Straight From The Heart (4 page)

“Got a guess?”

“A day, or two maybe.”

“A day or two!” Kim sank onto the love seat. “I can’t wait that long.”

Stephen left the sacks on the kitchen counter and rescued the beer he’d left on the table before returning to the living room. She was facing the fire, and now she could feel him somewhere behind her right shoulder. She swallowed again, wondering if the rush to her head was a result of drinking too fast or her own taut nerves.

“We can’t stay here like this,” she tried again.

His answer was a very male snort. She glanced back and caught him just finishing a long draught of beer, emptying the bottle. Dangling the bottle’s long neck with his right hand, he swiped his mouth with the back of his left. To Kim, who’d only seen him in formal social situations or “attorney” mode, this turn to rugged indifference was both unsettling and unsuitably appealing.

You hate him. Remember that.

“Something has to be done,” she muttered, returning her gaze to the fire.

“Got a suggestion?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“I do.”

“You do?” Carefully, she hazarded another glance his way. He, too, seemed entranced by the dancing flames, but spying her movement, his gaze swept upward, meeting hers.

“Another beer,” he said, turning to fulfill his own request.

Kim narrowed her lashes at his retreating back, half-inclined to nail him with some perfect barb. Inspiration did not strike, however, and she was still working up a comeback when he offered her another dewy bottle.

“I’ve still got a ways to go on this one,” she said frostily.

“Yeah, well
 . . .
” He shrugged and with several long steps, flopped onto the love seat, his legs stretched so far forward that his ankles straddled her two feet. It was peculiarly intimate and Kim, pretending an indifference she didn’t feel, sidled toward the overstuffed chair, dropping into it with what she hoped was the same unaffected casualness.

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t the easy, familiar kind between friends. Kim had to struggle not to fidget. “Aren’t you hungry yet?”

“Actually, no.”

“Well, I am.” She jumped up and found her way to the kitchen where Stephen had lit the oil lamp Betsy normally used as a centerpiece on the tiny kitchen table. Shadows walked along the cabinets and counter as she dug inside her sacks for the frozen hamburger, now half-thawed, and a loaf of bread. There were no buns; she’d planned on fixing spaghetti for herself, along with some “salad in a bag,” her new favorite meal. Now, it looked like she would have to settle for hamburger patties on wheat bread.

“Need some help?” he called.

“No, just be a male and sit there,” she muttered under her breath.

“What?”

“No, thank you,” she called a bit louder.

Alan had never helped in the kitchen. Once in a while he would invite some people over—someone he wanted to impress—and make his mother’s famed Hungarian goulash. Never mind that it was Kim’s recipe he’d adopted and that she did the prep on the meat and vegetables. Never mind that Alan’s mother was as far from Hungarian as Pluto from the sun. Never mind that Kim was left with clean up while Alan’s guests sat around afterwards over brandy and ribald talk that she found more than mildly offensive. But that was how Alan believed clients should be wooed, and to her disgust, it often worked. Harden Electric contracted for some of the major builders around Riverside, and Alan knew how to schmooze with the best of them.

With extra fervor she pounded the half-frozen ground round into patties and arranged four of them in a black cast-iron skillet. A few seasonings over the top, and she returned to the living room, ready to create a “gourmet” sensation.

Her mouth went dry at the sight that met her eyes.

Stephen Wright was still stretched out in the love seat, his long jean-clad legs slightly apart. He’d taken off his shoes and socks and unbuttoned his shirt, a concession to the steamy heat. His eyes were closed, and his head lolled back against the cushions. His beer was propped between his thighs, forgotten, one hand curved laxly near its neck. He looked younger, less intimidating, his brow relaxed in sleep, his lips fuller, those lines of discontentment bracketing his mouth erased. The curve of his jaw drew her interest as if by a magnet.

Somewhere deep inside Kim something came alive. Something long dead, or maybe never given birth before.

Shaking all over, she dropped the skillet on the pine coffee table with a clatter. Stephen jumped up as if he’d been stabbed.

“What the hell?” he demanded, towering over her as she fought for composure. Then, worried, “Kim, are you all right?”

Her heart beat in her ears. She couldn’t answer.

And then he reached a hand out to tip up her chin and stare searchingly at her and Kim, in a state of pure emotion, sensed traitorous tears spring to her eyes. As if that humiliation weren’t enough, her body quivered when, almost in amazement, his thumb captured one tear, and he watched it melt against his own skin.

“What is it, Kim?” he asked softly.

Of all the things Kim could handle, pity and caring were the hardest. If someone was nice to her, that’s all it took to start the waterworks, and Stephen’s concern coupled with her own strange reaction were enough to do her in.

It didn’t help that he was
touching
her either!

“I’m all—right. Just—don’t—”

Stephen’s eyes searched her flushed face. Quietly, he said, “Don’t what?”

“Don’t touch me.”

He frowned. But it was as if her words were an invitation, not a warning, for his hands reached for her shoulders and slid downward until they rested just below the short sleeves of her black sweater. Kim’s breath caught in her throat. He seemed lost in concentration, feeling her skin. Her heart kicked painfully. This wasn’t right. She shouldn’t
feel
these things!

