by Incy Black
How bloody dare he jab his finger at her. “I was pregnant, you idiot. Or rather I wasn’t, not by the time I got home.” Her voice had risen in decibels and broke on the top notes. Ignoring the blood rush that made her office swim before her eyes, she snatched a deep breath, struggled for calm. And lost. “Yes, I broke your cardinal bloody rule—no babies, ever—and got pregnant. Not intentionally, but I wasn’t sorry. You want the truth? I was elated, excited, and absolutely terrified at how you’d react. I didn’t tell you, Nick, because you would have ruined it for me. Sucked all the joy out of me, because you’re a killjoy.”
Her chest was rising and falling too rapidly, she backed farther into the corner in case he reached for her. “The night you threw me out? I hadn’t been partying, but damn right I’d been up all hours. Where were you, Nick? Do you know what it’s like to miscarry on your own? Small wonder I looked a mess, punch-drunk and trashed. I’d just spent twelve hours in the hospital, you bastard.”
Watching Nick pale, probably for the first time in his life, gave her no satisfaction. She’d wanted to hurt him but not slice away his knees from beneath him. Even he didn’t deserve that.
“Jesus, Anna, you should have told me. Damn it, you owed it to me, to us, to a least try. How, by any sane person’s reasoning, could it have been preferable to let me believe you’d be having an affair?”
She reached for the wall needing support and swiped furiously at the tears spilling down her cheeks. “I was traumatized, and I was ashamed. For God’s sake, I was in shock. Still trying to get my head round the fact my body had rejected my baby.” Shouting wasn’t helping worth a damn, so she reined in the volume. “When you got angry, when you heaped accusation upon accusation on me, something inside me died. I needed you Nick, like I’d never needed you before, and you let me down. I didn’t explain because I was too busy hating you. Besides, you never gave me a chance.”
“And you didn’t give me one,” Nick roared, flinging his arms wide.
“Everything okay, boss?”
They both turned to stare at the concerned agent hovering at the door. Rob Bates. The agent prone to shooting her sympathetic smiles behind Nick’s back.
“Stay with her. Don’t let her out of your sight. I can’t be around her right now,” Nick ordered flatly. He didn’t slam the door on his way out.
Anna forced a smile though it split her lips to do so. “I’m going to need a bit of privacy. Do you mind waiting back out in the corridor? As you can see I’m crying, which is humiliating for me and must be excruciating for you.”
Panic swept the stricken man’s face. He retreated a few steps, hesitated, and then with a visible shudder, regained his ground. It was obvious he’d rather face a woman in full flood than risk Nick’s wrath.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him you left me on my own. I told him I hated him, so I very much doubt he’ll be speaking to me again anytime soon.”
It was all the reassurance the man needed. He retreated, only to pause in the doorway and look back at her. “Don’t push him, Anna. He’s a soulless bastard. The most unforgiving man I’ve ever met. Something for which one day he’ll pay, but until then…well, just be careful. Okay?”
Her eyes burning, she swallowed past the constriction in her throat and jerked her head in a quick run on of little nods.
The agent stepped into the corridor.
…
Once alone, she crossed to the door, clicked it shut, and took a moment to rest her shoulder against its support. Whatever she’d claimed, she didn’t have time for tears. She’d cry later; hell, she’d cry herself dry. But only when this was all over. Once the chaos surrounding her sorry little life abated, and some semblance of order returned.
She should never have let Nick get under her skin. She’d vowed never to reveal the truth about the night he’d thrown her out. Not to him. It had been a matter of pride. Proof she didn’t need him. Didn’t need anyone. A lie, but she’d lived it with the talent and expertise of an Olympic champion. And she could damn well live with falsehoods again, given the choice of Nick’s life or his death.
She sucked in a deep breath and then forced it from her lungs. At least she’d accomplished something. Nick was gone. She was alone.
She crossed to her desk. It was time to call Antila. She’d beg him to leave Nick alone, if necessary. And God help him if he dared defy her and made a move against the man she couldn’t stop loving. Even if he didn’t want her in return.
