A Killing Kind of Love: A Dark, Standalone Romantic Suspense (35 page)

He stood and joined her there. Putting his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, he stared at the flames. “But before we get to them, there’s something you should know.” When he shifted his gaze from the fire to her, his eyes still danced from the gold and heat of the flames. Even so, they looked cool—and sad. He went on, “I had a son. He was killed when he was two years old.”

“Oh, Dan. I’m so sorry.” Camryn closed her eyes, a rush of feeling overwhelming her. Surely, the one thing worse than being unable to have a child was to have had, loved, and lost one. “What happened?”

“Billy—that was his name—was what some people would call a ‘young man’s accident,’ the result of a one-night-stand. I was eighteen at the time—and careless. Damned careless.” He nodded his head as if agreeing with himself, flaying himself. “His mother didn’t bother telling me about him until he was six months old. I hadn’t seen her since we—” He shrugged. “When I found out about Billy, I offered to skip college and marry her, but by then she was seeing someone else—getting married. She was decent enough about Billy, though, and we made arrangements for me to see him as often as I wanted. Turned out, I wanted him more often than she did. Her new boyfriend kept her busy, I guess. For the next year and a half, Billy and I were a team. That’s what I used to tell him, not that he understood a word.” He smiled briefly. “I’d tell him that ‘me and him’ were a team.” He met her eyes. “He was my son, and I made promises to him, and I loved him in a way I’d never imagined I could love.”

When he went back to staring into the dancing flames, she said, “What happened?”

He stepped away from the fire. His hands were still in his pockets, but he stood straighter, his jaw firm. “A car accident. An everyday rear-ender, or would have been if Jocelyn had put Billy in his car seat.” He spoke tersely, as if wanting the words said and gone.

Camryn put a hand to her mouth, sensing from his rigid posture that an embrace wouldn’t be welcome. This grief, this remembered moment, was between him and his son.

“I wanted you to know, so you’ll understand how much Kylie means to me, how important it is that I… look out for her.” He took his hands from his pockets and rested an elbow on the mantel. “I made promises to her, too, Camryn. And I love her. Like I loved Billy. I hadn’t intended it to happen, sure as hell didn’t expect it, but happen it did—and I’ll never walk away from her.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. I think you know that now.” They’d been cohabiting—co-parenting—for weeks; Dan would have to be blind not to take that as her acceptance of him in Kylie’s life—and her own.

“I do. And I’m grateful.” He nodded, rubbed an eyebrow, apparently gathering his thoughts. “And then there’s you.”

Her heart stopped.

He reached out and ran his knuckles along her cheek, lifted her face to his. “You’re someone else I hadn’t expected to feel this . . . strongly about.”

Just say it. Please, just say it.

Be patient, Camryn, he’ll get around to it in man-time.
Her stopped heart thumped to life, heavy and warm in her chest.

“We’ve got a lot going for us.” He moved closer. “We like the same wine, we both love Kylie, we’re good in bed.” He arched a brow, smiled. “
Very
good in bed.”

She managed a smile back. “It helps that you’re a love god.”

His smile deepened. “And that you know exactly how to stoke up a guy’s ego—which isn’t too hard to live with.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He was stroking her jaw with his thumb, diverting her, and making it difficult to be flip and amusing. Especially since she’d never been more serious in her life.

With his mouth a breath away from hers, he said, “That’s the thing, though. I
want
to get used to it. I want to get used to you, Camryn—for the rest of my life.” He kissed her then, one of his soft, haunting kisses that weakened her bones, emptied her lungs, and filled her heart.

He stood back, took her face between his hands, and looked directly into her eyes. “I love you, Camryn. And I’d be honored if you’d give me the chance to prove it—in all ways for the rest of my days and yours.”

