INTERRUPTED LULLABY

by Valery Parv

  He shrugged. "Same thing. Besides, in my experience, we only ever needed one."

  She spun the trowel down so it lodged in the dirt like a thrown knife. "One was fine when we shared it." She made her tone remind him that things were different now.

  He looked at the cottage perched on its isolated headland. "A place this size ought to have at least two bedrooms. A spectacular view, too."

  "From almost every room." She welcomed the change in subject. Seeing him in what she already considered her private retreat was disturbing enough without discussing bedrooms.

  Right away, she knew she was going to let him stay if he wanted to. Not used to seeing him anything but self-possessed and bursting with energy, she was disturbed by how exhausted he looked. This story had taken a lot out of him, she saw, and wondered if it was the reason she couldn't bring herself to send him away, or if there was another one she wasn't sharing with herself.

  She pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, suspecting she left a trail of dirt. From the way Zeke's gaze locked on to her, she couldn't look too unattractive. She felt warm inside suddenly and couldn't quite convince herself it was from exertion. "You may as well come in and see the rest of the house."

  Tension gripped her as she watched him stride to the rental car and heft an overnight bag out of the back seat. So it was to be as simple—and complicated—as that. Only when they were inside the open-plan living room, and Zeke was admiring the view, did it occur to her that he might have another reason for arriving unannounced.

  Recalling his phone call, she felt a frown start. "Did your private investigator dig up something to make you worry about my safety?"

  He gave a not-too-convincing shake of his head. "He turned up some worrying facts, but we don't have the whole picture yet. One of the hospital staff allegedly involved in the baby farming racket turns out to have a history of psychiatric problems. There's more. Bill found out that the person leaving the flowers on our baby's memorial is a woman who gave birth on the same night you did."

  She felt the small hairs lift on the back of her neck. "Do I know her?"

  "Her name is Jenny Fine."

  The room spun crazily until Tara gripped the back of a chair. "I remember her. Dear heaven, what's going on here?" She couldn't bring herself to put into words the hope tearing through her against all common sense. What if…

  "We don't know what it means. Probably nothing." His words throttled off the hope before it bloomed too wildly. "Until we turn up enough evidence to hold up in court, I don't want to take any chances."

  She masked her disappointment with anger. "So you decided to baby-sit me. Thanks, but I can take care of myself."

  "I know you can, against most things. But we're dealing with someone who senses they're under suspicion, and who has a history of mental instability."

  "Why would Jenny take flowers to the park? Her baby was perfectly healthy."

  He pushed aside the sheer fabric curtaining the French doors, and filled his lungs with bracing air, speaking over his shoulder, "That's what I want Bill Ellison to find out. It could be that she remembers you and wants to show she cares about your loss."

  "We weren't that close. I had too many things on my mind." Such as the agonizing awareness that she was having Zeke's child and he wasn't there to share it with her. Afterward she had been moved to a private room on another floor, away from the distressing sight of the mothers and babies in the maternity ward. As far as she knew, she hadn't seen or spoken to Jenny Fine again.

  "But you did make her acquaintance?"

  Tara put a hand to her head, sifting through memories that were mercifully foggy. "I—yes, I did. It was a terrible night because there was a huge traffic accident that brought the city almost to a standstill. Many of the staff couldn't get to the hospital so everyone was working double shifts. When Jenny Fine and I checked in we discovered that both our doctors had been delayed. We talked about how lucky we were to have reached the hospital safely, without getting caught up in the accident, although we were both nervous about having to manage with just the midwives." She frowned. "She tried to reassure me by telling me she was related to one of the midwives working an extra shift that night."

  Her sister, thought Zeke, linking the comment to what he already knew. "I got that from Bill," he confirmed. "He was the one who dug up the psychiatric record."

  "I'm surprised they'd let someone like that work at a hospital."

  Zeke's shoulders lifted. "The hospital might not have known, if it was covered up or the job application falsified."

