What Mattered Most Page 20

  “Shhh.” Lanie held a finger to her lips and smiled at Sonny Buck. He chortled harder and kicked, splashing his bath water everywhere. “Your daddy is asleep downstairs.”

  She tiptoed her fingers up his pudgy tummy, and his navy eyes widened. He threw out his arms and looked surprised when water spattered his face. Laughing, Lanie slid her hands under him and lifted. With a bright yellow towel wrapped around his wiggling form, she carried him through to the nursery.

  “I know this is a scary thought, kid, but I think I’m beginning to get a handle on your dad.” She rubbed lotion over tiny arms and legs, lingering over elbows and knees. Sonny Buck cooed. She smiled and touched the curve of his mouth. “Well, kind of. He’s a tough guy to figure out.”

  The episode in the foyer, his reaction, disturbed her. She had no doubt it was tied to the night Mitchell held her hostage, but she’d seen something deeper, something darker in his anguished gaze.

  I saw it happen with my mother.

  His words returned to her, and she closed her eyes, seeing again a small dark-haired boy with big navy eyes and long, dark lashes. What had he seen?

  Under her hands, Sonny Buck kicked, bringing her back to reality. Her baby’s father lay asleep downstairs, and even though she’d learned many facts about him during their recent conversations—he’d graduated third in his high school class, gotten through his first year of college on a tennis scholarship, lost his virginity at fifteen to the girl next door—she still didn’t know him. And despite her claim that she was getting a handle on him, she still had no idea what made him the man he was. The man who, more and more, was making his way into her heart.

  Could she fall in love with a man she already loved? Or had what she thought was love really been infatuation and a strong attraction? The closer he got, the more confused she became.

  She dressed Sonny Buck for bed and rocked him, her thoughts on his father. When his eyes began to droop, she tucked him into the crib. Silence descended on the house. She put away Sonny’s bath items and went to change her damp clothes.

  The jeans and T-shirt went into the hamper. She pulled on loose lounge pants and a trim T-shirt. Unclipping the choker, she moved to the jewelry box to put it away. The infinity pendant glinted at her again, and she lifted it, letting the chain drift over her fingers.

  She slid the necklace over her head, and the pendant fell beneath her shirt. The cool metal lay between her breasts, soon warming with her skin.

  Turning out the light, she left the room and went downstairs to wait for John to wake up.

  He was being watched. The awareness prickled along his skin, drawing him from the best sleep he remembered. John opened his eyes to flickering light—the fireplace and the large candles on the coffee table. Memory rushed in, and he groaned, rolling to sit on the edge of the couch.

  “Feel better?” Lanie sat on the floor by the fireplace, her arms linked around her up-drawn knees.

  Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he dodged the question. His body felt rested, but his mind felt like an exposed nerve, a wound with the scab ripped away. “What time is it?”

  “A little after midnight.”

  His head jerked up. He’d slept for hours. Remembered humiliation burned along his skin. Not looking at her, he ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry—”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Moving with a lithe grace he hadn’t seen in months, she came to her feet. “You’re not going anywhere, O’Reilly. We said we were going to talk.”

  The idea of exposing those images to the light scared the hell out of him. He stood up, his body drained and lethargic. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  With a disgusted sigh, she turned away, staring into the flames. “Yeah. That was nothing making you physically sick.”

  Irritation jerked along his nerves. He should have known she was going to push this, that she wouldn’t let the dark memories settle back to the bottom of his soul. He should have known his plea for a chance, his plan for them getting to know one another was going to come back and bite him on the ass. He gritted his teeth. “It was the blood, okay?”

  “Oh, the blood.” She nodded, a knowing expression on her face. “You’re a freaking homicide detective—”

  “Your blood, Lanie. Your blood and that white floor and what could have happened. Yeah, I freaked out and lost it.” He pushed a hand through his hair again, wanting out of this conversation. “Is that enough for you? Are we done now?”

