by Cindy Gerard
Seven
Michael, January was soon to discover, was determined to make Toby’s life better. And in his bid to help Toby, he also gained ground on another goal to which he was equally committed: winning her trust.
The wooing of January Stewart, as Helen delighted in referring to Michael’s tactics, was sometimes subtle, sometimes sweeping, as every day in every way he showed her he was a factor to be reckoned with. He made it clear that he wasn’t going away, not from her life and not from Toby’s. At least not anytime soon.
Not that she wanted him to go, January admitted to herself one evening as she looked down at his dark head pillowed on her lap. She’d always been a loner by choice. Michael, however, by virtue of being Michael, had greatly depreciated the value she’d placed on solitude.
While he’d been relentless in his pursuit of what he teasingly promised would ultimately be her happiness, it was in the most conventional, most gentle of ways. He’d instinctively known that a series of elegant dinner dates and evenings at the theater weren’t the approach to take with her. Instead he’d given her cherished glimpses of what it felt like to be young and foolish and falling in love.
He took both her and Toby roller-skating; on long playful romps with George; and to Toby’s favorite spot, the carnival atmosphere of Pearl Street, where they listened to street-corner musicians and delighted in the antics of jugglers, sword swallowers, and stand-up comedians. He bought them silly and sentimental gifts, despite her many protests. And the night before, after pizza and after they’d dropped Toby off at Gretchen’s, Michael, with a wicked glint in his eye and mischief on his mind, had taken her parking on Boulder’s equivalent of lovers’ lane.
There, by the light of the radio dial and under the cover of soft music and heavily steamed-up windows, he’d pulled her onto his lap and informed her that he was about to enlighten her on the fine art of innocent necking and the thrill of clandestine petting.
He’d enlightened her out of her ever-loving mind. A man of great, giving passion, of fierce, breathless hunger, Michael had stirred the woman within her to a new and profound awareness. And he’d effortlessly fostered an appetite in her to match his own.
Shivering at the memory, she touched a hand to his hair and marveled that he’d taken her this far. A month ago she couldn’t have handled a simple hug, much less this easy kind of intimacy. But as he’d promised, she had become used to him touching her. And as she’d feared, she had come to need his touch.
That day she’d had a grueling and disastrous session in court. Before Michael’s intervention in her life, she would have wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Tonight, she needed him.
With Michael she felt alive. With Michael she indulged. And more and more often, with Michael she lived for today and forgot about the ghosts that haunted her. He made it so easy, sometimes, to forget.
This night, though, as much as she needed him, she couldn’t forget. She felt tired and defeated, and the stigma of her past wouldn’t leave her alone. Michael’s part in it loomed like a shadowy prelude to pain.
Leaning her head back against the cushions, she closed her eyes, distantly aware of the low drone of the TV and the sweet scent of vanilla from the candle burning on the end table. One part of her wanted her past out in the open. Another was afraid. Afraid to trust in anything as superfluous as steamy midnight kisses and an emotion as fickle and as fallible as love.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
She snapped her eyes open to see him frowning up at her, his gaze full of concern.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded and looked away, knowing her eyes told him she lied.
He didn’t push, but she could tell he wanted to.
“Want some more popcorn?” he asked instead as he rose lazily to his feet.
She shook her head.
“Sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She was sure of something else, too, she thought as she watched him disappear into the kitchen to refill his bowl. The physical attraction between them grew stronger every day. She was dying a slow, lingering death waiting for him to take them to the end they both desperately wanted, but that he refused to give.
Her heavy sigh woke George, who promptly rose to all fours. He stretched lazily and abandoned the rug in front of the TV for the spot Michael had vacated on the sofa. Absently stroking George’s silky head, she realized she no longer approached lovemaking with Michael as a means to an end, or merely to satisfy her curiosity. She wanted to make love with Michael because he made her ache. He made her burn. He made her lose control when he touched her.
She felt her breasts tighten at the memory of last night’s kisses. Her lower body clenched with the desire he’d been nurturing for weeks now. He’d taken her to the limit and beyond, and she didn’t know how much more she could handle.
For the longest time she had tried to convince herself the attraction was purely physical, arguing that the sexual drive, after all, had been created for the express purpose of perpetuating the species. It was not designed to be easy to resist. Then, of course, there was Helen’s perspective. “If the good Lord’s only intent when he created men and women was to make babies, he’d never have invented black lace and stilettos. Or whipped cream.”
January had told herself repeatedly that it was chemistry, that there was nothing else between them.
She’d lied.
She missed Michael when he wasn’t with her. She looked for him when she knew he was coming. And more and more often she found herself wishing she could truly become a part of his life.
Her heart tightened, then swelled as she watched him stride back into the room, watched the play of firm muscle beneath the denim of his jeans, the flex of sinew and bone, the black hair and flashing eyes that made him a beautiful, virile man.
