Hard to Hold

by Incy Black

  The blank page facing him and untidy fall of screwed-up balls of paper littering the corner of the sofa like fallen boulders proved his luck hadn’t paid out. Christ, if he couldn’t get his mind off his dick and focus, they’d both end up dead—her by some sicko’s hand, him by his own frustration.

  He scratched the word “BABY” onto the page and circled it repeatedly until the paper threatened to tear under the stab of his pen nib. Anna’s baby was the link, he was damned sure of it. Just as he was convinced she knew more than she was telling.

  There had been a time she’d trusted him with every facet of her delinquent mind, never doubting he’d have her back as she’d have his. That open, mutual blind faith and trust had been the glue to their relationship. And damn it, he missed it.

  He should have recognized her unerring belief in him as a gift. Now, it was too sodding late. She’d retreated behind barriers he doubted a spider could scale, which could make protecting her damn near impossible.

  Irritated but unsure whether with her or with himself, he ignored the knot in his chest and added “FATHER” to the sheet of paper, the word a punishment on so many personal levels, he was tempted to score it through. But he’d never ducked reality; no point starting now.

  His forefinger joints protested as he tightened his grip on the pen. He forewent the circling and bracketed the ominous word with two large question marks instead. He needed that man’s identity.

  Sucking in as deep a breath as his chest would allow, he set the notebook aside, rolled free of the sofa, stood, and stretched out his spine. It was half past ten; she’d never needed more than a few hours’ sleep. It was time he and Anna had another little talk. He might even find the opportunity to apologize for his behavior. If nothing else, that would at least give her something to laugh about when he insisted she follow his rules.

  He neither knocked nor hesitated before thrusting into her bedroom. He wanted her befuddled. Confused and vulnerable so she’d give up the information he needed without a fight.

  He pulled up short in the center of her room at the sight of her empty bed, his frown deepening into a scowl at the tossed-aside sheets and slight indent on the left-hand side of the mattress, her preferred side.

  An increasingly familiar tension tightened his abdomen. Part thrill, part dread. Now what was she up to? Striding forward, he bent down and placed his palm flat against the sheet. Still warm, so she hadn’t been gone long.

  A groan distracted him. After crossing to the semi-ajar door, he nudged it open. Anna, her back braced against the side of the bathtub, sat with her legs drawn up, her head on her knees.

  The knot in his chest twisted and spiked spurs. He’d wanted her vulnerable, not utterly defeated. “You okay?”

  “Does it look like it? Bloody morning sickness, I’m supposed to be past all this. Twelve weeks they promised me, and it’s been damn near sixteen.”

  Forgetting he was supposed to be keeping his distance, he dropped to his haunches and smoothed back the hank of hair beneath which her eyes glittered with irritation. “What helps?”

  “Sod all, most of the time. I’m never actually sick, just feel it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like a bit of privacy to wallow in my misery alone. This will pass soon enough.”

  He hesitated. Once upon a time, when sick, she’d found it comforting for him to sit behind her and curl her tight in his arms. Would she now? Somehow he doubted it. The intimacy they’d once shared was long gone. Didn’t stop him craving it though.

  With his forefinger, he traced the outline of her brow, followed her cheekbone down to her chin, and tilted her face toward her. The wary confusion in her eyes twisted something inside him. He forced himself to smile past the pain. “Okay…but I’m in the sitting room if you need me. Just shout.”

  “The way I feel, that’s likely to bring the language police around. Go, before I cease to care.”

  With uncustomary tact, he withdrew, idly digging the heel of his hand into his sternum. Anna, for all her many faults, was no whiner. Another reason he missed her. No matter what life threw to knock her down, she stood right back up with a smile. He couldn’t help wondering if this time, she’d even get the chance.

  …

  Half an hour later, Anna joined him in the kitchen. She noticed his eyes immediately strayed to her belly. “Don’t do that, Nick, I’m pregnant, not about to reenact that scene from Alien.”

