by Naima Simone
“The Cubs winning the World Series is surprising. Elvis buying coffee at the local 7-Eleven is surprising. You being pregnant is somewhere between a Beatles reunion tour and Mariah Carey winning an Academy Award for Glitter.” He leaned forward and propped his forearms on the desk. “I used protection, Greer.”
Her full, bare lips thinned into a straight line. She isn’t wearing lipstick or gloss. Why that thought hit him so hard, he couldn’t explain, but it struck him as odd. And out of place.
“Nothing is foolproof. Accidents happen.”
“I’m not trying to offend you, but you and Gavin…” He couldn’t bring himself to complete the question. Not because he was squeamish or even particularly sensitive. But putting her, Gavin, and sex in the same sentence… It incited an inexplicable urge to punch a hole in the wall. “Since you were with him for a while, it seems more likely he would be the father than me.”
Before he finished speaking, she was shaking her head. “No, not possible. We hadn’t…been together for six months before you and I—” She faltered, a faint blush rising to stain her elegant cheekbones.
He remained silent, waiting—eager—to hear how she would describe their night together. Fucking? Screwing? Making love? The die-hard bachelor in him shied away from the last phrase like a skittish horse.
“Anyway, it’s why I wasn’t on birth control,” she continued, abandoning the line of thought. Disappointment arrowed through him. “I’d stopped taking it after we decided to be celibate in the months before our marriage, and since we planned on starting a family right away.”
Well, she got the “family right away” part, didn’t— Whoa. Wait. What? “Hold on a second. Are you trying to tell me you two had an agreement to be celibate? He actually said yes to no sex with you?”
The tint in her face deepened, but her chin rose a notch, her green eyes containing a hard challenge. “Yes.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. The bark of laughter escaped him before he had a chance to contain it and boomed in the office like a crack of thunder. What the hell was she playing at? Did she actually expect him to believe Gavin had had her at the ready, and he chose not to have her under him? Unless she’d caught the motherfucker cheating with a woman with a huge Adam’s apple, there was no way in hell he was buying what she was laying down.
He loosed another disbelieving hoot.
“Are you kidding me?” Taking her stony silence as affirmation, he snickered, shaking his head. “If I did believe your story—which, frankly, I’m having a hard time buying—then you should be delighted there’s a chance the baby’s mine. Otherwise the kid you’re carrying might have half that ass’s DNA. God knows we wouldn’t want that gene pool to continue.”
“It’s not kind or appropriate to speak ill of the dead,” she snapped.
He snorted. “If you wanted manners, you should’ve fucked Emily Post.”
“Raphael,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
The weariness in her voice snagged his attention first. Then he looked at her—really looked at her. The faint shadows under her eyes. The patrician bone structure that seemed slightly sharper then he remembered, as if she’d recently lost weight. The fine tremor in the hand that squeezed her forehead. She seemed tired. No, exhausted. The baby? That could be it, but he had two older sisters and four nephews—had been there through a pregnancy himself. He recognized prenatal fatigue. This was something else.
Uneasiness and alarm almost propelled him from his seat and around the desk. A part of him wanted to sink into the chair next to hers, lift her hand in his, and assure her that whatever was wrong, he’d fix it. But he didn’t; he remained behind his desk. They weren’t friends. Hell, they were barely acquaintances. Onetime lovers—that’s it. And a screw in the backseat didn’t add up to a connection. She didn’t need comfort from him. Didn’t want it. She’d made that abundantly clear in the police station when she’d nearly leaped on top of that detective to avoid his touch.
No, she just wanted to pin a baby on him.
If he were a woman, he might’ve called the twinge in his chest hurt or anger. But since he wasn’t, he chalked it up to indigestion from the Reuben sandwich he’d had at lunch.
“What’s wrong?” He braced his elbows on the arms of his chair. And when she lifted her lashes and met his gaze, he clutched the armrests, hoping she didn’t notice how he strangled the hard plastic. Even with the obvious signs of strain, her beauty stole his breath away. Made his body tighten. His cock pulsed in hunger. Apparently his dick didn’t give a damn that she didn’t want him. Or that she was trying to run the same okeydokey another pampered socialite had played on him at another time.
Nope. All his johnson cared about was her thick chocolate hair that was drawn back into a ponytail. How the rich tone emphasized and enhanced the emerald green of her eyes. Eyes that reminded him of the one and only time he’d visited the gorgeous New Hampshire lake region when his older sister got married there five years ago. Throw in the delicate bone structure she could probably date back to some English noble ancestor and the Angelina Jolie mouth, and Greer Addison almost made him forget why imagining her half naked and orgasming on his lap was a bad idea.
Almost.
“I…” She paused, nervously wet her lips, and he found himself fascinated by the damp bottom curve. Wanted to glide his thumb over the naked skin and discover if it was as soft as he remembered. Focus, damn it. She’d come to his office for a reason, and it wasn’t for a repeat performance of the night they’d spent together. If that was the case, she could’ve contacted him before now. No, Greer had a purpose—other than informing him of his supposed fatherhood.
“You, what?” he prompted, hardening his voice.
