by Tracy Wolff
She was climbing into her car at the end of the day when her phone rang. Ignoring the stupid jump her heart gave every time she heard it go off, she almost let it go to voice mail. She just wasn’t up for the whole charade of feeling her stomach quiver as she looked at the caller ID, hoping it was him and then being disappointed.
In the end, though, she reached for the phone and clicked it on right before it went to voice mail. She didn’t bother to look at the screen and see who it was—if it was a telemarketer trying to sell her beachfront property in Arizona, then she so deserved it.
“Hello?” The line popped and crackled, and that’s when she knew. It was no telemarketer.
“Mandy!” He laughed delightedly. “I didn’t know if I was going to get you. I thought you might still be working.”
“I just got off, actually.”
“Excellent. So how are you? How’s the clinic? How’s the house?”
“Everything’s good.” She knew she sounded a little stilted, and forced herself to relax. He’d called, she reminded herself. That was what mattered.
Yes, but it took twenty-two days for him to do it, which wasn’t exactly the stuff great love songs were made of.
“How are you?” she asked. “I watch you every night after I get home. How’d you get that black eye?”
He laughed exuberantly, and she could practically see him. Head thrown back, green eyes sparkling. “There was a mild disagreement over a taxi.”
“I thought it looked like a fist had put it there.” No way would she let him know how relieved she was that he was okay. He didn’t need to know how much she worried when he was gone. It would only make things worse between them.
“Everything else okay?” she asked. “There’s so much violence in your reports…”
“Everything’s fine,” he told her. “We’re being careful.” Then his voice dropped, got all husky, and it was the sexiest thing she had ever heard. “I miss you so much.”
“I miss you, too.” And then, because she couldn’t not ask, she said, “I thought you’d call me more often.”
“You told me to call you twice. That’s what I’m doing. This is call number two.”
“When I said that, I didn’t realize you’d be gone for three weeks. I was thinking more like ten days or so.”
“Oh.” A pause. “I screwed up again, didn’t I?”
Hearing the rueful note in his voice made the annoyance of the past couple of weeks disappear. And technically, he was right. “You did fine. I just miss you.”
“That’s what I like to hear. And that’s why I’m calling, actually. We’re flying out late tonight. I should be home by tomorrow evening, if all goes according to plan.”
She grinned. She couldn’t help herself. Simon was coming home. “Do you need me to pick you up from the airport?”
“Nah. Not unless you want to.”
“I want to. What time?”
“I’ll call you when we stop for fuel in Paris. Let you know what time to expect me.”
“Wow. That will be three calls.”
“Indeed it will. So, tell me, what have you been up to while I’ve been gone? What have you done with the house?”
“A lot, actually. Without you here to distract me, I was able to work every night.”
“Sorry about being a distraction.” Except, he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded delighted.
“I can tell.” She closed her eyes, pictured his piercing green eyes and wicked grin. Felt a tug of longing deep inside her. God, she missed him. And now that she knew when he was going to be home, the next twenty-four hours would drag on forever.
Since he seemed to really want to know about the house—and how cool was that?—she said, “I finished the master bathroom—I tiled it myself, ripped out the wallpaper and painted it a complementary blue to the bedroom. Had the mirrors replaced and repainted the cabinets. It looks good.”
“Excellent,” he repeated. “So, what’s next?”
“I’m starting on the front parlor and guest bath downstairs. Then the dining room. I figure it will keep me busy for the rest of the month.” And give her someplace to entertain. The fact that she could think about having people over showed how far she’d come in the past couple of weeks.
She smiled, proud of herself.
“And how’s work?” he asked. “Still saving the world?”
“One patient at a time. How about you? When I see you on TV, you look tired.”
He paused, and she knew him well enough to know he was running his hand over his face as he tried to choose the perfect words.
“Don’t censor yourself,” she told him. “Tell me.”
“It’s bad. It’s really bad. They’ve bombed the shit out of this place and it had barely gotten back on its feet after the last peace talks broke down. The worst part is there’s nowhere for the civilians to hide. Everything is fair game.” She heard what he didn’t say in the defeated tone of his voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. I swear, sometimes I think I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Her heart stuttered a little, but she forced the relief down where it came from. One stray comment did not mean Simon and his wandering feet were planning on staying close to home. Only that he was tired of living in a war zone and needed a break for a little while.
Still, after they hung up, she couldn’t help wondering if this was it. She was here in Atlanta, with no plans of moving anywhere else. Definitely not to go back to Africa. Simon was also here, and if he decided to settle down, take a job behind the news desk…things could really change for them.
The happiness that came with that realization gave her pause. Was she actually contemplating trying to forge a life with Simon? Again? Last time, it had blown up in their faces. Badly. Did she want to take that risk again?
Of course, it might be a little late to be asking herself that question, considering how excited she was about him returning home. What had started out in Africa all those weeks ago—a rescue mission on his part, a vendetta on hers—had somehow become so much more.
