What Mattered Most (21 page)

Nerves fluttered in her stomach. The days of John’s scheduled visitation crawled now, since they’d turned those evenings into date nights. They spent the evening with the baby, and when Sonny Buck was tucked in for the night, they spent time with each other, doing something they’d never really done before—talking. Lanie checked the clock a hundred times a day, counting off the minutes until John arrived.

She brushed her hair, arranging the heavy mass so it covered her incision scar. The hair was slowly returning, but she still looked like the victim of a really bad barber. She replaced the brush on the dresser and opened her jewelry box. The silver infinity pendant lay on top, glittering and mocking. Her fingers hovered over it for a moment before she pulled out a silver choker with a turquoise slide instead.

The doorbell rang, and she closed the lid. While jogging down the stairs, she closed the choker about her neck. Anticipation making her giddy, she opened the door. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” On the porch, John grinned at her. His hair still shower-damp, he wore jeans and a black golf shirt. He hefted a plastic shopping bag. “I hope Chinese is okay.”

Her mouth watered, more from his clean scent than the food. “Sounds great.”

His grin widened. “Do I get to come in?”

“Oh!” Laughing, Lanie stepped back and wiped damp palms down her jeans. “I’m sorry.”

He moved by her into the house, brushing his mouth across her cheek. Her skin tingled under the brief caress. She followed him to the kitchen, appreciating the way the faded denim hugged his thighs.

“Where’s Sonny Buck?” he asked, pulling paper cartons from the bag.

She dragged her gaze from the muscles moving beneath his shirt. “He’s asleep.”

He stopped, staring at her. “You’re kidding.”

“His schedule’s been off all day.” She resisted a smile at his disappointed expression—he looked like a little boy who’d just been told his best friend couldn’t come out and play. “Give him an hour or so.”

“I guess,” he grumbled and pulled a crab rangoon from a carton.

Laughing, she opened a container of shrimp with broccoli. “Careful. I’ll think you want to see him more than me.”

“Hardly.” He shot her a look, the hot “eat you alive” expression she hadn’t seen since the night Sonny Buck was ill. Sudden arousal tingled in her stomach before he dropped his gaze. He tugged chopsticks from the shopping bag and clicked them at her. “Want to eat in the living room?”

What she really wanted was to forget the agreement they’d made to get to know each other before they made love. She wanted to drag him upstairs, pull his shirt free from his jeans, press her lips to his stomach. Heat flashed through her with the images. Looking at her own bare feet, she swallowed and forced a cheerful tone. “Sounds great.”

Stomach full, John stretched out on the carpet, hands behind his head. Just being here, in Lanie’s presence, knowing Sonny Buck was safe and secure upstairs, filled him with a lazy satisfaction. The day’s stress began to ease out of his body. He could stay right here and never move again.

Lanie’s toe nudged his ribs. “All right, O’Reilly, you still have to help clean up, even if you did buy dinner.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but a grin tugged at his mouth. “Tell you what, Falconetti—I’ll stay here, you clean up, and I’ll let you take advantage of me later.”

The toe nudged a bit harder. “Nice try, but that’s not part of the deal.”

With an exaggerated groan, he rolled to his feet. While Lanie collected their used glasses, he gathered cartons and took them to the kitchen. Resigned, he eyed the almost-f trashcan. He didn’t live here anymore, and still she left this chore for him. “Lanie, I’m taking out the trash.”

Outside, he tossed the bag into the curbside container. Sea air rolled in, hazy under the streetlights. The clean, damp smell filled his nose. Taking a deep breath, he turned towards the house. Light spilled from the windows, falling in squares on the postage stamp yard. He blinked, nerves shivering under his skin. His dinner solidified into a cold lump in his gut.

Shaking off the feeling, he jogged up the front steps. He’d left the front door open, and the foyer light cast a square of light on the small porch. His stomach tightened further, images of running through this door with Dennis Burnett on his heels flashing in his head.

The bathroom door stood open, the light on and shining off the white tile floor. He froze, Lanie’s exasperated voice washing over him. “John? You’re not going to believe what I did. I cut myself on that chipped sink edge, and I can’t get the first aid kit open. Damned child resistant latch. Help me, would you?”

Help me.
His mother’s voice pounded in his head.

