Page 23 of The Survivor (Silhoutte Romantic Suspense)

But dammit, he was tempted to open his heart and his life to her.

Once upon a time he’d wanted the same things she did.

He and Kate had been engaged and planning their future, and in one split second Kate was gone and a wall had formed around his heart.

The wall that Samantha had somehow penetrated.

Christ, whenever she looked at him with those gorgeous silver eyes, whenever her full lips curved into a smile, he was ready to hand his heart to her on a platter.

If it weren’t so damn disturbing, he would have laughed out loud at the revelation that this curvy model scared him more than any serial killer ever could.

She shifted beneath him, her warm breath tickling his chin.

“You won’t be here when this is all over, will you?” she whispered.

Her soft voice, laced with sadness and a startling dose of wisdom, shocked the hell out of him.

He moved so he was on his back and Sam was lying on top of him, and reluctantly met her inquisitive gaze.

“Sam—”

“It’s what you were thinking now, wasn’t it?”

He swallowed the lump wedged in his throat. “Yes.”

With a sigh, Sam disentangled herself from Blake’s arms and sat up. She pulled the blanket over her naked lower body. It was hard to look at him. She probably shouldn’t have brought the subject up to begin with, but she’d needed to know.

God, she was an idiot. She’d obviously mistaken sex for something entirely different, been foolish in thinking this affair with Blake would lead to anything more. But it wasn’t about sex for her. She’d had her share of lovers, but none of the men she’d been with even compared to Blake Corwin.

It was remarkable, how each time he made love to her it felt like the first time. All her previous experiences faded away, old lovers and past relationships erased from her life’s slate, as if Blake were the one man, the only man, who belonged in her bed.

That scared her the most, how he didn’t just make her feel like a woman, he made her feel like his woman.

“It wouldn’t work,” he said as if sensing her inner turmoil. “Our lives don’t…mesh.”

“You don’t have to explain, Blake. I understand.”

She started to get up, but he held on to her arm. “I need to explain.” His features looked strained. “You mean a lot to me, Sam. That’s why I’m saying this to you, that’s why I have to walk away once this case is over.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry, but your reasoning sucks. I mean a lot to you so you’re saying goodbye?”

“You don’t want to be with a man who chases killers for a living.”

Oh jeez. Now he was telling her what she wanted? Men!

“When the Rose Killer is captured, your life will be free of danger,” he continued, avoiding her gaze. “But my life…in my life there will always be a threat.”

“And you think I can’t handle that?”

His voice grew low, desperate. “I know you can handle it. I just think you deserve better. You deserve to fix up that old house in Wellstock, build a life with someone whose career doesn’t put your life at risk every time he goes to work.

You deserve a man who is…whole. And that’s not me, Samantha. ”

Pain pricked her heart, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. “You know,” she finally murmured, “for the longest time I thought the same thing—that I wasn’t whole. And guess what, Blake? I’m starting to feel whole now, and it’s because of you.”

“It’s because of you,” he corrected. “You’re a survivor, remember? And you’ve suffered so damn much the past year. I don’t ever want you to suffer again, sweetheart, even if it means walking away from you.”

Funny, that he didn’t realize he was making her suffer now, by saying these words to her.

“You’re not being fair.” Her voice cracked so badly that she started to feel pitiful, pleading with him when it was obvious that he didn’t intend to change his mind.

She rose from the couch. Even covered by a pair of thick socks, her feet felt cold against the hardwood floor. She quickly put on her panties and jeans. “I get you’re used to being in charge, Blake, but you don’t get to make decisions for me. For us .”

Without meeting her eyes, he pulled his pants and boxers up to his waist, then stood up. His handsome face exuded both frustration and regret.

“I’m making the decision for me,” he said hoarsely. Stepping closer, he reached out to trace the outline of her lips with his thumb. “And when you take the time to think about it— really think about it—you’ll realize I’m doing the right thing.”

His hand dropped from her mouth. Slowly, he walked out of the living room.

She stared at his broad back, her eyelids stinging. The right thing? Is that what he considered ripping her heart right out of her chest and crushing it between his fingers?

