"You don't understand—"
"You're damned right I don't," he snapped, emotion breaking through for the first time. He realized it even as she did, and he straightened abruptly, folding his arms across his chest. "You want to know why I'm here?" His voice was cold again, a wind straight off arctic ice. "You owe me two weeks. I'll trade them for one simple answer. Why?"
It took all of Christy's wavering will not let her eyes flick to the backyard. She could hear Jimmy's voice and Peaches's occasional bark, and breathed a silent prayer that they were so engrossed they would stay there.
"Why, Christy?"
"I … realized it wouldn't work."
"So you ran? Without a word?" His lip curled into an unpleasant snarl. "Maybe I was wrong about you all the way. I never would have thought you didn't have the guts to tell me face-to-face. I never would have pegged you for a coward."
Christy cringed as his words reached that raw, open wound inside her and tore at it with steel-hard claws. "I … had no choice but—"
He cut across her words as if she hadn't spoken at all. "At least a note. 'It's been fun, Trace, now go to hell.' But your specialty is twisting the knife, isn't it? The dress was a nice touch." He laughed, short and harsh. "You know what I did with that dress? I slept with it for a pillow, because it smelled like you, that damned gardenia stuff."
That he said it in that plain, flat tone, as if it meant nothing to him, gouged Christy deeper and more painfully than if he had wept. "I … never meant to hurt you."
"So," he said with a contempt he didn't bother to hide, "you're a liar as well as a coward."
Something inside Christy snapped. She leaped to her feet, the chair teetering, then falling behind her as she squared herself, her chin coming up. Something flickered in those frigid eyes across from her, then was gone.
"Damn you," she spat out. "Who the hell do you think you are, coming into my house and calling me names when you don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about?"
She kicked the chair with a violent movement, sending it sliding across the polished wood floor; neither of them even glanced at it.
"I don't care what you think. I never meant to hurt you. I told you there were things you didn't know about me, things that would change your mind, but you wouldn't listen. Well, why don't you just accept that this is one of them, that you're right, that I'm a bitch and a coward and a liar, and get the hell out of here?"
Again something flickered in the depths of those incredible eyes; again it disappeared before she could name it. "I will," he said coolly, "as soon as I'm sure you don't plan on showing up again in three years for another one-night stand."
Christy went white, and her voice shook. "You bastard!"
Then she realized what she'd said, and her face changed from flushed to a bloodless pallor. Suddenly the very shape of her skull was visible, jutting beneath delicate skin drawn far too tight, and the man across from her was struck with the horrible knowledge that he was seeing a living death, that she could look no worse had she died before his eyes. For the first time his self-control wavered, and when she swayed he took a step toward her.
"Get out."
She had stiffened at his first movement, her chin coming up once more as she spoke tightly, through gritted teeth. If she had been looking at him, she would have seen the grudging admiration that flashed in his eyes once more, this time long enough to be recognized. And with it, for the briefest of moments, was doubt.
"Christy—"
"Get out. You don't want me or what I am. Do yourself a favor, go find some woman who can give you what you want—" her voice caught "—not what you don't want."
"What the hell does that mean?" The flat tone wavered. "Am I supposed to believe you care what I do or don't want?"
Once more, despite her trembling, her chin came up. She made no effort to hide the tears brimming in her eyes, and she met his brutal gaze unflinchingly. "I care. More than you know. More than you'll ever believe. Enough to do what I have to." She lowered her eyes then, blinking back the wetness. "You wouldn't be happy with me, Trace. Can't you leave it at that and go?"
He was staring at her as if she were an actor who'd read the wrong lines, as if someone had taken the expected scene and turned it sideways. For the first time a hint of torture crept into his voice. "Why, Christy?"
Christy looked away, knowing the words were rising to her lips and that she wouldn't be able to stop them. "Because I love you," she murmured helplessly, but so low she was thankfully sure he couldn't have heard her with her head turned from him. Steadying her resolve, she raised her head and looked at him coldly. "Because I'm everything you said I was. Get out. Now."
