by Nalini Singh
Before Noah had shared “Sparrow” with them, he hadn’t played it for years, not since the last day his baby sister spent in his home. She’d been healthy then, had come to stay with him while his parents went on a little vacation; he and Tessie had decided on their own vacation and gone to Disneyland three times in a week.
The rest of the time, they’d made music together, Tessie as drawn to song as Abe. After they buried her, his tiny sister who had never had a chance, he hadn’t been able to bear the memories that came flooding back when his fingers touched the keys: of Tessie dancing while he played, saying, “More! More!” when he dared stop.
But those memories weren’t the only ones that haunted him now when he looked at the piano.
The anguish on Sarah’s face, his wife’s footsteps as she ran from him.
Spinning away from the baby grand, he went to the other piano in the room, placed all the way on the other side. And he played. What came out wasn’t hard and raw but soft, melancholy. A nocturne.
The one Sarah had been playing that night.
The birds outside were chirping in the predawn light and his hands ached by the time he stopped. And still there was no message on his phone.
He went to bed at last, only to be awakened four hours later by the buzzer that announced a visitor at the gate. Groaning, he put a pillow over his head and tried to ignore it. That was when his phone began ringing.
“What?” he growled into it without looking at the screen to see who it was.
“Abe?”
The husky feminine voice chased all sleep from his mind. “Sarah?” He sat up. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m here,” Sarah responded instead of answering him. “Can I come in?”
Had Abe been on drugs, he’d have been sure he was hallucinating. As it was, he wondered if he was dreaming. “Yeah, sure. Give me a second.” Getting out of bed wearing what he usually wore to sleep—nothing—he didn’t even try to find the gate remote. He just made his way to the control panel and let her in.
He was still standing there butt naked when Sarah’s car pulled up. “Shit.”
Running to the nearest bathroom, he splashed water on his face, rinsed out his mouth, and grabbed a towel to hitch around his hips. He’d barely gotten it in place when the doorbell rang. Jogging over to open it, he said, “Good morning.”
Sarah took a physical step back, her face blanching. “You look like you’ve been on a bender.”
“What?” He shook his head, got his brain cells in order. “No, I was playing.” He held out one hand.
Forehead wrinkling, she grabbed it. “Abe, your fingers are swollen! How long did you play?”
He shrugged, his eyes caressing the exposed curve of her nape as she bent over his hand. She’d swept her hair up into a neat little knot, was wearing a blue-green dress that had lots of panels that hugged her form. “A bit.”
Sarah’s lips parted as if she’d yell at him. But she snapped her mouth shut on the next breath, dropped his hand, swallowed. “We need to talk.”
Abe frowned; her tone was so tight, her body held in such fierce check. But he wasn’t going to interrogate her. Not when she was finally back where she belonged. In their home. “Yeah, sure. Come in.”
PALMS DAMP AND SKIN FLUSHING HOT THEN COLD, Sarah walked into the house she’d fled two years earlier, hurt and lost. “Maybe you should…” She waved vaguely in the direction of Abe’s body.
And God, what a body.
It was like he’d been carved out of rich, chocolate-colored marble. All ridges and valleys and glowing skin. Relief colored her blood: now that she was really looking, it was obvious he hadn’t gone back to abusing drugs or alcohol. He’d never looked this healthy, this goddamn good during their marriage—and even then, he’d been difficult to resist. Now…
“Were you in the shower?” she asked when he just scratched at his stubbly jaw after shutting the door.
“No. In bed.”
Her mind immediately supplied her with a hundred highly distracting images of Abe sprawled out, the sheets kicked off his bare body. Then her blood ran cold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“Alone,” Abe said before she could finish, his voice firm. “Sleeping alone.” He held up his abused hands. “Crashed after playing.”
“Oh.” She fiddled with the strap of her simple black purse. “Um, clothes?”
