Dangerous Secrets (24 page)

Jesus, what now? He’d had basic medic training. If she were
bleeding from a bullet wound, he’d know precisely what to do. If she had a broken bone he could probably set it, if she needed stitches he could do that, too. But this was beyond him.

“Charity,” he said softly, then louder.
“Charity!”

Christ, she was barely breathing. Her nostrils were pinched and white, her muscles completely lax.

This wasn’t good. She was run down anyway. Her cheekbones were sharper, that sharp little chin more pointed, collarbones more prominent. She’d lost weight and she hadn’t had that much weight to lose in the first place.

Damn, he should have played this differently, but how? How do you tell a grieving widow—
Whoops! Husband not dead, after all! Big mistake
;
sorry about that. Hey, shit happens.

Nope. There was no way he could have revealed himself without shocking her in a big way. And no way he could keep her from going to Worontzoff’s tonight without revealing himself. What was he supposed to do—send her e-mails from beyond the grave? Leave her messages written in lipstick on her bathroom mirror?

No, this had to be done in person.

The story of his life—only one possible hard road to take, dead ahead, with narrow walls and no side streets. The only way out was straight through. No alternatives, no detours.

Charity moaned and he watched her face carefully as a little color crept back in. Thank God she wasn’t paper white anymore. She was coming round.

He’d have poured her a finger of whiskey and forced her to drink it, but that fuck Worontzoff had already made her drink vodka. With nothing in her stomach, that much alcohol would knock her right back out. And besides, he didn’t want to leave her side.

She moaned again, her hand flexing inside his. He lifted her torso up, keeping his arm around her back for support.

Unexpectedly, her eyes opened. No coming-around process, no fluttering of eyelids, so he’d have a chance to prepare. Just those beautiful light-gray eyes, closed one second, wide open the next.

She looked frightened, lost.

“Nick?” she whispered. She lifted her hand, tentatively. It trembled. She moved it slowly toward his face, as if she were pushing her hand against a waterfall. Slowly, slowly closer.

Finally, she touched his face, gingerly. As if touching him might burn her. Cheekbone, temple, jaw. Reassuring herself by touch that he was here, alive. As if the evidence of her eyes and ears weren’t enough. A little line appeared between her ash-brown eyebrows. “Is it you? How can it be you?”

Nick slid his other arm around her knees and rose with her in his arms, frowning at how slight she felt.

This next part was going to be…tricky. Before he even got to the part where he convinced her not to go out tonight, which was like climbing Everest, he had to hack his way through thorny woods, ford raging rivers, cross blazing deserts.

Worse. He had to tell her that every word he’d ever spoken to her was a lie.

So he knew he was in for an uphill battle and the best way to deal with that was to tell her the truth—or as much of truth as he could—while touching her.

His words had been lies, but his body hadn’t lied. Not once. Every time he touched her, every time he slid into that lovely, warm, welcoming body, his body’s delight was genuine. No lies there.

Touch is a powerful tranquilizer, soothing animals and
soon-to-be furious women. He was going to need every advantage he could get.

He sat them down in the corner of the couch, Charity’s back against his right side, her legs stretched out. Her eyes never left his. One shaking hand was on his shoulder, kneading his shoulder muscle.

“You’re alive,” she whispered finally. It wasn’t a question.

Nick nodded, watching her face. “Yes, sweetheart, I’m alive.”

She blinked and shuddered. “I’m going crazy, like Aunt Vera. You can’t be alive. I buried you. I’m hallucinating.”

“No, you’re not hallucinating. You’re touching me,” Nick said. He bent to kiss her cheek. “You can feel me. I’d pinch you to make you believe, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you in any way.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. She drew in a deep breath and sat up straight in his lap.

Ouch.
Right over his hard-on.

Yep. Unbelievably, with all this heavy stuff coming down, danger on the horizon, Apaches outside the gate, he’d got himself a woody.

Her eyes widened. She felt it. For a moment, it was as if everything in the world stopped. They even stopped breathing. There wasn’t a sound in the house or from the street outside. Utter silence reigned as he watched her struggle with the concept of a dead man having a hard-on for her.

