Husband Found

by Martha Shields

  “It meant a lot to us, too. Seeing him make the game-winning hit was better than putting a hundred felons in jail.”

  Five-foot-seven with auburn hair, blue eyes and the figure of a model, Audra looked every inch the prosecuting attorney. The Jenkinses had to work on most Saturdays, but they loved Randy, and that was what counted in Emma’s book.

  “We’re not supposed to win, really. At this age, they’re supposed to play for fun. We’re supposed to make every effort to have a tie game, which we’ve done all season.” Emma smiled wryly. “But the team today looked as if they couldn’t have caught beach balls.”

  Audra shook her head as she stirred her soft drink with a straw. “It’s more than the other team being so bad. Randy tells me how much Rafe has been helping him and Gabe. Throwing to them, pitching. I can see how much Randy’s improved since the game I saw earlier in the season.”

  “Rafe plays with the boys every day when he’s in town. He loves it as much as they do, I think.”

  “He’s starting a magazine, right?”

  Emma told her about working on Southern Yesteryears, then Audra shared anecdotes about some of her cases. They didn’t talk much on a regular basis. Since they both had full-time jobs and families, they were always too busy for chitchat. But Emma enjoyed the times they did.

  When the group began breaking up, Arthur’s mother called for everyone’s attention.

  “I want to get a picture of the players,” Mrs. Cook announced. “Everyone line up on this wall with the coaches.”

  The kids ran, skipped or jumped to the wall where Mrs. Cook arranged them. Gabe pulled Rafe over. Rafe bent to say something to Gabe, who then ran over to get her.

  “That’s it,” Mrs. Cook said as she saw Emma coming. “Stand there on the left side of the kids, Emma. Rafe, you stand on the right. Gabe, why don’t you stand next to your father?”

  “Huh?” Gabe gaped at Mrs. Cook. “Rafe? He’s not my dad.”

  “Oh.” Arthur’s mom looked hard at the two of them. “Well, bless me. You’re the spittin’ image. Oh, well. Stand next to your coach, then.”

  Rafe met Emma’s eyes across the double row of kids. His thoughts were clear. He wanted to shout to the world that Gabe was his son.

  Emma knew she had to give in soon, but this certainly wasn’t the time or place. Gabe needed to be told in private.

  She tore her gaze away. She couldn’t even say what it was that held her back. Only that she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  But the way her son was looking thoughtfully at his father, it needed to be soon.

  “Hold still, everybody!” Mrs. Cook called. “Say cheese!”

  Emma stretched as she entered her bedroom, reveling in the luxury of having a room all to herself again.

  Without turning on the light, she wandered to the window overlooking the back of the house, the one directly across from Rafe’s apartment. The furniture was in exactly the same place it had been all her life, so she knew the way by heart.

  It had been a long day but a good one. After they’d left the pizza parlor, Rafe had taken her and Gabe to a movie, then to supper. When they finally got home, Gabe was so tired they barely got him bathed before he fell asleep.

  Emma hadn’t gotten a lick of work done today, but she didn’t care. Which was odd. Usually she counted the success of her days by how much she got done. She scheduled her hours closely, making certain she had enough to fill them, making certain she didn’t have enough time to think about how empty she felt inside.

  She hadn’t known that was what she was doing until Rafe came back into her life. She’d thought her life was full enough with the love she shared with Gabe and her mother. She’d refused to admit there’d been a gaping hole inside her that only one man could fill—that man being Rafe.

  Taking a whole day to play had been a good sign. It showed she didn’t feel empty anymore. She’d needed a day like today. She hadn’t known how much until she had it.

  Rafe knew. Whenever she’d mentioned getting back to clean the house, he’d whisked them off someplace else.

  Emma rubbed the fingers of one hand across her lips. They were still raw from thanking him. She hadn’t wanted to let him go tonight. She’d longed to follow him up to his apartment, fall with him onto his king-size bed and see if he could make her feel the way he used to make her feel—infinitely precious, boundlessly loved, every inch female.

