Carolina Home (23 page)

“Any damage to her spleen? Her liver?” At his narrowed look, she held up her BlackBerry. “I had time to research abdominal trauma on the plane.”

Of course she did.

“Liver,” he said. “They removed part of it.”

Meg’s eyes widened. “Oh, God, Matt.”

“It’s okay,” he said, even though it wasn’t, not really. “She can actually grow it back. Kind of like a starfish. The doctor said she’ll have to have another operation in a couple of days on her hip. But they stopped the bleeding. That’s the most important thing. Her prognosis is good, they said.”

“Have you seen her? Talked to her?”

He shook his head. “The nurse says we can’t go back yet.”

Meg lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes, transforming in the space of a breath from devastated daughter to stone-cold city girl. “We’ll just see about that.”

Fourteen

M
ATT PULLED IN
behind the cottage and sat in the truck, raw and unsettled and too tired to move. Caffeine jangled through his system. Fatigue gnawed down to his bones.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see his mother, small and frail, as white as the sheets that covered her, a tube down her throat and another in her chest, hooked to machines that blinked and beeped and breathed for her.

So he kept his eyes open, staring into the darkness beyond his windshield.

Meg had argued against him driving home tonight. He’d been up for twenty hours straight. Her secretary had already booked them two rooms in a hotel near the hospital.
We don’t need two crashes in one day
, Meg had said fiercely.

But Meg was the one who had to stay at the hospital, the one who would argue and ask questions when the orthopedic team came in the morning, the one who could advocate for Mom and hold Dad’s hand.

Somebody had to be there for Josh and Taylor.

Matt climbed stiffly from the truck. Which was why he was here in the dark hours before dawn and not at Allison’s.

God, he wanted her, wanted to lose himself in the blind, hot rush of sex, wanted to bury his grief and fear in the warm welcome of her body. Wanted her energy, her optimism, her comfort.

But wanting wasn’t needing, he told himself.

He had people who needed him. Family who depended on him. Josh had sounded okay on the phone when they talked around ten, but he could be faking it.

They all could be.

He walked up the path, feeling as creaky as an old man, and let himself into the inn. He’d told Josh to let Taylor sleep in her own room tonight and to bunk in an empty bedroom. Thank God they weren’t expecting guests before Friday.

His tired mind grappled briefly with the problem of the coming weekend. How was he going to handle the charters, the guests, the kids alone?

He shut the thought down. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, go there now.

He climbed the stairs to check on Taylor. As he pushed open the door, Fezzik raised his head from the foot of her bed, ears alert, eyes gleaming in the glow of the night-light. On the job. Matt reached out and rubbed the dog’s head, communicating thanks, taking comfort. Taylor curled in a tight, defensive ball under the covers, her blond hair sticking up like the spines of a puffer fish. Asleep, he thought, and some of the tension inside him eased.

He closed her door and went in search of Josh. A faint light shone from the Stede Bonnet Room. Josh must have left a light on and the door cracked in case Taylor woke and came looking for him. Matt smiled. He hadn’t expected that kind of thinking from his son.

He flattened his palm against the panel, easing the door
open. The smell hit him first, cinnamon and vanilla. His pulse thudded. He rubbed his eyes.

A dim light from the bathroom fell across the curves and valleys of the bed. Rounded hip, slim arm, hair spilling across the pillow.

Not Josh, he realized, and suddenly felt a lot better.

Allison.

A
LLISON WOKE TO
a prickle of awareness like a whisper against her skin, like a change in temperature.

Adrenaline pumped through her.
The kids.

She pushed herself up on one elbow, her gaze seeking the door. A tall, broad-shouldered figure was outlined against the moonlight from the hall.

Not Josh, she realized, and suddenly felt a lot better.
Matt.

She stretched out her arm and clicked on the bedside lamp.

He looked tired, she thought, her heart twisting. Haggard. The yellow light cast shadows in the creases of his cheeks, the lines scored from nose to mouth. She wanted to press her lips at the corners of his eyes, in the hollow of his throat.

“Hi.” Her voice was husky with sleep and concern.

“Hey.” She saw the effort it cost him to smile. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t sound upset.

