The downside of the job, he'd told her, laughing off her concern.
But this was different.
Suddenly his fingers dug into her flesh. His body tensed until the tendons and sinews stood out in stark relief under the sun-gilded skin.
"No!" he shouted. Pleaded. "Take me, not him."
"Morgan, wake—"
"Oh, God, Mike! Not Mike. Not my son."
Shaking, Raine pressed his hand against her breast and leaned forward. "Morgan, listen to me," she said in a quiet, though urgent tone. "It's over. All over. Let it go."
He drew in a harsh breath and tossed his head from side to side. He flinched, as though from some inner blow. Cried out. Tears ran down his face and dropped from his jaw to his chest. Raine realized that her own cheeks were wet.
"Morgan, wake up," she whispered, hating to see him suffering so. "You have to wake up."
Suddenly the phone rang, startling her into crying out. He stiffened, then opened his eyes and looked around wildly, his pupils huge and unfocused. The phone rang again, and he bolted upright, nearly jerking her from her precarious perch.
In the den she heard the muffled sound of her own voice as the answering machine played the greeting message. After the sound of a beep, a deeper voice spoke briefly, followed by another beep.
Morgan shuddered and drew another breath. He turned his head to look at her. Recognition glimmered in the wide circles of his pupils, followed by a look she read as shame. The flush that stained the hard curve of his cheekbones seemed to deepen.
"Dammit, Raine, I told you to let me die in peace," he grated in a hoarse voice as he lifted a hand to scrub away the tears.
"Not in my house," she shot back, her heart racing beneath the big hand still pressed to her breast.
A corner of his mouth curled, and some of the shame left his eyes. "You're the one who dragged me inside."
"I had to. It's an image thing." Her voice was only slightly shaky, but inside she was Jell-O. "Only tidy people are allowed to live in this neighborhood."
"Yeah?" His tone was cautious.
She nodded. "I admit, I did think about digging a hole and dumping you in it, but I had on clean clothes, and besides, I couldn't remember where I'd left my garden shovel."
"A definite handicap when one is digging deep."
"Very true."
He wasn't actually laughing, but the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened, and the expression in the dark depths had altered. A small victory, she thought with quiet satisfaction. She didn't blame him for Mike's death, and she didn't want him blaming himself. It had been an accident. A tragic one to be sure, but an accident nonetheless.
"How's your head?" she asked quietly.
"Still hurts, but the worst of it is gone."
"How long have you been having these headaches?"
He shrugged his unscarred shoulder. "They started when I was a kid. After my mama went shopping and never came back. Went away when I left home."
"They came back after Mike died, didn't they?"
His lashes flickered, the one sign of emotion he'd never been able to fully control. "Yeah, they came back."
"I'm sorry."
"I was, too, but now…" He suddenly grinned, layering amusement over the shame still lingering in his golden eyes. He did that often, she realized. Forcing an emotion he could control over one he couldn't.
"I never really believed that old adage about black clouds and silver linings until now." He shifted his gaze to her chest—and the hand she was still cradling between her breasts. "This particular silver lining is hard to beat."
She stiffened and tried to release him, only to find herself held fast. "Let go, Morgan. I need to check my answering machine."
"Later." He drew a breath, then eased his long legs over the side of the couch. Face-to-face, now, knee to knee, he watched her with those lion's eyes. "I can feel your babies rousting around beneath my hand," he said with a quiet awe.
The sudden change of subject caught her off guard. "The boys have this teamwork thing going," she said, smiling at the thought. "One stays up all day to hassle me while the other sleeps, and vice versa."
He lifted his brows. It was a look of utter enchantment, but with a distinctly masculine edge. She refused to be charmed.
"Yeah? Well, the day team's got a kick like an old mule we had once. Meanest jackass in two counties. Used to have to whack him a good one across the nose with a big old hunk of firewood just to—"
"—get his attention? I know, I've heard that joke before."
