The Secret Baby Bond

by Cindy Gerard

  This, meaning them, their marriage.

  Suddenly, she was grounded in reality again. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he had changed, that his priorities had changed, yet the indisputable fact was, he was leaving, like he’d always left.

  Where a moment ago she’d been fever hot, she felt a bone deep chill settle in.

  “Here.”

  She looked down as he pressed a key into her palm.

  “It’s to the condo. Will you work on it for me while I’m gone?”

  “Oh, Michael, I don’t have any idea how you want it furnished.”

  “Then decorate it how you want it. If you like it, I’ll like it.”

  She stared from the key to his face.

  “Great,” he said, squeezing her arms, taking her silence for concession when she hadn’t fully processed the implications of his request let alone agreed to it. “I really have to go now.”

  He kissed her again, swift and hard, and then bent to lift Brandon into his arms.

  “You take care of your mother, big guy. And you miss me, just a little, okay?”

  “Da!”

  “Yeah,” he said on a smile and handed Brandon over to Tara. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  With one last lingering look, he turned to leave.

  “Michael.”

  He stopped, stiffened. Tara had the unsettling feeling that he was composing himself before he faced her, bracing for a blow. When he turned back to her, his self-assured smile said one thing. His eyes said another.

  His eyes didn’t look nearly as sure as he wanted her to think he was. It struck her then, how vulnerable he was. That was a concept that would take some getting used to. The man she’d married had never seemed vulnerable. Invincible, maybe. Determined, absolutely. Vulnerable? Never.

  It was that vulnerability that changed her course. Instead of voicing a million reasons why she couldn’t and shouldn’t work on his condo and that he shouldn’t take too much stock in that kiss, she went with her heart.

  “About John…”

  Dead silence skated on the air between them.

  “I want you to know that it’s over.”

  More silence, only this time it was far less tense, far more hopeful on his end.

  “It doesn’t change things between us,” she said gently but without the conviction necessary to wipe away his smile. “I still don’t think—”

  “Wait.” He touched his forefinger to the crease of tension furrowing her brow. “Don’t think about what can’t be. Don’t think about what scares you. Think about this instead. I love you.”

  Then he turned and walked out the door.

  Eight

  “If you really want to divorce Michael, then why have you placed your entire life on hold for the past two years?”

  Tara glanced up from her desk at City Beat. Her brother, Seth, looking distant and removed in a three-piece power suit, wandered restlessly around her office, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers.

  He was, in short, brooding and he’d evidently decided to take out his dark mood on her.

  She sighed and gave him a little slack in that regard. She ached for him, for the turmoil he was going through over his mother. Angie Donahue’s sudden return weighed heavily on the minds of all the Connellys. For Seth, however, it wasn’t just a weight. It was a blow.

  “I thought you came over to take me to lunch, or was that just a ploy so you could pick a fight?” she asked with a narrow-eyed scowl that turned into a grin when he realized he’d been had.

  Good, she thought when one corner of his mouth lifted in a tight smile. She was determined to nudge him out of his mood but not at her expense. She had no intention of talking about a topic she simply didn’t have it in her to discuss—Michael.

  It had been eight days since he’d left for Ecuador with a promise to return in three days. So much for his promises. They meant no more now than they had two years ago. Nothing, it seemed, had changed. He was as driven now as he had been then. And that drive always took him away from her both physically and emotionally. Unless someone had lived it, there was no way to explain the pain that type of isolation caused. But she had lived it. And she couldn’t live it again.

  Steeped in disappointment and disillusion—she’d actually begun to believe that he’d changed—she fought back her own anger. She was now more cemented than ever in her resolve to go through with the divorce. It was just like she’d told Michael. She couldn’t survive him again. Loving him hurt too much.

  “I’ve talked with him you know,” Seth said, pausing in his restless prowling long enough to look at her. “Right after he reappeared. The man loves you, Tara. He does not want this divorce.”

  Tara closed her eyes. Old territory. New route.

  “If you don’t want to represent me in the divorce anymore, that’s fine,” she said without heat but with clear resolution. “I’m sure Dad can recommend someone.”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned back against the wall and stared at her long and hard. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?” she asked with weary patience.

  “If you don’t want to be with him, why have you placed your life on hold? You’ve been waiting for him, Tara. You never gave up on him being alive.

  “You love him,” he added for emphasis. “There’s nothing to stop you from being together any longer.”

  Nothing but a history of misunderstandings, anger and regret.

  She wasn’t going to talk about it. Neither would she allow Seth’s well-intended meddling to undercut her resolve to be patient with him. He meant well. And he was troubled, now more than ever. She understood that. Just like she’d always understood that Seth, at the core, didn’t feel like he belonged with the Connellys. She suspected that was why he was championing Michael’s cause now. Michael had never felt like he’d belonged, either. Seth had known that and he sympathized.

  Seth was wrong, of course, at least about his position in the family. Their father loved him and her mother had always looked upon Seth as one of her own.

  But Tara loved him best of all.