The ice was back in place, intact and solid. "Oh, I will. But I have something to do first."
With a movement so swift that Christy's numbed reflexes were helpless to avoid it, he rounded the table and grabbed her shoulders. She bit back a cry as his fingers dug into her flesh; it escaped when one strong hand tangled in the fine silk of her hair, then tightened as he pulled her head back.
Suddenly his mouth came down on hers. Her lips were crushed against her teeth, and his tongue forced its way into her mouth savagely. His second hand joined the other, holding her immobilized as his fingers twisted in her hair. It was a harsh kiss, almost desperate, and Christy knew instinctively that she was receiving only a tiny portion of what he'd gone through in the days since she'd left. Her heart ached for him, and she surrendered to his need.
And in that moment the kiss changed. The pressure eased, and the fierce jabbing of his tongue became a softer, gentler probing. He made a small sound deep in his throat, and Christy couldn't stop herself from meeting his intimate caress with her own tongue. Stroking honeyed sweetness over hot velvet, her tongue teased, danced, and the fire leaped to life between them with undeniable force and speed.
Christy felt herself sway against him and was helpless to stop it. He was sapping her strength, turning her bones to hot, flowing liquid, as only he had the power to do. His hands released her hair and slid forward to cup her face with a gentleness that was startling after his earlier urgency.
His hands slid down over her shoulders, down her back, resting on the trim curve of her hips, then pulling her against him. Her gasp as she felt the urgent pressure of his aroused body was swallowed up by his mouth on hers, tasting, coaxing. As if of their own volition, her hands crept around his neck, her slender fingers tangling in the thickness of the hair at his nape, her thumbs caressing the sensitive flesh below his ears. She felt him shudder, heard him groan.
Then all she felt was the sudden iron grip of his hands on her tender flesh and the rush of movement as he shoved her away from him. He stood staring at her, his chest rising rapidly with his panting breaths.
"Damn you," he spat out, wiping his mouth as if the lingering taste of her was repugnant. Then he whirled on his heel and was gone.
Christy sagged weakly against the table, her knuckles gleaming white as she gripped the edge tightly in her effort to stay upright. She heard the cheerful squeal of Char's voice mingling with excited yelps as the children and their companion headed toward the house for the promised cookies. She knew she should feel grateful that they hadn't come in moments earlier, but all she seemed to have room for was that helpless, relentless agony that made the pain she'd lived with for the past three weeks seem mild.
God, how she'd hurt him! How could she possibly live with herself, with what she'd done to him? She shuddered, hating herself for even thinking of her own pain when his was so much worse. Was anything worth that, worth the frozen shell that had looked at her through those beautiful eyes?
She turned at the noisy clatter that came from the back door, saw the innocent, shining face of her daughter, and knew she had no choice. She had to live with what she'd done, even if she had to carry that guilt for the rest of her life alone. Char needed her, and she would be there. She had to be there. She might be a bitch and a coward and a liar, as Trace ha
d called her, but in this one thing she could do as her heart demanded, she could do better than the unknown woman who had borne her and left her abandoned.
And if she did it with a heart that was shriveled and dead inside her, she had no one to blame but herself.
He sat in the rental car for a long time, staring at the little Victorian house. It was small but charming, painted a cheerful blue and white, with a cared-for front lawn and what looked like a small jungle behind it. But as he looked closer he saw that there was a plan, paths amid the riotous growth, little cavelike hollows to hide in, and a large, grassy area in the center. It was a far cry from the formal, landscaped garden his mother had favored, and a lot more inviting. A controlled wildness, he thought. Like Christy.
He smothered the pang of loss as well as the spurt of anger that rose in him at the thought of her. He wasn't quite through with Ms. Reno just yet. He got out of the car.
He was surprised to find the door still unlocked. In fact, he acknowledged coldly, he was surprised that she was still here, that she hadn't run again after his visit yesterday. But you haven't found her yet, Dalton, he told himself grimly. The house may be empty. He turned the knob quietly and slipped inside.