“I need your help.” An audible breath shuddered from between her lips, and he could almost see her gathering her nerve to continue. “A couple of weeks after Gavin…died I started receiving letters.”
He frowned. “What kind of letters?”
“Harassing. Things like ‘whore,’ ‘rich bitch,’ telling me I won’t get away with murder or I can’t escape justice.”
Ice crept through his veins. “How often?”
“There were only a couple until about a month after Gavin died, and the police decided I was no longer their prime suspect, merely a person of interest.” A humorless smile ghosted across her lips. “After that, the letters started arriving once a week, sometimes twice. All with the same messages.”
“You’ve been cleared?”
He, along with the greater Boston area, had caught the media coverage of Gavin Wells’s murder. Within hours of his death, the coverage had resembled a shark feeding frenzy with Greer as the chum thrown in the middle of the melee. Rafe had immediately gone to the cops and given his statement about being with her from about eight thirty when he’d approached her in the bar until well after 2:00 a.m., when he’d dropped her off at her apartment building. Since news of her arrest had never broken, he’d figured the time of death had fallen somewhere in the hours she’d been with him.
“Cleared?” Again that non-smile. “I wouldn’t go that far. I think I’m just a bit less guilty than I first appeared. Other than the knife in my hand, they couldn’t find any trace evidence on me. No blood on me—his or mine. The knot on the back of my head that I could have inflicted only if I’d suddenly became a contortionist.” She shrugged, a faint frown darkening her brow before she focused on him again. “And then, of course, the time of death. The medical examiner recorded it as between nine thirty and twelve thirty. You confirmed my alibi. Thank you,” she murmured. “I meant to…well, just thank you.”
Anger and lust boxed for dominance inside him. No, she’d never thanked him. Not in the hall of the police station and not with a phone call afterward. But then again, what would that apology have sounded like? Thank you for fucking me for over five hours, or else I wouldn’t have had a solid alibi. He smirked. Yeah, he’d pay good money to hear those words on her oh-so-genteel lips.
/> “The papers said you claim to have no memory of what happened. Is that true?”
Her lashes lowered, her teeth sinking into the plush curve of her bottom lip. He’d licked her right there where the skin became tender, slick, and wet.
“Yes, it’s true. The doctors believe my memory may return at some point, but they can’t say when or for certain. As of now, it’s a huge black hole.”
Interesting. “Go on about the letters.”
“They continued to arrive, and I finally notified the police. They collected the ones I kept but they really couldn’t—can’t—do anything.”
“Their hands are pretty tied with what they can do. If no threats were made in the letters—just names—all they can do is file a report, because they would consider it harassment,” he explained. “Do you still have a couple?”
“Yes, I have the two from last week.”
“Good,” he murmured, his mind already turning over options. The police were constrained not just by the law but by budget, time, and resources. An anonymous letter wouldn’t rank very high in importance when compared with a murder, rape, or assault. But Rafe could send them to a private forensic laboratory his firm occasionally used and see if the technician could find prints, saliva, or any evidence on the letter or envelope. “Have the letters been the only form of contact? Anything else?”
“Yes. Until today. I figured before now the person sending the letters was some disgruntled, bitter fanatic with time on their hands and a grudge against people they considered ‘rich.’ But after this morning…” She crossed her arms, and the defensive gesture wasn’t lost on him. Her folded arms covered her midsection where the baby slept. He gritted his teeth against the wave of protectiveness that surged within him. “When I left for my doctor’s appointment this morning, my car had been broken into. The side window was shattered, my tires slashed, and on the driver’s seat was another letter and a d-doll,” she stuttered. “The eyes had been removed, the lips blackened with what looked like a black marker, and the body torn open.”
Horror and shock punched a hole in his gut. A hot, blazing anger quickly filled it up like lava gushing up a volcano and pouring over the lip. He shot to his feet and stalked away from his desk, dragging his fingers through his hair. Son of a bitch. Son. Of. A. Bitch. A mutilated doll, for chrissake. Who would do something so—so sick? This was more than an intimidating letter; this was a direct threat against not only Greer but her baby. An innocent baby.
“Did you call the police?” he rapped out.
“Immediately. They took our statements, pictures, filed a report, and bagged the doll for evidence. They said they’ll open an investigation and have the patrol cars in the area drive by our house as well as do a few walk-throughs. But I don’t hold out hope they’ll find anything.”
She was right to be concerned. With the vandalism of her car, the harassment would have escalated to criminal mischief, and the police could do a little more, but not much. The officers in that sector would pay special attention to the area, circle the house a few times on foot, maybe take down the license plate numbers of the vehicles in the area. Hell, serial killer David Berkowitz was eventually caught as the result of parking tickets, so the routine wasn’t pointless or just lip service to calm her. But they would only keep it up for a week or so, and the person behind the letters and the latest, more personal act seemed patient. Four months he’d been pursuing Greer. What was a week’s time-out?
“Does your brother’s building have a security camera?”
“Yes, but my car was parked farther down the block from his home.”
“Which this person knew.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, swore softly. “We can install cameras in the windows of his house that face farther down the street as well as in his and your car. It’s a long shot, but if this bastard comes back, maybe we can catch an image.”