Nick was right—they were wrong for each other on so many different levels Jacob’s ladder couldn’t span the gap. Maybe one day her heart would catch up with her head and figure that out.
In the meantime, she’d fight for Nick. But only for his life. Not his love. She knew when she was beaten. She wouldn’t be venturing back for another defeat.
She picked up the phone, remembered it might be tapped, and reached for her cell phone instead. It took two attempts to stab in the number Antila had made her memorize, and she wasn’t surprised when her call was answered first ring.
“I’ll call you back,” Antila barked and instantly disconnected, leaving her staring blankly at the dead screen.
His return call wasn’t immediate. He left her hanging for a good ten minutes, the nerves in her body straining so tight, she half-expected them to sever and ping.
She jumped when Bowie’s “Rebel, Rebel” pierced the silence and grabbed wildly for her cell.
“Nick Marshall has moved in,” she blurted. “I couldn’t stop him, not after you trespassed in my home. I told you to leave it to me, that I’d get rid of him.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
Her vision burned white, and she tightened her grip around the hard plastic of her phone, easing up only when she heard the casing crack in warning protest. “Nick, what the hell are you doing calling me on my cell?”
“Checking you’re okay, believe it or not.”
“I’m always okay. You should know that by now.” She hung up and twisted her shoulder, ready to launch her phone at the wall.
The stupid ring tone halted her midthrow. This time she checked caller ID before answering. “You go near Nick Marshall again, you sick bastard, and I swear to God I’ll make sure you never get to see your child.”
“Calm down. Hysteria is not good for my son. And I dislike futile threats.”
Anna sucked in a steadying breath and massaged her temple with her thumb. “You need to know I don’t do empty threats, and Nick Marshall’s moved in. You shouldn’t have tried to kill him, and you sure as hell shouldn’t have hung those hideous things in my home.”
“I know. Mistakes were made. Those responsible have been dealt with.”
Her stomach twisted. She didn’t want to know how. No doubt tonight, when it was dark and she was alone, her imagination would provide a few images. “So you’ll leave him alone?”
There was a long pause before Antila answered. “I can see some advantage to keeping him close. Two guards are better than one. I have yet to deal with the other threat against you and therefore my son. But if he fails to keep you safe—”
“He won’t fail.” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were true. An unwelcome lump constricted her throat. Nick might have discarded her, all but erased her from his life, but he would die before he let anything happen to her.
“He’d better not. And you, Anna? Do not delude yourself into believing I will allow you to make a fool of me. I will not tolerate the return of an emotional connection between you and that man.”
“I won’t,” she whispered to the drone of the disconnect tone.
She pressed the heel of her hand hard against her solar plexus. Victories, even small ones, were supposed to be sweet, so why did her tongue taste sour, and why was it too thick for her mouth?
But mothers fought didn’t they, even expectant ones? She’d planned out a future for her baby and herself, and no one was taking that from her. Not Nick. Not Antila. And not the sick bastard who was trying to kill her.
<
br /> If they wanted a war, she’d bloody well give them one… Somehow.
Chapter Nine
Her bones ached, and so did the muscles and ligaments knitting them together. Anna glanced at her watch—man-sized, bulky, an anomaly against the narrowness of her wrist—already past eight. She done miserable, done self-disgust. Guilt had refused to leave her alone. She wanted to stop the world, climb off, and find somewhere dark to hide.
But that wasn’t going to happen; she couldn’t avoid Nick forever.
Besides, she had something to ask him. A request so far over the boundaries he’d accused her of crossing, under different circumstances she’d have looked forward to his shock. Sometimes that man needed a good shake, just to remind him he was human, but this time she might be going too far.
She crossed the courtyard, dread thick in her throat. She’d let him sling his sarcastic barbs, let him savage her about not telling him about the miscarriage, and she’d keep her temper throughout. Because in her heart, deep down where she truly connected with the only man she’d ever love, she knew he believed lashing out was his only defense. When he was hurting. Ashamed. And scared that he couldn’t put her world right when it had spun out of control. God, and after hitting him over the head with her little revelation, he had to be majorly pissed. At her. At himself. Might be best to give him a little space.