He’d taken her breath away. Stolen it as if by magic. She absolutely could not speak. She’d never felt this way about a man, any man, and for a brief moment she mourned her failed marriage, what she’d denied Craig—what she’d denied herself. Maybe she, like Dan, had never truly believed in love. If she had, surely she’d have moved heaven and earth to get it, sought it out with everything she had, and settled for nothing less. She sighed. That wasn’t how it worked, she supposed. Love came when it was ready, when you were ready—but never when you expected it. Oh, yes, Camryn was ready to spend her life with Dan, with all its uncertainties and fears, all its surprises, good and bad.

She’d never been more ready in her life.

He bent his head, tilted it, and studied her. “You okay with that?”

She nodded against the light pressure of his hands still holding her face. Big hands, strong hands, forever hands….

He lifted a brow. “Somehow, I was hoping for more enthusiasm.”

She took both his hands in hers and finally found her voice. “Oh, Dan.” She pulled in another breath. “If I was any more enthusiastic, I’d swoon from it and make a complete and utter fool of myself.”

“That’d be good.” He paused. “So, I’ll take that as a yes on the ‘rest of my days’ thing?”

“Yes, yes, yes. But”—pulling him, she limped toward the door—“if I’m going to swoon, I’d like to land in a soft place.”

He stood his ground, pulled her back to his arms. “Uh uh. It’s not that easy. What are the magic words, Camryn?”

“Please, Dan.” She grinned up at him.

He shook his head.

She touched his face, ran her finger along his hard jaw. “How about . . . I love you, Dan Lambert—with all my heart. And Kylie and I will be honored to have you in our lives—forever.”

He pulled her close and kissed her hard and long. “As magic words go, those will do. Those will definitely do.”

She smiled at him. “Now can we get to the swooning part?

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It was past four in the morning when Hannah heard him, his voice a cracked whisper, his words labored, urgent Heart pounding, she abandoned her book, threw back the covers, and reached for her robe in one reflexive motion.

The bedside lamp cast a garish pool of light over a chrome hospital bed sitting stage center in the luxurious room. The man in the bed lay sprawled over its bunched linens as if the effort to reach the intercom had been his last. His hand still rested on the call button. Pungent antiseptic clashed with the lingering fragrance of the sandalwood he’d burned every evening for as long as she’d lived with him. A task that in the past six months had become hers.

Hannah hurried toward him, her bare feet stepping from hardwood to carpet without registering the difference.

“Milo, what is it?” She lifted his hand, rested it on his chest and caressed his sunken cheek.
Not cold. Not yet.
“It’s Hannah, Milo. Can you hear me?”

His eyelids slid open, and his eyes slowly focused on her. Relief flooded through her, but ebbed quickly when she saw the depth of his suffering.

“Hannah,” he mumbled. “I’m going.”

“No.” She shook her head, held his dull gaze, willed him to hang on.
No, you can’t go. I won’t let you. Not now. Not ever.
“No,” she said again, with more conviction than she felt. She would hold him here. She had to. He was her life—her linchpin.

“You’re in pain,” she said. “I’ll get you something.” She righted his bedding, smoothing the linens with trembling hands before reaching for his pills.

He grasped her arm with surprising strength, dug his nails into her flesh. “No. No pills,” he said, his lips compressing against the pain. “The drawer. Open the drawer.” He made a weak gesture with his head toward the opposite wall, where a George III bureau sat beside a window draped in blue velvet. His grip slackened.

She knew the drawer he wanted open. Years ago she’d sold him the bureau when—

Not now. Don’t think of that now.

“Please,” he urged. “There’s no more time. I should have done this sooner, but I was…weak.” The words rattled in his throat. The last coins in the bank, few and precious.

“I’ll do it, Milo. Rest now.” She stroked the hair back from his forehead, then crossed the room to the bureau.

The eighteenth-century piece had a base comprised of three drawers, a drop-front desk area with a series of cubbyholes, and a glass-fronted bookcase on top. She pressed her index finger on a rose carved into the molding at the base of the bookcase, then tugged to open a narrow drawer. Inside were three sealed and numbered envelopes, one thicker than the others. She’d never seen them before. She carried them back to his bedside. Closer to the light, she saw that two of the envelopes had her name on them. The other was unmarked; Milo gave her no time to wonder about any of them.