He nearly walked past her before he saw her. She was curled up on a wide window seat below the expanse of glass that faced the small, secluded street. Had she been awake she couldn't have missed seeing him, but she was sound asleep, her head pillowed on her slender hands. She looked sweet and innocent and utterly beautiful, except for the dark smudges that shadowed her eyes. He quashed a twinge of pity; he'd worn some dark circles himself in the past three weeks.
She was wearing the same clothes she'd had on yesterday, and he wondered if she'd been to bed at all. The thick bulk of her white cable-knit sweater and the snug jeans that hugged her long legs and slender hips made her look fragile and sensuous at the same time, but it was her feet that drew his attention. Those tiny, beautifully arched feet, bare below the delicate ankles, where he had pressed soft kisses and delighted in her shocked surprise at the unexpected sensitivity of that graceful arch.
She stirred then, making a small, troubled sound in her sleep. He couldn't stop himself from going to her, from sitting on the edge of the seat and reaching out to smooth a strand of the silken hair back from her cheek. She murmured something, a tiny breath of sound that coalesced into his name; his heart jumped, quivered, then raced as if to try to make up for the missed beat.
Slowly the wide gray eyes opened, and she looked up at him sleepily. A soft smile curved her lips, and that glow he'd treasured so much came into her eyes, turning them a bright burnished silver. It was a look reserved only for him, in the moments before she reached for him, as if she needed the feel of him beneath her fingers to believe he was real. And she did reach; her hand lifted, fingers outstretched.
And as quickly as if a switch had been flipped, it was gone and memory surged in to take its place. He saw a fleeting instant of pain and longing, and then the stiffness took over, and the lovely eyes became shadowed and unreadable. She sat up.
"Why did you come back?"
He took a breath, swallowed and tried to speak. No words would come; the loss of that look of joyous greeting seemed somehow worse than anything else, as if all the pain had been condensed into that single moment.
Christy didn't even try to hide the tremor of weariness that rippled through her, or the flat, dead sound of her voice. "Haven't you been hurt enough? Did you have to come back for more?"
"I came back," he said tightly, "for what I didn't get yesterday. The answer to my question."
"I told you why I—"
"I heard you. That's why none of this makes any sense."
Bewilderment broke through the unfeeling mask she'd carefully put on, but only for a moment; then the weariness closed in again. "I don't know how to make it any clearer. I told you I left because I knew it wouldn't work."
"And when I asked you again, Christy? What did you say then?"
She paled, her eyes suddenly alive and searching his face. He sat back, sure now that he'd been right.
"I know I wasn't supposed to hear it. And I didn't, at least not consciously, then. But last night, it came to me." He shook his head slowly. "And I was right, wasn't I?"
"All right! Yes, I said it!"
"God, Christy … never once, when we were together, did you ever tell me you loved me. I didn't care, I figured you'd get around to it, when you were sure." He let out a harsh, pained chuckle. "Then, when I ask you why you walked out of my life, you say 'Because I love you.' Damn it, Christy! If you meant it—"
"I meant it." She couldn't deny him that, not along with everything else, but she was getting edgy. She'd heard a sound from upstairs, and Char was due up any minute. "Now will you go?"
With a sigh of weary exasperation he ran a hand through his already tousled hair. "Are you crazy, or am I? None of this makes any sense at all."
"Maybe it's not supposed to. Just leave it, Trace." Another sound from above, and she tensed involuntarily. Trace must have heard it.
He had. A look realization crossed his face, followed closely by one of bitter self-contempt. "I'm sorry. I should have realized. Somehow the real reason never occurred to me. Pardon my overblown ego. I'm sure you'd rather not introduce us, so I'll leave before he comes down."
* * *
Thirteen
« ^
Christy stared at him, nonplussed. After a long moment his meaning penetrated; he thought she had a man upstairs. "Trace, no!"
