Night Jasmine by Erica Spindler Read Free Book Online

wrist. Her pulse thundered beneath his touch.
    â€œRemember the night we met?” he asked, his voice husky with the memory.
    Aimee hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Of course. Why?”
    â€œI was thinking of that night. Of you and me and…fate.” He rubbed his fingers rhythmically across the translucent flesh of her wrist. “We never should have met. We almost didn’t.”
    For long seconds silence stretched between them. She cleared her throat. “I can’t say that, Hunter. I can’t even think it. How could I? If we hadn’t met, I wouldn’t have Oliver. And I love him more than anything.”
    Aimee slipped her hand from his and crossed the gallery to the stairs. She descended them and started across the yard toward the store. Hunter watched her go, pain and memories colliding inside him.
    â€œI love you, Daddy.”
    â€œI love you, too, Pete. More than anything.”
    Hunter put his free hand on a cypress column, his legs suddenly shaky.
    Pete giggled. “More than chocolate milk?”
    â€œYou bet, buddy. More than pizza, even.”
    â€œThen why can’t I go, too? I’ll be a good boy, Daddy. I promise.”
    â€œHunter? Are you okay?”
    Aimee stood several yards from the house, gazing quizzically up at him. He looked blankly at her, seeing for a moment Pete instead. He sucked in a sharp breath, his chest so tight the action hurt. He nodded and forced a stiff smile. “Fine. Just…fine.”
    He descended the steps and caught up with her in two strides.
    They crossed the yard in silence. When they reached the other building, Aimee led him to a small porch on its far right side. They climbed the stairs and crossed to the door. She opened it, then handed him the key.
    They both stepped inside. The room Roubin had rented him was simple and sparsely furnished, but nice. The furniture consisted of a double bed, small chest of drawers, an old wing chair, reading table and lamp. A small bathroom adjoined the room. As with the store, the room wasn’t air-conditioned and the windows were all thrown wide to let in the cool night air; a ceiling fan whirled lazily above. A stack of fresh linens waited on the unmade bed.
    â€œIs this yours?” Hunter asked, crossing to a black-and-white photo that hung on the wall by the chair.
    â€œYes.”
    He moved closer to the image, studying it. The photograph depicted a bayou immersed in a ghostly, billowing fog. The effect was haunting. Unforgettable. “It’s beautiful.”
    â€œThank you,” she murmured, gazing at the photo. “I took that a long time ago.”
    Hunter drew his eyebrows together, studying her. Did she have any idea how wistful her expression was right now? Did she realize how much her eyes told him? He suspected not. For if she did, she would work harder to hide her feelings. This Aimee was not as open as the one he’d known all those years ago; this Aimee preferred to erect barriers around herself.
    Was she this way with everyone? he wondered. Or just with him?
    Aimee looked away, her wistfulness disappearing. “You’ll be called for meals, but we eat around eight, noon and five. If you miss one, you’re on your own.”
    Hunter set the music box on the table and laid his garment bag on the bed. “Fair enough.”
    â€œIf you need something, just ask.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œGood.” She took a step toward the door, then stopped as she reached it. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
    â€œI guess so.”
    Aimee pushed open the screen door, then paused again. She turned back to him, making a small sound of annoyance as she did. “Isn’t there any way I can talk you out of this?”
    â€œAfraid not.”
    â€œWhat do you hope to accomplish here?” She folded her arms across her chest. “We’ve already agreed to disagree.”
    He unpacked the music box and carefully