by Loree Lough
Mitch glanced at the wall clock. When he came downstairs earlier, he had promised to get Ciara out of the tub in ten minutes. Amazingly, he had three whole minutes to spare. Three minutes to calm down and get up there and pretend everything was hunky-dory.
“Sweet Jesus,” he prayed aloud, “give me strength.”
Chet Bradley was a bald-faced liar. A turncoat, possibly a burglar—since he’d picked the back lock to get into the house—and a killer. The pampered little rich boy had never wanted for anything in his life—the fact that he was Mitch’s boss without having had to pass the customary tests, was proof of that—so, was it any surprise that faced with temptation, he’d shown no self-control, snatching up bribe money with both hands? His whole life was a story of instant gratification…why should that change now?
In Mitch’s mind, men like Bradley were worse than the Pericolos of the world; at least folks knew where they stood with a guy like Giovanni. Bradley was repugnant, foul, lower than a gutter rat. He’d come to the house for the express purpose of murdering Mitch, to keep him from testifying against him at an interdepartmental hearing…or in a courtroom. If he’d had to take Ciara down first to get to Mitch, he’d have done it in a whipstitch.
He raised the book he’d been pretending to read, glanced over its pages at Ciara, who absentmindedly twirled a length of flaxen hair around her forefinger as, word by word, she filled in the blocks of her crossword. Suddenly she exhaled a sigh of vexation, pencil eraser bouncing on the puzzle. The feminine arch of her left brow increased, the gentle bow of her lips smoothed, dark lashes dusted her lightly freckled cheeks as she slid a dainty fingertip down a column of definitions in the dictionary.
She was, in his opinion, the loveliest woman on two feet. Pregnancy had only enhanced her beauty, filling out the sharp angles and planes of her girlish face in a womanly, sensual way.
Sensual enough to reach out to Bradley for physical comfort in her husband’s absence?
He remembered the things her mother had said, things that made it clear Bradley had spent countless hours in this house, alone with his wife. Mitch felt the heat of jealous fury rise in his cheeks, took a sip from the glass of the ice water, standing on a soapstone coaster beside him, hoping to cool his temper.
Is she the innocent young thing you married, or a passionate woman? She’s both, he admitted, the edge of his uncertainty sharpening.
Mitch now pressed a thumb to one temple, his fingertips to the other, effectively blocking her from view, and remembered their wedding night, how she’d stared up at him, willing him to hold her close with nothing more than the silent draw of her long-lashed crystalline eyes.
The moment he’d slipped his arms around her, he knew…knew he’d be with her till the end of his life. Mitch knew it now, too, even if he discovered that every one of his ugly suspicions were true.
He’d lived a rough, rugged life, and his women had been a reflection of that, because he’d had neither the time nor the inclination for love. Life was mean, and so he lived it that way. Tenderness? Compassion? A lot of romantic nonsense, in his opinion. Besides, what did a man like him, who had committed himself to spending his days dogging bad guys and dodging bullets, need with love? He couldn’t afford to fritter away even one precious moment, seeking something he believed he should not have.
And so he’d guarded his heart with extreme caution. Built a sturdy wall to protect himself. If he couldn’t accept love, why bother to give it? But Ciara had burrowed under that wall. Yes, life was mean…past tense. She had changed all that. He’d built a wall around his heart, all right, but he hadn’t built it nearly tall enough or strong enough, because he hadn’t counted on meeting a woman like Ciara….
When she laughed, her whole body got involved. And if something saddened those close to her, it was apparent to anyone with eyes that she felt the pain, too, all the way down to her size-five feet.
That night on the cruise ship, when she’d looked into his eyes, he realized that she saw him as the man he’d always wanted to be. No need for a fancy suit or a Boston education. No need for pretense or pretty words, not with Ciara!
She could read his moods by something as insignificant as a quirk of an eyebrow or the slant of his smile. Mitch strongly suspected she could read his mind, too, for on more than one occasion she’d spoken aloud the thoughts pinging around in his head.
