Liberating Lacey (23 page)

“Every pysch eval I’ve ever taken says I have trust issues,” he said with a humorless smile. “Telling you this doesn’t make right what I did to you. All I can say is I’m sorry.” He was done talking, but the same momentum carried him out of the waiting room, away from what he might see in her eyes. In the bathroom he looked in the mirror for the first time in four weeks. Warm water streamed off his fingers, soaking the edge of his cuffs as he washed his hands.

He didn’t look different. With a shrug he reached for the paper towels, then went back to the waiting room.

Lacey sat on the edge of her chair, her hands curving gently around her coffee cup.

Without smiling she watched him come and sit beside her. Then she handed him his own coffee.

“It’s a little cool now. I’ll get fresh if you want.”

“It’s fine,” he said, glancing at her as he took the cup.

Her brown eyes were a little red and sad, sympathetic, but nothing more. “Thank you for telling me,” she said.

“You deserved to know,” he said with a shrug.

He drank some of the coffee, ate the other bagel. He hadn’t really thought she’d run to him with open arms because he’d told her something about his past. He hadn’t done it to manipulate her into taking him back, but because he owed her something, not just for walking out, but in recognition of what they’d shared.

He owed himself, too. Admitting the truth to a person he trusted took down the walls, but he didn’t care. Rather than exposed, vulnerable, he felt…okay. His dad was still in surgery and who knew what would happen with Lacey, but he felt the strange lightness that came every time he shed the twenty pounds of gear he wore on the job.

The hours passed, each marked by a phone call from a nurse in the OR, who gave him businesslike updates. Lacey stepped out to take a couple of phone calls, but for the most part she left her BlackBerry in her bag, sitting close enough to him that he could feel her shoulder against his with each even rise and fall of her breathing.

She kept her hands in her lap. He didn’t overstep his bounds. He no longer had the right to touch the woman who’d let him inside her body an hour after they’d met.

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The last call came just before three. “The surgery went very well,” the nurse said.

“Your father will be in recovery for about an hour, then in the ICU for at least the next twenty-four hours. You can see him in about ninety minutes.” He flipped his phone closed and relayed the information to Lacey. “I’m so glad,” she said. “For you both.”

When Hunter was able to see his dad again, he was still unconscious. The surgeon talked to him about post-op recovery, follow-up visits, diet and exercise, drugs. As he expected, Lacey stayed by his side, listening quietly. He soaked up her presence while he could, storing up her calm composure, the scent of her perfume, the heat of her body so near to his, but never touching. Never quite touching him.

His dad woke up for a bit around nine. Hunter was there, holding his hand. “You did great, Dad. You’re going to be fine.”

A couple of blinks.

“I’m going to take Lacey home. She’s been with me all day. I can’t stay overnight in the ICU but I’ll be back tomorrow morning, as soon as they’ll let me in. Love you, Dad,” he said. Another, longer blink, then his father’s eyes closed again.

Lacey had her coat on when he left the room. He picked up her laptop bag and carried it to the car for her. She was quiet on the ride home, looking at traffic, neon signs, anything but him.

When he pulled into her driveway he didn’t bother to cut the engine. “Thanks for coming with me,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I thought I’d make grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. If you want to come in.”

She said the words carefully, as if she’d thought through all the implications and was trying to keep things as neutral as possible. It was very possible she was just being friendly. The women at work did things like that. Tough-as-nails cops made brownies or fudge or casseroles for friends who’d had a baby, lost a parent, been diagnosed with cancer. God, this was a good woman, but he was crazy to read anything other than friendship into a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Yeah,” he said and turned off the car. “I want to come in.” 175

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Inside the house Lacey shed layers in the foyer, Hunter maintaining a careful, polite distance behind her while she hung up her coat, draped her scarf over a hook in the closet. She’d bought the green pashmina from a street vendor in SoHo because it was the exact color of his eyes, and felt like a fool for doing it. He hadn’t seemed to notice, though, nor did he comment on her unusually clumsy gestures. The scarf slipped to the floor twice before she finally wrapped it around the hanger.