Her husband—ex-husband—looked down at himself as if he’d forgotten he was only covered by a teeny, tiny yellow towel that showed off far too much of his powerful thighs and seemed in danger of slipping off at any second. That buttery yellow shade should’ve made him look less masculine, but it did the opposite.
It threw his maleness into stark focus.
“Right.” Abe’s eyes lifted to connect with hers… and a slow smile crept over his face.
If he said anything teasing at that moment, she’d throw her purse at his head. Sarah swore it. Today was not the day for Abe to be all teasing and sexy and making her crazy. “Clothes,” she repeated in a tone that brooked no argument, and pointed in the direction of his bedroom.
He chuckled and began to turn that way. “Back in a minute. You want to make yourself some coffee?” he asked over his shoulder. “I got a new machine Fox recommended.”
Sarah went to say no, then decided she might as well find something to do with herself or she’d go mad while waiting for him. “I’ll make you one too.” She headed to the kitchen before she could give in to the urge to watch him walk way, his muscular buttocks moving against that flimsy excuse for a towel. “That’s what got you into this mess,” she muttered to herself as she reached the kitchen.
It was all black marble counters and white cabinetry, the appliances steel and the windows generous. A room full of light that she’d once made even more vibrant with fresh flowers, it had always been her favorite place in the house. She had so many great memories of this room—including a treasured one with Abe. He’d been mostly naked that time too, having just come out of the pool wearing only snug, dark blue shorts.
She’d been putting together a pasta salad for their lunch, and he’d wrapped his wet body around hers from behind, making her squeal. But she’d liked it, loved that he’d cuddled her, kissed her neck, maneuvered her unprotesting body to a wall before lifting her up so he could take her against that wall. She’d expected a hard, fast quickie, but he’d kissed her so much that day, his hands petting her body, and his cock in no rush inside her.
Her lower body clenched.
Slapping at her cheeks hard enough that it stung, Sarah told herself to snap out of it, to remember that, most of the time, she’d been alone and miserable in this room and in this house. She’d eaten more meals by herself at the freestanding counter than she ever had with Abe.
Turning to the coffeemaker on that sobering thought, she saw it was an easy one to operate, using the prepackaged little pods. She found those pods in the cabinet directly above the coffeemaker.
Abe reaching over her head to grab something for her. “Here you go, Shortness.”
Fighting the assault of memory, of the only time in her life when she had actually felt short, she grabbed the pods and shut the cabinet door. Then she concentrated on choosing what kind of a coffee to make for herself, and, after that, on how to work the machine perfectly.
Having already brewed a half-strength cappuccino for herself, she’d just finished making an espresso for Abe when he walked in. From the fresh soap scent of him, he’d had a quick shower before he changed into crisp blue jeans and a black T-shirt with a V-neck. The tee pulled across his chest, hugged his biceps.
And her stomach, it wanted to flip again.
“Thanks.” He picked up the espresso and threw it down his throat like the liquid wasn’t even hot.
He’d always done that—and she’d always winced, just like now.
Looking away, she took more careful sips of her coffee while nerves began to twist and knot in her gut. “You w
ant another one?” Abe had always loved espresso.
“I can do it.” He moved to the machine, got it started before turning to her. “You look good in that dress.”
Sarah could feel color rising to her cheeks, hoped her skin tone hid it. “Um, thanks.” She’d learned how to dress herself as a businesswoman by looking up articles online. Before that, she’d been all short, ass-hugging skirts and glittery tops, the perfect rock-star groupie. Not that there was anything wrong with that look—Sarah still liked to pull out her glittery tops now and then—but it had never quite been her.
“I guess I finally found my style,” she added when Abe didn’t say anything further, his eyes lingering on her curves with open appreciation.
Her nipples ached.
Frustrated with herself and her susceptibility to this rock star who’d never loved her, she put her cup on the black marble of the freestanding counter in the center of the kitchen. “We might have a problem.”
Abe raised an eyebrow in a silent question as he leaned back against the counter opposite where she stood, his hands braced behind him.
“I missed my period.”