  She shuddered. "Do you think it means anything?"

  "Possibly not, but Bill's on top of it. He'll tell us if there's anything to worry about."

  "You must think there might be, or you wouldn't be here."

  He debated whether to tell her that his motivation was nothing more laudable than good old-fashioned jealousy and decided she might throw him out on his ear, so he said instead, "You made the island sound inviting so when Bill offered to mind Mungo, I decided to see the place for myself. If you really don't want me here, I can go to a hotel." He was gambling a lot on the remnants of their relationship, he knew. Uncertainty gripped him as she took longer to consider his offer than he liked.

  "I should let you," she said after an uncomfortably long interval. "This isn't likely to be good for either of us."

  "Can't two friends share a house without it getting complicated?"

  She couldn't share anything with Zeke without it getting complicated, Tara thought unhappily. It would serve him right if she let him go to a hotel. But the tense set of his shoulders and the strain she saw around his eyes undermined her resolve.

  He hadn't talked much about the story lately, but it wasn't hard to imagine the strain of dealing with stolen babies, desperate parents, and even more desperate people trying to hang on to children they had acquired by criminal means. So much emotional baggage would overload anyone's resources, even a man as resilient as Zeke. Then there was the loss of their own child. His current assignment would be a constant reminder of what might have been. She couldn't find it in her heart to send him away. "Forget the hotel. I'll make up another room."

  He followed her along the hallway. "I can do it, if you show me where things are."

  "I'm only just finding everything myself." She half wished he would return to the living room but he dogged her footsteps as she retrieved another set of bed linen from the well-stocked shelves. He took them from her and she added a blanket and pillow until only his eyes were visible above the pile. The expression in them unnerved her. The scene was so cozily domestic that she had to remind herself that it didn't mean anything.

  "That's my room," she said as he fumbled open a door around the pile of bed linen in his arms.

  The look in his eyes asked why they were making up another bed, but she pulled the door resolutely closed and continued to the next bedroom. Belatedly she recalled that it shared a bathroom with her room, and started to close the door on that one, too.

  He blocked the opening with a foot. "What's wrong with this one?"

  Since he didn't know about the bathroom, the room could only interest him because it was next to hers, she thought on a surge of anxiety. What on earth made her think they could share a house on any sort of platonic basis?

  She imagined lying awake listening to the small sounds he made getting ready for bed, knowing every move he made as well as she knew her own. Did he still sort his loose change into neat stacks? she wondered. She had pointed out that he only jumbled it all together again in his pocket in the morning, but he insisted it was part of his bedtime ritual.

  "The room at the end of the hall is larger, with its own bathroom," she said, hearing panic clog her voice.

  His slight smile suggested she'd been read like a book. "This will do fine. I won't be spending a lot of time in here."

  Her hand froze on the doorknob and her gaze flew to his face, but his eyes gave nothing away. "You'll be spending the night in h
ere," she said under her breath. It was the only logical solution. She only wished it felt less disquieting.

  To his credit he let the subject drop but didn't remove his foot. She had little choice but to lead the way into the room and start the bed-making ritual. He moved to the far side of the bed and helped her as if he'd done this with her hundreds of times.

  As he helped her, Zeke tried to make his inquiry casual, "When are you meeting this old friend of yours, Marshal Ryan?"

  "Ryan Marshal, and I'm having dinner at his house tonight," she corrected. She saw the sudden narrowing in his gaze and wondered at the source of it. "His parents live on the island. We've known one another since we were children. When my grandparents died, he was away at university so I haven't seen him in years."

  He watched her toss the blanket over the bed. It landed evenly spaced on all sides, with the satin bound top edge just touching the padded headboard. How did women do that? She bent to tuck the sides in and he felt a sheen of perspiration start at the glimpse the movement afforded him of the deep cleft between her breasts. She wore a low-cut white top that fit like a second skin, tucked into olive-green cargo shorts and he thought she looked as beautiful as he had ever seen her.

