Oh, Jesus save me. I’m in trouble. I AM that kind of girl. Who the hell am I kidding? Were Mark to climb into this tent right now, I’d jump him.
Annabelle rolled to her feet, grabbed her clothes and the bottle of aspirin from her purse, then headed for the privacy of the downstream pool she’d found the day before. When she returned washed and dressed ten minutes later, Mark had the tent down and packed away, the fire doused, and her breakfast sitting on top of a rock.
She had never felt this awkward. Not even on the morning after their wedding night when she’d awakened in his arms. That morning, he’d nuzzled her neck and spoken gentle words of reassurance. Made love to her again. Today, he didn’t speak. Barely even looked at her. Was he feeling as uncomfortable as she?
‘‘Hurry up, Monroe. Be damned if I’ll spend another night on this mountain.’’
Well.
Not uncomfortable, but unhappy. Apparently Callahan was no more thrilled about what transpired last night than she. She’d expected his familiar postsex grin. Face it. She’d wanted to see it. At least something about this whole ordeal could be normal, couldn’t it? Instead, he was acting like . . .
Someone who’d been used.
That took her aback. What did he have to be pissy about? He was a man! Men loved sex with no strings.
‘‘I’m ready,’’ she snapped back. ‘‘I’ll eat my breakfast while we hike.’’
‘‘Fine.’’
‘‘Fine.’’ Goody goody peppermint gumdrops fine.
He frowned down at the fresh bandage she’d put over her wound. ‘‘How is your arm? Do you need help with your pack?’’
‘‘It’s good. I’m good.’’ She would have died before she let the wince show on her face as she hefted the pack up onto her back. Actually, I’m a basket case.
She pondered the situation while she snacked on the delicious trout and a handful of trail mix and followed him downhill. What did he have to be cranky about, anyway? He got laid, didn’t he? Wasn’t that the bottom line for men?
Annabelle snarled at his back. Leave it to Mark Callahan to look at matters differently from the average guy.
She could live to be a hundred and she’d never figure him out, so why waste her time and brain cells trying? Better to spend a few hours attempting to discern what weakness of character made her susceptible to Mark Callahan in spite of all their baggage. That way if—God forbid—they ever spent another night alone together, she would be able to resist flinging off her jersey and jumping him.
Her mother would blame it on hormones. Of course, her mother blamed everything on hormones these days.
Yes, hormones were part of it. Heaven knew she’d been a walking hormone around Mark ever since that first night in Las Vegas, but Annabelle knew it was more complicated than that. Even though they’d never officially lived together, while she and Mark were married she’d always felt an emotional connection to him. She’d missed having that with another human being. With a man.
Her desire for a child had not waned. She’d spent the last seven months trying to move forward in order to further that particular goal. Early on in the process she’d realized that reaching for the future meant letting go of the past, but doing so proved easier said than done.
Because only after he was well and truly gone had she realized how much she had counted on his staying.
Now she had last night to deal with. Without a doubt, last night had set her recovery back months. Maybe when this was all over, she’d see about getting some help. She wondered if a twelve-step program existed for idiots who wanted to go to bed with their ex. If not, maybe she could start one. She could contact all of Mark’s old girlfriends . . . probably pull in his brothers’ old girlfriends, too . . . and have enough brokenhearted bodies to form a national organization. They could meet online. Maybe hold a convention once a year in Vegas. Or maybe a spa somewhere. A cruise. The Callahans Anonymous cruise—the Anti-Love Boat.
She let out a little self-mocking giggle.
Mark glanced back over his shoulder and frowned at her. ‘‘Something the matter?’’
‘‘Oh, no. Everything is great. Wonderful. I have blisters on my feet and a bullet wound on my arm and a bug bite on my butt. Life is peachy keen, Callahan.’’
‘‘Well, aren’t you Miss Mary Sunshine?’’ he observed.
‘‘Bite me, Callahan.’’
‘‘I already did, Monroe. So shut the hell up.’’
Hiking with a hard-on was a bitch.