CHAPTER 17
HER WORDS FELL LIKE a bomb into the silence of the kitchen. Suddenly the ticking clock on the wall was all she could hear, each movement of the second hand a jagged, bright sound that scraped across her already raw nerves.
“It’s probably nothing. I’m probably just late… only, I’m never late,” she said past the slightly sick feeling in her gut. Having this conversation with Abe, it was a nightmare repeating itself. “I wasn’t lying about being on the pill. I did everything right this time!” She’d made sure to take the pill like clockwork, having no intention of ever again falling pregnant. Not after Aaron. “But I was on the final day of some antibiotics for—”
“Sarah.” Abe strode forward to grip her gently on her upper arms. “I know you didn’t lie about being on the pill.”
“Right, okay.” She nodded her head like a marionette. “I just didn’t want you to think I’d been trying to trap you or anything.” Her body began to shake. “I can’t do it, Abe. I can’t be pregnant again. I can’t.” She’d lost two babies already, her womb an apparently hostile place.
“Hey, hey.” Abe drew her close, but she couldn’t allow herself to rely on him. Not when he’d thrown her away so easily. Not when he’d forgotten her in a heartbeat.
Wrenching back, she touched a trembling hand to her face. “It might just be stress-related.” Sarah hoped that was it. “But I can’t face going to the doctor alone.” Yet instead of calling one of her friends for the needed moral support, she’d come straight to Abe.
She couldn’t explain why except that her head had started spinning when she’d realized she was late enough for it to matter, and the spinning hadn’t stopped since. Her brain clearly wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “What was I thinking? You can’t come with me. If the media—”
“Fuck the media.” Abe’s harsh tone sliced through the air. “I want to be there for you.”
Sarah took a trembling breath, glanced at that ticking clock. Abe’s mother had given it to them as an anniversary present, and Sarah had always loved it. Simple wooden hands on a carved background of a darker wood polished to a shine, it had been handmade by an artist who worked with the natural grain and patterns of his chosen medium.
“Sarah, let me do this.”
Regardless of her panic at the idea of being hounded by the paparazzi, Sarah knew Abe deserved to learn the truth alongside her. She cleared her throat, said, “The appointment’s in thirty minutes.”
ABE TURNED ON THE RADIO TO COVER the silence in the SUV as he drove Sarah to a doctor in the suburbs. Whatever her original reasoning for choosing that doc, a man she’d told Abe was her normal GP, the unintended result was that the media was unlikely to spring them. Good. Because he was not having anyone upset Sarah today.
His heart boomed like David’s drums.
The idea of a kid…
Emotions crashed through him: joy, fear, grief, excitement, sheer terror… and shame.
He squeezed the steering wheel. “I’m sorry about our first time around.” Sarah’s miscarriage had been early on in the pregnancy, but she’d known, been devastated. It hadn’t felt as real to him—maybe because he’d already been going down the rabbit hole, but still, he’d done okay then. He’d held her, listened to her talk out her grief, made sure she ate. But none of that mattered after the ugly words he’d flung at her the night he drove her away.
How the fuck did a man make up for that?
“It’s fine.” Sarah smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress, her voice quiet. “Let’s just get through this.”
Abe wanted to reach out, touch her, convince her she never had to worry he’d repeat his drug-fueled behavior. “Whatever happens, I’ll be there.” Stopping at a light, he turned and spoke to her profile. “I won’t cut and run. Not now, not ever.”
Another jerky nod, her hands twisting on the strap of her handbag. “Light’s green.”
He drove on. The two of them didn’t speak again until he’d brought the car to a halt in the small underground garage of the building where the doctor had his office. “Which floor?”
“Third.”
He put his hand on her lower back as they got into the elevator, kept it there as they stepped out. Their luck held. Miracle of miracles, there was no one else in the waiting room.