“The fire’s ready to light, if you don’t mind,” she offered, pointing at the long matches on the mantel. “I’m going change.”

Without waiting for his response she hurried up the stairs, into her bedroom. Off came the suit and stockings. She washed and moisturized her face, then pulled on thick socks, warm fleece pants, a turtleneck and a heavy brown sweater that belted at her waist. They were clothes meant to ward off the November chill, not seduce the man waiting for her downstairs.

The man she thought would never enter her house again.

Astonishment
was too tame a word to describe the complete absence of neural activity she felt when she flung open the door to find him on her front porch, a silent, looming figure in the pre-dawn blackness. It had taken a minute for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, to see the hollow, red eyes, the grooves bracketing his mouth, the tension in his shoulders.

A savvier woman would have stifled the automatic
What happened?
in her throat. A woman with better self-protective instincts would have let him go, even after he told her. But utter devastation brought him back to her door. She didn’t have it in her to leave him to suffer alone.

Be careful
, she warned herself when she made the abrupt decision to go with him.

As the hours passed at the hospital her heart stopped leaping every time the heat of his body seeped through his clothes to lay against her skin, or smelled the blend of soap and musk unique to him.

But now he was back in her house, after a day that would have rocked the most emotionally attuned person, let alone a man who walled off his feelings in an impenetrable fortress.

Be careful. He’s just hungry. Maybe grateful. Perhaps comfortable here. Nothing more.

Back downstairs she found Hunter at the head of the kitchen table, the room illuminated only by the light from the fire burning in the fireplace. Respecting his preference for darkness, she turned on the light over the stove to work by.

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He watched in silence as she pushed her sleeves to her elbows and took bread and Jarlsberg from the fridge, tomatoes from a bowl on the counter and her big cast iron pan from the bottom drawer. She oiled the pan and turned the heat to medium so it would warm while she shredded the cheese.

”Why did you let me come in, Lacey?” His husky voice rolled into the shadowy corners of her kitchen.

She could have told him so many different half-truths, but his question deserved an honest answer. “I wasn’t going to,” she replied as she spread butter on thick slices of bread. “This morning I told myself I could go to the hospital with you and that was it. I could give you the support you needed, but protect myself. Then you told me about Cecilia…your mother.”

His head snapped up. “Don’t pity me. That’s not why I told you.” This man, this stubborn, difficult, defensive,
amazing
man. “I don’t pity you,” she began as she reached for a tomato.

“I told you because I love you.”

The rest of her explanation died in her throat. He’d shifted in his chair so he faced her, his elbows braced on his knees, his hands clasped, his eyes focused on her without flinching or apology and oh, this wasn’t fair. He was supposed to eat the grilled cheese and go. Maybe call her in a day or two, just to see how she was doing. Give her time to process what he told her about Cecelia Hunter Bronson. But with his words fading into the pop and crack of the fire, she had to stop slicing the tomatoes because her hands were shaking, creating uneven slices.

She set down the knife and turned to face him, her fingers slowly curling around the edge of the counter. “You love me.”

“Yeah,” he said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “I have since the last night we were together. I just didn’t know what the feeling meant. I love my dad, but I’ve never loved anyone else, so I didn’t know.” He looked at the floor, his dark head disappearing into the strong line of his back, then back at her. “But actions speak louder than words, so me loving you doesn’t change anything, just like telling you about my mother doesn’t make up for what I did. But…can I call you sometime? Take you to dinner, or just for coffee?”

Oh God, oh God, this was not
fair
. It was too fast, too soon. She didn’t have a strategy for telling him what he had to know, but she’d been foolish to expect anything less than a forthright, direct approach from Hunter.

Therefore, he deserved nothing less from her. “You may not want to take me to dinner,” she said her voice so soft she was surprised he heard her in the echoing kitchen.

