The Street Where She Lives (6 page)

No. No falling apart until you're alone.

He unhooked her bra and slid it off before pulling the stretchy, laced pj's top over her head, very tenderly guiding her casted arm through the wide armhole. The material tugged at her nipples, and a shocking bolt of desire streaked through her.

Her eyes flew open, met his. Once upon a time he'd caused that reaction, in quite different circumstances.
Did he remember? Judging from the strain in his face, the slight tremble to his hands as he dragged her loose pants down her legs, hardly shifting her casted leg at all, he did remember.

Determined to feel nothing as he pulled on her pj's bottoms, then covered her up with the comforter on her bed, she concentrated on breathing, concentrated on
not
going down memory lane every single time she so much as glanced at him.

He moved off the bed and opened her bedroom window, letting in some of the early evening breeze. And unbidden, another memory hit her. Him crossing her bedroom just like he was now, his tall, lanky form turning to shoot her a crooked grin as he eased open her window and swung a leg over the sill at the crack of dawn, preparing to leave after a long, forbidden night of touching, kissing, talking, loving.

Now, Ben's mouth curved wryly with the same memory. “I guess this time I can use the door instead of nearly killing myself climbing down the trellis. Remember?”

Her body shuddered. It was damn hard to feel nothing, to refuse to go down memory lane with him saying “Remember?” in that sexy voice every two minutes. “Tell me again why you have to do this, Ben. Why you have to stay.”

He turned away. “Do you really think that little of me, that you believe I wouldn't?”

“I think you're crazy if you expect me to fall for the reasoning that you want to be here, in South Village, tied to one house, one spot, when everything within you yearns to be on the move.”

He moved to the door. “Well, then, call me crazy.”

“But
why?
You can't want to be here.”

“This has nothing to do with what I want.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Just get better. Get better and it'll be over before you know it. Then you can go back to your safe, sterile life and forget I bothered you for one moment of it.”

The door shut behind him, and before she could obsess, sleep took over her battered body, releasing her from thinking, aching, wondering.

But not from dreaming.

 

T
WO MONTHS BEFORE
high school graduation,
National Geographic
contacted Ben. They wanted him to intern with one of their photographers for the summer in Venezuela. If that worked out, he'd have an assignment waiting for him in the fall in South Africa.

“Come with me,” he said to Rachel.

They sat in their hidden-away spot in the botanical gardens behind city hall, their common meeting place, halfway between their respective houses.

Rachel lifted her gaze off the letter in his hands and stared at him. He was more animated than she'd ever seen him, even in the throes of passion, and she knew why. He'd been waiting his entire life to leave this town, and now he had a chance.

But she'd been waiting her entire life to stay in one place longer than it took to order and cancel cable service. She'd moved once a year for as long as she could remember, and she was weary, so damn weary.

She loved South Village; loved the joyous crowds, the urban streets, the sights, the smells, everything. This town was her life, her heart. She loved it here and didn't want to leave, not even for Ben. If she left, her life with him would be no different than it was now—just a blur
of moving, moving, moving, when all she wanted was a home.

“Rach?”

“I want to stay.”

“No, we have to go. There's nothing for me here, you know that.”

Actually, she'd only guessed, as he never told her about his family. It was the one thing he'd always refused to discuss.

“It's my future,” he said hoarsely, telling her only how much this meant to him, but not why.

Oh, God, letting him go, watching him walk away, would be like ripping out a part of her, the best part. “I can't.” Her heart got stuck in her throat because she knew. He was destined to go.

And she was destined to stay.

“You'll come,” he said confidently. But they didn't speak of it again because shortly after that Rachel caught the flu—a nasty bug that dragged on and on, weakening her, tiring her.

After watching her throwing up every afternoon at four o'clock on the dot for a week running, Ben took her to a clinic. “Does she need antibiotics?” he demanded of the doctor, squeezing her hand as they waited for an answer.

“Nope.” The doctor shook his head. “What you're cooking isn't contagious. It's a baby.”

