“You know better than to let Sue get to you.” Sawyer opened the door, letting her pass through first, then followed her in. “She means well.”
The irritation that started with the mention of Sue’s name flickered higher. “You always take up for her.”
“I just try to understand where she’s coming from.” He got two bowls from the cabinet and set them on the kitchen counter.
Faith clutched his arm, and pulled him around to look at her. “How about me? Have you tried to understand where I’m coming from?”
His look lasted a long moment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “We’re not talking about prayer group anymore, are we?”
“We’re talking about the fact that you haven’t touched me for nearly a month. Are you even trying to understand?”
The cloak of sadness that had been absent in his eyes during supper dropped back into place. “Faith, I can’t—”
“Can’t or won’t?” Emotion sent a tremor through her body. “Why can’t you understand? Why won’t you let yourself understand?” She reached behind her and jerked the zipper of the shift down. “I love you.” She pushed the dress off her shoulders and arms, exposing her breasts clad in pink. The dress caught on her hips. She hooked it with her thumbs and shoved it free to pool around her ankles. “You always forgive Sue. I want you to forgive me. I want you to want me.” She stepped into him, sliding her arms around his waist, plastering her body against his.
His hands found her shoulders, and he pushed her gently away to hold her at arm’s length. “I want that, too, Faith. I pray for that every night.” He let go of her, his arms dropping like heavy weights to his side. “But, it’s not happening. My prayers get clogged by other thoughts like, what if I lose Tara completely? What if she finds Jacques Martin and chooses him over me?”
“That’s not going to happen, Sawyer.”
“It could happen. The man was able to lure you away from me.” He turned his gaze away from her toward the back window. “Oh, I know it was only one night and alcohol was involved. I get that. But your night with him caused a major change in us. It changed the way you relate to me. I tell myself that he gave us Tara...and she’s so precious to me...but what if finding him changes the way she relates to me?”
Faith stayed quiet. She would let him talk and get it all out. Surely, that could only help.
He wiped a hand down his face, leaving a glistening dampness below his eyes, and turned back to her. “And every night I try to talk myself into going to you in our room.” He looked her up and down, his face contorted with anguish. “You’re a beautiful, vibrant woman, Faith.”
She stepped into him again, pleading with her eyes. “Then do it. Make love to me. Please.”
The anguish settled into a look of despair. “I can’t.” He took her hand and moved it slowly to his groin.
It was a familiar gesture, but it took on a surreal quality as her hand groped for something that wasn’t there. Nothing. No detection of even the first stirring of an erection. The bulge she’d expected was instead a small mass as soft and pliable as putty.
His whisper was coarse and strangled. “I. Can’t.”
He released her hand, and she stepped away from him quickly. Her eyes blurred as she leaned over to gather her dress, snatching it up and making a dash for the bedroom.
She slammed the door and locked it behind her, then collapsed against it onto the floor as the wave of understanding washed over her.
Sawyer—the only man she’d ever loved—couldn’t get an erection for her.
He didn’t want her.
And maybe never would again.
* * *
TARA SAT AT the café in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, still ogling the beauty of Paris’s quintessential landmark while practicing her lines. The addresses of forty-three Jacques Martins were programmed into her GPS, and, though she was aware of the challenge she faced linguistically, she was armed emotionally for whatever happened. Or so she hoped.
Garrett Hughes’s stuffy behavior last night had been good practice, reminding her that first impressions weren’t always reliable. What a surprise he’d turned out to be—and not the pleasant kind. She’d been looking forward to some occasional American conversation while she was here, and yeah, maybe a little casual flirting, as well. But the guy had turned out to be a contrary curmudgeon who obviously resented her staking a claim to part of the terrace that he used like it was his sole dominion.
Well, he could go piss up a rope. She’d paid the rent for a month, and that gave her terrace privileges. Much as she liked the apartment, she wasn’t going to spend all her time inside when she could be taking her meals and her books outdoors.
Besides, Dylan was a delight. He made her feel at home. And from where she was sitting at the moment, looking out over a park that could very likely hold a huge chunk of Taylor’s Grove, it was obvious she wasn’t at home anymore.
She signed the receipt the waiter brought and picked up her things. The GPS dangled from her wrist, where she could check it often. She punched up the set of coordinates for the maybe-father closest to the Eiffel Tower and began her first search, following the map toward the blinking dot. It was just like the geocaching she’d explained to Dylan yesterday, but with what could be a priceless treasure as the find rather than a box of trinkets.
The exquisite beauty of the city with its wide, tree-lined avenues and perfectly proportioned balances of lines and curves, man-made and natural, tempted Tara to forget the hunt and give in to the desire to explore. But her mind kept running ahead to her destination, and her heart pumped fast to keep up.
The map guided her around the final turn to a street filled with small boutiques rather than homes. The internet search had yielded all addresses—business and residential—that had a Jacques Martin linked to it, but she was surprised nonetheless...and maybe a little relieved...to see that the first address was that of a shop. Walking into a store was easier than ringing a private doorbell.
She stopped outside the address and took several deep breaths before pushing the door open and stepping inside. The strong, pervasive scent of formaldehyde greeted her from the bolts of materials hanging from chains, which covered the walls in brocades, damasks and linens. Her eyes and nose started to water simultaneously. The reaction was familiar, and her memory scampered back to hours she’d spent in fabric stores with Grandma O’Malley. She’d had the forethought to bring tissues in case the reunion with her father involved tears...of any kind.
She snatched one from her pocket and dabbed, trying not to smear her carefully applied mascara.
Several customers milled about, eyeing the rich colors in the woven tapestries, running their palms over the nap to change the shading of the velvet. Tara ran her fingertips across a bolt of deep brown fabric—its hue reminded her of Garrett’s eyes.
Jerk, she reminded herself.
Soon, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a severe bun turned her attention to Tara. A head-to-foot scan pinched her expression into a condescending sneer. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour, madame.” Tara’s eyes jerked involuntarily to the door—yes, it was still there—before settling back on the woman. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. Je cherche Jacques Martin. Est-il ici?”
A short pause allowed the woman time to exchange her sneer for a knowing smirk. “Oui. Un instant.”
She