On sight of the envelopes, he drew in a ragged breath and fixed his gaze on them. The pain in his eyes deepened to beyond the physical, gave way to fear when he took the letters from her hand to crush them against his chest.

“Water, please,” he murmured.

A water glass with a bent straw sat by his bedside. She put the straw to his lips and held his head as he sipped. “I’m calling the doctor.”

“Too late.” He inhaled as deeply as his ruined lungs allowed and stroked the envelopes, as though to ensure himself they were still there. “You know I… love you, Hannah,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer, didn’t know what to say. Was love their bond? Or was it merely an accommodation—two isolated souls sharing the same shadowy, secluded place giving small comfort to one another. But when she thought of his leaving, her brittle spirit quivered with hurt. Yes. She did love him as much as her shriveled heart allowed. He was her protector, her guardian angel, and she’d entrusted him with what was left of her life. She wouldn’t know how to live without him.

“Shush,” she finally said. “I’m with you. I’m always with you.”
I’d die for you if I could. Isn’t that a kind of love? Or is it only the terror of being left behind?

He wheezed, the air making a scraping sound across his palate as he labored to pull in another breath.

How many did he have left?

How many breaths made an hour, a day, a life?

Oh, Milo, don’t go. Please, please, don’t leave me.

“I love you, too,” she said, fighting a growing desperation. She would say the words. If she couldn’t hold him, perhaps the words would.

A tear caught lamplight at the edge of his eye and glowed a golden course into his thinning brown hair. “When you read these, you’ll hate me.”

“Never! I could never hate you.”

“You don’t know…”He shook his head and lifted his hand from the letters resting on his chest “Back in the drawer. Until… after. When you’re strong again. I didn’t mean for it to be you, didn’t want that. But I trust you. You won’t hurt her. It was so long ago. So long. I tried to make it right… can’t ever. God, Hannah, I’m sorry, so sorry.” He swallowed hard, shuddered convulsively.

She didn’t know what he was talking about but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except his leaving. “Oh, Milo—” She wanted to console, but the words knotted in her throat Useless. There was no solace to be given, no promises to make. Even on the edge of death, Milo would see the missing truth. She owed him better.

“Please,” he murmured, touching the letters. “The drawer.”

She scarcely glanced at them as she did what he asked, returned quickly to his side. This time she sat on the bed and took his hand in both of her own. Cool.
Too cool.
Not the hand of the warm-hearted man who’d come for her five years ago. Only bones under skin now. Kindling.

His fingers curled around hers, so tight they hurt. “Read yours first. Alone.” He raised his death-glazed eyes to hers. “I wanted you to be safe, I never thought I’d go before—”

“Be still, Milo. It’s all right. Everything will be all right.” Impotent words, useless against the dread webbing tighter in her belly, the vile disease in his lungs.

“Try to forgive me … to understand?”

“I’ll forgive you anything. You know that. You’re more to me than life and—” Her voice broke. “Nothing you could say, or write, will ever change that.”

He rolled his head, the subtle negative thick with resignation and disbelief. “I’ve left you everything—” He stiffened, grimaced, and clenched his eyelids closed.

Hannah knew the enemy in his body had renewed its merciless assault. She gripped his hand and held tight, leaning to kiss his knuckles. So little comfort for the life he’d given her. It seemed forever before he exhaled and the tension in his body eased.

How many breaths?

“You’ll take care of Mother? Tell her I love her and that I left… peacefully.” He managed a faint smile.

“I will.”

“And yourself. Take care of yourself. Promise me that.”

She nodded, swallowed against the building pressure to weep.

“Good.” He moved his thumb over the back of her hand. “If I could,” he murmured, “I’d say hello to Will and… little Christopher. Tell them how you miss them. How much you love them.”

His soft words were a warm hand on her heart; the moan was hers. It was too cruel, this life. First love, then mistakes and unthinkable losses, leaving nothing but broken souls adrift in a bleak and empty wake. Alone. Always alone. And now Milo. She buried her head near his shoulder and wept.