The Wish Collector
Page 51
Clara’s eyes widened right before she laughed, throwing her arms around Mrs. Guillot and hugging her hard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Hello? Jonah, are you there?”
He heard Clara’s voice and froze. She was at the side gate, her steady rapping shattering the quiet of Windisle. His heart jumped, excitement flaring inside of him, along with a spark of panic.
What are you doing here, Clara? He paused for the portion of a moment, letting a deep, long breath flow through him. Did he dare answer? Myrtle and Cecil were out on a rare date night to dinner in the French Quarter to be followed by a show, and he was alone.
He reached up and touched his face, running his fingers over the scars, his fear increasing. No . . . no. He wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Maybe he wouldn’t answer at all, although the thought itself made his panic increase. The idea of Clara leaving more terrible than the thought of her staying. His stomach churned. Fuck.
She called his name again, her voice ringing through the property, through him. What if there was something wrong? What if she needed him?
He let out a frustrated growl, shutting off the few lamps he had turned on inside of the house and then heading downstairs where he flipped the switch to shut off the sconce that lit the back door.
The blackness closed in, wrapping its fingers of safety around Jonah, calming his heart rate. The knocking ceased. Clara had obviously seen the light go out and knew he was coming for her.
“He arrives in darkness,” she whispered when he unlatched the gate, reaching for her and pulling her quickly to his side before kicking the gate closed.
The side door to the house opened into a short hallway that led directly into the kitchen. Jonah closed the door and pressed Clara against the wall in two quick movements.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, close to her face.
She pulled in a breath, and he had the sense she was inhaling his scent, which made a shiver of arousal quake inside of him. “It’s you,” she said.
“Yes, it’s me. Who did you think it was?”
“No, I mean, it was you on the news.”
Unease prickled Jonah’s skin. “The news?” Those two words were enough to send fear ricocheting through him. The news only conjured negative reactions for Jonah. Once upon a time, the news had flayed him alive. “I wasn’t on the news.”
“You were,” she said, and there was something in her voice . . . wonder? “You’re going around New Orleans helping people who need it.” Her voice held a note of incredulousness, and still, that same wonder he’d heard.
“No.” Jonah took a step back, turning his face slightly in the darkness that wasn’t quite complete because of a shaft of moonlight shining in the kitchen window beyond. He could only see her outline, no details, so he hoped it was the same for her.
“No,” he said again, but even he could hear the way the word came out, sounding more like a question than a statement. “What did they say?”
“The way you turn your face like that,” she murmured as if she were speaking only to herself. “I recognized that the minute they showed the video.”
“Clara, what the hell are you talking about?” Jonah demanded, his unease increasing.
“Sorry.” He thought he saw her shake her head slightly, her movement mixing with the darkness that surrounded her as she leaned against the wall.
Without thought, he stepped toward her, seeking. Always seeking this woman.
“There was a news story about how this masked guy is helping people anonymously in New Orleans. They had a woman on who has a sick little boy who was just accepted into a study. He’s having surgery tomorrow.”
Jonah let that piece of information slip past his unease, his heart filling with momentary happiness to know that Matthew would receive the chance he deserved.
“She said this man paid for it, approached her in the middle of the day, wrapped in bandages, and just handed her a check.” Clara was speaking quickly now, her voice soft and breathy. “And other people reported him patrolling with these volunteer crime-fighters, the . . . the Silver Angels you told me about the other night. The guys I thought were chasing me.”
“The Brass Angels,” Jonah muttered. Jesus. How in the hell had the news gotten hold of that? And now he was some public interest story? Well shit. He had never intended on any of this. It was not welcome news.
“It’s you,” she repeated. “There was footage of you from the hospital’s garage camera. It was the outline of that mask I saw you in and then . . . you tilted your head.” She raised her hand and reached blindly for him, running her finger over his jaw. “And I knew. I knew it was you.”
“Clara—”
“Don’t lie to me, Jonah. Tell me the truth.”
Jonah sighed. What did it matter? He trusted her. She wouldn’t expose him. What did it matter if she knew the truth? After this, he wouldn’t be able to anonymously patrol the streets anyway. They’d probably be looking for him. Looking to make a story out of him again. He wouldn’t allow it, so his short but illustrious time of crime-fighting with the Brass Angels was over. “Yeah. Yeah, it was me.”
Clara was silent for a beat, and he thought maybe she was gaping at him. He shifted uncomfortably. “Why?” she breathed, that wonder in her voice again. “Why are you doing it?”
“Why?”
“Yes. I mean, it’s wonderful, but . . . why did you decide to start helping people? To be a hero to others?”