Mark figured he could have passed for a grumpy old bear lumbering through the forest right about now. You’d think that last night would have done him for a while. Instead, it appeared to have awakened the sleeping beast.
No, she had done it. This was her fault. She came at him. She put it out there and tempted him to take it. This was all about her.
But then, for him, it had always been about her. Call it chemistry or lust or brain lapse—no other woman did it for him like Annabelle.
He could jump her again right now. Every sound she made scraped across his nerves. The slightest whiff of her scent had him going on point. He didn’t need to look at her to want her because the image of her naked and hungry and lying on the forest floor was burned into his brain.
It royally pissed him off.
He wasn’t the type of man to be ruled by his johnson, goddammit. He had a well-earned reputation for icy control. Why did it take no more than one come-hither look and a disappearing basketball jersey to take him from ice to boiling? Hell, even as a swinging-dick eighteen-year-old when he started courting Carrie, he’d had more control than that. This was damned humiliating.
The sooner he could solve his teammates’ murders, the better. Otherwise, he was liable to find himself back in the sack with Annabelle again, and that wasn’t healthy for either one of them. They were divorced. They didn’t need to be in each other’s pockets or each other’s pants. Period.
But the idea of her in another guy’s pants made him snarl. Then a small voice that sounded suspiciously like Torie’s said, Well, what do you expect her to do? Wait forever for something that you won’t give her?
Damn it all. Why did letting go of Annabelle have to be so fucking hard?
It would be easier if he didn’t like her so much. If he didn’t respect her. But dammit, Annabelle Monroe was everything a woman should be, everything a man could want. If only she hadn’t been so set on settling down and having . . .
‘‘Holy shit.’’ His heart all but stopped. He rounded on her, demanding, ‘‘Tell me you’re on the Pill.’’
‘‘What?’’ Frowning down at her shoe where she worked to free a stone, she repeated, ‘‘What did you say?’’
‘‘The Pill!’’
‘‘What pill? I don’t take any . . . oh.’’ Her eyes went round as saucers. ‘‘Oh, dear.’’
Oh, dear? His gut dropped to his toes. ‘‘You’re not on it.’’
She threaded her fingers through her hair, pushing back the thick auburn tresses. Worry dimmed her eyes. ‘‘No . . . I’m not. It hasn’t been an issue with me.’’
His blood churned. Panic sizzled along his nerves. ‘‘Because you want to get pregnant!’’
Her chin came up. Her hands fisted on her hips and she took a step toward him. ‘‘Because I haven’t been having sex, you jerk!’’
‘‘Well, you did last night.’’
‘‘I know that.’’
‘‘If you’re not on the Pill, then we had unprotected sex.’’
‘‘I know that, too!’’
His throat closed and his question came out rough and raspy. ‘‘Did you plan it, Annabelle?’’
You’d have thought he’d hit her, the way she reared back. For a long moment, time hung suspended as they stared at each other. Panic churned through him. Panic and a big black cloud of dread. He could see the hurt in her eyes, but the ugly emotions churning inside him prevented him from caring.
Then she pushed past him and in a scathing
tone said, ‘‘You ass.’’
He wouldn’t argue that point. He knew she hadn’t planned the sex. She’d been swept up in the moment just like he had been. The problem was that Annabelle would welcome the result of their carelessness, while he . . . he . . . oh, crap.
He didn’t want a child.
Downhill from him ten yards or so, she suddenly stopped and turned. ‘‘You know . . . I let you do this to me once before. That day in New York I was so shocked that I let you sputter and spew without calling you on it. You know something? I’ve regretted it ever since.’’
‘‘Look, Annabelle.’’
‘‘No. Let’s do ‘Look, Mark’ instead, shall we? I have a few things I want to say to you. I think right here and right now is a right fine time to say them. So here we go. First’’—she held up her thumb—‘‘I want children, yes, but not at the cost of my honesty and integrity. That was true when my period was late two years ago, and it is true today. For you to suggest otherwise is both insulting and blind. Second, I don’t know what your hang-up is regarding children, but based on comments you’ve dropped in the past, I suspect it has something to do with your relationship with your own father. Frankly, Callahan, you need to do something about that.’’