  She rose, walked around her desk and hugged him. “I love you, brother mine,” she whispered against his ear. “Now back off please or I’ll have to get rough with you.”

  He didn’t flinch at her display of affection. Once he would have tried his best to keep an emotional distance from anyone in the family who got too close. Tara had never let him get by with it. She wasn’t about to let him get by with distancing himself now.

  “Take me to lunch,” she ordered, falling into the bossy, bratty little sister role that Seth loved to butt heads with. “And we’re going to talk about anything and everything but this family and its troubles. Mine included.

  “Hey,” she said as an idea struck her. “What do you say we take in a ball game? How long has it been since we’ve watched the Cubs together and fought over peanuts?”

  His cool gray eyes warmed as she raised a hand, touched her fingers affectionately to his short brown hair.

  “Come on? What do you say? We’re due for a little umpire bashing and ketchup stains.”

  “You always get your way, don’t you, brat?” he muttered with a reluctant grin as she snagged her jacket.

  “You’re just mad ’cause I wouldn’t let you bully me. Here’s a tip. Get over it.”

  With her arm linked through his, she dragged him out the door, looking forward to an afternoon where she could feel less troubled and more carefree than she had in a long time. A very long time.

  Later that evening Tara sat alone in the den trying to read a book. She finally closed it shut with a snap when she’d had to reread a page three times.

  “Go to bed,” she told herself. Everyone else had retired over an hour ago, including her parents. Actually, she was worried about her dad. He had a lot on his mind these days. For that matter, they all did.

  Except for Brandon. She tho
ught of her son snug and warm in his bed upstairs. He was growing so fast. Sometimes she wished she could lock him on freeze-frame and keep him as innocent and happy and free of the emotional scars life would most certainly give him.

  “And how fair would that be?” she murmured aloud. It would be like keeping him from living. From experiencing his own joys and triumphs and, unfortunately, fears. But he would be strong, her son. He would deal with life head-on and come out on top. As a mother, however, she would never overcome her desire to protect, to provide, to harbor.

  He asked about Michael every day. Many times. He missed him.

  So did she.

  And that was one of her greatest fears—that she would never stop missing him.

  She dragged a hand through her hair then drew her legs to her chest. Resting her chin on her knees, she stared into the fire. And saw Michael’s smoky gray eyes staring back at her. Saw the blue-black highlights in his hair, the unqualified grace of his strong, lean body.

  She pressed her forehead to her knees and was reaffirming her conviction that she was better without him when a noise had her lifting her head. She sat very still, listening. It came from outside, like the distant rumble of far-off thunder. She looked toward the window facing the lake, but saw only stars.

  The sound grew louder, closer, a deep ground-shaking grumble that began to sound suspiciously like a motorcycle.

  Tugging her red sweater down over her jeans as she rose, she walked to the front of the house. Ruby met her at the door wearing her robe and slippers.

  “What in thunder is all that racket?” Ruby groused around a yawn. Drawing the belt of her robe tighter, she swung open the door.

  “Well, for the love of a dangerous man,” Ruby said with a gaping grin.

  She shook her head, laughed then slid Tara a sly look. “I don’t believe this concerns me. You two have fun now but don’t be staying out all night.”

  Fun? Tara thought incredulously as she stared from Ruby’s departing, chuckling form to the sight that met her on the top—the very top—step directly outside the mansion’s front door.

  A leather-clad hooligan straddled the biggest, baddest, loudest motorcycle Tara had ever seen. His black-gloved hands reached to remove a space-aged, lacquered-black helmet, then briskly brushed through hair as dark as the night.

  “Hi,” Michael said with a tired but broad grin.

  Hi? As if he hadn’t been gone for eight solid days? As if it was an everyday occurrence that a madman on a motorcycle scaled the twenty-odd steps of Lake Shore Manor at midnight. As if they were still both sixteen and she’d been waiting for him, ready to race out of the house to defy her parents and because there was no place she’d rather be than with him.

  Well, she wasn’t sixteen anymore. And she shouldn’t want to be with him.

  But she did.

  “It’s almost midnight,” she said inanely and because she really didn’t know what else to say.

  She should go back inside. She shouldn’t just stand there, her heart beating with excitement and lust for her soon to be ex-husband with the outlaw grin and tight leather pants.

  She should go back inside, her mind warned her again, because she was about a deep breath away from throwing caution to the wind, climbing right on the bike behind him and plastering herself as close to him as she could possibly get.

  “Yeah. I know,” he said above the noise as he revved the engine with a practiced and competent twist of his gloved hand. The powerful machine responded with a deep, resonating grumble.

  She blinked, drew a total blank.

  “Know what?” she shouted, then belatedly stepped outside and closed the door behind her in the hope that he hadn’t awakened the entire house.

  “That it’s almost midnight,” he said, another grin flashing. “Best time for road-tripping.”

  “Road-tripping? Michael. You can’t just…I can’t just…this isn’t—”

  His white teeth flashed under the porch light. Apparently he was enjoying her incoherent babbling. The soft focused light drifted across his face and a jaw that was lightly shadowed with dark stubble. It made him look as dangerous as the bike—and infinitely more mysterious.

