All They Need (20 page)

Flynn wasn't a violent man. He'd been in exactly one real, knock-down, drag-out fight in his life. But if Owen Hunter walked through the door right now, he would take him apart with his bare hands. No hesi
tation. And he wouldn't stop until the other man was begging for mercy.

The thought of Mel living with someone who spoke to her that way, who used her that way… It literally made him ill. She was so funny and generous and loving and beautiful and sexy. How anyone could fail to love her he didn't know—and how anyone could take her love and turn it against her that way…

It beggared belief.

“It's not your fault.” He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. How to explain the gut-wrenching sympathy he felt for her? How to acknowledge the shame he could hear in her voice? How to even begin to express the sadness and anger and regret he felt on her behalf? “Anyone who would treat someone they purportedly love like that is a freaking head case and doesn't deserve to walk the streets. He's an abusive asshole, Mel. And you were his victim.”

She nodded, but he wasn't entirely sure that she really believed him. Never had he felt so inarticulate. So out of his depth.

“It's okay, Flynn. You don't have to convince me or fix this for me. I know what it is. I know it better than anyone. I just wanted you to know, to understand. This isn't about you. This is all me. All of it.”

He gave in to his instincts and twisted to face her, wrapping her in his arms. She came willingly, her breath leaving her on a little shudder. She rested her chin on his shoulder and he could feel her working hard to control herself.

“Thank you for hearing me out,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I know I hurt you tonight. I know
I can't give you everything that you want. But I care for you so much, Flynn. So much.”

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. For the first time since he'd known her, she felt fragile in his arms. Funny how a shift in perception could do that. All this time, he'd known she was wounded, but he hadn't understood how deep the wounds went, how profound the damage was. And, also, how strong she was to have rescued herself and rebuilt her life.

I love you, Melanie Porter.

The words filled his mind and his chest but he was smart enough not to let them pass his lips. Now was not the time to burden Mel with his feelings.

He finally understood what he was up against. He'd been so certain that he had only to be patient, to give Mel time to get past her wariness, but her instinct to protect herself went far deeper than wariness. She'd learned a powerful, visceral lesson, and she was determined to never forget it.

Even if that meant keeping him at arm's length.

If he accepted her rules, if he decided to continue with their weeknights and their weekends, he would be condemning himself to enormous frustration. Among other things.

But it wasn't as though he had a choice.

He kissed her temple again. “We should probably make dinner, yeah? Otherwise we'll be gnawing our arms off sometime soon.”

She pulled back enough to see his face, her gaze searching. He held her eye.

“I'm not going anywhere, Mel,” he said, answering the unspoken question in her eyes.

How could he? He loved her.

“A thousand men would.”

“Not this man.”

He stood, tugging her to her feet as well. “Let's finish making dinner.”

 

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, Mel lay in bed beside Flynn listening to his steady breathing. Now that it was safe, she let the tears she'd been holding in all night slide down her face.

She was glad she'd told him, glad that he knew now, but a part of her felt small and ashamed and wrong and incredibly exposed. Flynn had always looked at her with admiration in his eyes. She didn't want his pity. She didn't want him to see her as weak or helpless or a victim. She knew it was inevitable that he would, to a certain extent, because she
had
been a victim, yet a part of her—her pride? her ego?—wanted him only to see good things in her.

She thought about the way he'd held her afterward, the way he'd kissed her temple so tenderly, so gently, and the way he'd made love to her tonight, as though she was the most precious thing in the world to him, and her tears fell faster. More than anything she wished she could give him what he wanted, what he needed. He deserved to be happy. She wished she was braver. She wished she had the courage to throw caution to the wind and leap feetfirst into everything he offered.

A sob rose in her throat and she swallowed it, using her fingers to wipe her tears away. Breathing through her mouth, she took deep belly breaths until she'd calmed herself.

I'm not going anywhere.

He'd said those words to her only a couple of hours ago, so there was no need for her to be lying here crying and grieving over a loss that hadn't happened. He'd
heard her, he'd understood her and
he wasn't going anywhere.