"Joke?" He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Hell's fire, honey, that weren't no joke. That old reprobate took more bites outta my backside than a passel of skeeters."
"Oh, yeah? How come there aren't any bite mark scars on your backside?"
"Sure there are. Wanna see?"
Raine felt her face heating again. "You're impossible, you know that."
"But lovable?" His deep voice gave the question a playful inflection, but the look in his eyes was dead serious.
"I'll grant you likable, as, of course, all media stars are required to be," she said, not even trying for lightness.
Something flickered in his eyes, only to be blinked away. His mouth firmed as he withdrew his hand. She felt a moment of terrible loss before realizing how ridiculous that was. How could she lose what she'd never had?
"You knew how I earned my living when you agreed to marry me," he said, his voice suddenly steely. "You said you understood how it had to be."
It was more difficult than it should have been to keep her gaze steady on his. "I thought I did. And then I had a baby." She took a breath. "Everything changes when you have a child's needs to consider. I didn't know that when it was just you and me."
His jaw turned hard as though he'd clenched his teeth. "I thought we were doing all right." His tone was tightly defensive, with just a hint of sadness thrown in.
"Admit it, Morgan. You never would have asked me to marry you if I hadn't gotten pregnant."
"How can I admit what I don't know, Raine?" He shifted, then winced, reminding her that even though the worst of his headache had passed, he was still hurting. "I will admit I never saw myself growing old as a happily married man, but then, I never saw myself growing old, period. Never wanted to get old—until I met you."
She glanced down. "Sounds like I spoiled your plans."
"No, you changed them." His voice was gruff, drawing her gaze to his eyes. They were dark with some inner turmoil. "There's a difference."
"Perhaps there is."
She wanted to ask him why he still wore his wedding ring. She wanted to ask him a lot of things. It surprised her that she still had unanswered questions, surprised her more that she was still valiantly trying to know him better at a time when she was working very hard to move him out of her life. She was beginning to suspect she had more unresolved issues than she'd expected. But then, perhaps that was true with all divorcing couples.
"What?"
She answered his question with a blank look. "You looked like you were wrestling alligators. Maybe I can lend a hand."
She smiled at the colloquial analogy. Morgan was almost as well-known for his unusual language as he was for his dazzling grin.
"It's nothing."
"Uh-huh. It's something. You only wrinkle your nose when something's bugging you."
Once again he seemed to be teasing her, but the air seemed to crackle around them with tension. When was the last time he'd pushed her for more than the most impersonal confidences? Her mind stretched back years, to those shimmering days after they'd met when every word spoken between them was precious and every touch magic.
"Did you love me when we were married?" The question was out before she had sense enough to stem it.
His gaze narrowed, sharpened, and she sensed a sudden stillness in him. "If I told you I did, would you still want to divorce me?"
She respected him too much to give a fast answer. Instead, she took a mome
nt to sit quietly and consider. Did a man in love with a woman who was carrying his child leave her two days after the ceremony? Perhaps, if he'd signed a contract and was too honorable to break it. But what about the promise he'd made her to be home in time for Mike's birth? The baby hadn't been early. Morgan had been late. Just as he'd always been late.
Or not there at all.
Not there when Mike, at six, had come down with chicken pox and measles at the same time. Not there a few months later when Mike had gone running through the house with a straw in his mouth and tripped over feet that had grown too large too fast, sending the straw into the back of his mouth with enough force to sever a tonsil. His pediatrician had kept him in the hospital overnight and she'd stayed awake the entire time, watching him to make sure he wouldn't suffocate. And he hadn't been there when Mike had begged her to let him go skiing with a friend and his family…
"No, it wouldn't change my mind." Suddenly worn-out, she got to her feet and offered him a tired smile. "You must be famished. I'll fix you some bacon and eggs."
Morgan watched her go, his mood dark. Famished, hell! He was also ticked off, big-time.
