“Someone at Social Services must have the authority to give you a second chance,” Cowboy said. “Alex Parks is the one who should be thrown into the brig for this, not you.”
Andy wiped savagely at his tears. “What do you care? You’re going to leave town yourself in a few weeks!”
Cowboy didn’t know what to say. The kid was right. He wasn’t going to stay. He was a SEAL. His job pulled him all over the world. Even under the best of circumstances, he’d often be gone for weeks at a time. He glanced up, and Melody made a point of not meeting his gaze.
“I don’t know why you’re so hot to marry her,” Andy continued, gesturing with a thumb toward Melody, “when you’re only going to see her and the kid a few times a year. My father might’ve been a real jerk, but at least he didn’t pretend he was doing anything besides giving me his name when he married my mother.”
Melody stood up. “I think we’d better get going,” she said. “It’s getting late.”
“You know, Ted Shepherd’s got a thing for you,” Andy said to Melody.
“Andy, I changed the subject.” Melody’s voice sounded strained. “We need to go, and we need to stop talking about this now.”
Andy turned to Cowboy. “The guy she works for has the hots for her. You didn’t know that, did you? The guy’s got money, too. He could take care of her and the kid, no problem. Brittany told me he’s going to be governor some day. But as long as you’re around, she doesn’t stand a chance of getting anything started with him. And if you marry her—”
“Home, Andrew,” Melody said in that tone that she used when she had reached the absolute end of her rope. “Now.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“YOUR LAMAZE CLASS starts tonight.” Brittany was in the dining room, rifling through the sideboard drawers, searching for something. “Seven o’clock. At the hospital. In the West Lounge.”
Melody sank into a chair at the kitchen table, aware of Jones watching her from the other side of the room. Lamaze class. God. It was nearly six. She would barely have enough time to take a shower. “Britt, I’m beat. I’m just going to stay home.”
Brittany stopped her search long enough to poke her head through the door. “Abigail Cloutier has a waiting list a mile long for this class. If you don’t show up, she’ll fill your slot, and then you’ll be stuck waiting for the next session, which doesn’t start until next month. You’ll probably end up having your baby before you’re halfway through.” She disappeared again. “I made some pea soup—it’s on the stove. And there’s bread warming in the oven.”
“Wait a minute,” Melody said, sitting up straight. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
“Here’s my passport,” Brittany said triumphantly. She slammed the drawer shut and came into the kitchen, adjusting her hair. “I need it as a second form of ID.”
“You aren’t coming with me, are you?” Melody looked at her sister, fighting her panic. If Brittany didn’t come as her coach, then that left Melody going solo, or… She didn’t look at Jones. She refused to look at Jones.
But Britt was all dressed up, and it was obvious it wasn’t for Abigail Cloutier’s benefit. She was wearing a dark suit, complete with panty hose and her black heels that meant business. Her blond hair was pulled up into a French braid and she actually wore makeup.
“Sweetie, Social Services is intending to take Andy back to Boston tonight. I’ve been on the phone with Vince Romanella and at least twelve different social workers since Cowboy called this afternoon. There’s a meeting at six at the Romanellas’,” she told them, turning to look at Jones, who was silently leaning against the kitchen counter. “I expect it to drag on until quite late, so no, Mel, I can’t go to the Lamaze class with you tonight.”
“I’ll go,” Jones said. Melody closed her eyes.
Britt laughed. “I figured you’d be willing to volunteer as temporary coach.”
God, the last thing Melody wanted to do was sit with Jones in a room with a dozen other expectant, married couples. But that wasn’t the worst of it. She’d seen childbirth classes portrayed on TV, and all of them had demanded a certain amount of physical intimacy—touching at the very least—between the mother-to-be and her coach.
It was obviously all she could do to keep from throwing herself at Jones even under normal circumstances. Add any strong emotions into the churning pot of passion, and she would be on the verge of meltdown. Add a situation in which Jones would be forced to touch her, and she would be lost.