T
HE PHONE WOKE
Melanie Wellers at what felt like the crack of dawn. Opening her eyes, she stretched lazily…and came in contact with a warm, hard, undeniably male body.

Oh, yeah, nice way to wake up.

Those male arms tightened on her, and a low growl sounded in her ear. “Mmm, you feel good.”

Yes, yes she did. She always felt good with a nice warm body to strain against.

Jason, no, Justin…yes,
Justin,
she remembered with a fond sigh, had so gallantly offered her a ride home from the bar last night where she'd gone after work in need of a stiff drink.

Her boss had been a son of a bitch all day, she had bills coming out the wazoo and she hadn't gotten the raise she'd counted on. And yet Jason—damn it,
Justin
—had promised to make it all go away for a night.

Lord almighty, he'd kept his word.

The phone kept ringing, and it started to grate on her nerves. “Gotta get that, sugar,” she said, slapping his bare ass playfully as she stretched across him for the cordless on the nightstand.

Then she caught sight of the time. Ah, shit! Late for work, again.

Can you see me now, Dad?
With a sardonic twist of her mouth, she glanced heavenward. Or maybe she
should be looking down toward hell, as that was a far more likely place for her father to have ended up.
Late for work, Dad, and proud of it. Roll in your grave over that one.

Hoping it wasn't her boss, she grabbed the phone.

“Aunt Mel?”

A smile broke out onto her face, and only part of it was relief. “Hiya, Emmie, baby.”

“Are you busy?”

Mel glanced at the extremely gorgeous, extremely naked man in her bed. He rolled over and shot her a come-get-me smile, making her laugh. “A little. What's up? How's your mom?”

“That's what I wanted to tell you, she's good. She's great. So great you don't need to take any time off this weekend to come down here, we'll be fine.”

Mel's relief became tinged with something a little sour. She was the older sister and, stupid as it was, she had this bone deep need to be needed by Rachel.

Rarely happened.

Still, for weeks she hadn't taken a spare breath, going back and forth from Santa Barbara to South Village, and not only had it crimped her social life, she really needed to rack up some extra hours at work. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Mom says do what you have to do, we're fine.”

“You got a nurse, right?”

“Things are really, really fine. So, uh, we'll just see you
next
weekend. Or the weekend after.”

“Next weekend for sure…” Melanie narrowed her eyes and paused. As the Queen of Liars, Cheaters and Manipulators, she could smell a con a thousand miles away. “You didn't say, Em. Did you hire a nurse?”

“Yeah, it's, um, working out just great. Really great.”

Apparently tired of waiting, Justin ran two hands up Mel's legs, slow and lazylike, toying with what he found between them.

Melanie's eyes crossed with lust. Did she really want to grill her niece when she had this gorgeous man ready and willing to worship her body?

Then that gorgeous man slid a finger into her. “Okay, then,” she managed to say. “I'll call you in a few days to check up on you. Bye, sweetie—”

Justin disconnected for her and tackled her flat to her back, holding her still while he smiled wickedly into her face.

“What are you going to do with me now?” she asked a little breathlessly.

“This.” Then he put his mouth where his fingers had been, scattering her thoughts like the wind.

 

B
EN HAD GOTTEN
her pregnant. Seventeen years old, the world finally, finally, at his fingertips, and he'd really screwed up this time. He reached for Rachel's hand and found her fingers icy. “It's going to be okay.”

Choking out a laugh, she pulled her hand free. “Really? How is that Ben? I'm having a baby, for God's sake.”

Yeah. A baby. His stomach rolled, but that could have been hunger given he hadn't eaten since breakfast. Nothing new in that. He'd planned never to be hungry again on the other side of the planet.

With Rachel at his side.

Looking at her in the moonlight, with her long hair and haunting eyes, his heart constricted. God, he loved her. Ridiculously so. Who'd have thought the no-good, black-hearted nobody had it in him to feel this way, as
though he couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything if she wasn't in his world?