This could go either way. Sex between them had been more than good, from the first quick kiss in his car on the way to Da Emilio’s to the last time they had made love on Friday morning. Her body was attuned to his. Though she was small, she had been requiring less and less foreplay for him to fit. Sometimes all it took was a kiss, a touch, and she
was ready, wet and swollen and hot. As if simply being near him was foreplay for her.

So he had to watch her eyes very carefully, and if she softened, it was entirely possible that he’d start kissing her and one thing would lead to another, maybe right here on this pretty little couch—it wouldn’t be the first time, either—and he’d say
I’m sorry I deceived you
, and she’d be looking up at him after coming, all rosy and dewy, and say
I forgive you, Nick
and he’d say
good and by the way, don’t even think of going to that fuckhead Worontzoff’s tonight
and she’d go
whatever you say, Nick
and that would be that.

Charity reared her head back and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t. Don’t even think of going there.”

Then again, maybe not.

“No,” he said. Damn, it would have made things easier, cut through a lot of the crap.

“Who—who did I bury?” Charity whispered.

Nick shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Her mouth tightened and she tried to get out of his arms. No way. She was staying right where she was, with him touching her. He tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry, honey. That’s the honest truth. I don’t know who he was. But he was trying to kill me and I do know who sent him.”

She was barely listening, watching his eyes carefully, as if trying to identify him. She licked dry lips. “Where have you been these past days?

“Here,” he said bluntly. “Mainly outside your house. I slept in a motel about twenty miles from here.”

“
Here?”
she whispered. Her eyes left his face to wander around the living room, as if seeing her house for the first time. Her gaze locked back onto his face.

“You were outside the house while I was crying my eyes out?
Grieving
for you? So hard I thought my heart would stop?” She straightened suddenly in his lap and he winced. “You came into the house, didn’t you? You were here. It was real.”

Charity wrenched herself out of his lap and stood, trembling. He’d opened his arms to let her go. Her movements were so violent he’d hurt her if he tried to keep his hold on her.

She was shaking, arms wound tightly around her midriff, gemstone eyes bright in her white face. “I thought I was losing my mind. I felt your presence all the time. I smelled you. I’d walk into a room and expect to find you. I thought I was going crazy.” She glared at him narrow-eyed. “Is this some kind of game for you? Pre—pretending to be dead, letting me think I b—buried you, then coming around later? Is this your idea of a
joke
? Because if it is, I’m not laughing.”

Nick stood. He moved slowly because she looked like she would bolt—or shatter—at any untoward movement.

“No joke,” he said softly. “No game. And if I could have avoided this, I would have, believe me. It’s just that—”

Charity went even whiter. “Avoided this?” She brought a shaking hand to her mouth. “You wanted to
avoid
me? You wanted to just leave me hanging, thinking my husband was dead?” She swallowed heavily. “You’re not Nick,” she whispered, shaking. “You can’t be. He would never do this to me. He’d never leave me mourning him. Who
are
you?”

“No!” God, this was going badly. “I didn’t mean I was avoiding you, it’s just that—”

But Nick was talking to empty air. With a moan muffled by the hand she clapped to her mouth, Charity bolted for the bathroom, making it barely in time. She slid to the por
celain bowl, slammed both hands on the tiled wall behind the toilet and bowed her head. Nothing came out but tea and vodka. She coughed and retched alcohol-scented brown liquid, eyes streaming.

Nick was right behind her. He ran a small hand towel under the sink faucet and wrung it out. He wrapped one arm around her from behind and gently wiped her face. She was gasping, shaking, sweating, coughing. Her stomach muscles clenched hard under his hand as another bout of retching seized her.

They were dry heaves now, but no less wrenching for the fact that there was nothing left in her stomach to come up. She made little moves to dislodge Nick’s arm, but he wasn’t having it. She needed his support. She was running on fumes and he was sure she’d fall to the ground without his arm around her.

When a few minutes went by with no more spasms, she finally stepped away, trying to escape his arm. Nick didn’t budge. He rinsed the towel out again, turned her toward him, and wiped her face and neck.