His back against the wall, he stared at tiny drops of blood against that white tile, the red running together into a haze over everything. Nausea churned in his gut, and he closed his eyes, struggling for breath. In the dark, images swirled—Lanie’s still body, blood, his mother’s open, staring eyes.

“John?” Concern hovered in Lanie’s voice. She touched him, a firm hold on his arm. The metallic scent of blood rushed up his nose. His stomach heaved, and he bolted for the door.

He made it as far as the porch and leaned over the railing, a helpless retching shaking his body. A dim awareness of Lanie’s gentle touch on his back invaded his consciousness, and he focused on that warmth, trying to break free of the dark mire holding his mind prisoner. Stroking his hair, she whispered to him, soothing words she used with Sonny Buck.

Finally, the heaving stopped, and he rested his damp face on the railing. Tremors racked his body, his knees threatening to give out. Lanie’s lips brushed his nape. “John, come on. Let’s get you inside.”

He rotated his forehead on the cool painted rail. Throwing up like a wet-behind-the-ears rookie, over a little blood. Losing it in front of the one woman who needed him to be strong. He sagged and felt her hands buoy him up.

She pulled him toward the door. “Come on.”

When he wanted to move under his own power, his body refused to cooperate. He leaned on her heavily, her shoulder under his arm, her arms about his waist. Moving like clumsy participants in a three-legged race, they made it to the couch. She pushed him down and pulled away. “I’ll be right back.”

Sprawled where she left him, John closed his eyes. Humiliation crawled under his skin. Weakness wasn’t an option, and showing vulnerability in any form was a good way to get kicked in the gut. He’d learned that lesson at a young age, and life had underscored it for him over and over.

“Here.” Lanie pressed a glass into his hands, and he opened his eyes, staring into a golden liquid the color of her eyes. She smoothed a cool, damp cloth over his face.

He jerked his head away and tried to push the glass back at her. “I don’t want it.”

“Tough cookies.” She slid a hand into his hair, holding his head still and bathing his face. “You’re shaking, your face is white as a sheet, and your mouth probably tastes like crap. Drink it.”

His gaze locked with hers for a moment. She watched him with a look that said she wouldn’t give an inch, and he was too exhausted to fight her. With a muttered curse, he tossed off the liquor. The Scotch burned all the way down, and for a moment, he feared he would throw up all over again.

She nodded, grim satisfaction firming her generous mouth. “I’m going to take care of my hand.” His gaze dropped to the white rag wrapped around her palm, and his stomach lurched again. He closed his eyes, willing the bile down. “Stay here.”

Stay here? Didn’t she realize he didn’t have enough strength left to move? He listened to her move about and tried to still the tremors in his arms and legs. Every sound jerked along his already jangling nerves.

“John?” Her hand curved along his jaw; the couch dipped beside him with her weight. He opened his eyes to find her kneeling next to him, her golden eyes dark with concern.

The sympathy chafed. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” Her fingers slid behind his nape, working at the knotted muscles there. He stifled a groan. “Face it, O’Reilly, your inviolate male ego is shot to hell. Neither one of us is fine right now. Shut up and let me help you.”

Her fingers worked magic on him, easing the painful tension. His eyes closed. Drawn to her, he slumped sideways. His face brushed her shoulder. The warm scents of vanilla and cinnamon enveloped him, soothing the remembered fear away. “You get off on giving orders, don’t you?” he mumbled, his lips numb.

Her fingers moved into his hair. “Just with you.”

With a sigh, he pressed his face against her collarbone and let his arms wrap around her waist. He wanted to get lost in her, allow her to absorb him. The fear and trembling faded, leaving warmth and something he couldn’t define in their wake. Something he hadn’t experienced in years. He tried to pin it down, but it fluttered and moved, dancing just out of reach.

She massaged the length of his spine, and he groaned, pulling her closer. “You can order me around all you want, if you just keep…doing…that.”

“We’re going to talk about what happened later. You know that, O’Reilly.” Her words ruffled his hair, fingers moving up his back.

Boneless, he moaned and nodded, her skin like silk under his cheek. “Yeah, I know.” Right that moment, he didn’t care. The stress—days and weeks and years of it—evaporated under her touch. He just wanted her to go on touching him, wanted to let himself be touched.