She leaped up, took a step toward him, then stopped. Wasn't it better this way? Wouldn't it accomplish exactly what she'd set out to do? He already thought her a bitch, a liar and a coward, so what did it matter if he added cheat to that list? Or tramp, or whatever it was he was thinking?
It mattered. She didn't know why, but it mattered. He had stopped at her cry, but when she said no more he turned to go; the defeated slump of his straight shoulders was almost more than she could bear. She'd never felt so torn, never been so close to breaking down and telling him everything and praying he would understand. But she'd given up believing in useless dreams—
In the moment when his hand reached for the doorknob the decision was taken out of her hands by the scurry of small feet and a cheerful little voice.
"Mommy, Mrs. Turner's gonna make waffles! C'n I have—"
The little girl stopped, suddenly aware of a stranger's presence, and attached herself to Christy's leg. She peered around to study Trace for a moment, then shifted her bright-eyed gaze to her mother's white face. Sensing the tension she didn't understand, the sandy-haired little girl stepped in front of her mother in a protective gesture that would have been comical had it not been for the utter seriousness on her innocent face.
"Are you why my mommy's been cryin'?" she asked, her chin jutting upward defiantly.
My God, Trace thought, stunned, his eyes on that tiny chin, she looks just like Christy. Then his gaze lifted to the huge, blue-green eyes that were fastened on him somewhat threateningly. He paled, and his legs suddenly lost strength. He staggered two steps to a chair and sat down weakly.
"It's all right, baby. Go help Mrs. Turner and stay there till I come, okay?" When the child hesitated, Christy bent and pressed a kiss atop her head. "Scoot, sweetie." She watched the bouncing ponytail disappear through the kitchen door, then turned back to Trace, her face expressionless.
"Now will you go?"
He stared at her, his hands clamped around the chair cushion on either side of his knees, as if he couldn't sit upright without support. Inanely all he could think of was that here was the explanation for that death's head look when she'd inadvertently used the word bastard.
"My God," he whispered, "why didn't you tell me?"
"I told you there were things you didn't know. Wouldn't want to know. So go on, Trace. Go find someone you can be happy with."
Anger spurted suddenly. "Just like that?" he asked coldly. "I'd say you have some
explaining to do!"
Her chin came up, the original for a small, brave little copy. "There's nothing you'd care to know, I'm sure."
"Oh, no? So I'm supposed to leave, just walk out and forget what I just saw?"
Only the rigidness of her hands clenched into fists betrayed her tension. "Just what is it you think you saw?"
He couldn't believe this, any of it. His head was reeling, and he was having trouble breathing past the tightness in his chest. "Why, Christy?" The words broke from him involuntarily. "Why didn't you tell me?" She shrugged, as if it hardly mattered, and anger spurted again. It gave him strength, and he got up suddenly. "Damn it, Christy, you were pregnant, you had my child, and you didn't even bother to tell me?"
Surprise flitted across her face. "You … believe she's yours?"
He stared back blankly. "What?"
She was unable to keep the sharpness out of her voice. "No blood tests? It was only once, after all. And years ago. Anything could have happened since."
As she spoke, his blank expression changed to one of shock, then one of agonized realization as he recognized the source of her words. "Oh, my God," he whispered, sinking back into the chair.
"Don't worry, you're safe. I won't have her subjected to that kind of a circus."
He laughed, a hoarse, broken mockery of a laugh. "It would hardly be necessary."
"What?" It was her turn to look blank.
His head came up. "I may be the stupidest idiot on the face of the earth, but I'm not blind. She's mine, all right."
"I don't understand—"
"God, Christy, all I have to do is look at her, at those eyes … hell, it's like looking into a mirror. You've got to see that."
"I do. Every time I look at her." Christy closed her eyes. "I didn't expect you to see it."
"You really do think I'm a—" He stopped, his face taut with strain. "What do you think I am, Christy? So horrible that you couldn't come to me? Couldn't tell me?"
"I didn't think you'd believe me."
"Why?"
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