“Whoever this is—he knows where I’ve been staying, maybe even my movements. Raphael,” she murmured. “I know I’m the very last person you expected to see or probably want to see. But…” She paused, and for the first time a tremor entered her voice, betraying her fear. “I’m scared. And I don’t know who else to turn to. The police can only do so much, and I could hire someone for protection, but I don’t…trust as easily as I have in the past. I don’t trust that whoever I hired wouldn’t leak what’s going on with the letters and threats to the press. Paranoid? Yes. But I’ve just gotten my life back…” She shook her head. “We don’t know each other that well, but you’ve stood up for me—protected me—in the past. I hoped… I’m asking a lot of you, I know.”
No, she had no clue what she was asking of him. She couldn’t begin to fathom how her presence—who she was, the news of a pregnancy, claiming he was the father—was dragging him back into an abyss he’d barely managed to crawl out of the first time.
“Rafe, don’t get me wrong. We had a lot of fun. But you’re not marriage material, much less father material.”
The incredulous words replayed in his head on a vicious loop. He could recall the disdain and pity—fucking pity—in that soft, cultured voice as if he’d heard them seven minutes ago instead of seven years.
He’d been deceived, played for a fool, then left shattered as he stood helpless, watching his joy—his fucking heart—stride out the door. And he’d paid one hell of a price. His soul couldn’t afford to pay the cost again. He couldn’t endure it again. He refused to do it again.
Yet, damn it, he couldn’t just walk away. Not with the very real threat to her looming in the darkness. Without knowing how serious the danger behind the letters and mutilated doll was, he couldn’t throw her to the wolves. Or an inept security agency. Besides, as much as he resented it, he was personally invested. He’d been inside her body, kissed her, pleasured her. Held her while she trembled in orgasm. He wasn’t that much of an asshole to abandon her now. Especially if there was a chance…
No! Not going down that road.
Shit. The need to strangle the breath from the person responsible for the threats bombarded him. Hell if he could decide whether the desire to hurt and maim stemmed from the cowardly stalking or the clusterfuck the bastard had brought into his life. Growling a curse under his breath, he retraced his steps and dropped into his desk chair.
“You’re going to be okay. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or your baby. I promise.”
He caught her slight flinch before she controlled it. Wondered if she recoiled because of his deliberate attempt to distance himself from her and the child she claimed was his. Hurt she would’ve most likely denied flashed in her eyes before they, too, cleared of all emotion.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Another reason why I came to you? You’re the scariest person I know.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Baby, you’ll turn my head with such flattery.”
She snorted, but relief softened her features, edging out the traces of fear and weariness. Her mouth eased into a small half smile.
Fuck.
There went that indigestion again.
Chapter Seven
For the first time since Greer had woken up next to a dead body with a gaping hole in her memory months earlier, safety wasn’t a distant memory but a real possibility. Relief flooded her, and if she hadn’t already been sitting down in Raphael’s office chair, her knees would’ve weakened, taking her to the floor.
Thank God for small favors, because the last thing she wanted was to embarrass herself in front of him. Not that strolling into his office after not having any contact with him in months and announcing she was carrying his baby had been a proud moment. More like one of the more humiliating in her life. And considering all she’d suffered since the December night she’d found her ex-fiancé stabbed to death on the floor of her apartment, that was a pretty high bar.
Not that he believed her.
Damn, she hadn’t expected that. Or the pain his skepticism inflicted. “…it seems more likely he would be the father than
me.” “I’m not going to let anything happen to you or your baby.” “I used protection, Greer.”
Hell, she knew that; she remembered. She could recall every detail about that night with obsessive clarity. When she didn’t jerk awake from nightmarish images that eluded her like tendrils of smoke as soon as she woke, she tossed and turned from the hot, erotic memories of a night filled with tangled limbs, sweat-slicked bodies, soft moans, and harsh cries. The events of that early December morning may be lost to her, but not the hours before it. Not the man who’d introduced her to a devastating, shattering pleasure she still hadn’t recovered from.
Nor could she forget or run away from the results of her one selfish, reckless act.
She hadn’t been lying about the six-month period of abstinence and rededication so she and Gavin could have a true wedding night. She didn’t lie, period.
After a lifetime of observing her father perjure himself to score the next big client or loan, witnessing her mother delude herself into believing she had the perfect marriage, and watching her brother deny who he was to fit the rigid mold of an Addison, Greer had adopted a personal code of telling the truth.
Raphael couldn’t know that, though—he didn’t know her. A sexual one-night stand didn’t allow the time for getting-to-know-you conversation.
Even now she didn’t have time for him to become acquainted with her personality, quirks, and history. That time had come and gone when she’d discovered she was pregnant. And that someone wanted to harm her and her baby. Unconsciously, she curved a hand over the still-flat plane of her belly. She still woke up in the middle of the night scared, but so filled with wonder that another human slept inside her. Awe and love welled up in her chest, pressing against her rib cage until she believed she’d bust with the emotion that seemed uncontainable. It amazed her, this sudden, overwhelming love for a being that looked like an alien and, at seventeen weeks, was no bigger than an avocado, so her doctor said.