He jammed his hands into his pockets, and she felt her eyes water. She couldn't help but think about the other pony.
The other baby.
She'd gone to California carrying Michael's child, yet she could never tell him, never admit what had happened to their son.
She'd had her reasons for leaving town without telling him she was pregnant. Reasons that hurt now as much as the day she'd boarded that L.A.-bound plane.
Michael turned toward the window. "It's creepy."
She followed his gaze. What did he see? Mist-covered flowers? A moonlit sky? Shadowed hills?
In her mind's eye, she saw a grave. A leather-wrapped bundle in a little wooden box.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"This whole thing with the mob. It's like the night has eyes."
"No one is out there."
"How can you be sure?"
"I can't," she admitted.
He shifted to look at her. "How did you live like this for a year and a half? How did you stand it?"
"I didn't have a choice." She thought about their baby again, the tiny being she'd cradled in her womb.
He dragged a hand through his hair. "I wish things would have turned out differently."
"Me, too," she whispered as he glanced away, leaving her alone with her memories. And a regretful heart.
* * *
Three days later, Michael swore beneath his breath. Heather fixed her makeup, and he scraped a razor across his jaw.
Did she have to look so damn good? So lean? So leggy?
Her time in the bathroom was supposed to be up, but she'd dashed back in, claiming she would only be a minute, that her mascara had smeared.
They used to share confined spaces without a hitch, but things had been different then. They'd been lovers.
"I'm looking forward to meeting Bobby's wife," she said, swiping a cotton swab below her eye.
Michael didn't respond. They were getting ready for a dinner engagement at his uncle's house. Their first public appearance, so to speak, as a reconciling couple, as parents of a ten-month-old baby.
He'd agreed to this farce, and now he was stuck playing his part. How was he supposed to behave? Would his discomfort show? His confusion? His hunger for a woman who'd hurt him?
He finished shaving and turned to look at her. Her hair streamed like a waterfall, and her blouse revealed a hint of cleavage. A skirt flared at her hips and a wide leather belt cinched her waist.
And her face. Those bright blue eyes. That full, lush mouth.
"How in the hell are we going to pull this off?" he asked.
"You mean tonight?"
"We'll probably be tense around each other the entire time. We're in over our heads."
Silent, Heather glanced at her nails. She'd filed and painted them, but they still seemed ragged, Michael thought Chewed to the bone.
Obviously she was nervous, too. As worried as he was.
"Maybe we should kiss," she said.
His pulse skyrocketed. "What?"
Her voice turned quiet, almost shy. "To let off a little steam. To get used to each other again."
He wanted to yell at her, to tell her she was crazy. The last thing they should do was taste what they'd been missing. But as she wet her lips, a hot, syrupy shiver slid up his spine.
"Do really think it will work?" he asked stupidly.
"We could try."
Yeah, try. At this point, he was willing to do almost anything to curb his appetite for her.
"Just this once," he said.
She moistened her lips again. "Okay."
He took a rough breath, and their gazes locked. Suddenly their reflections shimmered in the mirror. Her delicate profile. The glint of his belt buckle. The fluid line of her hair.
They used to make naughty jokes about putting mirrors on the ceiling. Making reckless love and watching each other.
Heaven help me, he thought I shouldn't be doing this.
But he did it anyway. He leaned into her, inhaling her fragrance, the sweet scent of her skin.
She leaned forward, too. He made an unintelligible sound and their mouths came together, as haunting as a memory, as forbidden as a fantasy.
He wanted to put his hands all over her, but he held back, afraid he would go too far.
She touched him instead. Tunneling her fingers through his hair, she tugged his mouth deeper to hers.
His mind fogged, like a danger-sought dream, like mist on a warm, wicked night. When his heart gripped his chest, he knew being this close to her was a mistake.
Michael pulled back. Their tongues had barely mated, and their bodies had barely brushed.
But he could still taste her.
He glanced at their reflections, wishing he wasn't left with wishes and wants and sexual mysteries of things they'd never done.
He caught her gaze in the mirror, and her breath rushed out.
He noticed her nipples were hard. But she had sensitive nipples. She stimulated easily.
Just like him.
"I have to finish getting ready," he told her, waving her off, sending her away.
Wounded, Heather stepped back. "I'll go check on Justin." She turned to leave, then stopped at the door. "Michael?"
"What?"
"Did the kiss help? Even a little?"
"No," he said. It only made him want her even more, want what he shouldn't have.
And now, damn it, he couldn't help but wonder how Heather felt about him.
Did it matter?
Her fairy-tale fantasies weren't easy to live up to. He wasn't Prince Cherokee Charming. He couldn't be her everything.
So he'd evolved into a coldhearted bastard instead.
"I thought maybe … I was hoping…" Her words drifted, and she exited the room, leaving him alone.
With a pounding heart.
With the mirror.
With an image of himself he wanted to smash to smithereens.
* * *
The dinner was carefully prepared, with a buffet in the kitchen and an intimate setting in the living room, arranged for casual dining.
The decor presented Aztec prints and lodge-pole pine furnishings. Flowers, pillows and candles added touches of warmth.