‘‘Now, wait one minute.’’
She made a sweeping gesture with her hand and said, ‘‘Hush. It’s still my turn to talk. Your father must be, what . . . in his seventies? Maybe his eighties? You’d better deal with your issues while he’s still around, Callahan. Otherwise, one of these days you’ll wake up and it’ll be too late.’’
As always when the subject of Branch Callahan came up, Mark clamped his jaw shut. Children were one thing; his father was quite another.
Annabelle held up another finger. ‘‘Third, and pay attention, Callahan. This is a big one. Third. As upsetting as our lapse of good sense last night is, we can’t let it interfere with the purpose at hand. Someone wants to kill us, to kill all the Fixers. We need to keep our focus on finding that person.’’
He knew she was right . . . about that last part, anyway. He sucked in a deep breath, then nodded curtly. But just as he decided that he could keep his mind on murder, she had to go and distract him.
‘‘And finally, fourth, if I turn up pregnant, we’ll deal with it then. There’s no sense worrying about it ahead of time. So I suggest you put whatever hang-ups you have back in the closet, as we don’t have time to deal with your issues along with everything else.’’ With that, she continued down the hill.
Mark stared after her, her words echoing like thunder through his brain. Deal with it then . . . hell. He couldn’t deal with it. She didn’t understand.
In that moment, he wanted her to understand. For the first time ever, he wanted to share with her that sad, secret story that only a handful of people knew. His brothers, their wives. His goddamned father.
Maybe he should have told her that weekend at the Waldorf or that day at her office in Hawaii, but it was just so private. He told his brothers only because pain meds loosened his tongue. Hell, even all these years later, it was still a kick to the nuts just to think about what happened.
But maybe if he told her, she’d finally get it. The subject would be done with. Over. Finis. Until her test stick turns blue.
Crap.
Hell, if his luck went that bad, then he’d probably be better off if she knew the score. Easier to tell her now than to do it then. God knew he wouldn’t be feeling as calm as he was right now if she came to him and said that cursed word: ‘‘Daddy.’’
Shit.
So nut up and do it, Callahan. Drag your heart out of your pocket and show her.
Mark closed his eyes, drew a bracing breath, then pulled his wallet from his pocket and started after her. ‘‘Annabelle, wait.’’
‘‘I’ve said all I have to say.’’
‘‘Well, I haven’t.’’ He grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop. ‘‘I have something to show you. Someone, actually. Just keep your mouth shut and let me get it over with, okay?’’
Before I lose my nerve.
As always, a lump the size of Texas formed in his throat as he pulled the picture from behind his driver’s license. He looked down at the photograph. The scrunched-up face and the Cindy Lou Who curl atop her head. Big, serious blue eyes. He thumbed the edges, swallowed hard, then handed it to Annabelle. ‘‘This is Margaret Mary, although I think of her as Maggie.’’
Her quizzical look lasted only a few seconds before her eyes widened and her gaze flew up to meet his. ‘‘Maggie . . . Callahan?’’
Annabelle always had been quick. He licked his lips and nodded.
Shock sharpened her tone. ‘‘You have a child?’’
‘‘Not anymore. She’s dead. She and my wife are both dead.’’
Almost imperceptibly, Annabelle stiffened. She licked her lips. ‘‘I don’t recall you ever mentioning that you’d been married before.’’
‘‘I don’t talk about it.’’
‘‘Obviously.’’ She brushed a finger over the photo. It was a newer copy of the old faded and tattered version he’d carried around for years. Torie had sneaked it from his wallet one day, worked some photographer’s magic on it, then gifted him with this one. Her tone soft and sad, Annabelle said, ‘‘She was a beautiful baby.’’
‘‘She was born during Desert Storm while I was deployed. She died before I ever had the chance to see her.’’
Annabelle’s big brown eyes softened with sympathy and pity. ‘‘Oh, Mark.’’