She returned his smile. “Well, I was trying to get some sleep,” she teased, adding softly, “I’m glad you’re home.”

He still leaned against the doorway. As if he would fall down unless he was propped up. Swinging her bare legs out of bed, she went to him, sliding her arms around his hard waist, lending him her strength and support.

He wrapped his arms around her and held on, sharing her heat, stealing her breath, their hearts in rhythm. Gradually his rigid muscles relaxed.

“How’s your mom?” she asked.

His chest expanded with his breath. “Better. Alive. She’s busted up pretty bad. Goddamn drunk driver. Ribs, pelvis, lung, liver. The police said she was lucky she didn’t crack her skull wide open.”

“So, she’s conscious?”

“Not really.” He sighed, stirring her hair and her heart. “They’ve got her doped up, because of the pain and to keep her from fighting the tubes. She looks like hell.”

“Then you got to see her?”

She felt him nod. “Before I left. She’s only allowed two visitors every thirty minutes, and with my dad there…and Meg…”

“Josh told me your sister came,” she said.

He nodded again. “Flew into Raleigh.” His voice was raw with heartache, rough with fatigue and frustration.

She squeezed his waist. “And you came home to take care of the kids.”

“Yeah. How’re they doing?”

She took one of his big, callused hands between both of hers and tugged him toward the bed.
They’re fine
, she almost said—the Fletcher family anthem—but he deserved more of an answer than that.

“Josh is great,” she said. “Taylor was a little quiet all evening.”

Matt obeyed her nudging, dropping onto the edge of the mattress. “She’s always quiet.”

Quiet, fine. But Allison suspected that there was more to Taylor’s silence than simple reticence.

“How did Taylor’s mother die?” she asked abruptly.

He stiffened but answered readily enough. “Brain aneurysm.”

“Oh, God, that’s awful.”

He scrubbed his face with one hand. “Yeah.”

“Did Taylor ever see her mother in the hospital?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I wondered if maybe your mother’s accident brought back any memories for her.”

Matt’s eyes sharpened, concern cutting through his fatigue. “She give you any trouble? Problems at bedtime?”

She hastened to reassure him. “We were fine. Taylor was fine. Did you know she sleeps with the dog?”

Matt nodded. “Protection. From monsters under the bed.”

Allison felt a prickle of unease, stirred by instinct or her teacher’s training. “Imaginary monsters? Or real ones?”

Matt frowned, uncomprehending.

He looked so tired. Her heart clenched. She didn’t want to hit him with this now, when he was already reeling on his feet. But more than his feelings—or hers—was at stake. She had to think about Taylor.

“She wore sweatpants to bed,” Allison said.

His brows knit. “So?”

“It’s seventy degrees outside.”

He shrugged. “You want me to buy her pajamas, I’ll buy her pajamas.”

Allison sighed. “I don’t think Taylor needs pajamas. The sweatpants are a sign, like the oversize jerseys or the baggy jeans. Or the nightmares.”

He shook his head. “Lots of kids—”

“Have nightmares. I know.” The silence crowded between them. Should she say more? At this point her suspicions were only, well, suspicions. “There’s also the fact that she doesn’t like to be hugged.”

Matt’s eyes had darkened to navy. His face set like stone. “She hardly knows us. Not everybody’s a hugger.”

Allison’s stomach dropped. But having come this far, she forced herself to go on. “I don’t know anything about Taylor’s situation before she came to live with you. But have you considered that she might benefit from professional help?”

“You mean a shrink.”

“A child psychologist, yes,” she said calmly. “Taylor’s a strong little girl with a loving family. I’m sure she’ll heal in time. But her experience is bound to leave scars. It doesn’t help to ignore her wounds.”

Or yours, either.

“Better than having some expert pick at the scabs. Taylor needs her parents. No therapist in the world can change that. And I can’t give them to her.”

The frustration in his voice tore at her chest. He was such a good man, with so much love to give. But his feelings were buried as deeply as Taylor’s.

“You’re there for her,” Allison said softly.
The way you’re there for everyone else
.

“I don’t know what to do for her.”