Charity stood meekly, head bowed, eyes closed. He’d seen ice with more color than her face.

She looked so miserable his heart squeezed in his chest.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “You belong in bed. We can talk about things later, but right now you need to be lying down.” Frowning, he lifted the back of his hand to her brow. She was cool. Still—“You’re probably coming down with something, you’re so run down. We’ll be lucky if it’s just the flu. This is bronchitis or pneumonia weather. I think I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

Good idea. The hell with opsec. He’d drive Charity to the hospital in the next town over, stay in the background. Make
sure she checked in, make sure she was all right while Di Stefano and Alexei kept watch over Worontzoff.

“No.” She made an effort and stood up straight, moving away from him. “I’m not sick. I’m grieving.” She glared at him.

“I didn’t know grieving made you throw up a thousand times a day. That’s a new one.”

“I haven’t been throwing up a thousand times a day! That’s ridiculous. Just in the mor—”

She stopped suddenly, eyes wide. Nick froze, too. They looked at each other. There was utter silence in the pretty little bathroom as Nick searched her eyes for the truth he suddenly felt in every cell in his body.

“Go ahead, finish that sentence. You only throw up in the mornings. You know what that means, don’t you? It means you’re pregnant.”

“No,” Charity whispered. Her hand went immediately to her belly, as if trying to feel what was there through muscle and skin. Nick knew what was there. A baby.
His
baby. He would bet his new million dollars on it. “No. No way. I can’t be pregnant.” She looked appalled at the thought.

Nick frowned. “You certainly can be pregnant. God knows we fucked enough, and once without a rubber is all it takes. Ask any teenaged girl.”

Charity flinched. “This is—this is ridiculous. I can’t possibly know anything for sure. Not now, not yet. I’d need tests, blood tests, urine tests, whatever, it takes weeks to be sure…” Her voice tapered off as she stared wide-eyed at Nick. Both of them were absolutely certain, he knew it, but Charity was having problems coping with it.

Nick was a soldier, Charity wasn’t. All his life he’d never flinched from reality. He saw what was, not what he wanted, always, and he saw it immediately. He never needed time to
adapt. Christ, if you need time to adapt to new situations, stay away from battlefields.

Taking time to process things is a very good way to get killed.

Charity came from a gentler background, where bad news came rarely and there was time to acclimate. She was still processing the idea while Nick was already planning ahead.

A baby. A
baby
! Jesus. He’d never wanted marriage and he’d always rejected even the thought of kids. What the fuck did he know about families, about raising kids? He’d grown up in an orphanage and brutal foster homes, not exactly role models of domesticity.

Of course, Jake had grown up the same way and he was the best husband and father on earth. But that was Jake. Nick was Nick. All it took was a hint from the woman du jour of wedding bells or even jewelry and Nick was in the next state. It wasn’t anything he wanted, or anything he ever expected to want.

Which is why the jolt of desire he felt nearly knocked him to his knees. Desire for Charity, but also desire for their child. It was a totally new emotion, but he processed it instantly as it settled inside him. There was no doubt it was real. He recognized it instantly, as if it had been there all along, patiently waiting for him to acknowledge it.

That angry buzzing that had filled his head and clouded his mind was gone. His mind was completely clear, and he knew exactly what he wanted.

He wanted Charity and this child he’d made with her. He wanted it ferociously, more than he’d wanted to become a Delta operator all those years ago.

In a flash, his life turned around 180 degrees.

He wanted it all. A real marriage and fatherhood. He wanted to live with this beautiful woman in this beautiful house in this beautiful little town. He wanted to raise their son or daughter in a loving home, protected and cared for. And he wanted more kids. Why the hell not? Why stop at one?

Of course, between now and that future there were a few hurdles to overcome and one of them was staring at him right now, white-faced and shell-shocked.

Nick took her hands in his. They were ice-cold. He brought them to his lips and kissed them. Charity drew in a deep breath and snatched her hands away from his. He let her do it. Right now was not the time to force her in any way.