sweatshirt.

She saw his feet, then his knees as he knelt in front of her. "More, in fact."

She shook her head.

He gently placed one of his hands over both of hers and pushed them, along with the sweatshirt, to her lap. He bent lower to meet her downcast eyes. She tried to move away, but heheld her firmly. "Amanda, I still love you." He weaved his fingers in her hair at the base of her neck. "I will always love you."

Forgetting everything that had driven them apart, she rocked forward and kissed him.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. The piles of clothes was pushed aside and forgotten.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mark inhaled the scent of the sheets. They weren't the cheap, scratchy sheets on his bed. These were worn smooth by age. The bed—he loved this bed, soft and inviting. The room smelled of vanilla from Amanda's favorite candle, reminding him of everything that mattered. He rolled over, wanting nothing more than to hold her and drift back to sleep.

All he found on her side of the bed was the shock of cold sheets.

He opened his eyes. The light on the ceiling of her closet spilled onto the bedroom floor in the otherwise dark room. He heard a sniff and sat up.

Amanda was seated cross-legged on the floor near her closet in the middle of a pile of clothes. An almost-full garbage bag sat behind her, another to her left. She folded a pair of jeans and slipped them into the bag beside her. Then she grabbed a T-shirt and wiped the tears spilling onto her cheeks.

"Hey, what's the matter?"

She flinched, sniffed, and folded the shirt.

Mark climbed out of bed and searched for his clothes. Hefound his jeans draped over a pile of dress shirts and pulled them on. "Honey, what's wrong?"

Amanda swiped the sleeve of her shirt across her cheeks. "I'm fine. I just thought I'd work on this."

Fine? Her voice was squeaky, her face streaked with tears. She was anything but fine. Mark sat on the floor across from her. "What's wrong?"

"I don't understand why . . . why did it take two years for you to want me again? Why couldn't we have done that"—she waved toward the bed—"before now?"

"I always wanted you."

Anger flashed in her blue eyes. "No. You didn't. You could barely stand to touch me."

She reached for another garment, but he grabbed her hands. "You're the one who changed, Amanda, not me."

She tried to tug her hands away, but he wouldn't let go. She glared at him. "You admitted it. You said it felt like Gabriel was in bed with us."

Mark dropped her hands. "Honey, I always wanted you. Always. But you were different. Even before you told me about him, I could feel it. When we were first married, you were nervous when we made love. I always wondered why, but I didn't want to press you. And then you were fine, it was good. Great. But suddenly, you were nervous again. You'd cringe when I touched you, like you were afraid of me. And then, when you told me about him, what he did to you, I understood. Those memories were creeping in, and you had to deal with them. Of course thinking about him would dredge up those emotions."

Amanda looked down. "You hated me."

"No, sweetheart. Never. I hated him. I'd touch you, and you'd stiffen, and I'd think about how I was going to hunt him down and rip him apart." His hands fisted. He forcedhimself to stretch them out. "It's hard to make love to your wife and plot someone's murder at the same time."

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