It was the one that shared a wall with the bathroom. His footsteps muted by the faded runner that ran the length of the hall, he stopped in front of the closed door, wrapped his fingers around the cut-glass knob and slowly twisted it open.
The door squeaked, and the floor creaked just inside. He kept his gaze deliberately to the right as he entered, making note of heavy furniture, faded wallpaper and lace curtains fluttering just a bit as he passed. He didn’t look at the rest of the room until he reached the foot of the bed and could see it all at once.
It was exactly as he’d remembered and yet different, too. His memory had been hazy at best, thanks to poor lighting and too much booze the night before. What he remembered in soft tones and softer focus was sharper, more vivid, this morning. The bed was iron, once painted white, now only a few flakes remaining. There were small tables on either side, dark wood topped with green marble. The table nearest the door held a lamp. What looked like a delicate piece was cut glass, heavy and substantial. He’d knocked it over that morning, had cringed when it landed on the marble, had checked it for chips or cracks and, to his relief, found nothing.
The bedspread was lace, not the fragile stuff at the windows but heavier, old-fashioned lace. Underneath it a crimson sheet showed through, and underneath that... Moving to the side of the bed, he lifted the top corner of the covers and turned them back, pulling the pillow free from its neatly tucked niche. Then he moved once more to the foot of the bed and simply looked.
The fitted sheet underneath was white and new. Brand-new. Still had the creases from the cardboard folded in with its package. Why a new sheet? Had it simply been time? Or had the old one been too soiled to use again — and if that was the case, how could he have missed noticing?
It had been dark. He had relied on streetlight rather than lamplight to get dressed and leave. It had been cold. He had slid out from underneath the covers, gotten dressed and left without ever looking back at the bed. After the six-hour drive back to Houston, he’d taken a shower, then fallen into bed for a good long nap. He had never noticed that he’d bedded a virgin, had never suspected that there was anything to notice.
A virgin. Last night he had been shocked and dismayed. This morning there was still a little of the shock — after all, in his experience, there weren’t too many mid-twenty-something virgins running around Texas — but the dismay had given way to something else, to regret that he couldn’t recall the event and to satisfaction — blame it on pure male vanity — that no other man had done what he’d done. No other man had touched her the way he had touched her. No other man had experienced the pleasure of her body. No other man would ever know her the way he would know her.
“Hoping a visit to the scene of the crime will jog your memory?”
He glanced at Faith, standing in the doorway, hands deep in the pockets of her robe, long brown hair falling damply over her shoulders. For breakfast she’d worn the same robe, belted over a flannel gown of the sort designed to discourage any red-blooded man from taking liberties. Now she was naked underneath it. The fabric clung to the slope of her breasts, revealing her nipples, then swooped out to drape over her rounded belly. For a woman scheduled to give birth any day now, she looked damned sexy.
Sexy. As in desirable. As in easy to lust for. As in he was about to get hard right here and now for a woman who, by rights, should be about as desirable as a blow to the head.
He rested his arms on the footboard and felt the metal’s chill on his bare arms. “So this is where we did the deed.”
She came further into the room and busied herself for a moment with smoothing the sheets, retucking the pillow and respreading the lace coverlet. “This is the place,” she said as she took a step back, folding her arms underneath her breasts and above her stomach.
She didn’t have a clue, he thought with mild amusement, how enticing she was. How lovely, how incredibly womanly . And if he told her, she would think he was crazy. Hell, he thought he was crazy, and he was the one with the arousal.
Warning himself that he must be a sucker for punishment, he moved toward her and, as casually as if he did it every day, he pulled her into his arms. As uneasy as if she never engaged in such casual intimacies — and he knew well how little physical intimacy of any kind there had been in her life — she immediately stiffened, but she didn’t push away. She didn’t fight him.
“Didn’t you ever stop to think that I might be a threat to your virtue?” he asked, drawing his palms lightly up and down her arms, making her shiver.
She tossed her hair back, then met his gaze unflinchingly. “Why in the world would I think that?”
“You must have had some hint that something was going to happen. You must have thought —”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t simply say, ‘Tonight’s a good night to lose my virginity. I’ll do it with the man who’s last to leave.’”
Another shake of her head made her hair brush tantalizingly over his forearms.
“When did you know?”
For a moment she remained silent. She was so protective of herself, so afraid of sharing anything personal even with the man who had already shared it. Did she think that she could keep herself intact that way, that when he left — as she seemed convinced he eventually would — she wouldn’t lose anything if she’d kept it all to herself?
Then, when he was about to give up hope, she replied in a quavery, hoarse voice. “When you touched me.”
Pleased that she had answered, he smiled just a bit. “I guess I must have lost the magic. I’m touching you now, and you look as if it’s all you can do to keep from running away.”
Another jolt of tension shot through her, intensified almost immediately by the surprise that widened her eyes. “You’re—You’ve got — Nick.”
Chuckling, he leaned forward until his mouth was only inches above her ear. “An erection, sweetheart. Don’t act so shocked. I would worry if I could hold you like this and not get one.”
She pushed against him. “That’s not normal. I’m pregnant.”