  “Come on,” he coaxed, twisted at the waist and dug into a black saddlebag trimmed in silver. “It’ll be like old times.”

  He dragged out a jacket that matched his, draped it over her shoulders. Then before she could say yes, no, or this is not a good idea, he eased his helmet over her head.

  “You want to come with me,” he said with amused certainty. Balancing the bike on strong legs, he helped her work her arms into the jacket sleeves.

  “Please?” Watching his hands work from the bottom up, he snapped button after button then tilted her an ornery smile. “Pretty please?”

  He fastened the final button under her chin, looked into her eyes—and she was lost.

  He used to do this all the time. He used to come for her on his used and rough-running little bike that barely had enough power to climb a hill let alone the steps. And he always had a grin on his face. The same grin he was grinning now.

  Dare ya, it said.

  His gray eyes beckoned.

  When she stood there, torn between a desire to go with him and a common sense that said “no way,” he revved the motor so loud she was afraid he’d wake up the entire neighborhood.

  She winced and looked toward the closed door.

  Rebel that he was, he revved it again.

  “Okay, okay,” she shouted over the noise and climbed aboard. Then she held on for dear life as they bounced down the steps. “That was nothing short of blackmail.”

  His voice sounded smug as he shouted over his shoulder. “Worked, too, didn’t it?”

  Yeah, she thought, giving in to a grin, as they hit level ground and he flew between the open security gates. It worked just fine.

  The night was cool and crisp and the longer they rode, the more stars appeared, the brighter was the moon. Tara had no idea where they were going. It frightened her a little that she didn’t care.

  Her world had shrunk to the sensation of the power of the bike between her legs. Her senses had honed in on the warmth of Michael’s broad back seeping through supple leather against her breasts. Her awareness had focused on the assurance and skill of the man weaving at a fast and competent speed through the traffic and away from the city.

  They didn’t talk. Conversation would have been superfluous. This ride wasn’t about talking. It was about remembering and feeling and skating on the sharp, sizzling edge of sensation. The sensation of speed. The impression of power. The awareness of each other.

  It would be a disaster to give in to her desire, a catastrophe to let old memories and rekindled yearnings team up to weaken her resolve. She couldn’t let him kiss her again. And yet, as they veered off the Sheridan Road, breezed through Evanston and rolled into a lake-front park, she tingled with the awareness that it was exactly what she wanted him to do. And more.

  They cruised deeper into the park, closer to the breakwater of Lake Michigan then idled to a stop. Michael cut the engine, kicked down the stand then swung his leg over the bike and stood.

  The first thing she noticed was the absence of his body heat against her. The next was that he was watching her. Breakers crashed against the not-so-distant shore. The wind lifted his hair. The chill in the air made her shiver. She told herself it was the chill, not the man who was watching her so intently.

  “Like old times, huh?” His voice was gruffly quiet; his eyes, when he met hers, were seeking. “Bring back memories?”

  Oh yeah. Midnight rides; hot, yearning bodies; wild wet kisses.

  She looked away. “I don’t remember that you rode in this much style back then.”

  He laughed softly. “You like her?” He lifted a hand toward the bike. “I placed the order just before I left for Ecuador. Had to get the dealer to open up after-hours when I got in tonight so I could drive over.”

  “You couldn’t have w
aited until tomorrow?”

  “No,” he said evenly. “I couldn’t. Just like I couldn’t wait to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  Her eyes must have relayed what she was thinking. He’d missed her so much he’d stayed away five days longer than he’d promised.

  “I’m sorry it took so long.” He moved a step closer to where she still sat on the bike. “Things got complicated. I called,” he said. “You were never home. Or you were unavailable.”

  He had called. And she had made it a point to be unavailable.

  “How’s Brandon?” he asked, working off his gloves, one finger at a time.

  “Fine. He’s fine.” She watched his hands, tan and strong as he tucked the gloves in his hip pocket.

  “He misses you. He asks about you every day.”

  “He misses me? Really?”

  Such surprised pleasure filled his voice that she smiled. “You’ve made quite an impression on our son.”

  “And what about his mother? Have I made an impression on her, too?”

  He stood very close now. With moonlight and stars her only light, she could still make out the definition of his broad shoulders encased in the licorice-colored soft leather. She could see the fire in his eyes.

  And she knew they were finished talking.

  He touched one of those sensual fingers to her jaw, cupped her face in his palm. His gray eyes glittered with longing as he lowered his head.

  She could have turned away. She should have turned away and dodged his mouth as she’d dodged his phone calls.

  But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

  When his lips touched hers, she sighed a little and lifted her mouth to meet him. When his arms banded around her, she died a little and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Heat. Need. Hunger. They spiraled through his kiss as he claimed her. And loss. Aching, yearning loss as his deep groan named her the one, the only woman who could give him what he’d missed. What he wanted. And what he wanted was more. What he wanted was deep, drugging kisses, a connection that went much further than this mating of two mouths in the moonlight on this cold Lake Michigan shore.