Tense as a bowstring, she slowly pulled her arms free of his grasp. For a moment it seemed like he might actually resist her efforts, but then he took a step back. They stood in silence.

“I don’t want to be here with you,” she heard herself say, the words fast and scared. “I didn’t want any of this. I’m sorry, I just—don’t.”

“Did I say I did?”

“I just don’t want you to think—” Kim broke off helplessly.

“Think what?”

“That I’m
 . . .
that this is
 . . .
okay.”

The Stephen Wright she’d feared, the one Alan had threatened her with, the one who had obviously given him his courtroom reputation, suddenly appeared. One moment the man was approachable; the next he was cold as a distant star.

“What do you mean
this?
Did you think I was going to kiss you? Make a pass? Put you in some kind of compromising position?”

“I’m already in a compromising position!” Kim declared. “I don’t want to be here with you. I don’t trust you. And after what you did, I’ll never be able to even
like
you!”

“After what I did?”

She nodded. It took all her courage not to step back, away from him a few paces. His very nearness was intimidating.

“After what I
did?”
he repeated again.

“You tried to take Bobby from me!”

Silence fell. Her accusation reverberated in shock waves. It almost felt as if she’d slapped him. “You may not have been the courtroom attorney, but you took Alan’s case,” she fumbled on. “And I don’t want to hear that a job’s a job. That’s no excuse. You represented Alan.” Her throat was dry as salt. “And he’s no kind of father, and certainly no kind of husband.”

Stephen stared down at the petite blond-haired woman who stood in front of him—so small, yet so defiant. He was angry at the weather for stranding him here with her. He was angry at himself for being so susceptible. And he was angry at her for being right.

His defense sounded pathetic even to his own ears. “I didn’t know what kind of man Harden was when our firm took the case.”

“When
you
took the case,” she corrected.

“I passed on being his attorney,” Stephen reminded her.

But Kim was having none of it. “Oh, really? That wasn’t Jackson, Wright and Smith representing Alan?”

“It wasn’t Stephen Wright,” he snapped back, stinging. He wanted to tell her that he’d spent his time in the background, listening to what went on, keeping well out of it. He’d never been particularly concerned that Harden would end up with Bobby; his bid for custody was too weak, especially since Kim appeared to be a model wife and mother. And though he didn’t really like the man personally, he’d found him at least tolerable—until Betsy had let it slip that Alan had struck his wife.

It had been late in the trial. Betsy, who was generally good about separating her personal life from her professional, overheard Robert Jackson shaking hands and saying good-bye to Alan. Like Mount Etna about to explode, she’d suddenly clenched her fists and turned bright red, literally shaking with the effort to contain herself.

“What’s got into you?” Stephen asked her.

“I’d like to wring his lying neck!”

“Who?” Stephen looked around, then spied Alan Harden’s retreating back through the open door of his office.

“I know what he did to Kim. She tried to hide it, but I know.”

Fascinated, he simply waited. Betsy tried to clamp her lips together, but in a rush, she spewed out, “He
hit
her! Slammed her into a wall. When I saw the bruises I knew what had happened.”

The rush of emotion Stephen felt was totally out of proportion to the circumstances. Yes, he was infuriated. Yes, he was disgusted and sickened. But the need to comfort and hold Kim and wrap himself around her was an unwelcome yet overwhelming desire. He was left speechless, spent, as if he’d run a marathon. And it took all of his not inconsiderable will to hide the freight train of emotions that rushed through him from Betsy Reed’s knowing eyes.

But she was too upset herself to pick up the vibes. “If he gets custody of Bobby, it’ll kill Kim.”

“It won’t happen.”

“How do you know? Our firm is representing him, for crying out loud!”

“Harden’s a bad witness,” Stephen responded bluntly. “Robert said as much to the man’s face. He blusters and talks big. The judge would award custody to Kim even if she weren’t the best choice.”

“You’re sure?” Betsy gazed at him pleadingly.

Yes, he’d been sure. Certain to the tips of his toes. But it still had been a relief to hear the outcome in Kim’s favor. When she’d blasted him on the courtroom steps he’d had no defense of his own. He’d deserved some of it because when Alan had first brought him the custody case, he’d painted Kim out to be some kind of self-serving bitch. Though Stephen had known better, he’d half believed the man. His own experience with Pauleen was partially to blame, and he’d made himself believe it was Kim who’d been lying, not Alan. Still, it was no excuse, and he’d taken Kim’s verbal battering as his due.

And so, now what?
he asked himself, gazing at Kim in the firelight. She’d turned her face away while he’d traveled through this lightning introspection. Now she stared fixedly at the flames, a means of shutting him out and pulling away without physically moving.

If he were ever going to be given the opportunity to explain himself to her, this was it. Yet, there really was no excuse. He hadn’t taken Alan Harden’s case, but he also hadn’t thrown him out on his ear. And when Betsy had blurted out Harden’s true nature, Stephen hadn’t charged after him and rendered the man serious physical harm (his first, most burning desire). Instead, he’d quietly warned Robert about a rumor he’d heard and let Jackson handle Harden any way he chose. Confronted with his abuse, Harden blustered and whined and denied, and Robert Jackson went ahead with the custody suit.