“And that has what to do with this?”
“Pregnant women aren’t—”
“Sexy?” he supplied. “You’re right. I can honestly admit that I’ve never gotten turned on by a pregnant woman before, but —” he brushed his mouth across her ear and made her shiver “— I’ve never known you before.”
Her eyes were so wide, so innocent, so blue. “Don’t be silly. I’m not—”
Changing his hold but never letting her go, he pulled her over to the dresser. It was old, probably verifiably antique, and consisted of drawers on two sides stacked high, a low center shelf connecting them, green marble tops and a tall, three-piece mirror that offered a slightly distorted image. He turned her to face their reflection, but she demurely lowered her gaze. So very pregnant and so damned innocent.
“Look at yourself, Faith,” he commanded, standing close behind her, holding her snug against him. “Look at your face, your body. All those guys you used to date—yes, they saw you as a challenge, but not because they wanted to succeed where other men had failed. They wanted you because of who you are, because you’re so damned lovely.”
She raised her gaze at last, but it was obvious she didn’t see the same image he did. “I’m heavy and clumsy,” she said flatly. Then, curiously, she leaned forward, unintentionally pressing her bottom against his groin, making him bite down hard on a groan. “This is the first time I’ve seen my feet in weeks. I’m awkward and slow. Everything I do is a chore.” She made eye contact with him in the mirror. “And if you find any of that attractive, then you’ve been alone too long.”
“Maybe I have,” he agreed with a sigh, but he didn’t believe it for a moment. It wasn’t conceit to say that when he was alone, it was by choice. He knew enough women, and he knew all the lines for picking up new ones, if he was in the mood. But he hadn’t been in the mood for a long time. For... oh, a few days short of nine months.
The
realization made him wonder just how good that night had been. What kind of magic had passed between them in that bed that had caused him to remain celibate—faithful to a memory that he hadn’t believed existed—for nearly nine months? It must have been incredible, heart-stopping, amazing—like Faith herself. He would sell his soul to remember.
He would give it away free to do it again.
Forcing himself to release her, he moved back as far as the bed. “Why don’t you give me the key to the shop? You get some rest, and I’ll take care of things for you.”
She shook her head.
“I’m perfectly capable.”
“I know you are.”
He hesitated, studying her. “I’m going down there with you anyway.”
“I know that, too. I’m going to get dressed.”
He waited until she was at the door before he spoke again. “I don’t suppose you need help.”
She looked back. “No. But I think you do.”
With a grin, he watched her leave. After a moment he went across the hall to the fourth bedroom. Great-aunt Lydia’s, he was sure, although Faith had never said so. It was hard enough to imagine her throwing away a lifetime of rigid teachings to jump into bed with him, but it was impossible to imagine her jumping into Lydia’s bed with him.
Besides, the aura of the room fit his image of the old woman perfectly. It was dark, oppressive. Deep mahogany furniture. Dusty drapes of a fabric so heavy that not even the most powerful beam of light could pierce them. Plain wood floors stained dark walnut and unsoftened by even one small rug. Ugly portraits on the wall, no knickknacks, nothing personal or even remotely feminine anywhere in the room. How difficult it must have been for Faith, being raised by a woman who could live comfortably in these quarters. How damned unfair it had been.
Closing the door once more, he turned toward the stairs and the back of the house. Toward Faith’s room. It was the one room in the house he hadn’t yet seen, and he was willing to bet that it was as airy and light as Lydia’s was suffocating. One quick glance inside the open door was enough to confirm his hunch, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy his curiosity.
He stood in the doorway, hands in his hip pockets, and made a leisurely study of the room. The first thing he noticed was Faith’s absence and the open closet door. A light was on, and from inside came the rustle of clothing. The next thing to catch his attention was her bed. It was a double, the headboard finished in a rich light oak stain, the sheets a rose and pale green print, the comforter striped with wide slashes of rose and pale ivory. This was where he would make love to her next time, on this bed, surrounded by soft, light colors. He would lay her down amid all those pillows, and he would satisfy every curiosity she’d ever had — and some she’d never had—about the mysteries and the magic of making love. He would make up to her for the first time, would make her forget the first time, and he would remember every single detail about it for the rest of his life.
The mere thought made his recently settled arousal stir again. Swallowing hard, he forced his attention away from the bed and to the rest of the room. The walls were papered in patterns that coordinated with the bedding, part floral print, part striped, and the rugs scattered around the room were ivory or green. The furniture—bed, night tables, dresser, makeup table and chair—was mismatched but all oak, all lightly colored. There was a collection of little glass bottles on one table, a half-dozen miniature oil lamps on another and paintings and a few postcards framed on the walls.
All in all, it was a welcoming room. It was definitely a place where he could live.
And Faith, he acknowledged as she walked out of the closet, was definitely the woman he could live with.
She was wearing disreputable loafers and a cotton slip that was about as simple as a garment could get — white, wide straps, a little bit of lace at the rounded neck and again along the hem—and managing once again to look incredibly, improbably sexy. For reasons totally beyond his understanding, she had put on hose and was about to pull on the same pretty green dress she’d worn to Michael’s wedding. If he were a woman in her condition, he would wear the most comfortable clothes available. A floor-length muumuu sounded just about right.