Panic welled up inside her at the thought, but she refused to give in to it. Besides, it wasn’t as if her feelings for Simon were new. She’d loved him since those first weeks in Ethiopia all those years ago. Since then, she’d also hated him, been hurt by him, been furious with him.
But under it all, she’d known that her initial feelings had never really gone away. A small part of her still loved Simon. Now, though, she was discovering that it was much more than that. She was crazy about him, despite having enough baggage between them to fill the cargo hold of a 747.
The only question, then, was what was she planning to do about it? If she broke things off now, she knew she’d be all right. Could keep plodding her way back to mental health. But if she held on, if she kept going with this and it didn’t work out, she’d be shattered and her battered heart broken into so many pieces she wasn’t sure she’d find the strength to start over again.
The smart thing would be to cool things between them. To keep her emotions—and her recovery—on an even keel.
Yet even as she told herself what she needed to do, even as she understood the intelligence of what she was thinking, Amanda knew she wasn’t going to take her own advice.
This relationship, this moment, had been twelve years in the making. There was no way she was going to back down now. And if, at the end, all the bricks she’d been so carefully laying ended up shattered around her, well, then, she would know that this time, she had no one but herself to blame.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SIMON STRODE QUICKLY through the airport, leaving the rest of his crew behind—and he didn’t even care. All he could think about was seeing Amanda again. Holding her. Making love to her. The past twenty-three days had seemed interminable. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t wanted to be on location, doing the job he loved. He’d wanted to be home. With her.
It had taken every ounce of self-control he
had not to call her on an hourly basis, just to check up on her. Just to hear her voice.
For a man who prided himself on his control, on his ability to live life on his own terms and no one else’s, it was a humbling experience. Not to mention a terrifying one. Which was why he hadn’t called her before yesterday. He had been so freaked out by how much he missed her that he’d forced himself to prove he could survive without her.
When she’d dumped him before, he’d had a rough time getting over her. And if he was being honest, he’d admit that he never really had gotten over her. Which was why he wanted to maintain some distance, hold a little bit of himself—of his heart—away from her.
But the second he’d heard her voice the night before, he’d known it was too late. And when she’d asked in that soft, quiet voice of hers why he hadn’t called, he’d felt terrible and wonderful at the same time. He hadn’t meant to hurt her with his silence—had only been trying to prove to himself that he could still live without her. But the fact that she’d missed him as much as he’d missed her was amazing.
He took the stairs down to baggage claim two at a time, his eyes constantly moving as he tried to spot her. He felt bad dragging her out to pick him up so late at night, but at the same time, he was thrilled that she was here.
He spotted her next to one of the baggage carousels, dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a black shirt that left one of her beautiful shoulders bare. She looked gorgeous and he had to fight the urge to vault over the side of the staircase in an effort to get to her more quickly.
She spotted him as he hit the last steps, and she gave him a shy smile. He leaped toward her, picking her up and spinning her around before claiming her mouth for a kiss.
She gasped in surprise and he took advantage, sliding his tongue deep inside her. She tasted just like he remembered, but better somehow. As if his memory hadn’t been able to do justice to her.
When he finally lifted his head, he held her against him for long seconds. “You feel good,” he whispered against her hair.
“So do you.” Her arms were around his waist, holding him as tightly as he was holding her. “I missed you.”
He grinned. “Let’s go back to your place, so you can show me just how much.”
“I’d like that.”
He held her hand the entire way home because he couldn’t stop touching her. Couldn’t stop wanting her.
The drive was interminable, and by the time they made it into Amanda’s driveway, he was wild to have her. Jumping out of the car, he left his suitcase in the trunk and all but dragged her up the stairs to the front door.
The second she opened it, he pounced on her.
Pushing her against the nearest wall, he slammed the door with his foot and then went about devouring her. He kissed her crazily, kissed her crazy, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to see her, to touch her— everywhere. Needed to assure himself that she was still safe and whole and as desperate for him as he was for her.
He yanked her shirt over her head, nearly howled when he realized she wore no bra underneath. Bending, he took one small, gorgeous nipple in his mouth and began to suck. She cried out, and he might have thought he was too rough if her hands hadn’t burrowed in his hair, holding him to her. Tugging him even closer, if that was possible.
“Simon!” It was a high, keening wail that shot straight through him. “I need you. I need—”
“I know, baby. I know.” And then he was fumbling with her jeans, shoving them down her legs while she did the same to him.
By the time she freed him, need was a raging beast within him. His blood was roaring through his veins, demanding that he claim her, that he make her his in the most primitive way possible.
He licked his way up her body, took her mouth in another kiss that had her moaning even as she tried to shake one leg free of her jeans so that she could mount him. Turning her around, he pressed her full-length against the cool, slick entryway wall. Then he slid his arm around her abdomen, cupped her stomach and canted her backward a little—so that her ass was lifted slightly.
