Page 29 of Christmas in Whitehorn
While he might have recovered from the relationship, the pain of her betrayal still cut through him like fire. Why hadn’t he been able to see through her facade? He’d always thought he was so clever about people—at the department he’d had a reputation for cutting to the heart of someone’s motive. But he hadn’t sensed anything amiss with Sylvia. Not even for a second.
He’d felt so angry, so betrayed. He’d refused her requests that they talk one more time. Before Mark had left New York, her attorney had tried to give Mark a letter from Sylvia. Mark had torn it into pieces and handed it back to the attorney with instructions that Sylvia never contact him again.
She hadn’t. There had been silence, and now she was gone.
Mark leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Guilt hovered, but he shoved it away.Hehadn’t done anything wrong. So why did he feel as if he’d been emotionally skinned alive?
He rose to his feet and headed for the parking lot. The need to keep moving nearly pushed him to a run. One day Sylvia had been his whole world and the next he’d been in the hospital, fighting for his life. He’d walked away from her without looking back, but always with the expectation he would have to face her again. Now that wouldn’t happen.
When he reached his truck, he unlocked the door and slipped inside. He’d told himself he’d done a good job of letting her go. It had been a whole lot easier than he would have thought, which made him question whether or not he’d ever loved her. If he had, he was an idiot. If he hadn’t, he’d never loved anyone. He didn’t like either option. Maybe the truth was something else entirely. Maybe he’d simply allowed himself to forget because it was easier than remembering.
He drove without thinking and found himself at home. An acid rawness burned at his soul. He didn’t want to be alone. Not with the pain or the ghosts. He stared at the apartment building. Two halves of a whole, he thought numbly. Solitude or solace. It wasn’t a difficult choice.
Instead of leaving his truck and walking toward his front door, he headed to Darcy’s side of the building and knocked. He didn’t bother to analyze why he was here, because he already knew. She was his neighbor and a woman with secrets—could there be a worse combination? Yet there wasn’t anyone else he wanted to speak with at that moment. No one else he wanted to see. She was the kind of woman who rescued by instinct and right now he was in some serious need of saving.
She opened the door. Instantly the scent of gingerbread drifted out to greet him. Darcy smiled. There was flour on her cheek and sweater. Her sleeves were pulled up to her elbows, her hair tucked back behind her ears.
“Hi, Mark, what’s up?” Her smile faded as she studied him. “I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you look awful. What’s wrong?”
She stepped back and he entered her house.
“Someone I know is dead,” he said abruptly. “A suicide.”
Darcy sucked in her breath at the news. “I’m so sorry.”
He stared into her eyes. Compassion overruled shock. He shouldn’t have come, he realized. She didn’t need this particular brand of hell screwing up her life.
But he couldn’t force himself to leave.
“I don’t know what I feel,” he admitted. “Anger. Relief. Maybe guilt. I don’t know. How am I supposed to get closure? How will this ever be okay?” He shook his head. “It won’t be. I guess that’s the point.”
“You’re in shock,” she said softly. “The mourning will come later and, with it, clarity. As for closure, time is a great healer.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.”
“Oh, it’s not easy. Letting go and forgiving are the hardest things in the world.”
“I don’t want to forgive. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I can’t feel hurt or anger or even compassion. Maybe I’m incapable of feeling anything significant. Maybe—”
She stepped close and put her arms around him. “Can you feel that?” she asked.
He held himself completely still. The warmth of her body chased away a chill he hadn’t known was there. Her breasts flattened against his chest, while her legs brushed against his. Her hair smelled like vanilla.
Desire slammed into him. He might not be able to mourn Sylvia’s passing, but he sure could want Darcy. His arousal was instant and nearly painful. Hunger heated his blood until the need to be with her was as compelling and instinctive as drawing in a breath.
Gathering all his strength, he gently untangled her arms from around him and moved away.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” he told her. “You don’t need the complication and I can’t be what you want me to be. I’m sorry.” He headed for the door.
“Mark? I don’t understand.”
He turned back to her, glaring. “I’m not feeling especially friendly right now. I want more. Specifically you.” He ran his fingers through his hair and swore. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he repeated. “I don’t know why I did. I’m sorry.”
He reached for the door handle.
“Wait,” she called before he could leave. “Just wait.”
He froze in place. The sensible part of him, the part that knew he was more than capable of hurting Darcy, told him to keep on walking. If he cared at all about her, he wouldn’t be with her now—like this. But the rawness inside of him was stronger. It kept him in place as she turned off the oven and returned to his side. When she took his hand he didn’t protest. When she led him into her bedroom, he reached for her.