Heather, Michael and Justin were the only guests, but there was enough food for second, third and fourth helpings.
Heather enjoyed an array of salads, eating an eclectic blend of vegetables and fruits. The taco fixings kept everyone busy and the guacamole thrilled Justin. He begged off Heather's plate, ignoring his bland baby meal for spoonfuls of the mildly seasoned dip.
While their infant son napped down the hall, Bobby and his wife, Julianne, exchanged outward affection. He placed his hand on her knee; she leaned her head on his shoulder.
Heather couldn't recall a time she and Michael had ever been that content.
Passionate, yes. But relaxed?
No matter how many years they'd spent together, they'd never been completely at ease. Because she was in love, and he wasn't.
"Your son is so cute," Julianne said.
Heather looked up and smiled at the other woman. Bobby's wife was pretty and petite, with stunning red hair and a springtime complexion. "Thank you."
Michael didn't acknowledge the compliment, not until Bobby added, "The little guy looks like you, Mike."
"You think?" He shot Justin a quick glance, and the boy swallowed the avocado dip in his mouth.
"Yeah, I think." Bobby left his chair and scooped Justin up, making the child laugh.
Heather's heart turned heavy. If only Michael was that free with Justin.
"Is he this friendly with everyone?" Bobby asked.
"I'm afraid so." Heather watched the baby warm up to his new uncle. "He likes people. I know that's a good quality, but I worry about strangers." About the mob uncovering the truth, she thought.
Of course that wouldn't happen if she and Michael didn't raise any suspicions, if they fell into a natural pattern of parenthood.
"Does what?" Bobby made airplane noises, and Justin mimicked him.
"Look like me."
Silence hit the room, and Bobby merely stared. Heather shifted in her seat. First that humiliating kiss and now this. Michael had agreed to claim Reed's child, but he wasn't concerned about protecting that claim. About—
"He's better looking than me." Michael rose, breaking the tension. "Aren't you, buddy?"
Repairing the damage, he reached for the boy, and Justin went to him. But a few seconds later, Justin wanted to return to Bobby's arms.
Another awkward moment, Heather thought. Justin sensed which man was more comfortable holding him.
"You've really got this daddy-thing wired." Michael stepped back, relinquishing the child to his uncle.
"Are you kidding? I was scared to death at first." Bobby kept his voice light, his tone teasing. He glanced at his wife. "Wasn't I?"
"Petrified. But mostly during the pregnancy stage."
"I missed that part." This from Michael, who turned to look at Heather.
She struggled to hold his gaze. She didn't want to think about pregnancy. About the flutter of life. The comfort of tiny kicks.
She glanced at Justin's pony. He'd brought the toy along, and now it lay on the floor, its gold-streaked mane strewn across a pillow.
The other pony was sleeping, she thought. Sleeping with the angels.
"Do you want to see the nursery?" Julianne asked.
Heather set her plate on the coffee table. "Won't it wake your baby?"
"No. He could sleep through a tornado. Of course, when he wakes up hungry, he is a tornado."
Heather smiled. It was comforting to hear another woman talk about her child. She'd held Bobby and Julianne's baby earlier in the evening, and he was as beautiful as his name – Brendan Robert Elk. Or Little Raven, as he was affectionately called. "I'd love to see the nursery."
The room was bright and cheerful, with a red-and-white crib, a sunburst pattern on the bedding and a candied-apple motif on the walls. Teddy bears occupied every corner.
The baby, who actually looked like a little raven, slept peacefully, his black hair tufted against bronzed skin.
Heather looked around. "This is wonderful. And all these bears."
"Bobby brings one home almost every week." Julianne motioned to a cluttered shelf. "I think we're running out of room."
Maybe, but the collection spoke of warmth and love, of home and hearth, of family.
A tiny gasp sounded, and Heather and Julianne turned.
Bobby entered the nursery with Justin, and the boy's eyes were as wide as saucers.
The older man balanced his young nephew. "I think someone's impressed."
"So it seems." Heather had never seen Justin so awed. But, then, he'd never been exposed to a bedroom designed for a child. All he knew were cars, campsites and cheap motels.
And Michael's farmhouse, of course. A place he was barely welcome.
Just then Heather looked past Bobby and saw Michael. He stood in the background, his expression guarded.
Justin gasped again, and Bobby kissed his chubby cheek. "You can come over and play anytime," he told the boy.
"Thank you," Heather whispered. Reed would be so pleased, so happy to know that Justin had an uncle who adored him.
Reed admired Bobby Elk, and for good reason. He'd given Reed the same guidance he'd given Michael. Without Bobby, her brother would have been completely lost.
Somehow she knew Bobby would never pass judgment, even if she told him that Justin was Reed's son. Not that she ever would, but seeing Bobby with Justin warmed her heart just the same.
"How about some coffee? And juice for Justin?" Julianne coaxed everyone back into the living room.
Once they settled onto the Southwestern sofas, Heather gave Justin the fresh-squeezed juice and finger-combed his hair, smoothing it over his brow.
He hummed and drank his bottle, then fell asleep on the pillow beside his pony.
While he napped, Heather sipped coffee and chatted with Julianne and Bobby.