  “And tetchy with it, too. Here, I cleaned up and made you some mint tea and toast. The toast, just the way you like it. Crusts off, dark rather than golden, and lightly buttered, right to the edges.”

  He’d remembered how fussy she was about her toast? She took a step backward and cast a look over her shoulder. And he had indeed done his best to impose some order on her untidiness. Shoes she’d abandoned where she’d kicked them off now stood neatly paired against the skirting by her front door. Her haphazard pile of computer magazines had been straightened to an exact ninety-degree angle with the edge of her coffee table, and the brightly colored cashmere throws she favored had been neatly folded and draped tidily across the back of her sofa.

  Eyebrows arching, she turned to face him and immediately swallowed the sassy comment she’d been about to deal. Never before had she seen Nick Marshall look less than certain about himself. He did now.

  “I spoke to Lowry. She said mint tea would help with the nausea,” he offered with a level of caution that damn near had her jaw dropping to the floor. He must have seen her shock at him having called anyone for advice, because he hurried on, “I needed to call Ballentyne anyway, to explain why the Service had taken over. Lowry said to say hi and congratulations…ah, you don’t want to know what Ballentyne said.”

  “I can imagine,” she said drily, stepping forward and sliding onto a high stool by the breakfast bar. “You and he are both as bad as each other.”

  His laugh was like warm honey smoothing her skin.

  “No, he’s much worse. I’m surprised you didn’t hear Lowry yelling at him all the way down from the Lake District.”

  Anna smiled. Nick and Ballentyne were close friends. Aside from Will, he was the only other person she’d ever heard Nick talk about with respect and affection. “You ever been tempted to join Fortress?”

  Nick shook his head. “The Service practically turned inside out when Ballentyne quit. Someone had to stay and help the Commander impose order.”

  “Bet you were popular.”

  For once the smile he returned was unguarded. “Absolutely loathed, but I got the job done. Truth is, I was beginning to feel a little desk-bound and bored when you smacked back into my life and things suddenly got a whole lot more exciting. Now why am I not surprised?”

  His tone suggested he was kind of paying her a compliment, which had to be a first. Then she noticed him grimace as he bent to stack his plate in the dishwasher. “Is your side troubling you? Do you need some painkillers?”

  “Nope. It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse. Drink. Eat. Then we need to talk. About putting your darker computer skills to good use.”

  Warning bells sounded in her head. She ducked his stare and blew across the surface of her tea. “Sounds ominous, but just so you know, I don’t hack anymore. Doing so could lose me my company.”

  “Not if you don’t get caught, and you never got caught.”

  “Because I knew it was time to stop pushing my luck.”

  “Oh, yeah, and when was that, exactly?”

  She hated when he used sarcasm to disconnect. She would have challenged him had sharp pain not stabbed at her gut. Her palms moistened. She rubbed them up and down her upper thighs and then forced them behind her back when she saw him frown.

  “The night you gave up on me and chucked me out.” Christ, why did her voice have to crack like that? She’d been aiming for nonchalant.

  She watched all color drain from his face. Then, he stepped into her personal space, close enough for her to count each individual bristle on his unshaven chin, and with
the pad of his thumb brushed the curve beneath her eye. “Do you know your irises bruise to the color of blueberry juice when you’re scared and confused, which is probably why I can’t stand the stuff? And, I never gave up on you, Anna. On us maybe, but not you.”

  “So why divorce me? I don’t understand.”

  “Because it kept you safe, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. To keep you safe. Which is why I need you to help me, sweetheart. Hack the clinic’s records for me, baby. Get me the name of the father. I need to rule him out as a possible threat.”

  Her pulse skidding against a heart that seemed to have forgotten how to beat. She jerked her chin to the side to dislodge his caress. Dear God, mesmerized by a side of Nick she’d never seen before—tender, honey-toned, gently coaxing, pretending he cared about her as if she was more precious to him than happiness itself—she’d almost forgotten what he was really like and fallen for his tricksy ruse.