She seemed to sense how alone he felt, despite the fact that he had three burly brothers and two sisters, parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. She had taken one look at his college graduation picture, crinkled her face with compassion and said, “Oh, Mitch, why do you look so sad?”
When his mother had seen the photo, she’d said, “Such a handsome boy, that youngest son of mine!” And his dad had agreed. “He’s got the Mahoney jaw, all right.” Why hadn’t the people he’d known all his life been able to see the quiet fear, the desperation burning in his eyes, yet Ciara, who’d known him mere weeks the first time she’d viewed the portrait, had spotted it right off?
Mitch had marveled at that, because until she’d pointed it out and followed it up by dispensing her unique brand of all-out love like warm soothing salve, he hadn’t admitted it!
Starting on their wedding night, without regard for her own needs and desires and fears, she gave what he needed. And in her tender, feminine embrace, he felt at once sheltered and exposed, strong and weak, manly and boylike.
And more alive than he’d ever felt in his life.
Doggone if she isn’t some kind of woman! he thought. Li’l thing whose head barely reaches your shoulders, becoming the biggest thing in your life….
Mitch had never felt any regret about leaving places or people when his cases ended, and it was time to move on. But Mitch knew if he ever had to leave Ciara, he’d miss her more than he would miss water.
The breath caught in his throat as he recalled the sensation of her slender fingers, weaving through his hair on the night the preacher made them man and wife. Her whisper-soft sighs had floated into his ears as she responded to his touch, and her heart—the same heart that had beat hard and angry when faced with life’s injustices—thumped wildly against his chest as he held her close.
The first time he’d said those three words on the cruise ship deck, he’d asked himself, Are you crazy? Shut up, man! Say whatever she wants to hear, but don’t say that! And he’d shrugged, thinking that when a man thought a thing a thousand times or more, wasn’t it just natural to say it out loud? He’d spent his whole adult life avoiding that phrase, words that, until Ciara, had been fearsome. Yet they’d linked together and rolled off his tongue so easily and naturally, all he could do was hope they’d spilled out quietly enough that she hadn’t heard them.
“What did you say?” she’d asked, her voice husky.
He couldn’t very well repeat it, now could he? It wouldn’t have been fair to either of them, since he knew full well he wouldn’t be seeing her once the trip ended, no matter how much he’d meant what he said.
Oh, how she’d moved him! She’d reached places in his heart and soul and mind that he would have bet his last dollar were impossible to reach…if they existed at all.
“What did you say?” was her quiet, honest question.
Mitch wouldn’t have hurt her for all the world. He’d rather die than cause her a moment’s pain. So he’d stood there, trying to conjure up a similar-sounding phrase that would answer her…painlessly. No matter what he said, he’d be hurt….
If she hadn’t branded him with that loving, longing look as she traced his lips with her fingertips right then, Mitch might have summoned the strength to pull it off. But that intimate, yet innocent, gesture was the final hammer stroke to the already crumbling wall he’d built around his heart.
He’d watched her with his nieces and nephews, doling out instructions and admonitions and compliments with equal care. He’d seen her minister to her elderly aunt, and to her parents, with a compassion he’d once believed reserved
only for God’s angels.
He had never let anyone see him cry. Not even the threat of dying in the trunk of a car had pushed him that far. But gazing into her eyes, seeing the purity of her love looking back at him, woke emotions long asleep. And once awakened, those feelings bubbled up and boiled over like a too-hot stew pot. He’d never wanted anything in his life more than he wanted her and her pure, unconditional love.
So he’d gathered her close, closer, whether to hide his tears from her or hide her from his tears, Mitch didn’t know, and rested his chin amid her mass of soft, pale curls. “I’d better get to my cabin,” he’d said, his voice gruff and hard from biting back a sob. And he’d walked away, just like that, without a backward glance or a by-your-leave.
And the night stretched on endlessly.
