by Mary McBride
“Don't you have to put those eyedrops in?” he asked.
“Not till I get a better look at this.” She went for his arm again.
He jerked away. “Cut it out, Ange.”
“Bobby, let me see.”
He swore roughly, and then he stood still, allowing her to closely inspect his upper arm.
“Did it hurt?” she asked.
“Nah.”
That was a lie, of course, and he reminded himself that the whole point of the heart was to expose his feelings, but he wasn't about to confess that he'd passed out when Tiny was poking those needles in his arm.
“I think it's sweet,” she said, then added with a. chuckle, “Maybe even more macho than a coiled snake.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Her voice was as soft as the touch of her fingers on his arm. It sent a wave of longing through Bobby that threatened to buckle his knees, a longing that went far beyond sexual desire. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. He reached to tip her chin up and realized his hand wasn't all that steady.
Talk to her. Find the words. Tell her how you feel.
“It was a pretty goofy thing to do, I guess,” he said, fixing his gaze intensely on hers, “but I thought maybe it was a step in the right direction. And dammit, Ange, I couldn't figure out any other way to wear my heart on my sleeve the way you want me to.”
She looked away for a second, long enough for his heart to cringe, but then she looked back at him as her green eyes moistened. “Oh, Bobby.”
“I'm really trying here, Ange,” he said, working around the rough catch in his throat. The urge to clam up was powerful. His need to shut down battled with his need to reclaim his wife. “I'm honest to God trying as hard as I know how. It just isn't easy for me to talk about how I feel, to let it all hang out.”
“I know.” She sighed. “It's not fair for me to ask you to be something that you're not. To want you to feel things that maybe you don't even feel.”
His thumb gently stroked her cheek while he replied. Slowly. Measuring his breath, forcing the words. Holding tight, tighter, so he didn't explode. “I want to be what you want. Angela, I have to be what you want. Jesus. I can't lose you.”
She uttered a painful little cry, then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with the same kind of desperation that he was feeling. It felt like two people trying to consume the exact same breath of air, two people dying of thirst and trying to drink the same drop of water. Her face was wet with tears now, and to Bobby she tasted like heaven. No. Not heaven. She tasted like home.
He cradled her face in his hands, kissing her mouth and her nose and her eyes, almost afraid that if he stopped, she might vanish. Afraid that this was just the hallucination of a lonely, starving man.
Starving for the taste of her, he lowered his head to her breast, and the moan of pleasure he wrung from her only increased his appetite for the firm curves of her flesh and the sweet, varied textures of her skin. He splayed his hands across her backside, pulling her hard against him, needing more of her, needing to be inside her, to lose himself, to find himself, to crash and burn and be reborn in her dark heat.
“Now, baby,” he whispered as he picked her up in his arms. “I've got to have you now.”
When Bobby's head sank into the crook of her neck and all of his warm weight upon her slackened, when her heart resumed something close to a normal rhythm and her sanity returned, it was a little bit late for any regrets or recriminations, Angela decided. Even so, she had to fight back her tears. Sex, after all, had never been their problem. It was the life between the lovemaking that tore them apart.
For a man who found it nearly impossible to express his emotions in words, her husband didn't have the slightest difficulty using his body to express his desires or to awaken the same in her. My God. This time they both had climbed so high so fast that the spin of the fall had left her almost dizzy. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that she'd been celibate for nearly a year. It was Bobby. It was both of them together. They just went up in flames.
Now, she thought, she deserved to be lying here feeling burnt to a crisp. She should have been smarter. Stronger. More sensible. She should have told him no, instead of yes, yes, yes. And now, after nearly setting the little bed on fire with their passion, how in the world was she going to tell him they couldn't make love again? That this had been the only time, the last time? That great sex just wasn't enough to sustain a marriage?
Tilting her head, she could see the clock on the nightstand. Seven-thirty-five. They still had a few minutes before kitchen duty called, and Angela wanted to just lie here, holding Bobby, savoring every second of those remaining minutes, savoring him.
His hair was damp, and she couldn't help but smile at the scent of her own shampoo blended with his sweetish-smelling shaving cream and the bit of healthy perspiration he'd worked up while they made love. Nobody ever smelled as good to her as Bobby did, and she wondered if he wasn't her perfect mate based on scent alone. How could two people so right keep getting it so damned wrong? she wondered.
She wished Billy were here. He always had a way of making her more comfortable with Bobby's reticence, more able to accept it. He'd tell her about some incident in Wishbone years ago that had an effect in forming her husband's personality. He'd describe Treena and her sunsets and wastebaskets full of empty beer cans, or their father's constant presence on the streets of town coupled with his cool indifference.
He used to tell her how Bobby quietly stood up to anyone who didn't treat them right, which meant confrontation on just about a daily basis with neighbors, classmates, just about everyone in town. He told her how Bobby never lost his temper. He would simply stand there like a wall, absorbing all the ill will and the taunts and the cruel condescension. He'd fight if he had to, but never, ever threw the first punch. Angela could almost hear Billy's sweet, slow drawl right now.