A fresh bowl of popcorn in hand, he grinned when he spotted George on the sofa. “Not that I blame you, buddy, but that’s my spot.”
George pleaded dumb with a liquid look from his big black eyes, then snuggled his head deeper into January’s lap.
“Up, George, now,” Michael ordered sternly, “or you’ve seen your last milk bone.”
George lay like a blanket.
Michael affected a scowl, then hit on the solution. “Where’s the squirrel, George?”
Instantly alert, George bolted off the couch and trotted to the window to look, never realizing he’d been duped.
With a superior grin, Michael settled quickly back into his place. Resting his head on January’s lap again, he stretched his long legs out and sighed without an ounce of repentance.
Despite her melancholy mood, January grinned down at him. “That was sneaky.”
“Hey, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. He’d have done the same to me if he’d had the chance. Besides, the day I’m outmaneuvered by a mutt—no offense, George—is the day I pack it in.”
Discounting Helen, January had had little whimsy in her life. Consequently, it was this whimsical side of Michael she was drawn to most. His express interest in making her smile seemed so at odds with his status as an important and powerful journalist. His prowess was of a magnitude that made world leaders take notice. Whether he was chronicling the life of a film industry mogul, a Fortune 500 CEO, or a rebel leader in an underdeveloped South American country, no one wanted to be on the receiving end of a Michael Hayward exposé. He was tenacious to the point of employing seek-and-destroy tactics when he was hot on an assignment. He never left a stone unturned. Yet being with him like this, she found it increasingly hard to remember the man behind the reputation.
She had to be careful. He was a journalist first. That she was just a temporary diversion for him was the last thing she wanted to believe. Because she didn’t want to believe it, it was the one thing she forced herself to remember. It was her mother’s future as well as her own that was at
stake if she confided in him.
“So.” His voice drew her back to the moment. “What happened while I was gone?”
I accepted the fact that I’m in love with you, she thought bleakly, then shoved that knowledge aside until she had the strength to deal with it logically. “Three commercials and a station break,” she said instead.
“Doesn’t sound too exciting. In fact . . .” he set the popcorn on the floor and turned his attention to her, “the movie isn’t too exciting. I wish you’d have let me take you out tonight.”
She looked deep into the blue eyes that promised more than he could possibly deliver. “In or out, I wouldn’t have been very good company.”
“You had a rough day,” he assessed accurately.
“Not as rough as my client.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
Without breaking client confidentiality, she talked with him frequently about some of her cases. He seemed genuinely interested, and sharing with him provided a much-needed outlet for her. Today’s case, however, was different. This one hit very close to home.
The look on his face told her he sensed it. His insight scared the hell out of her. She countered the fear with weary anger. “Michael, why are you here?”
He studied her, frowning thoughtfully. “Because you make the best popcorn in town?”
She looked away.
More softly he said, “Because you put up with my dog?”
When the smile he’d been playing for still didn’t develop, he sat up and met her eye to eye. “Okay, what’s this about, January?”
She hesitated, then drew a heavy breath. “It’s about the fact that I don’t understand why you’re here . . . with me.”
“Why not you?”
“Why not someone who can give back to a relationship as much as she takes?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I ask you about your court case and you’re suddenly talking about our relationship. What does one have to do with the other?”
Her heart jackhammered inside her breast. “Nothing,” she lied. “One has nothing to do with the other. It’s just . . . like you said. Today was rough.”
“Tell me,” he urged gently.
Focusing on a spot somewhere past his shoulder, she began, trying to keep any emotion from her voice. “My client was a desperate woman. She was fighting for sole custody of her three-year-old daughter. Today we tried to have the father’s parental rights severed. Tried and failed.”
“Why?”
His direct questions no longer intimidated her. She’d become used to them, and was grateful for the reminder that he was first and foremost a journalist.
“Why such drastic measures? He’s a violent and abusive man, and my client felt the only hope for herself and her daughter was to force him completely out of their lives. Why did we lose? Because he is also a prominent and highly connected man from a wealthy and influential family. And because sometimes there is no justice in justice.”
Feeling very tired, she pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.
Michael’s hand dropped to her shoulder, resting there softly. “You can appeal.”
She nodded once without enthusiasm. “And wait months for another court date. In the meantime, my client has to hear her daughter’s cries when Daddy comes to pick her up for visitation, then lie awake each night waiting for her baby’s screams to ring through the darkness when the nightmares follow the visits.”
She heard his deep intake of breath and knew he was fighting the same revulsion she was feeling.
“Is there no other recourse for them?”
“Nothing legal. If she refuses to let him see the little girl, she’ll be held in contempt of court. In this case it would mean jail time, and then the father would have complete physical custody.” She shuddered just thinking about it.
“What about supervised visits?”
