Free Shades of Gray by Kay Hooper Page A

“I promise you that, Andres.”
    Doubt flickered behind the shutters. “No?”
    She felt a smile curve her lips. “No. It doesn’t seem to—to accomplish much, does it? As you said, nothing ended when I ran away before. It just stopped for a while. I’ve realized that I can’t live like that. Neither of us can live like that.”
    He looked at her for a moment, and she thought he was undecided, although his face revealed nothing. Then, slowly, he said, “Have you made up your mind about us, then?”
    Again his voice gave him away, and she didn’t need to see braced shoulders to know he was half prepared for an answer that would be a blow.
    She tried to find words, in her own uncertainty, to tell him what she felt. “Can you make up your mind about a hurricane? No. It just … exists. Either you run, or else board up all the windows and ride it out.”
    He smiled a little, not with amusement but with understanding. “Have you boarded up the windows?”
    “I can’t run this time.” Clinging to the emotional safety of analogy, she said slowly, “And I don’t know what will be left standing when it’s over. Maybe I’ll find out that I’m not tough enough to ride out the storm. But I have to find out. We both have to find out.”
    “Can I make it easier for you?” he asked quietly.
    “Yes.” She drew one arm from beneath the covers and put out her hand to him, feeling the warmth of his long fingers closing instantly around hers. A little unsteadily she said, “Don’t muffle the thunder, Andres. Don’t cloak the lightning. I can’t hide from any of it—even if you want me to.”

F OUR

    A NDRES LOOKED DOWN at the hand he held and, after a long moment, softly quoted, “ ‘God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, one to show a woman when he loves her.’ Is that what you mean?”
    How odd, she thought vaguely, that he should quote Robert Browning about love when she had earlier quoted to herself Elizabeth Barrett Browning about the “mastery” of love. And how strangely moving it was to hear this proud,self-educated man turn often to the wise words of poets to express his own deep feelings.
    She drew a deep breath. “Yes.”
    His mouth twisted a little, and he didn’t look up at her. “Should a man not show the softer side of himself to the woman he loves?”
    Her fingers tightened in his. “Andres, it isn’t what I see that frightens me. It’s what I don’t see, what you won’t
let
me see.”
    “So.” He met her gaze finally. “You wish to see the face that took a country in bloodshed. The face that gave sanctuary to terrorists. The face that sent a dead boy home to his family branded a traitor for all to see.”
    She didn’t flinch from his hard voice. “It’s your face. It’s you. Should either of us hide from that?”
    “You wanted to,” he reminded her almost reluctantly, his tone unchanged. “You tried. You ran from it in fear. We both know that. Do you really believe I’ll allow the same thing to drive you away again?”
    “Just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there, Andres!”
    “That part of me will never touch you.” His voice was still harsh. “It doesn’t exist between us.”
    Sara knew that Andres understood what she was afraid of; she also knew that his method of dealing with it would never be a solution for her. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—defend his actions, perhaps because there
was
no defense, but he had seen her fear and had acted to banish it, taking care that the darkness she feared in him was hidden from her as much as possible. He could speak of it to her and would, but he would consciously try not to show it. Even now he was trying to shield her.
    So she braced herself inwardly and said the only thing she could to show him how impossible his solution was. “You say you want my love, my trust; how can you expect that from me? How can I love what I don’t understand? Or are