  She hadn’t even suggested it. She still wasn’t ready to tell Gabe that Rafe was his father.

  She wanted to trust Rafe, but though she was ninety-nine percent sure he wasn’t going to be lured back to the newspaper, there was still a niggling doubt. Besides, how was she supposed to tell her son she’d lied to him all these years? How did one explain to a five-year-old the intricacies of a forbidden love, or the complex webs woven when you tried too hard to keep your place in society?

  She leaned her head against the windowpane and wondered which side of her would win—her sexual frustration or the long habits of distrust.

  As the glass cooled her skin, she suddenly noticed something odd about Rafe’s apartment. The lights weren’t on.

  She straightened. It had been at least five minutes since he’d left He should be there by now.

  Her heart accelerated. What if he’d fallen on the steps? He had to be as tired as she was, and with his injuries...

  She whirled and flew down the stairs. She cursed as she fumbled with the lock on the back door, but finally shoved it open and raced down the path. Relieved he wasn’t sprawled at the bottom of the steps, she bolted up them and threw open his unlocked door.

  “Rafe?”

  “What is it?” he asked in alarm.

  “Where are you?”

  “In here.”

  His voice led her into the office, where she saw him silhouetted against the light of the window, rising from the chair that had been turned to face outward.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “That’s what I came to ask you.” She stepped farther into the room. “Why haven’t you turned on a light? You aren’t sick, are you?”

  He uttered a muffled curse in Spanish, then said, “No.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He shook his head, but his voice sounded amused as he said, “I refuse to answer that on the grounds I might be arrested.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “What?”

  He sighed loudly and held out his hand. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

  She approached cautiously, uncertain of his mood. When she reached him, he drew her around to stand in front of him, facing the window.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered against her ear, “What do you see?”

  “The house?” she asked in confusion.

  “Specifically, your window.”

  “Yes. So?” Then her brow cleared, and the heart that had been calming down from the fear began to race for an entirely different reason. “You’ve been watching me.”

  “You caught me red-handed.” He chuckled. “Or should I say red-eyed? I’m a voyeur. I’ve watched you every night since you moved back upstairs. You undress in front of your closet, which is in my direct line of vision. You’ve never once closed your curtains.”

  She leaned back against his chest and felt his heart slamming against it. “I don’t ever close them. We haven’t had live-in servants since I was a little girl, and no one can see in my window.”

  “I can.” He nipped her earlobe. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wondered if that trellis will still hold my weight.”

  “All you have to do—” she curved an arm up and back to run her fingers through his hair “—is walk up the stairs.”

  With a feral growl, his arms tightened around her. “You’re frustrating the hell out of me.”

  A sensuous, deeply satisfied smile curved her lips. “Good. It’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

  He ran a line of kisses down her neck. “Witch.”

  She
chuckled and turned in his arms. He was hard everyplace they touched—from the neck she’d wound her arms around, to the steely grip holding her, to the muscled planes of his chest, to the bulge pressing into her stomach. “There’s only one cure.”

  “Then cure me. I can’t stand it any longer.” He lifted her to her toes and covered her mouth with his.

  Heat shot through her, spiking into every corner of her body. His kiss was hungry, bruising, but she pushed herself closer still, relishing the strength of his passion.

  When they touched, it was as if a broken circuit suddenly connected. The halves that were dead alone sprang to life, with an energy flowing between them as strong as the sun’s.

  His tongue probed, and she opened without hesitation. Her tongue joined his in the dance so closely imitating what they really craved. She moaned when his hands molded to the curves of her breasts. She arched against him, begging for more.

  With a curse, he yanked her T-shirt over her head. The cool air bathed her, but the goose bumps rippling across her skin were from the heat within, not the air-conditioning. Her bra quickly followed, and her nipples puckered in anticipation. It had been so long since she’d felt the heat of a man’s hand, the wet fire of his mouth. Way, way too long.