Smiling, the white-haired receptionist said, “You’re in luck, Sarah. We’ve had two cancellations in a row, so you don’t have to wait. The nurse will be right out to fetch you.” A pause, her eyes on her computer screen. “Oh, wait, I see the doctor said for you to see him directly—he wanted to check up on that flu of yours. I’ll have the nurse show you through.”
“How did you end up with a country doctor in LA?” Abe murmured to Sarah as they waited for the nurse, his hope to make Sarah smile.
That smile was shaky. “Dr. Snyder is a country doctor—and the receptionist is his wife,” Sarah whispered. “They only relocated to LA because their daughter and grandkids are here. I’m going to miss them both when he retires like he’s threatening to do.”
“Does she always call him ‘the doctor’?”
Sarah nodded. “She’s very proud of him.”
Then the nurse, a short no-nonsense woman with a warm smile, was there.
Once inside the doctor’s office, Sarah took a seat in the chair nearest a fifty-something male who sported a bushy black mustache and kind brown eyes above the white of his medical coat, his pale skin dotted with freckles.
Abe shut the door before taking a seat in the chair next to her.
“Sarah.” The doctor’s eyes scanned Sarah’s record on the computer. “How’s that flu you couldn’t shake off? Any problems?” He put on his stethoscope and pressed one end to Sarah’s chest.
“I’m—”
“Breathe deep,” the doctor interrupted. “Now out.” He made her do that several times before nodding. “Excellent. All clear.”
Sarah’s smile was tight. “The antibiotics took care of the chest infection in the first couple of days, but I finished the whole course like you said.”
“Good, good.” The doctor typed a note into her medical file using one finger on each hand, pecking at the keys as fast as a bird hunting for food. “So you just came in for the follow-up?”
Sarah swallowed, her hands gripping at her purse. Abe couldn’t stand to see her so distressed. Putting one hand over hers, he met the doctor’s eyes. “She thinks the antibiotics messed with the pill and she might be pregnant.”
“The ones I gave you shouldn’t have counteracted the pill unless… Did you throw up at any point? That could’ve had an impact on the effectiveness of the pill.”
“Yes.” Sarah swallowed, her fingers curling over the side of Abe’s hand. “It was the night before the monthly anniversary of Aaron’s death. I just couldn’t keep anything down.”
“Ah.�
� The doctor looked gently at Sarah, and in his expression, Abe saw a deep understanding of Sarah’s loss, compassion for the little baby boy who had never breathed. And he realized the kindhearted man had asked to speak to Sarah directly not simply because he’d wanted to check she was over the flu: Dr. Snyder was a rare being—a true healer, one who cared about his patients’ mental as well as physical well-being.
“I’m guessing you want to confirm as soon as possible?” At Sarah’s nod, Dr. Snyder said, “Home pregnancy tests are surprisingly sensitive, but if you want absolute certainty, I’d recommend a blood test.”
Sarah nodded. “The blood test. I want to know beyond any doubt.”
“Our blood test results usually come back overnight, but I can put a rush on it.” The older man was already pulling up the form on his computer. “It probably won’t be covered by your insurance.”
“That’s fine,” Abe said.
Sarah was in no shape to handle any kind of a delay.
Squeezing her hand again when she parted her lips as if to disagree with his implicit offer to pay, he continued to speak. “Are we talking a couple of hours, half a day?” he asked Dr. Snyder.
“I’ll draw the blood myself, send it by rush courier to the laboratory. You should have the results this afternoon.”
SARAH WAS BACK IN ABE’S SUV WITHIN fifteen minutes of the start of the consultation, a tiny square bandage in the crook of her arm where Dr. Snyder had taken the blood sample. She felt as if she were living in a dream world, everything surreal. “I have a meeting scheduled for later today.”
“Can you postpone?” Abe pulled out of the underground garage and into the searing sunshine of an LA day.
Sliding on her sunglasses, Sarah found her phone, made the call, still feeling oddly distant. “I should’ve kept it,” she said after hanging up. “I don’t know what I’m going to do while we wait to hear back from Dr. Snyder.”