  Her movements made the mundane chore look so fluid and graceful that he ached with wanting her. Her skin glowed from her outdoor activities and she had dark patches on her knees where she'd been kneeling on the ground. He couldn't remember when she'd looked more gorgeous. It didn't please him to remember that she had other priorities. "He didn't waste much time inviting you to dinner," he said gruffly.

  "Along with his wife and child," she said with heavy emphasis. "It's a friendly invitation, not a romantic assignation. Ryan was more like a brother to me than anything else."

  News of a wife and child changed things somewhat. He could already feel some of his tension ebbing and decided he might like this Ryan Marshal, after all. "I didn't think it was romantic," he said with less-than-total conviction, because he had thought so. "What you do is your own affair, Tara."

  She straightened and pushed a lock of hair off her forehead, revealing a smudge of dirt. He wanted to kiss it away but made himself keep the width of the bed between them, not sure he'd be able to stop at a kiss.

  "I'm glad we agree on something." With a pillow halfway into a case, she paused. Her voice dropped to a husky register that made a hard fist close around his heart. "Why did you come?"

  He debated continuing his white-knight impersonation then thought, to hell with it. "I am concerned about what Bill might discover. I didn't make that up. But it wasn't enough to get me on a plane. I'm sure you're perfectly safe here." He took a deep breath. "I came because I couldn't stay away."

  It was what she both wanted and feared. "You still haven't said why."

  His look turned savage but she suspected it was directed at himself. "Do you need it spelled out?" At her nod, he spread his hands, palms upward. "Very well, I want you, Tara. Knowing you were here, I couldn't think, couldn't write."

  "Because of Ryan Marshal?"

  "I didn't like to think of you spending time with another man," he admitted.

  "I told you he's an old friend."

  "And carefully left out the part about a wife and child," he observed. "Why would you do that?"

  She didn't like to think it was to bring him running, but perhaps it had been an unconscious decision. "It wasn't deliberate," she said in her own defense.

  "But you did want me to come?"

  She fiddled with the corners of the pillow, smoothing an already-smooth cover, not able to meet his eyes. "All right, I hoped you would."

  "I'm here. Now what?"

  Did she have to say it? Very well, she would. "I've tried to tell myself we're better off apart but it isn't working for me, either." She had never felt more miserable.

  She saw him read the fact in her expression and nod as if at a truth he recognized in himself. "Do you want to try again?"

  "I want…" She let the pillow slide to the bed and raked her fingers through her hair. "I have no idea what I want."

  "Perhaps I can clarify things a little." Unable to hold back a moment longer, he came around to her side of the bed and took her into his arms.

  Still she wasn't sure it was the right thing to do, no matter how right it felt. "I'm all dirty," she protested.

  He took a grimy hand and lifted it to his lips, his eyes sparking a challenge at her as he kissed each finger in turn.

  "Mmm, tastes earthy. I like it." He turned her hand over and frowned at the scratch from the rose. A shiver took her as he ran his tongue along the injury. "I see I got here just in time to tend your wounds."

  "It's nothing," she said, but every nerve in her body argued the opposite as she suspected that the wounds he meant to tend were not physical. Anticipation rocked through her and her knees buckled.

  He shook his head. "I disagree. Lie down while I make sure you have no other injuries."

  "I don't," she said on a nervous laugh, but she let him ease her down on the bed, afraid she would fall down otherwise.

  Slipping her shoes off, he started at the ankle then slid a hand along her bare leg in the manner of a doctor checking for fractures, making a tut-tutting noise as he came to a slight graze on one knee. She hadn't grazed her knees since she was a child. She felt anything but childlike as his hand skimmed higher up her legs. He sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her into his arms.

  There was nothing tender about his kiss. It spoke of hunger, of need, of desperation, and she answered out of her own need, fastening her mouth to his and catching his inside lip between her teeth.