  “Damn.” His breath was a rough whisper. “You’re more beautiful than you were six years ago. How is that possible?”

  His hands traveled up her sides to gently cup her breasts. She moaned as skin met skin. Rafe echoed the sound.

  “You feel so good,” he whispered. “So incredibly soft and warm. And you taste—” he bent her back over his arm, and his mouth replaced his hands “—like the best aged whisky. Smooth and musky, but fiery going down.”

  Flames blazed from his touch, making Emma’s knees buckle, but she was held by the strong arm circling her hips.

  “You like this, don’t you?” His teeth gently pulled at her nipple. “I remember. God, I remember everything. This—” his tongue traced a blazing path up to her neck, where it probed the hollows of her ear “—drives you wild.”

  Wild enough to want all of him. Now. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. She wanted to rake her fingernails across his chest. She wanted to do to him what he was doing to her.

  Grabbing the tail of his long-sleeved shirt, she yanked it from his jeans, then reached for his collar. She had no intention of wasting time with buttons. Buttons took too damn long.

  She grasped the sides of his shirt and yanked it open. Buttons hit her naked flesh as they flew off. With a satisfied growl, she placed her hands on his chest, only to grab handfuls of undershirt.

  “You’re wearing too many clothes.” Finding the hem of the T-shirt, she worked her hands underneath.

  Encountering rough, ridged skin, she hesitated. “What’s this?”

  Suddenly her hands were seized in a steely grip, separating them.

  Rafe released a torrent of curses, in both Spanish and English. His body was taut, his face anguished. “I can’t do this.”

  If Emma could’ve, she would’ve slapped herself. “I know you’re scarred, Rafe. I forgot for a second. I’m sorry.”

  He released her hands, then walked around the chair, away from her. “Maybe you should go.”

  “And maybe I shouldn’t.” She followed, shivering at the abrupt loss of his heat. “It doesn’t matter, Rafe. Your scars don’t make a damn bit of difference to me.”

  He turned to face her, then uttered a strangled sound as his gaze fell to her naked breasts, which she made no attempt to hide.

  He tore his gaze away. “You haven’t seen them.”

  She reached to touch the scar on his face. A fist of iron stopped her. “Please, Rafe. Give me another chance.”

  “Isn’t what we have enough?” His hand squeezed her wrist so tightly she winced, and he released her. “We work together every day. We share a home, a family, an exciting new venture. Why do we have to share a bed?”

  “Because you want me as much as I want you.” She faced him squarely. “You’ve already admitted it.”

  Rafe plowed both hands back through his hair so hard she thought he’d tear every strand from his head. “I...just...can’t.”

  “Why?”

  He stared at her so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. Finally he said softly, “Because I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose the life I’ve found.”

  Her heart melted like chocolate under the hot Memphis sun. “You think I’m going to run away from a few scars?”

  “You wouldn’t be first. Even my mother cried every time she saw them. There’s a hell of a lot more than a few.”

  She wanted to howl at him, to pound on his chest, to demand to know how he could work her libido up to a frenzy, then deny her. But he’d already been hurt so much, she couldn’t hurt him anymore.

  If she hadn’t already known she loved him, she’d know it now.

  “It sounds like I’m not the only one who doesn’t know how to trust,” she told him.

  “Emma, I—”

  “It’s all right, querido. Of all people, I understand.” She took his hand in hers and rubbed the scar on the back of his hand against her cheek. “But I’m warning you, I’m not giving up. You should remember by now that I’m a very stubborn woman. I loved you despite my father’s wishes, and I didn’t desert you until I thought you were dead. I’m not going to desert you now. Somehow I’m going to convince you to trust me.”

  He turned his hand to caress her cheek, his expression one of awe mixed with misery. “How could I ever have been enough man to deserve a woman like you?”