Then she’d ask…maybe…or wait until tomorrow when he might be calmer.
Two men stood on guard outside her front door.
Nodding a weak smile, she pretended not to notice the uncomfortable, wary expressions both found impossible to hide. Clearly news of the row between her and Nick had been passed down the grapevine.
Oh, joy!
She already knew the answer, but she asked anyway. “Is he in there?”
One of the men nodded. The other gave her a sympathetic look.
“And so into the mouth of hell…” she muttered.
Both men grimaced.
She shut the door behind her and hesitated. Why did she suddenly feel like a trespasser? Damn it, this was her home. Her sanctuary. Her dominion. Hers.
She glanced up. Nick stood in the doorway of the kitchen watching her, calm and in control. Somehow that was more shocking than if he pulled a gun on her.
Disconcerted, she attempted a smile but her lips wouldn’t cooperate, so she shrugged her shoulders, fresh out of bravado, false or otherwise.
He may have shrugged back. If he did, the movement was economic. “Supper will be ready in about twenty minutes, if you want to shower first.”
“I’ve mastered the art of cooking, Nick. I’m not your responsibility,” she said sharply. That was something else her home represented. Independence. Success. Proof she wasn’t a complete waste of space. Proof she’d survived without him. For some reason it mattered that he realized that.
This time his shrug was more definite. “I know. Will mentioned it. Consider dinner a peace offering. We need to talk, and besides, you look exhausted.”
The lump in her throat swelled to new proportions. She’d anticipate fury, not concern. “This talk, can we postpone it? I don’t want to have to think about anything right now, and I sure as hell don’t want another row.” She gulped thickly. She was definitely leaving her request until tomorrow. Any minute now her eyes would start leaking and this Nick she didn’t recognize might try to comfort her. Then what?
“I meant it when I said it was a peace offering, Anna. I’ll let you set the pace.”
“Magnanimous of you, considering this is my home.”
“If you don’t want a fight, don’t pick one. Go take a shower. We can talk in the morning if you prefer, but you’ve still got to eat.”
Rather than snap she didn’t need coddling, she nodded and made her escape. The whole business of Nick busy in her kitchen, his hair still damp from his own shower, was all too intimate and cozy for her liking. She didn’t want him being nice. She didn’t need him looking out for her. That was her job, and she’d learned to do it very well, thank you.
She crushed a niggling doubt that she might not make it through the next few months without him. The minefield through which she was trying to plot a safe path was dangerous enough without that complication. Seizing the temporary escape route he’d offered her, she turned and headed for her bedroom.
…
Ignoring the bead of sweat trickling his spine, Nick closed his ears to the muffled sound of cascading water. The image of Anna naked in the steam was killing him. Once he would have forced the lock she’d no doubt turned against him. Sex had always been the most effective way to deal with one of her strops, and he’d liked her stroppy. Hell, he’d been guilty of deliberately winding her up most of the time. His way of reaching out to her without the need for soft words. Little wonder their marriage had gone to hell in a handbasket, their friendship incinerating right along with it. She’d needed gentle; she’d needed kind. Things he didn’t know how to give. He just didn’t have it in him.
But he wanted to talk now. He had questions, needed answers. How many months had she been pregnant when she’d lost the baby? His baby. How the hell could he not have noticed? How would he have reacted if she’d told him she was pregnant?
Kids had never featured on his horizon, not with his bloodline. But the realization of what might have been ignited a thrill—just for an instant—before regret and his long-held conviction had extinguished it.
Now he wanted details. He wanted context. Most of all, he wanted to hold her tight and to somehow find the words to tell her how goddamn sorry he was. For everything.
She’d needed him, he’d let her down, and there was no going back. Some things could not be undone. Like the ill-fated legacy his bastard of a father had bequeathed him.