“Why wouldn’t I…?” The words faded. He cursed softly, looked toward the door to the deck then sat back in the chair, retreating into the shadows.

Explain, explain, I can explain!
“I went to New York for a long weekend. I was in Midtown, talking to Claire on the phone. This man, an investment banker overheard me 177

Anne Calhoun

talking about you. About us. How it was over. He bought me a drink and we talked, and then he invited me to dinner. I asked him…if he wanted to come up while I changed…”

His face, she thought.
His face
. The skin and muscles were immobile in the merrily dancing firelight, as if he’d never smiled, never thought of smiling.

“I thought you were gone,” she said, a little louder, an effort to combat the darkness all around her. “I thought you’d never come back. We got to the door to my room and…and…he kissed me. I didn’t feel what I felt when you kiss me. That rush. That ache. But he was there and nice and just…perfect. I was hurt. Angry. Certain you were gone forever.”

She toyed with the dangling ends of the belt on her sweater. “I was going to sleep with him. I was. But I couldn’t. I told him I’d made a mistake and I was so sorry, but I couldn’t let him in. He was very sweet, said he’d wait in the lobby and take me to dinner anyway because I seemed sad. I said it wouldn’t be fair for either of us. He left. I had room service,” she added, nonsensically. As if Hunter cared about a quesadilla and a wedge of dry chocolate cake.

For an eternity the pan popped behind her and she stared at him, his face angles and planes in the shadows just beyond the reach of the light. Then he stood, took four slow, careful steps toward her, his boots thudding against her floor. He stopped so close he could have braced his arms on either side of her body.

But he didn’t.

“Why didn’t you sleep with him?” His distant, unemotional voice hummed with that bite, that command that made her want to answer. “I’m not perfect for you, but you slept with me.”

“I didn’t want perfect. I wanted you. I
want
you. We’re not a pair of well-matched horses, but we’re real.” Fingers still gripping the granite counter, she looked up into his eyes as he towered over her. “The heart wants what it wants. Mine wants you.” This declaration must not have impressed him because his expression didn’t change. “I wasn’t the first man to kiss you.”

“No.” They’d shared many firsts, but that one was off the table from the beginning.

“Now I’m not the last, either.”

What was he thinking? Could he not understand?

And how would you feel, Lacey my dear, if he told you another woman had taken your place
in his bed?

“No,” she said again. Done was done and couldn’t be undone. If this mattered so much to him, she’d have to pick up the pieces and move on. Again.

He reached out and ran his thumb over her lips as if testing for the residue of another man’s mouth, then laid his long fingers along her jaw, a touch so light and gentle she might well have imagined it but for the sparks firing in its wake. When he 178

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slid his fingers under the hair at the nape of her neck, still careful, still watching her face, her heart flip-flopped in her chest.

Then he bent his head and brushed his lips over hers.

She stiffened, shocking electricity arcing through her body at the whisper-light sensation. Yes, oh yes. This was how it was supposed to be. A faint sound escaped her throat into the sliver of air between their mouths. His fingers tightened on her nape and like a gasoline-fueled fire, the heat combusted between them. He stepped into her body, pinning her against the counter as his tongue stroked over hers and his other hand came up to cup her cheek and hold her for his mouth.

He wasn’t seducing. He wasn’t asking permission. This was pure possession, a territorially staking his claim as the last man she’d ever kiss.

When he pulled back she found she was gripping not the counter’s edge but the hard ridge of muscles along his spine. Her heart skittering crazily in her chest, she looked up into his bottomless green eyes and saw profound satisfaction and telling relief.

“A kiss. Jesus, Lacey. My life flashed in front of my eyes and all you did was kiss him?”

He was shaking with laughter as he leaned into her, his long fingers combing through her hair.

She pushed against his broad chest. “It may sound like nothing to you,” she said indignantly, “but I felt like I was cheating on you.”

“Why? I walked out.”

“Because,” she said with a business-like shove
,
“I love you!” That stopped him. He pulled back but trapped her hands against his chest as he looked at her and suddenly the intense man she remembered was back. “What?”