“Jones, you look even more exhausted than I feel,” Melody countered, knowing that no matter what she said, he wouldn’t quit. He didn’t know how to quit. He’d never quit before in his entire life.
He gave her a crooked smile. “Honey, is it going to be harder than diving to 175 feet?”
“No.” Melody realized that for the first time since he’d arrived in Appleton all those weeks ago, he was wearing a sweatshirt. She’d honestly thought he didn’t have one. Before today, she’d thought he wasn’t capable of feeling the cold.
“Well, there you go. As long as it doesn’t involve breathing a tank of mixed gas, it’ll be a—”
“Piece of cake,” Melody finished for him with a sigh. “Speak for yourself,” she muttered.
He straightened up, concern darkening his eyes. “Mel, if you’re really feeling too tired to go, I’ll go for you. I can take notes and tomorrow I can tell you everything you missed.”
He was serious. He looked a total mess, but he stood ready to help her however he could, and the effect was touching. She tried to look away. When it came to Jones, she shouldn’t be thinking words like “touching.”
But his chin glinted with golden brown stubble, and although he looked exhausted to the bone, and as if by all rights he should be sitting rather than standing, he looked…undeniably touchingly adorable. Melody couldn’t help but glance at him, and he mustered a tired smile. She knew him well enough to believe he would be ready and willing to run ten miles if it was asked of him. Twenty if she asked him.
Brittany pulled on her overcoat. Her purse was by the door, and she gathered it up. “If you’re not going to go, call Abby now,” her sister told her.
Melody closed her eyes. “I’m going to go.” With Jones. Oh, God. The feeling that gripped her was more than pure dread. In fact, the dread was laced with stomach-flipping, roller-coaster-style excitement.
Brittany opened the door, but as a seeming afterthought, she turned back. “Oh, just so you know, I’m planning to begin the preliminary paperwork tonight to adopt Andy.”
Melody nearly fell out of her chair. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I can’t believe you’re serious.”
Britt bristled. “If you can be a single mother, then I can, too. And it’s not as if we don’t have four empty bedrooms in this house.”
Melody shook her head. “I’m not criticizing you,” she told her sister. “I’m just…amazed. A few weeks ago, Andy’s name was interchangeable with Satan’s.”
“Well, yes, but that was before I got to know him.”
“Britt, you don’t really know Andy Marshall,” Melody countered. “I mean, you might think you do, but—”
“I know all that I need to know,” Brittany said quietly. “I know that right now the one thing that boy needs more than anything in the world is someone who loves him and wants him, truly wants him. I know he’s not perfect. I know he’s going to give me headaches over things I can’t even imagine, but I don’t care. I don’t care! Because you know what? The thought of my life without that kid around…well, it just feels cold—like spring will never come again. I’ve thought about it long and hard. I honestly want him, Mel.”
“It’s not going to be that easy to cut through the red tape,” Melody cautioned. “A single woman trying to adopt a kid who’s a known troublemaker… I can imagine Social Services deciding that he’s going to need a strong father figure and turning you down.”
“Even if it doesn’t work out,
” Brittany told her, “at least Andy will know that someone wanted him. At least I can give him that much.”
Melody stood up and gave her sister a hug. “You go and fight for him,” she whispered, blinking back tears.
And then Brittany was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen with Jones. Jones and his stormy green eyes…
“I better shower and change if we’re going out,” he said.
She nodded. “I have to, too.”
“Are you certain you just don’t want to let me go?” he asked.
Melody was certain of nothing anymore. “The class is only an hour and a half,” she told him. “It’ll be over before we know it.”
She hoped.
JONES WAS HELPING himself to a cup of coffee as Melody returned from the ladies’ room. Abby Cloutier, the Lamaze instructor, had called a ten-minute washroom break—a definite necessity for a class filled with hugely pregnant women.