And they'd made a baby. By accident not design, they'd come together and created a life, a perfect little life, and suddenly his panic turned to something much lighter, something much closer to…joy. “Marry me.”

“Ben—”

“Look, I love you, that'll never change. And we'd have gotten married eventually, we'll just move the plans up a bit.”

“But…where will we live?”

“Well, we'll start out in South America, but—”

“Ben.”

“We'll have to hit Africa in the fall, and then—”

“Ben.”

He was losing her, he could hear it in her voice, so he kept talking, fast as he could. “And then we'll go to Ireland, because—”

She grabbed his hands, brought them to her heart. Her eyes were huge and wet, her voice so low he had to lean close to hear her. “Ben, listen to me. You love me, and that's my own miracle, believe me, but I can't. I can't become Mrs. Asher.”

“So don't change your name,” he said deliberately misunderstanding her. “I don't care, Rach, I just want you.”

She let out another choked sound, this one a sob. “I can't…I can't give you what you want. We're too different.”

“Different doesn't matter.” He was going to have to talk her into wanting him. His stomach rolled and pitched again. No one had ever just wanted him, no questions asked. “Look, I'm going. You're coming with me. We love each other—”

“No! God, you don't get it!” Her face twisted. “I…don't love you. Okay? I don't love you.”

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

“I'm sorry.” Drawing in a deep breath, she stood. Her eyes were still wet but inscrutable now, hiding herself from him. She was good at that. “I won't see you again before you go.”

With the words
I don't love you
echoing in his head like a bad refrain, he could just stare at her.

“Goodbye, Ben.”

“Rach—”

“Go. Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Just go.”

It was a hauntingly familiar request for him. She didn't love him and she wanted him to go. Fine. He wouldn't beg. “Goodbye, Rachel,” he said, but she'd already walked away, vanishing into the night.

In hell with the memories, Ben woke up with a gasp. He lay in a white bed with white fluffy pillows, sweat streaking his body, air chopping in and out of his lungs as if he'd been running a marathon.

Nope, not hell, but close enough. The walls seemed to close in on him, strangle him.

How fast could he get out of town? Out of the country? Asia should be far enough for today. Surely he could get to Asia. With a vicious oath, he scrubbed his hands over his face, just as someone leaped onto the mattress at his side. Battle-ready, he whipped around.

Emily sat at his hip, with a wide cheeky grin. “Morning, Daddy.”

And just like that, his heart sighed. Sagging back against the mountain of fluffy pillows, he let out a shaky breath. Asada. Rachel.

Emily.

Revise. He
was
in hell. “Morning, sweetness.”

She wore cargo pants low on her hips, a tank top in neon yellow that made his eyes vibrate with the brightness, and held her laptop in her arms. She bounced a few times for good measure.

“Didn't you sleep well?” she wanted to know.

“Fine.” Not fine, not really. Late last night he'd gotten a call on his cell phone from one of his editors. They'd received a letter at the magazine's head office, forwarded from his last job. It'd been handwritten on fancy, stiff, olive-colored paper. “I'm still going to make you pay,” it had said.

Obviously Asada, but that it'd come to Ben in South America gave him hope—Asada still didn't know where he was.

Or whom he was guarding.

When Ben had finally gotten into bed there'd been the nightmares of Asada finding this precious woman-child right in front of him, of losing Rachel and Emily now, in the present, as he'd lost Rachel so long ago.

Bounce, bounce. “You looked tired, Dad.” Bounce, bounce. “Maybe you should sleep some more.”

Bounce, bounce.

“Em, you're scrambling my brain.”

“Sorry.” She stilled—a momentary miracle, he was certain. “Mom's still sleeping. Wanna go out to breakfast and get artery chokers before I have to go to jail?”

“School isn't jail, Em.”

“
This
school is.”

“No luck getting your mom to home school you yet, huh?”

“None,” she said on a dramatic sigh.

“What are artery chokers?”

