Out Of Her League (31 page)

“I guess they don't.”

Again she waited for him to fill the silence, but he dared not say any more. If her talking to him was one tenth as hard as it was for him to talk to her, then he wanted as little of it as possible. He wouldn't hurt her more than he already had, and God knew he'd hurt her plenty. And so he steeled himself against the aching pressure in his chest, and ended the call as gently as he could.

“Take care of yourself, Em.”

“You too, Luke.”

He heard the tears she tried to hide in her voice, then waited until she hung up before turning off his own phone, hating himself all over again.

Emily put down the phone and slumped into the sofa with a sigh. Nearly four years since she'd last spoken to him, over twenty since they'd lived under the same roof, but it hadn't lessened her love for him.

She wished it had.

She wished she barely gave him a second thought. Wished she didn't fall asleep every night aching to reach for his muscular frame, or wake up listening for his voice singing in the shower. Apparently more than two decades of being apart wasn't enough to make her forget him. Worse, their living separate lives had been his decision, not hers. He knew she'd take him back in a heartbeat, which was why he kept in contact with her as little as possible, but they'd almost lost their son yesterday. Luke knew exactly what it was like to stare death in the face, so she figured he could help Rayne through his trauma.

The day he'd come home with the first of his many demons she'd been heavily pregnant with Rayne. The grandfather clock in the foyer had been striking two and frustration had surged because she couldn't sleep when she was so exhausted. Her back was aching too badly to let her stay in bed any longer and the baby, well into its eighth month, was kicking an insistent tattoo against her ribs. Amid the rhythm of rain on the roof she rose and drew on her robe, then padded downstairs into the kitchen to make herself some herbal tea. She had just set the kettle on the stove when a knock rapped on the front door. Glancing toward the porch, she saw the outline of someone standing there.

Hesitantly she made her way to the door and peered outside, unable to discern who was out there. Pulling her robe around her, she flipped on the porch light and undid the deadbolt, opening the door a crack. She let out a gasp and threw the door wide. Her husband stood on the doorstep, soaked with rain, face covered in bruises, jagged stitches bisecting his chin and left eyebrow.

“Luke,” she breathed, launching herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh, thank God. Are you all right?” She ran her hands over his shoulders and back, worried by his stillness. He didn't reply, only wrapped his arms around her and buried his wet face in her neck, holding her as tightly as he could.

Dread coiled in her stomach. “What happened?” He pressed closer, conveying his desperation and anguish without saying a word. He shook in her arms, and she held him hard against her for a time. “Sweetheart, come inside,” she urged finally, tugging him into the house.

“Emily, is everything all right?” her mother called from the landing.

“It's Luke, Mama, and he's been hurt.” She led him into the kitchen, pressing him into a chair, and hunkered down beside him, frightened by the stitches, by the haunted wildness in his eyes.

Her parents came downstairs. “Mama, will you please fetch me some towels, and Daddy, could you make a pot of coffee?” Her mother rushed to fetch the towels and Emily immediately began drying his hair. “Sweetheart, look at me,” she said, taking his face in her hands. He raised dark, bloodshot eyes to hers.

“What's wrong?” she whispered, fingers stroking his cheeks, apprehension filling her.

He swallowed, gripped her hands. “They're dead,” he said hoarsely. “They're all dead.”

Emily put a hand to her mouth, feeling sick. “Oh, God, Luke... who? Your team?” His anguish was more than she could bear.

“They just left us there, Em... left us all to die... ” He shook his head as if he still couldn't comprehend, struggled to take a shaky breath. “I carried one of them out across my back, but he lost both legs from the knee down.” He raised tear-filled eyes to hers. “Said he wished I'd left him to die.”

She didn't know what to say, so she kissed him and held him close against her heart. Her father set a mug of steaming coffee on the table in front of Luke, then placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Good to have you home, son,” he said quietly, then took his hovering wife upstairs to give them some privacy.

Emily handed Luke the mug and waited until he'd taken a few bracing sips, then pulled him from the chair. “Come upstairs, honey. Let's get you out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower.” Soon he stood naked in the bathroom, Clumps of stitches dotted his body, along with plenty of deep, ugly bruises.