She turned toward him, wrapping her arms around his body from behind, curving her legs to fit behind his. He stirred in his sleep, his hand settling over hers to keep her arm in place. She lay her cheek against his back and inhaled his scent and allowed her body to absorb his calm, solid warmth.

Slowly, by small degrees, she drifted off to sleep. She woke to the feel of his mouth on her breasts the next morning and they had lazy morning sex before Flynn rolled out of bed and hit the shower. She joined him and left when he did, waving out the window of her car as he headed to work in the Aston.

She was aware of a certain tremulous fragility within herself as she took the ramp to the freeway. She reminded herself that while last night had been hard, they'd survived it. Flynn knew where she stood, and he knew why, and he hadn't pushed her away or become angry or demanding or resentful.

They were going to be okay. For the short term, anyway.

She bit her lip as she thought about what she was asking of Flynn in the long term, what she was asking him to give up, then quickly pushed the thought away. Tomorrow was tomorrow. Right now—
today
—things were okay. That was what she needed to concentrate on.

T
HE NEXT MONTH SLIPPED
through Mel's fingers like water. She spent every weekend with Flynn, and at least one night during the week. They worked in the garden at Summerlea, pruning the orchard rather brutally, and Flynn insisted on helping her plant her new vegetable garden, even though she told him she could easily do it on her own during the week.

Flynn was late getting home twice when she stayed with him in Melbourne, but he didn't raise the subject of the spare key again, even though she half expected him to. He didn't touch on any subjects that might make her uncomfortable. He continued to call her on the nights they weren't together, he sent her emails, he made love to her with a single-minded devotion that never failed to drive her wild.

He was perfect. Not once, not by a slip of the tongue or a sideways glance or a hesitation, did he let on that he wanted more from her than she was willing to give, and yet the sense that there was something looming on the horizon—a crisis, a reckoning, an ultimatum—kept growing inside her.

She told herself that when the flash point came she had to be prepared to give Flynn his freedom. He wanted something from her that she could never give him, and it would be selfish of her to hang on to him on
that basis. Selfish and greedy and ultimately destructive, for both of them.

She brooded on the subject on a rainy Wednesday night five weeks after he'd offered her his house key. She was in her car in front of Flynn's place, waiting for him to come home from work. He'd already called so she knew he'd left the office on time, but she'd had a good run on the freeway and arrived earlier than she'd anticipated. She kept the engine running to ward off the chill, staring out her windshield, thinking about Flynn and all the good times they'd shared together.

The more she thought, the glummer she got, until she got to the point where she had to give herself a mental shake.

What's wrong with you? You've got exactly what you wanted—Flynn, on your terms. What on earth is your problem?

She didn't know. All she knew was that she had a pervading sense of doom. The happiness she felt whenever she was with Flynn couldn't possibly last.

Could it?

She frowned, disturbed by her own thoughts. Had she become so used to disharmony and unhappiness in her marriage that she now expected it everywhere? Was the ability to be happy and content something else that Owen had stolen from her, along with her trust and her confidence and her sense of self? Headlights swept into the street and she glanced into her rearview mirror as Flynn turned into his driveway. He flashed his headlights at her and she grabbed her overnight bag and made a run for the door.

“Hope you haven't been waiting long?” Flynn asked as he joined her on the stoop.

“Just got here,” she fibbed.

He kissed her briefly before opening the door. Warm air rushed out at them and she made an appreciative noise.

“I put the timer on the central heating,” he said. “What do you want for dinner? Pizza? Italian?”

“I thought pizza was Italian,” she said as she watched him shed his coat and suit jacket. She loved how rumpled he always looked at the end of the day.

“Smart-ass,” he said, reaching for her.

They kissed long and languorously. After a few minutes he drew back to look into her eyes.

“Have I told you lately that you're one hot tamale?” he said.

“I believe you have. But feel free to compare me to other foodstuffs,” she said.

He laughed and gave her a pat on the backside before walking away from her.

“Just for that we're having pizza, my choice.”

“I was going to say pizza, anyway, so it's my choice, too,” she called after him as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“Perfect. Two happy people, one pizza,” he called back.