She wanted to curse with anger and disappointment. Whatever he thought he was doing by pushing her away, whatever he thought she’d gain from him walking away from her—there was absolutely nothing right about it.

She hesitated, wanting to run after him and tell him he was being a fool, but she kept herself rooted in place.

No, she wasn’t going to chase after him.

She wasn’t going to try to change his mind.

Whether or not this affair with Blake went any further, she needed to take care of herself first. She was just now putting the pieces of her life back together, and she wasn’t about to hinder her progress by becoming a clingy and desperate woman who couldn’t live without a man.

If Blake wanted her, he was going to have to come and get her.

“Sam?”

He was standing in the doorway again, and a balloon of hope rose in her chest before she could stop it. He was back. He’d realized he was acting like an idiot and that maybe whatever it was between them really was worth pursuing and—

“Elaine’s on the phone.”

The balloon burst, little pieces of hope sinking and settling in the pit of her stomach like jagged little rocks.

Of course he wouldn’t change his mind. The master of control never doubted his decisions after he’d made them, no matter how unfair and unnecessary they were.

Without a word, she walked up and accepted the cordless phone from his hands, then brushed past him without sparing him a backward glance.

“Hey, hon, what’s going on?” she said into the receiver as she climbed the stairs with a heavy heart and headed for the guest room.

She’d moved her things into Blake’s bedroom yesterday, but she had no intention of spending the night there tonight. Trying not to cry, she sank onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard.

“I just spoke to Dr. Darwitz,” came Elaine’s soft voice, followed by a sniffle. “He sent some pictures, you know, of my…my scars…to the plastic surgeon at CGH and he heard back from him today.”

Sam tried not to cringe as she remembered the countless bandages on Elaine’s small body. Nausea scampered up her throat but she swallowed it down, refusing to let Elaine hear any sympathy or pity in her voice. Support. That’s all she would offer this courageous young woman.

“What did he say?” she asked gently.

“He’s willing to perform the surgery. But he said there could be residual scarring. Especially on my breasts.”

A strangled sob sounded from the other end of the line.

“Hey, don’t cry, honey. That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t you hear me? He can’t get rid of them completely, Sam!”

“Then maybe you have to take what you can get,” she replied quietly. “If you want the surgery, accept the limitations. Do you want the surgery?”

Silence. Stretching out so long that Sam thought Elaine might have hung up.

She opened her mouth to speak but another sob tore through the extension, laced with such misery that tears stung Sam’s eyes.

God, this poor girl. This poor, innocent girl who’d done nothing wrong except go into work on the day a madman decided to show up.

It wasn’t fair. It was so beyond fair that Sam suddenly felt like hitting someone, throwing something, anything to release the tornado of anger spinning inside her.

“I know the idea that you’ll always have some scars is troubling,” she finally said, swallowing back the rage bubbling in her throat.

Her heart ached for the twenty-three-year-old who, at the moment, was locked up in a safe house so a killer couldn’t find her.

“But Elaine, if the surgeon can make even one scar disappear, I think you should do it, honey.”

“What about you?” was Elaine’s shaky reply.

Sam faltered. “What about me?”

“Are you getting yours removed?”

“I…don’t know.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“Doesn’t it make you feel ugly?” Elaine burst out. “Aren’t you scared that if you show it to someone, he’ll laugh at you and be repulsed?”

Sam hesitated. Blake’s voice suddenly drifted into her head, the quiet words he’d uttered when they’d first made love. You’ve got a war wound.

He hadn’t been repulsed by the scar. He said it impressed him, that it showed her strength.

“I’m not scared,” she answered, shrugging off the troubling thought. “If someone wants to laugh at me, or run away in horror, let him. We’re survivors, honey. And if we survived the wrath of a madman, we sure as hell can survive the rejection of a person who can’t look beneath the surface.”

Another silence dragged between them, until Elaine finally made a desperate, strangled sound and whispered, “I’m not a survivor, Sam. I’m a victim. I’ll never be anything else.”

“Don’t say that! Elaine, please, you need to know that you’ll get through this. You’ll—”

The assurances fell on deaf ears. Elaine had already hung up.