  “Yeah, I think we are.” Her soft voice lifted the hair on his nape, and he shot a look at her. She watched him with narrowed eyes, her jaw set in a familiar, stubborn line.

  He threw out his hands. “What?”

  “So this is the way it’s going to be? I pour out my heart to you, but all you give me are meaningless facts and nothing of substance? I’m the only one at risk?”

  “Damn it, Lanie—”

  “Well?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  Anger exploded in his chest, and he struggled to kill it. He wanted to shake the stubbornness out of her; his memories wouldn’t let him touch her in anger. “What do you want to know?” He snarled the words between clenched teeth, and her eyes widened. He reined the anger in. “What do you want me to tell you?”

  A visible breath shook her body. She moved toward him, the stubbornness gone from her face, replaced by something softer. She didn’t touch him, but stopped inside his comfort zone, her head tilted back so their gazes met. Again, the urge to lose himself in her, in those eyes, surged through him. Her lips parted on a whisper. “I want to know who you are. I want to know what’s still eating you alive.”

  A shudder ran through him. He let his lashes fall, closing out those golden eyes. She would ask the one thing he didn’t want to give, and he had no doubt that if he couldn’t give it, this was it. End of the road.

  Damn it, she had to do everything the hard way.

  “My father was a beat cop. Lower East Side.” He plunged into the story, knowing that was the only way he could get it out. His stomach clenched. “He died when I was three. The old cop cliché—walked in on a robbery in progress at a corner grocery and the perp blew him away before he ever got his gun out of his holster. His partner killed the perp.”

  “I’m sorry.” She touched him then, her hand warm on his arm. He wished she hadn’t, but he couldn’t pull away.

  He shrugged and opened his eyes. “Don’t be. I don’t remember him anyway. He’s just this young guy in a picture my mom had. I have his eyes.”

  A sad smile curved her mouth. She reached up, caressing his jaw. “Then so does Sonny Buck. What happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s not all, is it?”

  “No.” He did pull away then, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “A few months later, my mom married again. To my dad’s partner. I guess having him around helped her feel like my dad was still there. She’d have been better off alone.”

  “What happened?” Behind him, her voice was soft.

  “He killed her.” Her gasp filled his ears, and he laughed, a raw, harsh sound. “Oh, it took him a couple of years. Guess he needed to break her down first.”

  “Oh God, John. I’m so sorry.” From behind, her arms came around him, hands flat on his chest. The comfort in her touch chafed at him, yet he never wanted her to let him go. Her cheek rested against his back, the only warmth he could find on his entire being. He was so damned cold.

  “It was my fault.”

  The arms encircling him tightened. “No,” she whispered. With weird detachment, he realized he could feel her lips moving, even through his shirt. “Oh, no. It wasn’t—”

  “He was going for me, and she got between us. I’d done something… Hell, I don’t even remember what. Shouldn’t I remember that? And he went for his nightstick.” He pulled away from her and rubbed a hand over his nape, the muscles like a knotted rope. “We had this cheap white linoleum floor.”

  Lanie made a noi
se behind him, a small, fearful sound.

  Hands spread in front of him, he made a circle with his fingers. The memories beat in his brain, the nausea pushing at his throat again. The urge to run pounded under his skin. “I remember watching the blood spread out under her ear. Brain hemorrhage. She died a couple of days later.”

  The words fell between them. He listened to the silence thump against his ears for a moment before turning to face her. She stared at him, her face white, and he shrugged. “Usually, I manage to forget about it. Every once in a while, there’ll be a crime scene that… Beth scraped me up off a barroom floor after a bad one, but I didn’t want to turn into one of those washed-up, has-been cops who drink away the job stress. I’d go to the courts, hit a few tennis balls, wear myself out so I could sleep.”

  She continued to stare at him. He’d seen that look before, too often on too many faces—new teachers, new foster parents, the little blonde he’d had a crush on all through eighth grade. Somehow, finding out about his past always seemed to change people’s perceptions of him. Like they expected him to snap, go off the deep end and off someone, too. He’d thought maybe with her, it would be different.