“You could start by talking to her,” she suggested. “More than anything, Taylor needs to know that she can confide in you. That she doesn’t have to deal with whatever’s upsetting her alone.”

She could see from his face that the idea made him uncomfortable, but he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I can do that.”

She looked down at him, at the harsh stubble of his jaw, the tender line of his mouth, and felt her heart unraveling and spooling at his feet. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hit you with this tonight.”

He shrugged. “I had to hear it sometime.”

The silence collected again like shadows in the corners of the room. Matt sat, his gaze turned inward, his thoughts far away while she waited, aching for him. Yearning for him.

He roused, raising his head. “Did I thank you for coming over?”

The tension inside her eased. “You couldn’t keep me away,” she said honestly.

“I appreciate it.” His gaze captured hers. “You being here for the kids.”

For them.

For you.

I love you.

The realization loomed inside her, solid as a rock sticking out of the ocean, staggering in its simplicity.

She loved him. Loved his quiet steadiness, his uncomplicated directness, his commitment to family, his determination to do the right thing. Loved Matt, the whole man.

She wanted to sing with her discovery, to shout, to babble promises.

But tonight wasn’t about her. Or even about them. She couldn’t burden him with her feelings now while he was raw and reeling.

She would not tell him.

She rested her hands lightly on his shoulders, feeling his muscles heavy and warm under her palms.

She would show him instead.

“I didn’t think they should be alone.” She stroked a line from his neck to his shoulders, digging her fingers in a little to loosen the knots of tension there. “Nobody should be alone at a time like this.”

A
LLISON’S SCENT SWAM
in Matt’s head.

She stood between his knees, her hands moving over him with slow, sure purpose, kneading his taut muscles, her touch soothing and arousing at the same time. He felt the brush of her breath on his temple, her fingers tracing his spine, and wanted to groan with pleasure, wanted to rest his head between her soft, warm breasts and sink into her comfort like a child sinks into sleep. He ran his hands over her instead, hips to waist and down again. Her legs were long, bare, smooth. The hem of his T-shirt flirted with the tops of her thighs.
Nice.
He slid his hands over and under it, finding the taut, warm curve of her ass, the stretchy strip of
her thong. He dipped his fingers under the elastic, following the sweet, deep indentation, down, down.

She shivered. “I borrowed your shirt to sleep in,” she whispered. “I hope you don’t mind.”

A smile worked its way up from deep inside him. “Nope.”

He rubbed his face against her, bringing his hands up to skim her rib cage, to cradle the soft weight of her breasts. He scraped his thumbs over her. Her nipples peaked to tight attention under the worn cotton. “It looks good on you.”

She threaded her fingers through his hair. Tugged his head up. “You can have it back if you want.”

Her teasing roiled him deep inside. He wanted…too much. He wanted everything.

“I don’t want to take anything away from you.”

Not his shirt. Not her future.

Her smile gleamed, bewitching him in the dark. “Maybe I want you to have it.”

She stepped back. He watched, heavy and motionless, as she closed the door. The snick of the lock cracked against the stillness. Turning, she gathered the hem of his shirt and pulled it over her head.

Her beauty swamped him. Desire crashed over him in a wave, drowning fatigue, sapping any thought of resistance. He had never brought a woman home. Never made love under his parents’ roof or in the house he shared with his son. But he wanted her here, now, like this, with an urgency he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager, with a desperation born of a man’s loneliness and need.

She swayed toward him, naked except for that wicked strip of lace and the inked words dancing along her ribs.

She crouched at his feet. “Let’s get these shoes off.”

His blood pounded in his veins as her fingers fumbled with his laces. Her shoulder brushed his thigh.

She drove him crazy.

He didn’t need her to undress him and put him to bed like
a child. He didn’t want her to take care of him or seduce him. He wanted her
with
him, under him, slippery with sweat and desire. His control snapped. He reached for her, jerking her up and into his arms, falling back with her onto the mattress as they both grappled with his buckle, as they fought to free him of his clothes. She yanked on his shirt. He shoved at his jeans. He rolled with her, naked, dipping his fingers under the barrier of lace to find her warm and wet and ready.