  He groaned softly and used his tongue to edge her lips apart, exploring, touching, twining in a dance so sensuous that eddies of pure pleasure whipped through her. The need for him throbbed along every vein and desire flooded every part of her body, even the small injuries and the grime. How could she not love it when he loved it all, with his demanding mouth and his tantalizing touch?

  She knew her mention of dinner with Ryan Marshal had triggered this, but couldn't make herself care. Whoever said all was fair in love knew what they were talking about. Maybe she had wanted to make Zeke jealous enough to follow her. But now he was here, there was no room in her thoughts for anyone or anything else.

  How quickly everything came back to her. The small movements he made when she touched him, the noises he made when those same touches pushed him to the brink of reason. The power of her desire, and all the clever ways he knew to satisfy her.

  She felt weak and powerful all at the same time. Hot and cold. Wanting and needing, yet delaying the moment of satisfaction, because the wanting was itself so wonderful.

  Somewhere between his playfully clinical checkup and this magical moment, Zeke had undressed her and shed his own clothes. She wasn't sure when or how, being barely aware of anything except her joy at being in his arms again. Loving her. She was almost afraid to think it but it stole into her mind, threatening to dull the edge of her pleasure. She pushed it away but the doubts persisted.

  He wasn't promising her forever. He had only agreed to help her discover what she wanted. Could this truly be enough? He retrieved a small packet from his wallet, opening it with his teeth. She felt gratified that he cared enough to protect her, but couldn't suppress a pang that there wouldn't be a baby, probably never again. Then he moved over her and eased himself carefully into her, and that was the end of conscious thought. His movements piled need upon need, sensation upon sensation. She felt the moment when his control reached its limit. Hers wasn't far behind and she reared up to meet him, her thoughts swallowed in a whirling vortex of passion that had her edging toward madness.

  As she surrendered to the mind-shattering peak at last, silver flashes of light danced across her vision and ripples of sensation gripped her like the aftershocks of an earthquake. A second or two later, Zeke's body also went rigid as the earthquake caught him, too. His fingers dug into her shoulders, then he shuddered an
d was still. "Dear, Tara. Every time. Every single time," he said in a rasping voice.

  She knew what he meant. Their lovemaking had a magic she had never known with anyone else. It thrilled her to hear him admit it was the same for him. He wasn't the only one capable of feeling jealous. Since he'd left, there had been times when she had wanted to transport herself to America and scratch his Lucy's eyes out. Telling herself it was illogical didn't help.

  Love wasn't logical.

  And it was love. She could not call it anything else. She had never stopping loving Zeke, even when he'd gone away and found someone else. Knowing it hadn't worked out helped a little, but it didn't matter, anyway. She loved him through thick and thin, right and wrong. "For better or for worse." The words intruded into her thoughts, forcing her to face the literal truth of them. No matter how Zeke felt or what he did, she could no more change her feelings than she could fly.

  Zeke braced himself on his arms and smiled down at her. "I must be a dead weight on top of you."

  She linked her arms around his neck and pulled him back down. "You feel just right."

  "Believe it or not, this wasn't meant to happen."

  "So why did you come? To admire the scenery?"

  He dropped butterfly kisses onto her nose and eyebrows. "From my viewpoint, it has a lot to recommend it."

  "Even though I'm a mess from gardening?"

  "You're a beautiful mess. I've never seen you like this before."

  She felt a blush start. "This is hardly our first time." The certainty with which he had pleasured her gave the lie to any such notion.

  He grinned, evidently sharing the thought. "I meant, so natural. Not a shred of makeup, skinned knees, black nails."

  She held a hand up, inspecting her fingernails over his shoulder. "They are not black."

  "Grimy, then. And you have a huge smudge of dirt on your forehead and weeds in your hair."

  Now she knew he was teasing her. "I do not have weeds in my hair."

  He pulled a tiny piece of grass out of her hair to show her, then kissed the offending mark. "Weed, singular then. And you do have a smudge."