  Looked like he’d been wrong.

  Tucking away the pain of that realization, he bounced on his heels, once, twice. The need for physical activity burned in him. He forced a grin, had to clear his throat before he could get any words out. “I know you’re tired. I’m sorry about earlier and for crashing on you, leaving you with the baby. I’m going to head home.”

  He walked by her and to the door, the flight syndrome pounding in him. Halfway down the steps, he heard her voice, a note of panic in it. “John, wait. Please don’t—”

  “I’ll call you.” He called the words over his shoulder before sliding into the driver’s seat. Aware she stood at the door, he backed out without looking at the house. Once on the street, he didn’t use the rearview mirror until he was sure the house was out of sight.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Casey, I know it’s the middle of the night!” The three wrong numbers she’d gotten while trying to dial Casey’s number had made the late hour more than clear. She’d been cussed out in two different languages. The need to scream at John’s roommate shivered under Lanie’s skin. Fear trembled in her stomach. “I just… I need you to call me as soon as John gets there.”

  “I’ll tell him to call you,” Casey mumbled, half-asleep.

  “No. He won’t do it.” Frustrated, she squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the awful blank look on his face. “This is important, Casey. Wake up and listen to me.”

  “You two have another fight?”

  “No. But you’ve got to call me, as soon as he walks in the door.” Opening her eyes, she glanced at the mantel clock and calculated the driving time to Houston. Frustration curled through her. Probably had that wrong, too. “Hell, call me if he’s not there in an hour. If I don’t hear from you, I’m calling back.”

  “Hour. Got ya. Call you back.” The line went dead.

  Lanie resumed pacing the living room, anger and foreboding fighting for dominance in her gut. Fear that he would do something stupid and get himself killed. Fury that he could just dump his past on her and walk out. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. He’d cheated her of giving him the support and comfort he’d shown her the night she’d told him of her mother’s suicide. The sensation was like having a lover get her almost there and roll away to fall asleep.

  Damn it, if he didn’t get himself killed, she might wring his neck herself.

  But first, she’d wrap herself around him and take away as much of the pain as she could.

  She stopped at the glass doors, staring out at the dark ocean. His revelations explained so much—why he’d stayed when he learned she was pregnant, his involvement with Beth, his guilt over Mitchell’s actions, his strong bond with Sonny Buck. He stepped up to his responsibilities, but not his emotions. From those, it was easier to run—to use tennis or sex as an outlet.

  Oh, you’re one to talk, Falconetti. If O’Reilly uses sex for release, you use it for control. Have you ever really given yourself over to him?

  Cheek pressed to the cool glass, she eyed white caps rolling ashore. A shudder played over her skin. If telling him about her mother had been hard, the idea of turning sex into an emotional connection was even worse. Sex had always been about her rules, no one else’s.

  They’d taken turns sharing trivia about their lives and their worse memories. They shared a child. Could she throw out the rules, share herself with him?

  An hour later, after Casey called and confirmed that John hadn’t made it to Houston, she was beyond caring about her rules, her wants, her need for control. She wanted John, safe, sound, and with her. Tears trembled on her lashes, dread setting up an icy residence in her veins.

  The grind of a key in the lock had her running for the foyer. She pulled the door open before he could. “Where have you been?”

  Sweaty and disheveled, his hair stood out from his head. His shirt had come untucked, and the hems of his jeans were wet, covered in the same damp sand that coated his shoes. Face still pale, he tucked the key she’d let him keep for emergencies into his pocket. He stared at her, his navy eyes intense. “Figuring out there’s nowhere left to run.”

  “Oh, John.” Her eyes closed, and relief left her giddy. She lifted her lashes to find him still watching her, the same hungry look on his face. Without speaking, she held out her arms, and he fell into them.

  His body trembled against her, and she managed to push the door closed before his knees gave out. They slid down the wall, arms around each other, his face pressed to her throat. Against hers, his skin was cool and damp, and Lanie pressed closer, trying to transfuse her own warmth into him.