She ran the shower and handed him the towel when he came out. Never taking his eyes from her, he dried himself then followed her into the bedroom. It had been months since she'd seen him and he seemed fascinated by her new shape, placing his hand on the firm mound of her belly. She froze in the act of folding the bed sheets down and faced him, fighting the pang of self-consciousness.

“I'd almost forgotten how beautiful you are,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her.

Before she could say anything he pressed his lips to the swell under her nightgown, then drew her down beside him. He undid her robe and slid it off her shoulders, began unbuttoning her nightgown.

She knew she was blushing, and had to stop her arms from snatching the nightgown over herself. She felt so huge and clumsy. Just then, under his worshipful gaze, the baby did what felt like a somersault, her belly rippling.

Luke actually smiled, and reverently ran his hands over where his baby lay. He studied the changes in her body with a smile of male satisfaction, smoothing his hands over her and making her sigh with longing. He gathered her to him and kissed her, murmuring soft things against her skin. He was so warm and strong, and she'd prayed every night for him to come back to her... ?

Emily clung to him, each moan and arch of her body begging for his touch, desperate for him to be inside her. Finally, he grasped her hips and lifted her onto him. Immobile for a moment, awkward and ungainly with her bulk, she relaxed when her husband gazed up at her with all the longing of his heart in his eyes.

“Make me forget, Em,” he whispered, and her heart broke. And so she'd loved him with everything in her soul and body, crying out with him at the end and rolling to cradle him in her arms. She curled himself around him and he burrowed in close, their baby moving energetically between them.

Christa could hardly believe how beautiful Charleston's historic district was. All the old homes in this part of town were maintained in wonderful condition, their gardens nestled in courtyards enclosed by wrought iron gates and sturdy brick walls. Rayne turned the rental car into a lane and pulled into a driveway.

“This is it.”

“You grew up in this house?” She stared at the wraparound porch supported by white fluted columns, a fragrant evergreen Confederate jasmine winding its way along the trellis on the south-facing wall. Even though the building must have been over a hundred years old, it looked as though it belonged on the front cover of a
Southern Living
magazine.

“Yeah, it's not too bad for an old shack,” he teased, and climbed out of the car. He went around the other side and waited for her, but she sat there.

“Are you coming?”

She pressed a hand over her abdomen. “I'm nervous,” she admitted with a grin.

He rolled his eyes and took her by the arm. “You can stare down Olympic-caliber pitchers and survive people twice your size mowing you down at the plate, but you're scared to meet my
mom
?”

“Hey, this is really important to me, you know. The first impression is always the most important, and I don't want anything to go wrong.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” he assured her, grabbing the suitcases from the trunk and steering her to the back doorway. “For crying out loud, cut it out before you make me nervous too. I've never brought a woman home to meet my mother before, so don't make this any harder on me.” He leaned down to the peacock-shaped euonymus topiary potted in an urn beside the door and fished around for the spare key.

“Mom, we're here,” he called, and brought Christa with him into the bright kitchen. She picked out the antique furniture instantly, admiring the way everything was put together and recognizing the lemony scent of Murphy's Oil Soap.

“You're early,” a feminine voice laughed, and then Rayne's mother swept around the corner. Christa caught an impression of medium-length brown hair and a pretty, oval face with vivid green eyes before the woman launched herself at her son.

He caught her and lifted her off the floor in a one-armed bear hug. “Hey, gorgeous.”

She squeezed him back and pulled away, her eyes moist. “I'm so glad you're here.” They say you can tell how a man will treat you by how he treats his mother, and so far Christa liked what she was seeing.

“And this sweet thing must be Christa.” Emily held out a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hutchinson,” she replied, shaking firmly. “I've heard so much about you.”

“Not as much as I've heard about you, honey.” Emily winked.

“Thanks to Bryn,” Rayne muttered.

His mother ignored him. “I can't tell you how wonderful it is for a mother to know her son has finally found a woman who— ”

“Mom,” Rayne warned her with his eyes. “You're going to embarrass me.”