She stared at the doorway, the smile slowly fading from her mouth.
Two happy people.
God, she hoped that was true. She really, really hoped that the tight feeling in her chest was just her being neurotic and anxious out of habit, and that he really was as content with the status quo as he seemed to be. Because if he wasn't, he was going to leave a huge hole in her life. In her heart.

They ate pizza in front of the television while watching a documentary on Edna Walling that Flynn had
unearthed. They fooled around on the couch a little afterward and fell asleep in each other's arms. Mel struggled to wakefulness out of a dark, claustrophobic dream to find her face pressed against the back cushion of the couch. She jerked instinctively, gasping for air, then realized where she was.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes as Flynn's hand landed in the center of her back.

“You okay?”

“Just a bad dream.”

“Want to talk about it?” There was no demand in his voice, no insistence. He was offering, openhandedly. The way he did everything.

She started to shake her head. Then she paused. “I can never remember much. Just patches, like flashes.”

She told him about her dream in fits and starts, about the memories it stirred up. He listened and rubbed his palm across her back and made a couple of observations and after a few minutes the panicky feeling began to ease from her chest and throat and belly.

“Thanks,” she said, laying her head on his chest. “That helped.”

“Good,” he said simply.

They went upstairs to bed and he curled his body around hers and held her against his chest. She was on the brink of drifting into sleep when he spoke, his voice barely audible.

“I love you, Mel.”

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed. If she was a normal woman, she would turn in his arms and tell him that she loved him, too, more than anything. But she wasn't normal. She was scared and she was more than a little broken. So she pretended she was asleep, even though she suspected that they both knew she was
awake. And she lay that way for a long time before she finally nodded off.

She was woken by the shrill, urgent ring of the telephone.

She squinted at the bedside clock as Flynn fumbled for the receiver. It was nearly seven-thirty and she realized they'd overslept—Flynn must have forgotten to set the alarm last night when they came up to bed.

“Flynn speaking.” He fell back onto his pillow, the receiver pressed to his ear.

She felt his body go tense even as she heard the sound of someone shouting on the phone.

“Dad, calm down. Take a deep breath. I can't understand what you're saying.”

He sat up in bed, the covers pooling around his hips as he listened for a few seconds. “How badly is she hurt? Can you put her on? Okay, no, don't do that. I'm calling an ambulance now, all right? Sit tight, I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Flynn ended the call and immediately rang emergency services. He requested an ambulance at his parents' address as he flung off the covers and crossed to his closet, passing on the information that they would be dealing with a serious burn.

He tossed the phone on the bed once he'd finished and met her eyes.

“Mom's burned herself. Something to do with the kettle. I can barely get a word of sense out of Dad. He's totally freaking out.” His face was grim as he yanked a pair of jeans on.

Mel stood and reached for her underwear. “He couldn't put your mother on the line?” she asked worriedly.

“He was almost incoherent. Panicking,” he said as he pulled on a sweatshirt.

Mel tugged up her jeans. “How far away are they?”

“Five minutes.”

They finished dressing in silence and she was right behind him when he headed for the stairs.

“Take my car, it's already out in the street,” she said when he grabbed his car keys from the kitchen counter.

“Good idea.” He pocketed his own keys before getting hers and they exited into a gray, misty morning.

“She'll be okay, Flynn,” she said reassuringly as they strode to her car.

“I know. He was just so freaked out…?. Before, Dad was always the guy you'd want by your side when the
Titanic
hit the iceberg, you know?”

She didn't bother pointing out that the man his father had once been was a thing of the past. Flynn knew that better than anyone. He slid into the driver's seat and she buckled up beside him.

It was only when he was navigating his way through the quiet, wet streets that it occurred to her that she'd effectively invited herself along on this rescue mission. He hadn't asked and she hadn't offered—it had simply seemed right that she be with him while he was dealing with this crisis. She didn't want him to be alone—to
feel
alone. She wanted to be there for him.

It should have been a disturbing thought, given her constant battle to contain their relationship. But it wasn't. He needed her, and she had his back. It was that simple.