Moving his other hand between her legs, he tested her readiness. She was wet, slick, and he nearly lost it. With a groan, he dipped one finger inside of her, pressed it against her most sensitive spot. She gasped his name, bucked against him, and he took a few seconds more to drive her all the way to the edge.
When she was panting and squirming against him, when she was begging him to take her, he bent his knees and slid slowly, determinedly, into her sex.
“Simon!” She screamed his name, convulsed around him, and he nearly came right there. Probably would have if he wasn’t so desperate to give her more pleasure. To give her everything he could.
He was too far gone to take it slow, though, and he rode her hard. Through one climax and into a second. Over and over again, he thrust into her until her whole body was trembling and he was shaking from the strain of holding back.
“Simon, please,” she said, her hands reaching back to grab on to his ass, to pull him forward into her with one powerful thrust. It was unexpected and shattered the last ounce of restraint he had. He came with a force that nearly brought him to his knees, pulse after pulse of bliss working its way through him while Amanda cried out, her tight, sweet body orgasming around him.
Suddenly exhausted, he let himself rest against her while he tried to get his breath back. After a minute, she started to laugh.
“You nearly killed me and you’re laughing?” he asked, nuzzling her neck. He tried to sound offended, but couldn’t do it with aftershocks of his orgasm still ripping through him.
“I was just thinking. Now that you’ve had dessert, would you like to have the dinner I made you?”
“You made dinner?” He tried to straighten up, but wasn’t sure his legs would fully hold him.
“Mmm-hmm. Lasagna.”
“I knew there was a reason I loved you,” he said, dropping a kiss in the sensitive spot behind her ear.
And then froze as he realized that Amanda had stiffened against him.
EVERY MUSCLE IN AMANDA’S BODY seized up at Simon’s words. Happiness bloomed inside her—it had been almost impossible to get him to admit his feelings for her in the old days, so she cherished the easy way he’d said he loved her.
The only problem was, he’d said it because she’d made him lasagna—and not because he was overwhelmed by his feelings for her. So what did that mean? Did he really love her or was he just using it as an expression, something along the ubiquitous “Love ya, babe” that guys uttered all the time without meaning it.
She tried to tell herself that was it, that he hadn’t meant anything by the words, but suddenly they were all she could think of. Even as Simon eased out of her and she bent to pull her jeans up, the question reverberated in her head like a gong. Did he love her or didn’t he?
And what was she going to do if he didn’t, because as she’d waited for him at the airport, as anxious as a kid on Christmas morning, she’d known that her feelings for him weren’t going away. They were the real deal and she was stuck with them, but that was no guarantee that he felt the same way.
“Well, that went over well,” he said drily as he refastened his own jeans.
She didn’t know how to answer. The words I love you, too trembled on her lips, but she didn’t know if she should say them. Didn’t know if he wanted to hear them.
Finally she said, “Did you…” She couldn’t get anything else out, feeling tentative around him for the first time in many years.
He raised an eyebrow in that wicked, wonderful way of his. “Did I mean it? Absolutely, though I suppose saying it in reference to lasagna might not have been my smoothest move.” His words were cool and confident, but she could see the uncertainty in his eyes. It felt strange to realize he was as confused and frightened as she was. But it felt empowering, as well.
Wrapping her arms around him as tightly as she could, Amanda said fiercely, “I love you, Simon.”
When she tried
to pull back, she couldn’t. He was holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.
“I love you, Amanda. More every day I’m around you.”
“Lasagna or no lasagna, that’s good enough for me.” She couldn’t stop smiling.
He finally loosened his grip on her shoulders and stepped away. “Speaking of lasagna…”
She laughed. “Come on. I’ll feed you.”
THE NIGHT PASSED in such a blur that Amanda wondered if she’d be able to remember it all in the morning. Or believe it.
They ate lasagna sitting cross-legged on her kitchen counter, as she still hadn’t found a table that she liked. Simon told her about his time in Lebanon, about the civilians who were displaced, injured or killed.
The children hit him hardest, and she thought back to his last two special reports—documentaries on the children of Afghanistan and the Colombian Andes. She’d watched them both and had been touched by his determination to get better conditions and more help for children who couldn’t help themselves.
Simon had always been interested in stories about children, but since Gabby’s death, it seemed to be his main focus. Another legacy their daughter had left behind.
By the end of dinner, Simon was drooping from jet lag, so she led him upstairs to bed. He drifted off before she did, and for the longest time, Amanda lay next to him and studied him in the dim light from the streetlamp.
He was still as beautiful as the day she’d met him. Time—and grief—had worn more lines in his face, but it looked as if he was going to be one of those men who got better with age. Lucky her.
She reached out a hand to trace his brow, still furrowed in sleep. It smoothed at her touch and she cuddled against him, relishing his warmth despite the steamy Georgia humidity.