“Scrambled eggs, a mountain of bacon and the best hash browns you've ever tasted. It's at Joe's, a sidewalk
café right around the corner. Mom hates the place, but she doesn't know how to enjoy herself.” Hopeful smile. Bounce, bounce. “Oops.” She stopped bouncing. Again. “Sorry.”

Cracking a glance at the clock, he managed to contain his groan when he saw three fives all lined up. “It's not even six.” In his body's time zone—God knows which one that was exactly—it felt like the middle of the night.

“Duh. That's why Mom's still sleeping. Come on, she'll never know.” Leaping off the bed, she grabbed his arm and tugged. “We can get a milk shake to go with it, double chocolate. They're huge.”

Ben rarely ate before noon unless it was a hunk of bread or cheese on the run. And it'd been so long since he'd been in the States, much less in a civilized country with sidewalk cafés that served huge chocolate milk shakes and “artery chokers,” he supposed he couldn't blame his stomach for quivering hopefully. “Give me five minutes to shower—”

“Shower later.” She pulled him out of bed, making him grateful he'd pulled on a pair of knit boxer shorts before tumbling into bed the night before. The jeans she tossed him hit him in the chest, his shirt in the face.

“Hurry.” She bounced again, from foot to foot this time. “I'm starved.”

“Okay, forget the shower, but I still need two minutes.”

“Da-a-ad!”

“Two minutes,” he repeated, putting his hand over her face and gently pushing her out of the bedroom, shutting the door on her.

Her sigh came through the wood. “I'll wait on the porch. Two minutes. One hundred twenty seconds,
okay? Not like Mom's two minutes, which are really twenty.”

“Em, no. Not the porch.” He didn't want her outside, unsupervised, ripe for a kidnapping. “Wait inside.”

“Yeah, yeah. Two minutes, right?”

“Inside.”

“Gotcha.”

He used half his two minutes to call for his messages, hoping Agent Brewer had checked in. After this latest letter, they'd promised to double their efforts, but there was nothing new this morning.

Ben brushed his teeth and ran his fingers through his hair. One glance in the mirror assured him he wasn't quite ready for a public appearance stateside. His hair was long and he needed a shave. His face seemed leaner than he remembered, and he had new lines fanning out from his eyes. Not laugh lines, given his life and what he'd done, but hard-living lines. Artery cloggers…yeah, he supposed he could use a few weeks of high-fat, over-processed food. Scrambled eggs, bacon and hash browns with his daughter seemed like a good start.

Risking his last few seconds before Emily came looking for him, he left the bedroom and because he was an idiot, a glutton for punishment, his hand touched the handle of Rachel's door, twisted it. Pushed. The huge bed was still, covered in pillows and comforters, with an unmoving lump beneath them.

He moved closer. Nothing of Rachel showed, so he gently pulled the covers away from her face.

Her head was covered by a handkerchief, her face creased in a frown, but after a beat, she relaxed back into the deep sleep of the exhausted, flat on her back.

Maybe she wasn't quite on her deathbed as Emily had led him to believe, but she was hurting, he could
see it in the tight lines of her mouth, the delicate purple bruises beneath her eyes. All the painful injuries made her seem so vulnerable, which was hard to take because Ben remembered her well, and one thing she'd never been was fragile. A pillar of strength, most definitely. Full of immense courage and pride, yes. Stunningly intelligent and mouthwateringly gorgeous, yes. Fragile, no.

It made him feel fragile in return, just looking at her.

Letting out a soft exhale, she turned to her good side, winced, then went still again. Her creamy shoulders were in view, as were the straps of that amazingly sexy pj's set he'd put her in yesterday.

He let out a slow, slow breath. He hadn't allowed himself to think while he'd had his hands all over her body, but he was thinking now. She'd been hauntingly beautiful at seventeen, but at thirty, her beauty had only ripened, deepened. She had the little birthmark on her right inner thigh. He'd noticed that yesterday. He'd loved that birthmark, had loved to put his mouth to it and—

And those thoughts were going to lead to nothing but trouble. As if he didn't have enough. He took one more long look, feeling like he was dying of thirst and she was a long, tall drink of water.