Peace. That’s what it was. He’d forgotten what it felt like. The idea flitted through his mind before vanilla and cinnamon and darkness took him under.

“Shhh.” Lanie held a finger to her lips and smiled at Sonny Buck. He chortled harder and kicked, splashing his bath water everywhere. “Your daddy is asleep downstairs.”

She tiptoed her fingers up his pudgy tummy, and his navy eyes widened. He threw out his arms and looked surprised when water spattered his face. Laughing, Lanie slid her hands under him and lifted. With a bright yellow towel wrapped around his wiggling form, she carried him through to the nursery.

“I know this is a scary thought, kid, but I think I’m beginning to get a handle on your dad.” She rubbed lotion over tiny arms and legs, lingering over elbows and knees. Sonny Buck cooed. She smiled and touched the curve of his mouth. “Well, kind of. He’s a tough guy to figure out.”

The episode in the foyer, his reaction, disturbed her. She had no doubt it was tied to the night Mitchell held her hostage, but she’d seen something deeper, something darker in his anguished gaze.

I saw it happen with my mother.

His words returned to her, and she closed her eyes, seeing again a small dark-haired boy with big navy eyes and long, dark lashes. What had he seen?

Under her hands, Sonny Buck kicked, bringing her back to reality. Her baby’s father lay asleep downstairs, and even though she’d learned many facts about him during their recent conversations—he’d graduated third in his high school class, gotten through his first year of college on a tennis scholarship, lost his virginity at fifteen to the girl next door—she still didn’t know him. And despite her claim that she was getting a handle on him, she still had no idea what made him the man he was. The man who, more and more, was making his way into her heart.

Could she fall in love with a man she already loved? Or had what she thought was love really been infatuation and a strong attraction? The closer he got, the more confused she became.

She dressed Sonny Buck for bed and rocked him, her thoughts on his father. When his eyes began to droop, she tucked him into the crib. Silence descended on the house. She put away Sonny’s bath items and went to change her damp clothes.

The jeans and T-shirt went into the hamper. She pulled on loose lounge pants and a trim T-shirt. Unclipping the choker, she moved to the jewelry box to put it away. The infinity pendant glinted at her again, and she lifted it, letting the chain drift over her fingers.

She slid the necklace over her head, and the pendant fell beneath her shirt. The cool metal lay between her breasts, soon warming with her skin.

Turning out the light, she left the room and went downstairs to wait for John to wake up.

“Feel better?” Lanie sat on the floor by the fireplace, her arms linked around her up-drawn knees.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he dodged the question. His body felt rested, but his mind felt like an exposed nerve, a wound with the scab ripped away. “What time is it?”

“A little after midnight.”

His head jerked up. He’d slept for hours. Remembered humiliation burned along his skin. Not looking at her, he ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry—”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Moving with a lithe grace he hadn’t seen in months, she came to her feet. “You’re not going anywhere, O’Reilly. We said we were going to talk.”

The idea of exposing those images to the light scared the hell out of him. He stood up, his body drained and lethargic. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

With a disgusted sigh, she turned away, staring into the flames. “Yeah. That was nothing making you physically sick.”

Irritation jerked along his nerves. He should have known she was going to push this, that she wouldn’t let the dark memories settle back to the bottom of his soul. He should have known his plea for a chance, his plan for them getting to
know
one another was going to come back and bite him on the ass. He gritted his teeth. “It was the blood, okay?”

“Oh, the blood.” She nodded, a knowing expression on her face. “You’re a freaking homicide detective—”

“
Your
blood, Lanie. Your blood and that white floor and what could have happened. Yeah, I freaked out and lost it.” He pushed a hand through his hair again, wanting out of this conversation. “Is that enough for you? Are we done now?”

“Yeah, I think we are.” Her soft voice lifted the hair on his nape, and he shot a look at her. She watched him with narrowed eyes, her jaw set in a familiar, stubborn line.

He threw out his hands. “What?”

“So this is the way it’s going to be? I pour out my heart to you, but all you give me are meaningless facts and nothing of substance? I’m the only one at risk?”