“I love you. I did then and I do now. When I kissed him I felt like I’d betrayed you and myself. It was terrible.”

One corner of his mouth lifted as he huffed out an amazed breath. “You’re pretty loyal, beautiful.”

The endearment, rasped out in his husky voice, made her tip her head forward to rest on his chest. “I am,” she said.

He looked at the pan, the oill gleaming on the rough black surface, at the cheese and buttered bread. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” she said frankly. “Why?”

“Because,” he said as his lips skittered hot and persuasive along her jaw, “I want to take you to bed. Make love with you. Now.”

“Oh,” she said as her spine melted under his slow, persistent assault on the sensitive skin of her neck.

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“I’ll feed you in…let’s call it an hour,” he murmured. A nip to her earlobe, his tongue tracing the edge of her ear while his big, warm hand cupped her jaw to hold her still when she shivered, then he said, “I’ll cook. You won’t have to do a thing.” As if she could resist the seduction in his words, the memories conjured up by the slow, teasing grind of his erection against her hip. “Deal,” she said.

With a flick of his wrist he turned off the heat under the pan. She started for the door but he caught her, held her to him as he backed her through the living room and up the stairs. He seemed both reluctant to let her more than an inch away from him and desperate to get her clothes off. She lost the sweater in a heated kissing match just outside the kitchen door. Behind her as they negotiated the stairs, he still managed to strip off her turtleneck half way up.

“Turn around.”

Poised one step above him, the height difference brought her head almost level with his, so she was able to trail the pads of her fingers along his rough jaw as he stared at her forest green satin bra.

“I missed you in your sexy underwear,” he said as he brushed his thumbs over her nipples.

Goosebumps rippled up her arms and her mouth went dry. “It’s not that sexy,” she demurred as she tugged off his shirt. Compared to thongs and push-up bras, her bikini briefs and demi-cup barely qualified as sensual. He, however, took her breath away, hard and broad, the muscles bunching and flexing under his skin.

He dropped to his knees on the riser below her and shot her a look full of dark desire as he tugged her fleece pants down. “Looking at you in your suit, knowing there’s something so pretty underneath, makes me want to undo all those buttons and get you out of your clothes, just to see what you’ve got on.” The heated words and the sure, warm touch of his hands along the curve of her bottom made her sit down, hard, on the cabbage rose runner. “I stocked up in New York,” she whispered.

“Good,” he murmured against her breast. In the living room below them the fire crackled and danced, casting long shadows up the stairs as he reached around to deftly unfasten her bra and pull it off. She lay back on her elbows, her hair falling behind her as she watched him reach for the elastic edge of her panties and pull them down.

“Right here on the stairs?” she gasped when he urged her to lift so he could pull off her panties.

His hands smoothed up her inner legs, parting them as he went. He leaned forward and kissed the soft skin below her ribs. “Right here on the stairs,” he confirmed.

The heat of his mouth against her inner thigh made her gasp, a sound she made again when his stubble rasped against her needy flesh. He passed over it with a faint brush of his lips before laving her other thigh. Her hipbones. Her softly rounded belly.

Trembling, her legs splayed wide while he took his time, made her wait for the moment when his tongue touched her clit.

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When the moment came she cried out and arched toward him. Each hard stroke of his tongue over the swollen nub tightened the coil of tension low in her belly, until she was drawn tight as a bow, quivering under his mouth, incoherent. All her senses drew in, focusing on the exquisite, tingling tightness between her legs, her hitching breaths, the fire now dancing behind her closed eyelids until time stopped and fierce pleasure pulsed through her.

She subsided, legs quivering as she relaxed into the hard wood of the risers. Then the world spun around as he slid his arms under her knees and shoulders, lifting her with ease. When the rumpled sheets of her unmade bed met her back, she opened her eyes to see him shove his jeans down and off, then came over her, his weight on his elbows as he urged her legs apart with his knees, unselfconsciously making room for his body.