So far, they’d sat on folding chairs in a darkened room and watched a movie that focused on giving birth. She’d barely been able to pay attention with Jones sitting so close to her. Having him here was a thorough distraction. He smelled good and looked even better.
But he hadn’t had to touch her.
Not yet.
Jones was smiling as he listened to another man talk. He was standing in a group of about five men, most of whom were helping themselves to cookies from the snack table. He’d broken out his Dockers and polo shirt for the occasion, and with his hair neatly pulled back into a pony tail at the nape of his neck, and his chin freshly shaven, he looked impossibly handsome. But even though he was dressed nearly the same as the other men, he stood out in the crowd. He might as well have been wearing his dress whites.
“Is that your Navy SEAL?” a voice behind Melody asked. She turned to see Janette Dennison, one of Brittany’s high school friends who was pregnant with her fourth child. Janette peered across the room at Jones. “Dear Lord, he’s bigger than Hank Forsythe!”
Hank owned the local gym. His wife, Sandy, was pregnant with their first. “Jones is taller,” Melody pointed out.
“Your Lieutenant Jones is more than taller,” Janette countered. “Your Lieutenant Jones is…beyond description, Mel. Haven’t you noticed every single woman in this place looking at you as if you’ve won the lottery?” Melody had noticed. But she was well aware that everyone’s envy would fade rapidly as soon they were told exactly what a U.S. Navy SEAL did for a living. She’d heard several women complaining in the ladies’ room about husbands who had to fly to Boulder or Los Angeles or Seattle on business and were gone for days, sometimes even weeks, at a time.
They didn’t know how lucky they were. Their husbands weren’t going to be parachuting out of airplanes or helocasting—jumping from low-flying helicopters into the ocean below—as they inserted into enemy territory. Their husbands carried briefcases, not submachine guns. Their work didn’t expose them to physical dangers. Their husbands would always be returning safe and sound. There was no chance of their being brought back home strapped to some medic’s stretcher, bleeding from gunshot wounds, or—worse yet—zipped inside a body bag.
“Did he really rescue you from that embassy where you were being held hostage?” Janette asked. “That is so romantic.”
Melody smiled. But Janette was wrong. Yes, Jones had saved her life. But he’d saved Chris Sterling’s and Kurt Matthews’s lives, as well. He would’ve saved anyone’s life. It wasn’t personal—it was his job. And because of that, the fact that he’d saved her wasn’t particularly romantic. What Melody found truly romantic was the image of Jones, up on a step stool in the baby’s nursery, hanging curtains patterned with brightly colored bunnies and teddy bears.
Romantic was the wondrous look in his eyes that she’d seen when he’d touched her and felt their baby move.
Romantic was Jones, driving home from New Hampshire after they’d found Andy, furtively wiping tears of relief from his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Romantic was the way he could gaze at her from across the room—the way he was gazing at her right now—as if she were the most beautiful, most desirable woman on the entire planet. His eyelids were slightly lowered, and the intensity of the expression on his face would be a little frightening if not for the small smile playing around the corners of his lips.
She’d seen that smile before. In Paris. And she knew for a fact that Jones had the ability and the wherewithal to make everything that little smile promised come true.
She turned away, her cheeks heating with a blush. She didn’t want this man, she reminded herself. She didn’t love him. God help her, she didn’t want to love him….
“Gentlemen,” Abby Cloutier announced, “grab a floor mat and some pillows and find your ladies. We’re going to do some simple breathing and relaxation exercises to get you started.”
Across the room, Jones waited patiently for a chance to take a mat from the pile. As if he felt Melody watching him, he looked up at her again and smiled. It was a tentative, apologetic smile, as if he knew what was coming and how much the thought of his touching her scared her.
Scared her and exhilarated her.
“Gentlemen, sit down on the mat and use your bodies and the pillows to make as comfortable a nest as you possibly can for your ladies,” Abby continued.