He’d exposed his most vulnerable self to her. How could he face her again, knowing she’d seen his weakness? Mitch fretted about it all through the night. Yearning, he understood, was an emotion born of experiencing perfection, and he wished he’d never begun this dangerous game of flirtation-turned-fondness-turned-love. Because he didn’t believe he deserved the devotion of one so fine, so pure, so innocent. Didn’t believe he’d earned the loyalty of a woman that fine.
He’d been like an animal these past years, like a mole, always seeking shadows as he moved from place to place in search of safety, in search of peace. Survival of the fittest, he’d heard, was the law of the land. Well, he’d survived top-secret cases, but to what end? To find safety and peace in Ciara’s arms, only to discover he didn’t deserve it? Far better never to have tasted fine wine at all than to have it snatched away, forcing him to live forever-more without even the smallest sip.
He had learned to accept the fact that, because of his career choice, he’d never have a family. A home. The love of a good woman. But could he learn to live without Ciara’s love, now that he’d tasted the sweetness of it?
A sob ached in his throat, and Mitch buried his face in the pages of his book. If she shared herself with him, he thought, gritting his teeth, even if it was because she was lonesome, and scared, I’ll—
“Mitch? What’s wrong?”
Like the angel she was, Ciara had read his heart. “Nothing,” he said, holding the book high, to hide his teary eyes.
“I’m cold,” she said, patting the mattress. “Would you hold me…get me warm?”
He put down his book, crossed the room in two strides and settled beside her. He buried his face in her neck and wrapped both arms around her, holding this fragile flower who had planted the seed of her love deep in his heart, as the wild rose vine plants its seed even in the craggiest outcropping of a snow-covered mountaintop. He would hold tight to perfection for as long as he could, so at least he’d have these moments to remember, in case she’d meant it when she told him to pack up and leave.
Placing a tiny hand on either side of his face, she brought him out of hiding. Tears shimmered in her eyes and glistened on her long, lush lashes when she said, “I love you, Mitch.” She pressed her lips to his, softly at first as she combed delicate fingers through his hair, more urgently then, as those dainty fingers clutched at his shoulders, his back, his neck, with a strength that belied her size and condition.
Oh, how he wanted her! Wanted her with every echo of his soul, with every beat of his heart. But he dared not want….
He’d seen film footage of the floods in the midwest the summer before, when the rivers rose and threatened to devour every building and barn, every mortal man or mammal for miles. The surging water’s awesome power humbled him as he watched it sluice through the streets, hissing like a giant turbid snake.
What emanated from Ciara, who felt so small and helpless in his arms, was far more powerful than the river’s rage. And though she didn’t know it—and certainly wouldn’t have intended it—she stirred more fear and apprehension in him than the roiling waterway.
Mitch had survived numerous near fatal experiences, but with nothing to live for or look forward to, death had no authority over him. Even Bradley, brandishing his loaded gun, hadn’t terrified him as much as this tiny woman in his arms. She loved him. He could see it in her eyes, in her smile. Could feel it in her touch, taste it in her kiss. And he loved her more than life itself. If she had succumbed to temptation, it had only been because he’d left her alone for so long….
He looked inside himself for the strength to turn away from the love so evident on her face, and rested his hands on her thickened waist.
They were strong hands. Hands that had not wavered, no matter how strenuous the task. And yet, when he put those work-hardened hands on this woman, they trembled, the way a crisp autumn leaf shivers at winter’s first icy blast.
He looked into her eyes, read the love there. Hesitantly he ran a hand down her back, and when he did, a rough callus caught on the finely woven fabric of her nightgown. He stopped, pulling abruptly away, embarrassed that his big clumsy hand had damaged the pretty gown.
Yet again she read his heart. “It’s all right,” she whispered.
But it wasn’t all right. Nothing would ever be all right, until he knew for certain whether she had betrayed her vows. Because he loved her like he’d never loved anyone, like he’d never known it was possible to love, and the moment he admitted it, Mitch was doomed.
She pressed his “offending” hand to her chest. “See? I’m nervous, too….”
He felt the wild thrumming of her heart, felt it vibrate through his palm, past his wrist and elbow, straight to the core of him. They were connected, for the moment, by hard-beating hearts, by desire that coursed from her into him.