If she objected to him invading her personal space, she didn’t show it. She simply glanced at him as she made her way to the unmade bed, where she laid the dress down, then opened the zipper that ran down the back. “I have an entire closet full of clothes that don’t fit. If Amelia Rose waits much beyond Sunday, I’ll have to take your advice and close the shop, because all I’ll be able to squeeze into will be that awful flannel nightgown.” She pulled the dress over her head, tugged it down over her belly, adjusted the sleeves and the shoulders, then turned her back to him. “Do you mind?”
He crossed the room, brushed her hair out of the way, then slid the zipper to the top. “What kind of idiot makes a maternity dress with a zipper in back?”
“What kind of idiot buys a maternity dress with a zipper in back?” she retorted, then sighed deeply. “I’m sorry. I am really cranky this morning.”
“I think you’re entitled,” he said quietly. “It’s been a tough week.”
“Yeah.” Her agreement was soft and just a little forlorn. It made him want to pick her up, carry her to bed, crawl in and hold her there until she went to sleep—and continue holding her until she woke up again. But before he could do more than think the idea, she moved away, seating herself at the makeup table. Her hair was still a little damp, but she didn’t bother drying it. Instead she quickly fashioned it into a braid, securing it with a band the same shade of green as her dress. She applied her makeup with the same quick, confident movements, then added a pair of earrings and, sliding it over her head as she stood up, a pendant.
It was the same necklace he’d caught occasional glimpses of, normally tucked inside her clothing. This time, before she had a chance to hide it away, he reached for it, dangling the chain from his fingers. The pendant was oval, a cameo set in sterling, and the carving was as delicate as the woman who wore it. Black onyx encircled a relief in mother-of-pearl of a serenely smiling mother cradling an equally serene baby. It was exactly the sort of gift he would have chosen to give her, had he seen it first. Had he known her first.
“Nice,” he murmured before replacing it—not letting it fall, but gently laying the pendant at the end of its chain between her breasts.
For a long moment they simply stood there, only inches apart, her hands hanging loosely at her sides, his hand still resting lightly on the cameo. His fingers ached to move one way or the other—to her breasts, heavy and sure to be sensitive to his caresses, or lower to her stomach. He felt an incredible urge to spread both hands wide across her belly, to gain that sort of intimacy with her, to make whatever contact he could with his daughter. He had never felt an unborn baby’s movements, and he had discovered that he wanted to. He wanted very much to feel his daughter moving within her mother’s womb.
But the moment passed. Faith broke the spell by taking a step back, clearing her throat and looking around uncomfortably as if she might have forgotten something. “We’d better be going,” she said, striving to sound normal but coming out shaky instead. “If I’m late opening the shop, my friends worry.”
His own voice was a far cry from normal, too. “Tell them they don’t have to worry anymore. I’ll take care of you.”
Her laughter was unexpected and as warm as a summer breeze. “Oh, darlin’,” she said in her rich Texas drawl. “That’ll make them worry even more.”
Magic.
Nick had said the magic word—magic—and nearly four hours later, Faith’s heart rate hadn’t quite returned to normal yet. Do you believe in magic? an old song asked. For years she had, but last spring’s disappointment had stolen her faith. Now...maybe it existed, after all. Maybe Nick believed in it, too, and between the two of them, maybe they could conjure some up for Amelia Rose and for themselves. Especially for themselves.
She was sitting on th
e couch in the storeroom, feet propped on a box of winter coats, size two toddler. The Closed sign was on the door, with the hands on the little clock pointing to one o’clock, and Nick had gone to pick up lunch.
True to his word, he had insisted on helping in the shop. He hadn’t waited on any customers, but he’d run the vacuum and had done all the necessary restocking. She had caught him more than once standing next to a display and studying some toy or fingering some incredibly soft garment. If she didn’t know better, she would swear that he was anticipating Amelia Rose’s birth almost as much as she was.
But she did know better, she thought, her mouth drooping in dejection. He was simply making the best of their bad situation. He had no choice in becoming a father—the deed was done, the inevitable approaching—and so, by God, he was going to be a good one. Once he held his daughter in his arms and saw her angel’s face, her sweet little smile and her trusting soft eyes, Faith believed he would surpass “good” for “loving and devoted.” But those qualities would always be overshadowed by the fact that he’d been a reluctant father, trapped by bad luck and careless behavior.
And there wasn’t enough magic in the entire world, she suspected, to change that.
Or was there? There was enough to make a man like Nick Russo look at her, as big and clumsy as a whale on dry land, and find something arousing. There was enough to make him propose marriage to her. Even though he’d done it solely for the sake of their child, it was still quite a feat. Maybe there was enough to make him forget his reluctance and bad luck. Maybe there was enough to make him love Amelia Rose unreservedly, with all the enthusiasm and commitment he would feel for a child he had willingly chosen to create.
Maybe there was even enough magic in the world to make him want her, not because she was the mother of his child but because he loved her, because he needed her and couldn’t live without her.
Discovered: Daddy Page 20