  Abruptly, she slid from the stool, thrust him aside, and began to pace. “No. That’s not how it works, Nick. Each party is entitled to their anonymity. It’s less messy that way.”

  Antila had threatened to kill Nick should he even breathe in a way that displeased him. A threat he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out as last night’s little gun display had proven. The shooting, those hideous effigies, both had been first warnings, and she doubted Antila would issue a second. She understood the messages, Nick didn’t. And it was up to her to protect him. Even if that meant lying, albeit by omission—well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  “My God, you already know who it is, don’t you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. How could I?” She hoped he’d attribute her reddening cheeks to anger, not guilt.

  “Beats me, but the fact that you’ve just spent the last three minutes wearing the surface off the floor tiles and, judging by that look of surprise on your face, you didn’t even know you were doing so, makes you a big fat liar. And you know how I feel about liars.”

  She did, and that made him dangerous, but not as dangerous as Antila. If she told him the truth, Nick would go after the man. He’d hunt him down and most likely get himself killed as a result.

  She hadn’t seen him move, but suddenly he was standing too close again, close enough for her to feel the heat from his body, a smoldering mass of muscle, taut with frustration.

  And that’s when it hit her. She did have the power to ensure he stayed out of things. She just had to get him to hate her enough and hate himself even more. She’d remind him he was vulnerable to one thing alone. Her. A womanly suspicion she’d confirmed the night she’d pushed past his guard-dog determination to keep their relationship platonic and ambushed him into taking her virginity.

  He’d been a fiercely self-controlled young man battling a lust she could smell, and she’d been brazen. Sneaking into his bed in the dead of night. Brushing her breasts against his hard, naked chest, the heat of her breath, hot and jagged against the tautness of his neck as she begged and he’d hissed and cursed in his resistance. A resistance her fingers had melted away as she traced and explored the ridges of his tight abdomen, the rigid outline of his erection straining against the cotton of his shorts. His slow surrender had been evident in every reluctant groan she’d drawn from him, every desperate muscle flex and fleeting shiver he hadn’t been able to hide, before going completely caveman on her.

  And, for a man who lived to be in control, he’d never been able to forgive himself—or her—for revealing, and exploiting, his Achilles tendon—her. All she had to do was remind him of his weakness and, damn right, he’d disappear. Faster than the ink had dried on her signature that had nullified their marriage and cost her the only safe haven she’d ever known or wanted.

  Christ, this was going to rip her heart out. But knowing she was protecting Nick made her brave.

  Leaning into him, rising on tiptoes, she reached high, one hand curling into his hair, the other curving round the nape of his neck to pull his head into reach. Not once did she relinquish eye contact, her gaze as much a mocking dare as an invitation.

  His hesitation was obvious, but he didn’t step back. But nor did his hands rise to her hips to steady her as they would once have done.

  She brushed her lips against his, firming her hold as he tried to pull back.

  She’d live with his rejection if she had to, but not without a fight. She tightened her fingers for a firmer grip and nipped his lip in warning.

  Her own heat was embarrassingly immediate, but he wasn’t thawing.

  God, this was humiliating. He had to respond.

  She pushed past the self-doubt, ignored all self-respect. She teased his lips with the tip of her tongue, shifted her hips to caress him. She could do this. She’d done it before. Used temptation to smash his self-restraint. She’d beat down his resistance if it killed her. And unless he had changed, it shouldn’t take long.

  That was her last rational thought.

  She hadn’t just poked a caged bear; she’d sprung the damn thing.

  In an instant, Nick’s hands were all over her, lifting, kneading, then featherlight, caressing, drawing tiny circles up and down her spine, too knowing of what his touch would do to her, his way of confirming the barriers were now down, no-holds-barred. He’d taken over and was back in charge.

  Her pride screamed at her to resist, at least a little.

  Too late.

  His lips, his tongue were suddenly the more determined, the more expert.

  She hadn’t forgotten, nor had he. This would be hard and fast. As urgent and unstoppable as it had always been. Luxuriating in tenderness wasn’t his style. Hers either.