As always, when he was angry or frustrated or horny, he needed a challenge to bleed off the wild energy slamming around inside him. Something impossible was preferable, like the daunting task of making a sorry-assed hick into a silk purse, to mangle a metaphor.
At the moment he'd settle for damn near anything that would distract him.
He brooded on that for a moment, then decided that getting himself into the bathroom without falling on his face seemed a good place to start.
Holding his head still, he tossed off the homey quilt, only to realize he was stark naked. Since he didn't remember disrobing, he had to conclude that Raine had done the honors. Right down to and including his shorts.
"Well, hell, and I missed it," he grated, cursing whatever ancestor had passed down the flawed gene that opened him up to a foul headache every time he let himself get too tired or too stressed.
It took some effort and a few selected Lebanese profanities to get himself on his feet and headed toward the stairs at a careful enough pace. As always, when he was caught in the aftereffects of the medication, his senses were almost unbearably heightened. Colors seemed more vivid, more defined, none more so than the rich burgundy of the huge cushy sofa. And the bright hues swirling over the area rug in front of the tiled fireplace seemed to pulsate with light and texture. Beneath his bare feet the slate-colored carpet felt inches deep and as warm as sun-kissed sand. He could hear the sound of his heart thudding in his chest and the swish of blood moving through his veins.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs, soaking in the warmth of the sun streaming through the two long narrow windows bracketing the front door. A sense of euphoria pulsed inside him, drug fueled and dangerous. Nothing he'd ever experienced before in his life came close to getting him as high—not even the rotgut acid from his daddy's still. Nothing with the exception of making love to Raine.
He expanded his chest slowly, drawing in the scent of her lingering in the air. Roses and soap and woman. A nice combination, he decided as he slowly began the ascent to the second story.
The banister was slick and warm under his palm as he pulled himself upward. Unyielding and hard.
Raine had been soft and pliant, an eager kitten twining herself around him until the rhythm of their beating hearts entrained, two becoming almost as one.
With her, he had felt all-powerful, a genius and a blue blood. When he was a part of Raine, he was no longer a mongrel with dubious parentage.
She was his light. His warmth. His soul.
A man could live a lifetime on the memories of one night with her, he thought as he gained the landing and turned toward the jumble of luggage stacked along the wall.
If a man were content to live only in his head.
He wasn't.
Morgan came downstairs forty minutes later, feeling almost human again. A shower and shave had done a lot to clear the cobwebs from his drug-fuzzed brain, and the skull-splitting ache in his head had subsided to a dull throbbing. Maybe he'd get lucky this time and escape a repeat performance. It happened that way sometimes.
He found Raine in the kitchen, sitting at the table withthe morning paper in front of her and a nearly empty glass of orange juice at her elbow. His mouth watered at the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
There weren't many things about the Mideast he cared to import to the U.S., but their strong, wonderfully bitter coffee was at the top of that short list.
"Help yourself," she said when she caught him eyeing the pot.
"Thanks." She'd already laid out a mug for him, along with the sugar bowl and a spoon.
"How about you?" he asked as he poured.
"I've had mine, thanks."
"Have another." He spooned sugar into his cup, then stirred.
"My doctor won't let me. One cup a day's my limit."
Morgan groaned at the thought. "What about decaf?" Unleaded was better than nothing, he supposed.
"Luke says no. Even the trace of caffeine might be bad for the babies."
Morgan carried his mug to the chair opposite hers and sat down. She hesitated, then folded her paper and put it aside.
"Your color's better," she said after a brief but intense scrutiny.
"Sorry to put you out."
"You didn't."
He lifted one brow at that, and she grinned briefly. "Not much, anyway."
Eyes narrowed in concentration, he took a greedy sip, then sighed mightily. "I'm not sure I could survive without caffeine. Giving up smoking was enough of a sacrifice in the interest of health."
Raine glanced at the stove. Too hungry to be polite, she'd already wolfed down two pieces of toast slathered with peanut butter. Enough to take the edge off her appetite, but not her jumpy mood.
