“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. You could say it pissed me off, especially when I could see so plainly how much of my father’s attention my brother was getting, and how very little of his time was spent with me. I got angry. Very angry. The kind that explodes out. The kind that’s dangerous.”

I can’t help the way my gaze darts to the cut on his cheek.

He sees and flashes a rueful grin. “I turned anger into fights.”

“Jackson …”

He takes my hand, then kisses my palm. “And I channeled control into sex.”

I lift a brow. “Did you? I hadn’t noticed.”

“I guess I’ll have to try to be more obvious.” He gently strokes the hand he still holds. “My point is that when I realized I couldn’t fight all the shit that was in my past—in my head—I embraced it instead. You need to do the same.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. Fight back. You have nightmares? Don’t run from them. Battle them. You’re strong, Sylvia. Strong enough not to be defeated by your own head.”

“It’s not my head,” I say. “It’s my history.”

“And what is history but a memory, and usually a false one at that? What’s that saying? That history is written by the victor? Write your own history, Sylvia. And when you do, make yourself the hero.”

I don’t answer, because I’m not sure I want to talk about it, much less think about it.

Instead, I deflect by reaching up to trace my finger across the scar that runs from his brow to his hairline. I’d noticed it at the premiere, and had yet to ask him about it. Now that he’s mentioned his fights, I can’t help but wonder what flash of anger translated into this injury.

“When?” I say nothing more. I know he will understand my question.

“About twelve hours after you told me to walk away.”

I only nod, not trusting myself to speak as my fingers drift down to gently touch his cheek. “This one is new.”

“After I met your friend Louis,” he says, confirming what I already suspected.

“Does the other guy look worse?”

“I assure you, he does.”

I meet his eyes. “Maybe you need help, too. You can’t just go on beating people up.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I promise you I’m not accosting random tourists on the street. I belong to a gym. There’s a boxing club. And no, I’m not talking about the kind of gym that has a smoothie bar and twenty-eight elliptical machines. Heavy bags, speed bags, free weights.”

He strokes my cheek. “I’m doing just fine.”

I picture the kind of dirty, grimy gym you see in so many movies, where guys are getting their faces smashed in. It’s not a picture I like. I lift my hand to cover his so that I feel the warmth of his skin on my face. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Oh, baby. They can’t hurt me. Don’t you know that you’re the only one who’s ever managed to tear me to shreds?”

fifteen

I wake with a jolt, my heart pounding in defense against the lingering clutch of fear.

I reach out, groping for Jackson, and as I do, I realize that it is not the cold fingers of a nightmare that cling to me, but the fear that Jackson has left.

“Now there’s a lovely picture,” he says, and his voice sends unexpected waves of relief coursing through me.

He hasn’t left—and I didn’t have a nightmare.

Thank god, thank god, thank god.

I realize that I’ve been lying stretched across the bed, my hip and thigh uncovered. I sit up, pulling the sheet over my breasts for modesty, which is ridiculous considering how thoroughly he explored every inch of me. I lean against the headboard and sigh in pleasure as I watch him move toward me, barefoot and shirtless in only his jeans, the top button open to reveal just a hint of the hair that arrows down toward a very enticing bulge.

I’m enjoying the view so much that a full second passes before I realize that he’s holding out a cup of coffee. I take it gratefully, then smile when I realize there’s already cream in it. “You remembered.”

“I remember a lot of things.” He gestures for me to slide over, then gets in beside me when I do. “For one thing, I remember that we’re supposed to be at your boss’s house in two hours, and it’s a half-hour drive with no traffic. Which means that it’s always an hour drive.”

“We didn’t get much sleep.”

“And yet I feel surprisingly energized,” he says, then brushes his hand over my hair.