“Damn it, Lanie—”

“Well?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Anger exploded in his chest, and he struggled to kill it. He wanted to shake the stubbornness out of her; his memories wouldn’t let him touch her in anger. “What do you want to know?” He snarled the words between clenched teeth, and her eyes widened. He reined the anger in. “What do you want me to tell you?”

A visible breath shook her body. She moved toward him, the stubbornness gone from her face, replaced by something softer. She didn’t touch him, but stopped inside his comfort zone, her head tilted back so their gazes met. Again, the urge to lose himself in her, in those eyes, surged through him. Her lips parted on a whisper. “I want to know who you are. I want to know what’s still eating you alive.”

A shudder ran through him. He let his lashes fall, closing out those golden eyes. She would ask the one thing he didn’t want to give, and he had no doubt that if he couldn’t give it, this was it. End of the road.

Damn it, she had to do everything the hard way.

“My father was a beat cop. Lower East Side.” He plunged into the story, knowing that was the only way he could get it out. His stomach clenched. “He died when I was three. The old cop cliché—walked in on a robbery in progress at a corner grocery and the perp blew him away before he ever got his gun out of his holster. His partner killed the perp.”

“I’m sorry.” She touched him then, her hand warm on his arm. He wished she hadn’t, but he couldn’t pull away.

He shrugged and opened his eyes. “Don’t be. I don’t remember him anyway. He’s just this young guy in a picture my mom had. I have his eyes.”

A sad smile curved her mouth. She reached up, caressing his jaw. “Then so does Sonny Buck. What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s not all, is it?”

“No.” He did pull away then, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “A few months later, my mom married again. To my dad’s partner. I guess having him around helped her feel like my dad was still there. She’d have been better off alone.”

“What happened?” Behind him, her voice was soft.

“He killed her.” Her gasp filled his ears, and he laughed, a raw, harsh sound. “Oh, it took him a couple of years. Guess he needed to break her down first.”

“Oh God, John. I’m so sorry.” From behind, her arms came around him, hands flat on his chest. The comfort in her touch chafed at him, yet he never wanted her to let him go. Her cheek rested against his back, the only warmth he could find on his entire being. He was so damned
cold
.

“It was my fault.”

The arms encircling him tightened. “No,” she whispered. With weird detachment, he realized he could feel her lips moving, even through his shirt. “Oh, no. It wasn’t—”

“He was going for me, and she got between us. I’d done something… Hell, I don’t even remember what. Shouldn’t I remember that? And he went for his nightstick.” He pulled away from her and rubbed a hand over his nape, the muscles like a knotted rope. “We had this cheap white linoleum floor.”

Lanie made a noise behind him, a small, fearful sound.

Hands spread in front of him, he made a circle with his fingers. The memories beat in his brain, the nausea pushing at his throat again. The urge to run pounded under his skin. “I remember watching the blood spread out under her ear. Brain hemorrhage. She died a couple of days later.”

The words fell between them. He listened to the silence thump against his ears for a moment before turning to face her. She stared at him, her face white, and he shrugged. “Usually, I manage to forget about it. Every once in a while, there’ll be a crime scene that… Beth scraped me up off a barroom floor after a bad one, but I didn’t want to turn into one of those washed-up, has-been cops who drink away the job stress. I’d go to the courts, hit a few tennis balls, wear myself out so I could sleep.”

She continued to stare at him. He’d seen that look before, too often on too many faces—new teachers, new foster parents, the little blonde he’d had a crush on all through eighth grade. Somehow, finding out about his past always seemed to change people’s perceptions of him. Like they expected him to snap, go off the deep end and off someone, too. He’d thought maybe with her, it would be different.

Looked like he’d been wrong.

Tucking away the pain of that realization, he bounced on his heels, once, twice. The need for physical activity burned in him. He forced a grin, had to clear his throat before he could get any words out. “I know you’re tired. I’m sorry about earlier and for crashing on you, leaving you with the baby. I’m going to head home.”

He walked by her and to the door, the flight syndrome pounding in him. Halfway down the steps, he heard her voice, a note of panic in it. “John, wait. Please don’t—”

“I’ll call you.” He called the words over his shoulder before sliding into the driver’s seat. Aware she stood at the door, he backed out without looking at the house. Once on the street, he didn’t use the rearview mirror until he was sure the house was out of sight.