Night Jasmine Read Online Free PDF Page A

was unpretentious, sturdy. Constructed of cypress clapboard with a high pitched roof and a gallery that ran the length of the building, it looked as if it had been built to withstand the worst that nature could dish up.
    He remembered the way her father looked, with his weathered face, its road map of folds and creases defining a man who had worked hard all his life. A man who had taken care of his family. Hunter admired that; he respected people who could live simply and with little more than what nature provided. Especially in these modern, high-tech times.
    But what if Oliver wanted more?
    Aimee saw his gaze, and she stiffened her spine. “We do fine, Hunter. You don’t need to feel guilty or responsible—”
    â€œBut I am responsible.”
    She sighed; again the sound tore at him. He crossed to her. “I can afford this, Aimee. I want to do it.”
    She tipped up her chin. “It wouldn’t even make a dent. Right?”
    â€œYou know it wouldn’t.”
    She turned away from him. “I don’t want your guilt money,” she said softly. “I don’t want the least you can do.”
    He caught her arm, forcing her to turn her face to his. He searched her gaze. “Then, what do you want?”
    For one long moment, she said nothing. He could see the pulse that beat wildly at the base of her throat, felt the shudder that rippled over her. Whether these were reactions to fear or awareness he wasn’t sure.
    â€œNothing,” she said finally, softly. “I want nothing from you except for you to leave me—us—alone.”
    The words stung and he fought to hold on to the control, the unflappable logic, that had served him so well for so long. “You’re letting your emotions talk. Think, Aimee. Oliver might want to go to Harvard some day. Or Juilliard. Or Cal Tech. Who knows? This would give him the opportunity to make his dreams come true.” He lowered his voice. “You had dreams, Aimee. Remember?”
    She jerked her arm from his grasp, furious. She clenched her fingers into fists. “I’ll find a way. On my own. Besides, he might choose to stay and live like the Cajun people have for generations.”
    â€œYou didn’t.”
    â€œI was wrong to want to leave. It was a mistake.” She glared at him. “And we aren’t talking about me.”
    â€œAren’t we?” He moved toward her again, until she had nowhere to look but at him. “I don’t think you were wrong. You were better than merely good. Your photographs were special. You were a real talent.”
    Giving in to the urge, he reached out and touched her flushed cheek. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft against his fingers. He remembered a time when he’d had the freedom to touch her like this whenever he chose, then he cursed the memory. But still he didn’t draw away his hand. “What happened to your dreams, Aimee? What about your photography?”
    â€œI’m just a bayou bumpkin,” she whispered. “Remember? Isn’t that what the critics called me?”
    â€œThey were wrong.” He moved his hand, threading his fingers through her hair. “You’re a gifted artist.”
    She looked away, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.
    Her self-doubt tore at him; Hunter reminded himself that it was neither his place to comfort or reassure. He’d come back for one reason only—Oliver. He dropped his hand. “I want to do this,” he murmured. “Think of Oliver. Give him this chance.”
    â€œThink of Oliver?” she repeated, meeting his gaze once more. Her dark eyes flashed with fury. “What do you think I do all day, all night?” She pushed away from him, her breathing ragged with her anger. “How dare you waltz in here and tell me how to care for my son! How dare you presume to tell me what my son might need or want.”
    Hunter swore. “Aimee, I didn’t mean