Michael, on the other hand, remained quiet for the rest of the evening. Every so often, he would search out Heather's gaze, but she had had no idea what he was thinking. No idea at all.
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
Later that night, Heather came into the kitchen, where Michael doodled on a pad of paper, his thoughts spinning like a top.
He put down his pen and looked up at her. She'd changed into a pair of sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. He wished she'd had the sense to wear a bra. He could see a vague outline of her breasts, the slight rise of those sensitive nipples.
"Is Justin still asleep?" he asked.
"He's out like a light."
"I guess he had a busy day."
"He hasn't been around a lot of people. We had to be careful on the run. We never knew who to trust." She sighed. "Maybe that's why he's so social. He's probably starved for as much companionship as he can get."
"He sure liked Bobby."
"Your uncle is easy to like."
"Yeah." And Michael wouldn't dare admit it, but he was hurt that the kid had chosen Bobby over him.
Heather prepared herself a cup of warm milk in the microwave. On long, winter nights she used to cook on the cast-iron stove, something that had always fascinated. Michael. He'd purchased the antique appliance because he thought it suited his house. He hadn't actually intended to use it.
"Do you want to go outside?" he asked. "Maybe sit on the porch a spell?"
"Sure." She took her milk, blowing on the rim of the cup.
The air was a little cool, the moon high in the sky. A slight breeze blew, stirring scents from the night. A raccoon skittered up the live oak in the yard and ventured onto the roof of the house.
Michael loved the Texas Hill Country – the jagged cliffs, the secret caves, the rocks and water that dominated the land.
Heather's family had moved to the Hill Country when she was in fourth grade. By that time, Michael had been a rebellious sixth-grader who'd run headfirst into her brother, another rebellious sixth-grader who'd already done half the things Michael had only imagined.
Like smoke.
Damn, but he was craving a cigarette. He smoked the way some people dieted. On and off, back and forth. But he was trying to quit for good this time.
Especially after he'd learned Justin's mother was dying of lung cancer and she didn't even smoke. Somehow that seemed grossly unfair.
"I assumed we couldn't speak candidly in the house, not after going out for the evening." He was aware that his place could have been bugged while they were gone.
"I'll do another sweep tomorrow."
He nodded, realizing how exhausting that must be for her.
"Is there something you wanted to discuss?" she asked.
"I think we should fix up the junk room as a nursery," he said, finally blurting the idea that had been nagging him half the night.
Heather's eyes grew wide. "You do?"
"Yeah, I mean, it's stupid that I have an extra bedroom filled with junk." And Justin's reaction to Brendan's room had drop-kicked his heart. All Justin had was a portable crib and a secondhand high chair. "Maybe we can put some kiddy-type pictures on the walls. And get some nice furniture. A toy box. A few toys to go in it."
"I don't have very much money left, Michael. I used my inheritance to help Reed."
"I know." He gazed at the swooping branches on the tree. "I'll pay for the nursery. And when you leave, you can take the stuff with you."
"Thank you." Her voice cracked, and he sensed she was happy and sad all at once.
Emotionally confused. The way he was.
"Who took my place?" she asked.
The question rattled his brain. Her place where? In his heart? In his bed? "What do you mean?"
"At the ranch. Who did you hire as the events coordinator?"
"No one."
No one had taken her place, not anywhere, including at work. "I took the position, but Chef Gerard and his assistant help me out."
She sipped her milk. "Would you mind if I got involved again? I need a job. I can't expect you to support Justin and me while we're here."
Should he let her take over for a while? He was swamped with other duties. "I suppose it would be okay. But what are you going to do with Justin?"
"I'll take him to work with me when I can. And when I can't, I'll work at home."
He couldn't imagine lugging a kid to work, shuffling papers and coordinating fancy events between diaper changes, but women were more adventurous about these things, he supposed.
"Then you can give it a go. There's a wedding in the works I'd just as soon not deal with. You can have that account. The bride's being a royal pain in the ass, changing her mind every two seconds. Even Chef Gerard is losing patience."
"That's okay. I like coordinating weddings. I'll help the bride make her decisions."
Yeah, she liked coordinating weddings all right. So much so, she'd used a phony bridal convention as her excuse to go to California.
And now she was back, eighteen months later, with Reed's son in tow.
"Did you ever consider lying to me? Just telling me that Justin was mine?"
Her breath caught. "What? Oh, my God, no." She set her cup on the porch, nearly tipping it over.
He'd startled her with the abrupt change of topic, but he didn't give a damn. He turned to study her, to gauge her reaction. "Are you sure?"
She held his scrutinizing stare. "Yes."
Her eyes were as blue as ever, but her hair seemed lighter beneath the night sky, almost as pale as the moon.
"I had to ask," he said. "I had to know."
"Would you feel differently about him if he were your son?"
Michael didn't know how to answer that question. It seemed cruel to say yes and unrealistic to say no. "I'd have more at stake."
She smoothed a strand of her moonlit hair, and he noticed how unsteady her hand was.
"Would you have offered to marry me?"
He cleared his throat. His mouth had gone unbelievably dry. He didn't like coordinating weddings. But worse yet was considering a ceremony of his own. "Yes."
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