She touched his arm, but he pulled back. Closed off. Shut down. He took the picture away from her and returned it to his wallet.
‘‘What happened to her? To her mother?’’
He clenched his teeth. Even after all these years, this was still so damned hard.
‘‘Mark?’’
He brushed his thumb across the soft leather of his wallet. ‘‘They were killed in a car accident. My father was responsible.’’
‘‘He was driving?’’
‘‘In a manner of speaking.’’ He shoved his wallet into his back pocket. ‘‘Look, none of that matters. . . . I’m telling you about Maggie so you’ll see why the idea of having another child leaves me cold.’’
She stared at him for another few seconds, her eyes moist. ‘‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mark. I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for you.’’
‘‘So you understand my position.’’
Again, another pause, then, ‘‘It was a long time ago.’’
Anger whipped through him like a hot desert wind. He’d heard that before from his brothers and their wives and it pushed all his buttons. ‘‘No one has the right to tell someone else how long to grieve.’’
‘‘That’s true.’’ She studied him, her smile just a shade toward pitying. ‘‘If I thought grief was the problem here, I’d be a little more sympathetic.’’
‘‘What the hell does that mean?’’
‘‘I’ve stood beside you in a gun battle in Bosnia. I’ve followed you into the Colombian jungle to rescue a hostage from a drug lord. I watched you infiltrate a meeting between gun runners, gangsters, and terrorists in the Swiss Alps with no other weapon than your mind. I never took you for a coward, Callahan, until now. The prospect of fathering a child, of being responsible to a child, doesn’t leave you cold. It scares you to death!’’
Mark’s jaw gaped. He gave his head a little shake. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. ‘‘Did I just hear you call me a—’’
‘‘Coward. Yes. That’s what I said. That is exactly what I said.’’ Annabelle gave her head a toss. ‘‘If this had happened last year, in the last few years, I wouldn’t argue that it was grief. But more than fifteen years ago? It’s an excuse, Callahan. A few minutes ago I suggested you had issues to deal with. Well, let me put it a little plainer. You need a shrink.’’
Anger roared through him and he grabbed her arm. ‘‘Where the hell do you get off saying something lik
e that?’’
She yanked away from him. Anger glittered in her eyes. ‘‘Because it’s my life, too. The child I could have had. The child we should have had. I loved you, Callahan. You should have told me.’’
‘‘I don’t talk about it. I can’t.’’
‘‘Not good enough.’’
‘‘It’s the truth. You don’t know what it’s like. Losing so much. First my mother, then my brother. Then my wife and daughter. It’s just too damned much. This is how I deal.’’
‘‘Deal? My God, Mark. That’s not ‘dealing.’ That’s avoiding. You need to quit living in the past.’’
‘‘I’m not. I’m merely controlling my future.’’
‘‘That’s a cop-out.’’ She threw out her hands in frustration.
Mark clenched his fists. ‘‘You don’t understand.’’
‘‘You are right about that. I don’t understand. Maybe I could if you were still a teenager, but you’re a grown man. You need to face this like a man.’’
She gazed at him with a look of scornful disbelief. ‘‘I swear, I’ve seen you under fire. I’ve watched you face certain death without blinking. I thought you were the strongest, most courageous man I’ve ever known. But you’re not strong and you’re not brave. You’re hiding in the past and that . . . weakness . . . of yours stole my future. You stole my family, Callahan. Damn you for that!’’
With that, she turned and marched away, descending the hill without sparing a single glance back.
Mark stared after her, the emptiness inside him yawning in his heart like a big black hole.
She’d called him a coward.
Damned if she wasn’t right.
The Telluride cops followed standard procedure when they separated Annabelle and Mark for questioning. She was dirty, tired, hungry, and still damp from the rain that started falling ten minutes or so before the tourist from Texas had stopped his car and given them a ride into town. Nevertheless, she’d never been so thankful to be escorted into an interview room in her life.
To call the mood between her and Mark strained was like saying the weather in hell was rather warm.
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