“Oh Christ, Clara.” He let out a soft bark of laughter. “You keep trying to turn me into a hero, and I’m not.”
“To me you are. And you can’t do anything about it, Jonah Chamberlain. You can’t change it even if you want to. To me you are and that’s all.”
That’s all? He sighed, feigning frustration, but in reality, a flush of pleasure shot through him, making him feel alive. Not because he considered himself a hero to anyone, but because he wanted to be one to her. He did. God, but he did. And she’d told him he was. And it wasn’t only in her words. Right that minute he could sense it emanating in the space around them, the feeling that he had done well in her eyes and that she was proud of him in a way a woman finds pride in the man she wants to call her own. And it lit him from within. It lit his soul. He lived in the darkness, but Clara, she was his light.
He whispered her name, and she moved forward, bringing her face to his and finding his lips in the dark. “Hi,” she whispered right before she pressed her mouth to his.
He smiled against her lips and then took charge of the kiss, eliciting a small moan from her that felt like a zing of electricity straight to his groin. Hi.
They continued kissing, and Jonah lost himself in sensation, the accelerated heartbeat, the warm flush that ran through his veins, the excitement that filled every cell of his body. “I missed your mouth,” he said between kisses.
He felt her smile. “The things it says or the things it does?”
“Both.”
He drank down her laughter, kissing her again, not able to get enough. He ran his hand under the collar of her jacket, along the dip where her neck became her shoulder, his finger hooking on the leotard she wore beneath.
“You came straight from practice,” he said, his lips moving down the side of her throat. She tilted her head back, giving him better access to the places his lips wandered.
“Yes. I was heading home and stopped at my neighbor’s. That’s where I saw the news.”
“Hmm,” he hummed, and he felt her shiver. His gut clenched with want. He loved the way she reacted to his touch. Loved every damn thing about her. Loved her. “And so you headed straight here.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” He smiled. Of course she would. Clara was thoughtful. She considered a situation if she was unsure about it, but once she’d made up her mind to confront something or someone, she did it right then, without hesitation.
“I loved the music box, by the way,” he said between mouth brushes.
“Was I self-centered to give you a gift in the hopes that it would make you think of me every day?”
He chuckled and again, she shivered. “No. But it wasn’t necessary. I already think of you every day, Clara. Every morning. Every night. Every second.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Hello? Jonah, are you there?”
He heard Clara’s voice and froze. She was at the side gate, her steady rapping shattering the quiet of Windisle. His heart jumped, excitement flaring inside of him, along with a spark of panic.
What are you doing here, Clara? He paused for the portion of a moment, letting a deep, long breath flow through him. Did he dare answer? Myrtle and Cecil were out on a rare date night to dinner in the French Quarter to be followed by a show, and he was alone.
He reached up and touched his face, running his fingers over the scars, his fear increasing. No . . . no. He wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Maybe he wouldn’t answer at all, although the thought itself made his panic increase. The idea of Clara leaving more terrible than the thought of her staying. His stomach churned. Fuck.
She called his name again, her voice ringing through the property, through him. What if there was something wrong? What if she needed him?
He let out a frustrated growl, shutting off the few lamps he had turned on inside of the house and then heading downstairs where he flipped the switch to shut off the sconce that lit the back door.
The blackness closed in, wrapping its fingers of safety around Jonah, calming his heart rate. The knocking ceased. Clara had obviously seen the light go out and knew he was coming for her.
“He arrives in darkness,” she whispered when he unlatched the gate, reaching for her and pulling her quickly to his side before kicking the gate closed.
The side door to the house opened into a short hallway that led directly into the kitchen. Jonah closed the door and pressed Clara against the wall in two quick movements.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, close to her face.
She pulled in a breath, and he had the sense she was inhaling his scent, which made a shiver of arousal quake inside of him. “It’s you,” she said.
“Yes, it’s me. Who did you think it was?”
“No, I mean, it was you on the news.”
Unease prickled Jonah’s skin. “The news?” Those two words were enough to send fear ricocheting through him. The news only conjured negative reactions for Jonah. Once upon a time, the news had flayed him alive. “I wasn’t on the news.”
“You were,” she said, and there was something in her voice . . . wonder? “You’re going around New Orleans helping people who need it.” Her voice held a note of incredulousness, and still, that same wonder he’d heard.
“No.” Jonah took a step back, turning his face slightly in the darkness that wasn’t quite complete because of a shaft of moonlight shining in the kitchen window beyond. He could only see her outline, no details, so he hoped it was the same for her.