In a move that stunned and surprised him, she boldly reached out and grabbed his shirt collar, drawing him near, her soft yet insistent kisses imprinting on his heart as surely as a cowboy’s branding iron sears the rancher’s brand to his cattle.
His mind whirled as a sweet, soft moan sang from deep within her, its music moving over him like wind ripples on a still pond, and he returned her kiss with equal ardor.
“Easy,” she sighed. “Easy….”
Misunderstanding her intent, Mitch immediately withdrew. Ciara read the hurt and humiliation burning in his eyes. “I said easy,” she smiled mischievously, “not stop.”
His left brow quirked and his lips slanted in a grin.
“You weren’t really cold, were you?”
Ciara shrugged. “Would I have said I was if I wasn’t?”
He nodded. “I think you would.”
Her fingertip traced his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his jaw. “Are you saying you think I’m dishonest?”
“Never intentionally,” he said.
Frowning, she gave him a crooked grin. “What does that mean?”
You’re a passionate woman, he told her mentally. You’re not the kind who can be left alone, to wilt and die without—
“Mitch,” she said, interrupting his reverie, “what’s going on in that head of yours? You’ve been acting strange all day. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I could ask you the same question, he thought. And then Bradley, the gun, the knowledge that the fool was out there somewhere, carrying a heated vengeance around in that sick, twisted mind of his, blotted out Mitch’s response.
She backed away to arm’s length, gave him a stern look. “I’m not a child, Mitch. If there’s something I should know…”
Mitch wasn’t about to upset the apple cart. Her blood count, the readouts Peterson had been getting by way of the monitor, everything had been going fine, up till now, and he intended to keep it that way. “I’m just worried about you,” he said truthfully, pulling her closer, resting his chin atop her head.
Worried that this baby is going to die, or kill you, and wouldn’t that be ironic if it isn’t even mine….
“Mitch?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you….”
He closed his eyes tight. Dear God in Heaven, give me strength…. “I love you, too, sweetie. I lo
ve you, too.”
Chapter Nine
The bright blue sky warmed the mourners who stood in a tight semicircle, heads bowed and hands folded, as sunlight glinted off the polished brass handles, pointing toward heaven like luminescent arrows. And Ciara, dry-eyed and tight-lipped, stared at the white enamel casket, trying to focus on the preacher’s powerful voice.
“And our time comes to an end like a sigh….” He closed his eyes, smiled serenely and began reciting from the Book of Job: “‘Thine hands have made me and fashioned me together roundabout; yet thou dost destroy me. Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay; wilt thou bring me into dust again?’” Closing the Holy Book, he bent down, scooped up a handful of freshly-dug dirt and sprinkled it into the hole. “‘You shall return to the ground,’” he quoted Genesis, “‘for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’”
Ciara wanted to shake a fist at the sky. Why, God? she wanted to shout. Don’t You have enough cherubim and seraphim? Did You have to take my baby boy…?
She had not cried over the death of her child, had not shed a single tear. Would tears bring him back to life? Would sobs revive him? Would the ache in her heart matter at all to the One Who had taken him?
Absentmindedly she kneaded her stomach, where so recently the infant had nestled in her nurturing womb, taking quiet comfort from her steadfast love. He had moved inside her, each strong jab and kick proof of his vitality and vigor.
In a flash, the bright blue sky turned blinding white, and Ciara was in the delivery room, perspiring and panting as the contractions contorted her face.
It’s all right, she told herself. The pain is only temporary. When this is over, you’ll have a beautiful baby boy….
She didn’t know how she knew it was a boy, but she knew.
She knew….
Soon, the doctor would lay him on her chest, kicking, crying, arms akimbo. She’d smooth back his wet hair, count teensy fingers and toes, inspect every tiny joint, every minuscule crevice, each contour and curve and line of his warm little body. She’d soothe and comfort him, and his small, hungry lips would seek nourishment from her milk-laden breast.