Jones set the mat and the pillows toward the back of the room, giving them what little privacy he could. No doubt he was well aware of the curious glances they’d been receiving all evening long. Appleton was a fairly conservative community, and they were the only unmarried pair in the group—although a few of the younger couples looked as if there had been a shotgun present at their nuptials.
He sat down, imitating their classmates as he spread his long legs for her to sit nestled against him, as if they were riding a toboggan.
Knowing it would be far worse if she hesitated and stood there gaping at him like some landed fish, Melody lowered herself to the mat. At least this way, she would keep her back to him. At least this way, he wouldn’t see the blush that was heating her cheeks. At least this way, she wouldn’t have to gaze into his eyes or watch his lips curve up into one of his smiles. At least this way, she wouldn’t be tempted to do something foolish, such as kiss him.
She gingerly inched her way back, bumping against the inside of his knee. “Oh, I’m sorry!”
“That’s all right, honey. Keep coming on back.”
She didn’t dare look at him. “Are you sure? It’s a little warm in here, and I’m not exactly a lightweight these days.”
“Mel. You’re supposed to lean against me. How’re you going to relax if you’re not leaning back?”
How was she supposed to relax, leaning back against this outrageously sexy man’s solid chest, her legs against the inside of his thighs?
“Come on,” he whispered. “I promise it won’t be that bad.”
Bad wasn’t what she was afraid of. She was afraid it was going to be irresistibly good.
“Get comfortable, ladies,” Abby ordered.
Melody inched farther back, closing her eyes as Jones took control and pulled her in close. Too close. He put his arms around her, the palms of his hands against her belly, and she felt both impossibly safe and in terrible peril. She felt his breath, soft against her ear. She felt his heart beating against her back. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to sit there with him like this. Forever.
And that was absolutely the wrong thing to be thinking.
“This makes me really uncomfortable,” she whispered. It was both a lie and the understatement of the year.
“Sorry—I’m sorry.” He removed his hands but then didn’t know quite where to put them.
God, now she’d gone and made him tense, too.
Abby’s voice was just a drone in the background. She was saying something about breathing, about the importance of taking a deep cleansing breath before and after contractions. Melody inhaled deeply through her nose, releasi
ng her breath through her mouth, along with the rest of the class.
She tried her best to follow the breathing exercises but knew without a doubt that she was retaining absolutely nothing. Come tomorrow morning, she would remember none of this—except for the way Jones smelled, and the warmth of his body pressed against her, and…
“…back rub while she’s doing this.” Abby’s voice cut into her thoughts. “Come on, guys, make her feel good.”
“At last,” Jones said, trying to make light of it. “I’m finally going to get a chance to give you a back rub.”
Melody closed her eyes. There was nothing even remotely funny here. She remembered his back rubs far too well. They had involved a great deal more of both of their anatomies than simply her back and his hands.
She felt him move aside the mass of her long hair, felt his hands touch her shoulders, his fingers gently massaging the too tense muscles in her upper back and neck. She tried to focus on her breathing, but with him touching her that way, she could barely get a breath in, let alone push one out.
“Tell her how wonderfully she’s doing, gentlemen,” Abby urged. “Tell her how beautiful she is. Tell her how much you love her. Don’t hold back. Practice letting her know. When she’s in labor, she’s going to need to hear all these little things you take for granted.”
“Don’t you dare say anything,” Melody said from between clenched teeth.
His husky laughter moved the hair next to her ear. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m supposed to be relaxing you, not getting you more tense. I know you pretty well by now, Mel—enough to know that when you look into a mirror, you don’t see what I see. I happen to think you’re crazy, but this is not the time to debate the issue.”
“…called effleurage,” Abby was saying. “It’s a French word, meaning to stroke or lightly massage. Gentlemen, when your lady is in labor, it may comfort her to stroke her abdomen very lightly in a circular motion. Ladies, let him know the right amount of pressure. Tell him what feels good. Don’t be shy.”
Tall, Dark and Dangerous Vol 1: Tall, Dark and FearlessTall, Dark and Devastating Page 97