  “You were an angel, Rafe. You’re still my angel. I just didn’t know how badly your wings had been broken.” She smiled, despite the tears brimming in her eyes. “I guess now I have to take a crash course on setting angel wings.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You got the Coca-Cola endorsement?” his mother said through the phone. “Oh, Rafe, that’s wonderful! Oops. I mean, David.”

  Rafe smiled ruefully at the disdainful note in his mother’s voice. She’d made no secret of the fact she disapproved of his name change. “It’s okay, Mom. Call me Rafe.”

  “Is that the name you’ll use in your magazine?”

  “No. Sorry. I already have a reputation as David, so I’ll stick to that for professional purposes.” He glanced up as Emma opened the door to his apartment. “But to my family, I’m Rafe.”

  Emma hesitated when she saw him on the phone. He waved her in.

  “I wish your father were here,” his mother said, her voice fading. He could just see her peering out the kitchen window, up the driveway. “He should be home any min—Oh, good. There he is now. Hold on. I’ll hurry him in.”

  The phone clunked as his mother laid it on the kitchen counter. Rafe smiled at Emma, who’d turned on the computer. “Finish cleaning up the kitchen?”

  Emma returned his smile crookedly. “Finally. Lasagna is good, but Momma sure does make a mess when she cooks it.”

  He shifted the phone from one ear to the other. “I offered to help.”

  “I know.” She sighed heavily. “But it’s easier to just go ahead and do it myself than to listen to Momma argue until you leave.”

  He chuckled. “Is Gabe home yet?”

  She shook her head as. she sat down in front of the computer. “He’s going to spend the night at Randy’s. There’s a Braves game on cable. He won’t be home till morning.”

  Rafe nodded, then stood and stretched. Blessing whoever invented the cordless phone, he walked over and bent to give Emma a kiss.

  With the breathless sigh he’d come to love, she leaned into him. She smiled languidly as he reluctantly straightened. Then, noticing what he held, she frowned. “Are you still on the phone?”

  “Yep.”

  “On hold, I take it? Who are you talking to?”

  He could hear the distant sound of his mother speaking excitedly to his father in Spanish. “My parents.”

  Emma went still
. “Have you told them about us?”

  “If I did, they’d be on the next plane to Memphis to meet their daughter-in-law and grandson. And since you haven’t told Gabe he has another set of grandparents...”

  With a wince, she looked away.

  Rafe felt guilty reminding her of her trust issues when he had his own problems in that area. He placed a hand on her shoulder and bent to place a quick kiss on her forehead. “I’m sor—”

  “David?” his father barked into the phone. “You still there?”

  Rafe straightened and heard his mother haughtily inform her husband that he preferred to be called Rafe. “Yes, Dad. I’m—”

  His father lifted him onto his shoulders. Rafe’s heart pounded at the height, but his father’s strong hands held him securely.

  “Rafe?”

  He shook his head, his heart pounding for real. A memory from his childhood. How...?

  Then he realized he still had his hand on Emma’s shoulder.

  “Bandito! Come here!” Rafe slapped his legs, urging a brown mutt with a white mask to leave his mother’s feet.

  “Rafe?” His father’s voice was louder this time.

  “I’m here, Dad.” Rafe pulled his hand from Emma’s shoulder so he could concentrate on talking.

  “You all right, son?”

  “I’m fine. I just...got distracted for a second. Sorry.”

  “Your mother’s been chattering on about you getting the Coca-Cola account.”

  Rafe spoke with his parents for another ten minutes, telling them about all he’d accomplished in the past week. As always, they were excited about his success and supportive of his plans.

  Emma worked at the computer as he talked. She seemed to relax as the minutes passed. Rafe wanted to touch her again, to see if the two snatches of childhood had been a fluke. But they were so distracting, and he needed to concentrate on what he was saying or his parents would worry.

  As he was about to hang up, however, he couldn’t resist. He again placed his hand on Emma’s shoulder.

  He heard his mother shriek, “¡Ay, Dios mío!”