“No,” he said again, but even he could hear the way the word came out, sounding more like a question than a statement. “What did they say?”
“The way you turn your face like that,” she murmured as if she were speaking only to herself. “I recognized that the minute they showed the video.”
“Clara, what the hell are you talking about?” Jonah demanded, his unease increasing.
“Sorry.” He thought he saw her shake her head slightly, her movement mixing with the darkness that surrounded her as she leaned against the wall.
Without thought, he stepped toward her, seeking. Always seeking this woman.
“There was a news story about how this masked guy is helping people anonymously in New Orleans. They had a woman on who has a sick little boy who was just accepted into a study. He’s having surgery tomorrow.”
Jonah let that piece of information slip past his unease, his heart filling with momentary happiness to know that Matthew would receive the chance he deserved.
“She said this man paid for it, approached her in the middle of the day, wrapped in bandages, and just handed her a check.” Clara was speaking quickly now, her voice soft and breathy. “And other people reported him patrolling with these volunteer crime-fighters, the . . . the Silver Angels you told me about the other night. The guys I thought were chasing me.”
“The Brass Angels,” Jonah muttered. Jesus. How in the hell had the news gotten hold of that? And now he was some public interest story? Well shit. He had never intended on any of this. It was not welcome news.
“It’s you,” she repeated. “There was footage of you from the hospital’s garage camera. It was the outline of that mask I saw you in and then . . . you tilted your head.” She raised her hand and reached blindly for him, running her finger over his jaw. “And I knew. I knew it was you.”
“Clara—”
“Don’t lie to me, Jonah. Tell me the truth.”
Jonah sighed. What did it matter? He trusted her. She wouldn’t expose him. What did it matter if she knew the truth? After this, he wouldn’t be able to anonymously patrol the streets anyway. They’d probably be looking for him. Looking to make a story out of him again. He wouldn’t allow it, so his short but illustrious time of crime-fighting with the Brass Angels was over. “Yeah. Yeah, it was me.”
Clara was silent for a beat, and he thought maybe she was gaping at him. He shifted uncomfortably. “Why?” she breathed, that wonder in her voice again. “Why are you doing it?”
“Why?”
“Yes. I mean, it’s wonderful, but . . . why did you decide to start helping people? To be a hero to others?”
“Oh Christ, Clara.” He let out a soft bark of laughter. “You keep trying to turn me into a hero, and I’m not.”
“To me you are. And you can’t do anything about it, Jonah Chamberlain. You can’t change it even if you want to. To me you are and that’s all.”
That’s all? He sighed, feigning frustration, but in reality, a flush of pleasure shot through him, making him feel alive. Not because he considered himself a hero to anyone, but because he wanted to be one to her. He did. God, but he did. And she’d told him he was. And it wasn’t only in her words. Right that minute he could sense it emanating in the space around them, the feeling that he had done well in her eyes and that she was proud of him in a way a woman finds pride in the man she wants to call her own. And it lit him from within. It lit his soul. He lived in the darkness, but Clara, she was his light.
He whispered her name, and she moved forward, bringing her face to his and finding his lips in the dark. “Hi,” she whispered right before she pressed her mouth to his.
He smiled against her lips and then took charge of the kiss, eliciting a small moan from her that felt like a zing of electricity straight to his groin. Hi.
They continued kissing, and Jonah lost himself in sensation, the accelerated heartbeat, the warm flush that ran through his veins, the excitement that filled every cell of his body. “I missed your mouth,” he said between kisses.
He felt her smile. “The things it says or the things it does?”
“Both.”
He drank down her laughter, kissing her again, not able to get enough. He ran his hand under the collar of her jacket, along the dip where her neck became her shoulder, his finger hooking on the leotard she wore beneath.
“You came straight from practice,” he said, his lips moving down the side of her throat. She tilted her head back, giving him better access to the places his lips wandered.
“Yes. I was heading home and stopped at my neighbor’s. That’s where I saw the news.”
“Hmm,” he hummed, and he felt her shiver. His gut clenched with want. He loved the way she reacted to his touch. Loved every damn thing about her. Loved her. “And so you headed straight here.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” He smiled. Of course she would. Clara was thoughtful. She considered a situation if she was unsure about it, but once she’d made up her mind to confront something or someone, she did it right then, without hesitation.
“I loved the music box, by the way,” he said between mouth brushes.
“Was I self-centered to give you a gift in the hopes that it would make you think of me every day?”
He chuckled and again, she shivered. “No. But it wasn’t necessary. I already think of you every day, Clara. Every morning. Every night. Every second.”