  Her brain disconnected from her body. Sucking in oxygen wasn’t an option, so she breathed through him until he finally relinquished her lips for the curve of her neck, his mouth searing a scorching path across her too-sensitive skin. His clever hands fanned the rising wildness she didn’t want to contain. She’d waited too long to relive these sensations. Common sense and inhibitions be damned.

  His fingers hit the snap on her jeans the instant hers hit his.

  He lifted her, settled her upon the counter, dispensing with her jeans and underwear and his own, in a few swift moves. He stepped between her thighs, his fierce erection, hot against her skin.

  And waited.

  He was giving her the chance to call a halt to the insanity.

  She wasn’t even tempted. It had been too long. She was ready. Desperate. She hooked her calves round his thighs and angled her hips higher to capture him. A deep groan vibrated his chest, hot with warning, sexy as all hell. In one smooth action, no hesitation—she’d had her chance—he thrust forward and up, filling her.

  Breaking free of their kiss, she threw back her head on a gasp and hitched her legs tight around his waist, open and wanting more.

  He didn’t disappoint. He never had.

  Capturing her lips once more, he swallowed her moan as his hips dipped and surged, harder and faster, building a firestorm she didn’t want to contain. Her body strained, clenched, then tossed her into an exquisite spasm that tortured deliciously in its refusal to abate. And God help them both, he followed her.

  Long minutes of terrible silence past, her head heavy on his shoulder, his lips still buried in the hollow of her collarbone.

  When she felt him disentangle her legs and make to disengage, she tightened her arms and clung tighter. She wasn’t ready to let him go. Not yet. Not until she beat back the surge of tears threatening to break because of what she’d just done to drive him away. Odd that Nick’s hold should tighten, too, as if he shared her pain.

  Chest rising and falling way too fast, she finally released him and let him step back.

  Predictably, Nick didn’t pull his punches. “That has got to be the most incredibly dumb thing we have ever done, and God knows we’ve both won crowns for stupidity in the past.”

  She would have slid from the counter if she could have trusted her legs enough to hold her upright. She wasn’t sur
e her cheeks would ever recover from the fiery blush she couldn’t control, but at that moment, the very end of the world would not have induced her to look away. One hint of vulnerability from her, and his damned sense of guilt would see him hanging around forever. What she needed him to see was—nothing. Her apparently unmoved by what they’d just shared. Because that would sure as hell would piss him off and see him slamming out her door.

  “I’m truly sorry, Anna. I’ve never regretted an impulse more in my life.”

  She’d prepared for his anger, had counted on it. What she hadn’t expected was an apology. The tortured regret dulling his eyes. It was like being speared with a blunt icicle through the chest. “Spare me the guilt, Nick. We’re both adults, so no foul, no regrets.”

  There was nothing she could do about the tiny tremors racking her frame. She just hoped he’d put them down to ardent endeavor rather than the shame washing over her.

  She watched him tidy himself, then stoop to retrieve her jeans, which he passed to her. He, too, didn’t duck his head but held her stare.

  She waited for the tongue-lashing, the furious eruption her words deserved. She waited for what felt like a lifetime, then thrust at him again because he wasn’t heading toward the door. “What’s the matter, Nick? It’s not as if I’m going to fall pregnant, is it?”

  “It ever occur to you, Anna, that if you’d done anything other than throw cheap, flippant comments whenever things got serious between us, we might still be together?”

  …

  Her ploy hadn’t worked. There’d been no hasty grabbing of belongings, no backpack slung on his shoulder, no front door slamming as he quit. Damn it all, stubborn as he was, he was staying put.

  Awkward did not begin to define what awaited her when she stepped out of her bedroom after taking a shower, her hair hanging damp around her shoulders.

  Nick was waiting for her, all closed off and unforgiving.

  This time she couldn’t hold his stare. He’d always brought out a raft of emotions in her; never before had raw embarrassment been one of them. Nausea that had nothing to do with the baby soured the back of her throat. This time she was sick at herself.