No more than five minutes had passed since Flynn's father's call when they pulled up in front of a gracious Victorian house with a high wrought-iron fence. It was lovely, but it didn't come even close to the grand resi
dence she'd been expecting and it took her a moment to remember that Flynn had mentioned once that his parents had downsized recently. Flynn sorted through the keys on his key ring as they raced up the garden path. He unlocked the door and pushed it open so urgently it slammed into the wall.

“Mom!” he hollered as he entered a wide, high-ceilinged entrance hall.

“Kitchen.” It was a woman's voice, faint but audible.

Flynn broke into a run.

Mel followed, passing a number of doorways before she entered a big, bright French Provençal-style kitchen at the end of the hallway. A woman, who looked to be in her mid-fifties, stood at the kitchen sink, her face ashen as she held her left forearm under the running tap. Beside her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with Flynn's bright blue eyes and bone structure. His hair was mussed, his face creased into lines of abject misery as he hovered with a helpless air at his wife's side.

“I'm okay,” Patricia Randall said the moment she saw them. “No one's dying or anything.”

“What happened?” Flynn asked.

“So stupid— I was making us coffee and I slipped and the next thing I knew I'd poured it half up my arm…?.”

Flynn moved closer to inspect his mother's arm. Mel could tell from his carefully blank expression that the burn was grim.

“I've got an ambulance on the way,” he said, touching her shoulder. “Hang in there.”

The older woman nodded. Mel saw that there were tall stools parked beneath the overhang on the island counter and she grabbed one.

“Here,” she said, passing it to Flynn.

He gave her a grateful look before offering it to his mother.

“Thank you,” Patricia said as she sank onto the stool. She closed her eyes for a minute. When she opened them again she made eye contact with Mel and offered her an apologetic smile. “I'm so sorry that we're meeting like this, Mel. I promise that we're not usually so hectic.”

Perhaps Mel should have been surprised that the other woman knew her name, but she wasn't. In the small hours of the morning, Flynn had told her that he loved her. It stood to reason that he'd mentioned her to his parents.

“The important thing is getting you looked after,” Mel said.

Adam made a choking sound and turned away.

“It's okay, Dad,” Flynn said reassuringly.

“I'm fine, Adam. Really,” Patricia said. “A bit of burn cream and a bandage and I'll be right.”

Adam continued to sob. Flynn reached out and grabbed a fistful of tissues from the box on the counter and pressed them to his father. Adam took them without saying a word and Flynn rested his hand on his father's shoulder while he attempted to gather himself.

Patricia's face was both loving and resigned as she watched her husband and son. Mel's chest ached for all of them. So much love here—and so much pain.

A faint siren sound filtered into the house. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door.

“I'll let them in if you like,” she offered.

“Thanks, Mel,” Flynn said.

The ambulance was pulling into the driveway as she opened the front door. The driver jumped out and made eye contact with her.

“How are we doing?” he called as he helped his partner collect a large medical kit from the rear of the ambulance.

“She's okay. A bit of shock, I think. She's got the burn under cold water.”

“Good stuff.”

She stood to one side as the crew entered the house, their footsteps very loud in the echoing hallway.

“Straight to the end, the doorway on the right,” she instructed. She followed them into the kitchen and stood in the most out-of-the-way corner as they spoke quietly with Patricia and assessed her injury. Flynn stood with his father, one hand on his shoulder still, offering him silent support. Adam watched his wife doggedly, his mouth set.

The crew assessed the burn before applying a thick, foamy-looking pad to the entire area and bandaging it loosely. They gave Patricia an injection for the pain and finally announced she was ready to be transported to the hospital.

“Can't you just do whatever you need to do here?” Patricia asked. “It's really not that bad now that it's settling down.”

Flynn opened his mouth to speak but the taller of the two ambulance attendants beat him to it.

“Ma'am, you have a third-degree burn. You need to come with us and get it seen to at the burns unit.”

Patricia frowned, her worried gaze flicking to her husband.

“We'll follow the ambulance,” Flynn said as the ambulance attendants helped his mother to her feet.

“I'm going with Pat,” Adam said. There was a mulish set to his face, as though he was determined not to let her down after his initial panic.

“Is that okay?” Patricia asked.

“That's fine. It's not a long trip—we're going up the road—but your husband is welcome to ride along.”