  A sigh shuddered through him, and he tightened his arms. Her hands roamed over his back, hungry to make sure he was real. They sat that way for long moments, not speaking, before Lanie tilted her head back to look into his face. She moved her hands up his neck, running her fingers over the planes and angles of his features. His eyes closed, a soft sound escaping his lips. His woodsy scent, mingled with fresh, male sweat and salty ocean air, surrounded her.

  The beginnings of a cry wafted down the stairs to them, and for once, Lanie didn’t jump to see what the baby needed. John nuzzled his nose against her temple. “He’s hungry.”

  She pressed his cheek against hers. “I know. Why don’t you take a shower while I feed him?”

  The cries grew louder. His mouth brushed her ear. “You’d better hurry. He’s demanding, now, instead of asking.”

  They disentangled, and Lanie watched him walk up the stairs, a thrill of anticipation settling in her abdomen. She turned away, and his voice carried to her while she warmed a bottle.

  She paused in the nursery doorway. Sonny Buck cradled in his arms, John shot her a lopsided grin. “He’s grown.”

  She crossed the room to take the baby. “Like a weed.” He clamped down on the bottle with hungry glee. Settling into the rocker, she glanced up at John. “Take a shower.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pulling his shirt over his head, he gave her a glimpse of the long, sloping muscles in his back before disappearing into the bathroom.

  Eyes closed, Lanie rocked the baby while he ate. The sound of running water filled the room, and she pictured water sluicing over the muscles she’d seen, down over thighs and calves. Heat poured through her body, pooling, flowing out, tingling.

  She wanted him. Not the old seeking-physical-gratification wanting, but wanted him. Wanted to give herself to him, lose herself in him.

  As she tucked the baby back into bed, the shower stopped. Nails cutting into her palms, she walked to the bathroom. John pushed the shower curtain back, reached for a towel and froze, his gaze locked with hers.

  Droplets trailed down his neck, over his chest, and into the arrow of hair on his abdomen. Her gaze dropped lower, warmth tingling along her skin. The muscles shifted in his legs as he ste
pped from the shower. Her breath coming in shallow bursts, she lifted her gaze back to his.

  One second, she stared into navy eyes; the next his mouth covered hers. He tangled a gentle hand in her hair, his lips teasing hers apart. Her hands roamed his arms and shoulders, the skin slick and wet. The thin T-shirt she wore soaked up water from his skin and clung to her; she felt every line of his body along hers.

  The kiss went on and on, and the heat pooling in her core spread out along veins and nerves, suffusing her being. He was hot, too, his skin fiery where she touched, warming the wet fabric that should have been clammy against her skin. Heat built around them, between them. Just a kiss. If just kissing him was hotter than anything they’d done before, what would making love with him be like? All of this felt so new.

  His hands cupped her face, and he pulled his mouth from hers. “Lanie,” he whispered against her temple. He rubbed his cheek against her hair, and his sigh trembled through her.

  He lifted his head and stared down at her, unsmiling. His fingers moved over her face and neck, smoothing damp hair from her skin. Desire and something deeper burned in his eyes.

  Strengthened by that flaring emotion, Lanie stepped away from him but not before sensing the sudden tension in his body, preparation for a blow of some kind. Holding his gaze, she smiled and reached for the hem of her T-shirt. She lost contact only long enough to pull the wet garment over her head.

  The infinity pendant swung free, tapping the skin between her breasts, and his swift indrawn breath filled the room. His eyes flared hotter, and as she skimmed the lounge pants down over her hips and thighs and stepped out of them, she stared into those eyes, thinking he was going to burn her alive.

  And Lord help her, she wanted him to.

  His gaze dropped, traveling down her form, and for the first time, she faltered. She didn’t look the same as he remembered. Fine white stretch marks marred what had been her flat, smooth stomach. And farther down, the Cesarean scar, faded to a thin, pink line. She closed her eyes.