“Well, of course I am! That's my maternal right. Christa and I are going to spend lots of time together, looking through all your naked baby pictures, and then I'll tell her every story I can think of about you.”

“Really?” Christa beamed. “When are you going out, honey?”

“I'm not leaving the two of you alone together.”

“Oh, he can be such a big baby sometimes.” Emily pouted and drew Christa's arm into hers. “Let's give you a tour, shall we? Then we'll get you set up in your room... you
are
staying in your own room, aren't you?”

The blood rushed to her face. “Of course.” Which earned her a pout from Rayne.

Emily patted her hand. “Just ignore him, dear. He'll get over it.”

“Mom— ”

“Don't you ‘mom’ me, sweetheart. I'm going to help Christa settle, and then we'll have tea in the garden. I hope you'll approve of my efforts, Christa. I understand you've got the greenest thumb going.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. I've killed lots of things.” She trailed after her hostess down the carpeted hallway past a gallery of portraits, whom she assumed were Rayne's ancestors.

“Well, I don't feel quite as badly, then.” After checking out the formal downstairs rooms they climbed a mahogany staircase to a bedroom decorated in cream and pastel blue. “You'll stay in here, and Rayne will be down the hall in the next room. It's old-fashioned of me I know, but that's the way I am.”

“It's beautiful,” she gushed, smoothing a hand over the toile coverlet. “Is this bed an antique?”

“It is. My grandmother was born in it. And you have a lovely view of the boardwalk from up here.” She went to the window and opened the sash, letting in a breeze that billowed the gauzy curtains. “Come and see Rayne's room.”

A big sign on the door read “Enter at your own risk” above a skull and crossbones.

“I was going through a privacy phase,” he explained.

Christa took in all the mementos, envisioning Rayne as a teenager with too much attitude. Military posters covered the walls, along with bookshelves crammed with volumes about the Navy SEALs. Could anybody say hero worship?

On the desk where he must have done his homework sat a framed picture of a man hunkered on his haunches cradling a deadly looking rifle, his face smeared in camouflage paint. She peered more closely. “When did you have this taken?”

“That's not me, sweetheart; it's my dad.”

She flashed him a disbelieving glance and picked up the photo, staring intently at the man's face. “I know he's all covered in greasepaint, but I'd have sworn it was you.”

He came up behind her. “Yeah, we look a lot alike.”

“Like twins, except for their eyes,” Emily said. “Look at this one.” A smaller picture of Rayne and his dad, both in their dress uniforms, looking so similar and so gorgeous it was hard to believe they were real.

“Wow. Was this your graduation day? The one you told me about when your dad gave you his trident?” Rayne's dad had brown eyes, but something else about his gaze was unlike his son's, something she couldn't put a name to.

“Yeah.” He massaged her shoulder with one hand. “It's my favorite picture of us.”

No kidding. Even as a cocky teenager Rayne had a few inches in height over his father and appeared wider through the shoulders, but no one in their right mind would take on Luke Hutchinson. He looked like a lethal, finely honed weapon, exactly what the military had trained him to become.

“Here's one you'll like.” Him as a boy, probably around nine or ten, grinning under the shadowed bill of his ball cap while brandishing his bat. “I won MVP in our league championship. Don't I look awesome?”

He looked like he would have burst his buttons, if his jersey had any. “A force to be reckoned with, all right.” In the last ten minutes she'd learned so many personal details of his life. This was going to be an enlightening trip.

“Well, if you're finished walking down memory lane, let's go have some tea,” Emily invited. “I've made some low country cooking for Christa, to make sure she gets a proper taste of Charleston.”

Rayne's expression lit. “Crab cakes?”

His mom rolled her pretty green eyes. “Yes, I made crab cakes. And biscuits, and peach cobbler.”

He grabbed Christa's hand and all but towed her down the stairs.

She laughed. “Oh Rayne, you're too easy sometimes.”

After cobbler and sweet tea in the shade of the verandah they whiled away another hour or so chatting, Christa and Emily giggling like schoolgirls while Rayne went inside to call some friends. When he returned he announced he'd arranged to meet with a group of them at a local bar. “You
sure
you don't want to come with me?” he asked for the third time.