He’d beaten the destiny mapped out by his genes. But it had cost him. Anna. His shot at a family. He’d known all along that she hadn’t had an affair. She just wasn’t capable of that level of deceit. After all their years together, he’d known that to the core of his soul. But denial had been easier. Better than the truth.
He’d used her “affair” as an excuse, thrown her out to keep her safe—from him. Dare he tell her that? Would she understand? Could she ever forgive him in a way he’d never be able to forgive himself?
When Anna returned to the kitchen, all rosy and fragrant with the scent of wild thyme, she refused to make eye contact. Not even when he placed a plate of lasagna and salad in front of her. Damn it, she denied him her gaze throughout the meal, shutting him out completely.
Appalled at the unexpected role reversal, he resisted the uncharacteristic urge to poke and prod to get her attention. Is this what she’d had to contend with when living with him? He would have asked, except he already knew the answer.
His chest squeezed. He wasn’t used to seeing her with her chin tucked low. He tightened his fingers around his fork. What she needed more than anything was time to get her head around the events of the past few days, the threats, their fight, where it left them. She hadn’t yet stopped reeling. Her fluttering hands and jerky little movements were a dead giveaway. She needed space. The least he could do was give her some.
Hell, he needed a little room himself.
When she stood to clear their plates, he caught her wrist and didn’t say anything, just shook his head.
She responded with another shrug and a weak smile and left him to it.
The silent emptiness she left behind bloody near tore his heart out. He remembered life with Anna as noisy. Vibrant. Exasperating, but deliciously life affirming. And damn it, he wanted that back. He just wasn’t sure how to go about getting it.
…
When Anna awoke, her first thought was coffee. Her second that she couldn’t have one. Her third, she still had her request to pitch.
She glanced at the alarm clock beside her. Still early. She cocked her head, listened keenly for any sounds of movement. She wasn’t ready to face Nick yet. She needed slow time to get her wits together for wha
t she had in mind. Slow time to make sure her armor was fully in place should he say no.
She wrestled free from the tangled sheets, stood, and waited for the familiar wave of nausea. She read its absence was a good omen and smiled. Everything was going to be just fine.
She tiptoed her way to the kitchen, mindful not to awaken her unwelcome guest in the spare room down the hall.
Half an hour later she had her arguments in place. All she had to do was nudge them along with a healthy dose of subtle persuasion. Could she do subtle? She bloody well hoped so. Nick would erupt if he suspected artful manipulation.
A hand slapped down on the counter in front of her.
She jumped and would have toppled from her stool had Nick not shot out his arm to steady her.
“Scare me to death, why don’t you?” She shook herself free, her heart all aflutter. And not because of the fright he’d just given her. How dare he creep up on her, chest naked and hair all tousled, smelling of musk and wickedness? She sucked in a shallow breath. Her palms could itch all they liked. No way were they trespassing that broad expanse of muscled flesh.
“Will had this dropped off. Want to tell me what the bloody hell you thought you were doing meeting up with this man, Anna?”
She stared at the black-and-white photograph, her blood icing, its flow slowing. Antila, sitting rather too close to her on a garden bench. Someone from Fortress must have taken the picture. The day she and Antila had met up in the restaurant and, full of menace and the promise of death, he’d introduced himself as the father of her unborn child.
A pink heat hit her face, but that was standard when Nick accused her of something. She bit down on a sudden swell of panic. She could brazen this out; she done it before. She’d stick as close to the truth as she dared but lie outright if she had to. Lives depended on her hiding the truth. Nick’s. Her own. Her baby’s.
She rolled her shoulders to try and ease the crushing weight of responsibility. Nick in Nick-mode was unstoppable. If he found out about the threats Antila had leveled, he’d go after the bastard solo and get himself killed. And pleading with the Service for backup wasn’t an option. They’d use her unborn child as a lure to trap Antila. If he was as bad-assed powerful as he’d claimed, they wouldn’t be able to resist taking him down. And a little collateral damage—her life, her baby’s—wouldn’t stop them. The Service only ever saw the bigger picture, and public interest trumped that of the individual every time.