"I thought I'd make Spanish omelettes."
"Sounds great. I've always loved your Spanish omelettes, honey."
"I've never made one for you before."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He grinned. "Something to look forward to, then." He cupped both big hands around the mug, his wedding ring clinking against the china. Hers was in her safety-deposit box, put there on the day she'd found out she was pregnant by another man.
"There was a message on my machine for you from someone named Joel Bronstein. He wants you to call. He left a number and said it was urgent."
Morgan frowned. "Everything's urgent with Bronstein. He was born in a panic."
"I recognized the number but not the name. He must be new at the network."
"Been with us about two years. He took Greg Lamont's job when Greg was promoted." He took another sip, then swiped his tongue over his lower lip to mop up a drop that remained. Raine felt suddenly breathless.
"I, uh, always liked Greg, even though he was a real pain sometimes, especially when he was trying to get you to cut your leave short for one reason or another. I'm glad he finally got the recognition he craved."
He leaned back, his gaze on hers. His eyes were still shadowed, and he looked far more worn than he should.
"I said he got a promotion, not recognition."
"How is it possible to get one without the other?"
A wicked smile came into his eyes. "By marrying the chairman's daughter."
"Not Cindy Margolis?"
"One and the same."
Raine finished her juice and tried to ignore the tantalizing aroma of coffee wafting her way from Morgan's cup. Prudy had warned her about Luke's dictum against coffee. She hadn't realized just how serious a deprivation it would prove to be.
"How many husbands does that make for Cindy?"
"Four. I think."
Bert Margolis's daughter was sleek, blond and utterly spoiled. She was also as oversexed as an alley cat. "And which one were you slated to be. Two or three?"
"Two. I turned down that offer and several others she mad
e me." The expression in his eyes was suddenly cold and flat. "I never cheated on you. Not once."
Unbidden, her gaze dropped to the big hand still wrapped around his coffee mug. To the wide gleaming band on the third finger.
She'd been told by the wife of one of Morgan's colleagues to find a way to get a glimpse of the skin beneath that ring. If it's as tanned as the rest of his hand, watch out. He's cheating on you.
"I know you didn't," she said with quiet sincerity. "Just as I know you must have received a great many similar offers."
He dismissed that with a shrug. "You, on the other hand, have obviously said yes to at least one such offer. And not, my dear wife, to your husband." He suddenly got to his feet, startling her. "I'm going to return Bronstein's call, and then you and I are going to have one of those frank talks you always liked so much."
Chapter 8
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Raine put down her fork and sat back. She'd eaten the entire omelette, three rashers of bacon and a grapefruit half without tasting a thing. Across from her Morgan had worked his way through a meal twice the size of hers without saying a word. He'd also gone through two thirds of a pot of coffee, taking it black this time.
When he, too, was finished, he pushed away his plate, leaned back and folded his arms over that monstrous chest. Outside, the storm was rapidly clearing. Inside, it seemed about to begin.
"Okay, who is he?" he demanded.
She allowed herself a small sigh. She refused to be forced onto the defensive. She'd tried to play fair with Morgan, whether he believed it or not. And done all she could to spare him pain.
"First, I want you to know that I have absolutely no obligation to tell you anything at all about this pregnancy," she said with feigned calm. "According to my attorney—"
"Screw your attorney. I want a name." The mountain twang was back in his voice, stronger than she'd ever heard it. The harsh consonants and badly distorted vowels added an element of dark menace to his already dangerous persona.
She knew enough about the life in the hills where he'd grown up to know it had been a stark, sterile existence. A throwback to an earlier, more primitive time. From the few things he'd said over the years, she'd come to realize that it had also been perilous, especially for outsiders. He'd been his daddy's lookout, he'd told her once. An armed lookout—and a deadly accurate shot. His father had whipped him until he could hit the notch of a tree ten out of ten tries.
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