“The judge wouldn’t allow it. Said we hadn’t clearly established that the child is in any danger, and it would be a violation of the father’s rights.” She tried to swallow back her anger. “Three psychologists testified, yet their professional opinions weren’t, in the judge’s words, ‘conclusive.’ ”
His hand moved to the nape of her neck and kneaded consolingly. “What happens now? She can’t just quit fighting.”
The compassion in his voice was almost her undoing. “She hasn’t.”
His eyes narrowed as comprehension dawned. “She’s going underground, isn’t she?”
Her silence confirmed his suspicion.
“January, you could face disbarment if you have a hand in arranging that.”
Without conscious thought, she cupped his cheek in her hand. His concern touched her deeply. No one but Helen had ever been concerned about her before. “Your worry is misplaced. I didn’t arrange it. I’m not even certain it’s going to happen. If I receive a call from Judge Lawton telling me my client is in contempt of court for not delivering the little girl for her scheduled visit tomorrow, I’ll know that she decided to go under.”
She became quiet, thoughtful. “Frankly, I don’t know what I would have done if she had asked me for that kind of help. While I don’t have connections, I’m well aware of the Underground Railroad. The network is rumored to be strong and supportive. If I were faced with a decision to help, I’d hate to think I’d refuse, and in doing so be a passive party to the horror that little girl has to endure if her father remains a part of her life.”
“But is a life of constant running and hiding, of leaving behind family and friends, such a healthy alternative?”
“The key word is ‘alternative,’” she said firmly, and while she had the courage she added, “at least she’d have an alternative. She deserves that much. Every child does.”
The room became deadly still, like the calm in the eye of a storm, or the pregnant silence before the last piece of shattered glass falls from a broken window. Beside her she could feel Michael’s body grow bowstring tight.
“And you, January,” he asked quietly, “were you ever offered an alternative?”
Her eyes snapped to his. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He gazed at her solemnly. “Who made you so afraid to trust?”
Her heart tripped into double time. She looked away as her body began a deep, uncontrollable trembling. Do it! some reckless inner voice cried. Tell him! Test him.
“January . . .” His voice was a gentle assurance in the pulsing silence.
One glance at the tortured look in his eyes sent her near to the edge. She was tired of believing he would betray her, that he represented a danger to her future because of her past. But years of conditioning wouldn’t allow her to trust him with the entire truth.
No force on earth, however, could hold back the questions that had always haunted her.
“Why couldn’t my mother have done that, Michael? Why couldn’t she have fought for us? Why couldn’t she have fought for me? Why did she let him hurt her? Hurt . . . me?” Her voice broke on the last word and she bit her lip to keep from crumbling.
She was so tired. She’d been strong for too long, needy for too long. She needed, now. She needed to know she was a person of value, that someone thought she was worth fighting for, worth taking, even if it meant taking a chance.
“Michael, hold me.”
With a groan born from her anguish, Michael pulled her into his arms. He held her fiercely, rocking her, soothing her with his hands in her hair, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.
Her heartbreaking questions confirmed what he’d long suspected. And they explained so much—her initial resistance to physical contact, the undercurrent of distrust, the fact that she’d never before let any man close to her. It hadn’t been just a man who had abused her. It had been her father, the man who should have been protecting her.
It explained so much, but not nearly enough. Not enough to help him heal all the hurts she carried inside her. Not enough to dispel all his dark, horrible thoughts of what she might have gone through.
His work had led him into danger more than once, had placed him in life-or-death situations where it could have come down to killing or being killed. He’d been prepared to face that if he had to, no matter how loathsome the thought of taking a man’s life was. But here, on this sofa with this strong yet fragile woman in his arms, he feared he’d kill and kill gladly if he ever got his hands on the man who’d done this to her. Or the woman who had stood by and let it happen.
Along with his anger, he felt a consuming sense of helplessness. There were words—he was sure there were words he should say to let her know she no longer had to handle this alone. He was a man of words, made his living with words. Yet holding her against him, feeling her strength dissolve into despair, he couldn’t string two coherent, let alone consoling, words together.
But the simple fact was, she didn’t want words from him tonight. The bold, sensual pressure of her body against his told him what she wanted. She wanted strength. And she wanted action.
No warning, however distant, no argument, however valid, could stop him from tipping her face up to his. He didn’t pause to question whether it was the right thing to do. She was reaching out as she never had before, and he reacted instinctively to the need in her voice, to the desperate yearning of her body.
She moved against him with a restless urgency as he captured her mouth in a soulful, searing kiss. He catered to the hunger with which she returned his kiss and to the gut-tightening clutch of desire arrowing through his groin. And he clung by a thumbnail to the knowledge that for her sake he’d have to take it slow.
Slow became a distant, unattainable fantasy, though, when she writhed in his arms like a sudden summer storm. She was all wild, untamed energy, all crackling electric heat. Her ardor was a mind-numbing, loin-thickening reality as she met his openmouthed kisses with hot, liquid passion.
“January,” he gasped, coming up for air. “Baby . . . sweetheart . . . easy.”