Honey, I suspect Bobby's just scared that if he lost his temper, he might not ever find it again. Hell, Angela, look what happened when he lost his heart to you. I mean, that sucker's just plain gone. No way he'll ever get it back
Her fingers drifted across the powerful muscles of Bobby's back and shoulders, thoroughly appreciating the slight cushion of warm flesh over the solid iron just underneath. Not so surprisingly, in spite of all her sadness and regrets, she wanted him again. Fiercely. Deep inside her again. She literally ached for him. Mere seconds after acknowledging that this had been so wrong, it was all she could do not to start writhing sensuously beneath him. Thank God his breathing had the slow and even cadence of wrung-out sleep, because if he awoke and started kissing her again, touching her again, she wouldn't be able to resist.
And she had to resist! She wasn't going to be able to make a rational decision about their marriage—whether to end it or resume it—if sex kept getting in the way.
As she stroked him, her hand came to rest on his solid upper arm. The tattoo! She'd almost forgotten Bobby had a heart tattooed on his sleeve! What an incredibly sweet thing to do. Only a coldhearted bitch would fail to appreciate what that highly visible and permanent gesture meant. It proclaimed his need for her and his willingness to try to work things out. He had said as much.
But, dear God, that wasn't enough. Unless he changed, a square inch of red ink wasn't going to take the place of expressing his deepest feelings, of sharing those feelings with her, of listening and responding to her feelings rather than leaving her out in the cold. Did Bobby actually believe his gesture was enough and would make her change her mind?
She couldn't. She wouldn't.
And what about Rod, who seemed to be everything Bobby wasn't emotionally? If that's what she truly wanted in a mate, why was she having such an impossible time telling him yes?
On the nightstand beside the bed, her cell phone gave a soft little bleep. Bobby breathed a warm curse into her neck before he rolled over onto his side. Angela answered the phone, listened to Doug's gruff voice
a moment, then hung up.
“Who was that?” Bobby asked.
“Doug. He said the report just came in from forensics on the professor's sherry glass.”
Bobby levered up on an elbow. “And?”
“No prints,” she said.
“None?”
Angela shook her head. “Not a single one. Not the professor's. Not even mine, and I served him the sherry that night.”
“He wiped it clean.” Bobby sat up, looking no longer like a languorous lover but like his normal, grimly professional and highly suspicious self. “The son of a bitch wiped it clean.”
While he carried Mrs. Riordan's breakfast tray upstairs, Bobby tried to confine his thoughts to the job, but the memory of making love to his wife kept intruding. Little wonder, when his body was still ringing like a damn bell. The word gangbusters kept knocking around in his head. That's how they'd come together this morning—like gangbusters. It was probably a good thing that during their estrangement he'd pretty much forgotten or suppressed the memory of just how good they were in bed together. If he had clearly remembered, he'd have gone insane about eleven months ago.
All of a sudden, Bobby had hope again, now that he knew Angela still wanted him. Sweet Jesus, how she'd wanted him a while ago. He couldn't help but grin as he climbed the stairs. If the tattoo did nothing more to bring them together or solve their problems, at least he had it to thank for what happened this morning. He wasn't kidding himself. He knew the little red heart was just a gesture, a symbol of the emotional work he had yet to do. But it was a damn good start.
He felt like whistling. He felt like jumping up and clacking his heels together in midair. Like a Secret Service Fred Astaire. Like a cartoon lover wearing a goofy grin while his heart was sproinging out of his chest. He felt like a man who had just made love to the woman he loved and who couldn't wait to do it again. And again.
He felt like a man who better get his mind back on business, which in this case meant the surprising lack of latents on the professor's sherry glass. Angela was right. The lab should have picked up a couple of her partials, if nothing else. She was probably right, too, when she'd said, “The way that man is constantly whipping out his handkerchief to wipe his glasses, I'd bet next month's salary that he just got carried away and wiped the sherry glass, too.”
Yeah. Bobby would be willing to bet his salary, too, that the old guy had wiped it clean, but not because he'd gotten carried away. Gerald Gerrard might have lulled everybody else's suspicions with his mild manners and academic credentials, and he might have swept Mrs. Riordan off her feet with his charm, but Bobby wasn't lulled or charmed. He was still pretty damned suspicious.
The president's mother was on the phone again when he entered her room, but instead of scowling at him and postponing her conversation with a hand covering the receiver, this morning she hung up as soon as Bobby crossed the threshold, and then she offered him a fairly decent imitation of a smile.
“Those clocks downstairs must all be off again,” she said by way of greeting, informing him that he was several minutes late.
He grinned as he put the tray down on the table, more immune than usual to her sarcasm. Well, hell. He'd just made love to his wife. He was immune to everything this morning. “Yes, ma'am.”
“I'd like to go for another walk today, Robert,” she told him, lowering herself into the chair while he held it for her.
“Good,” he said, trying not to sound surprised. He was glad to see her coming out of her funk.
“I'd like to go at ten o'clock.”
“No problem The sun'll be well up by then to take some of the chill out of the air.”
“I suppose you're required to inform all of the thugs out back in the trailer of my plans.” She scowled up at him. “What do they have, a little chart or something on which they write my every move? Do they use different-colored markers for different days of the week?”
“No. Nothing like that. They're just seeing to your safety, Mrs. Riordan. The same as Angela and me.”
“At least the two of you are pleasant company,” she said with a little snort. “I'll be furious if there is anyone following us this morning in a car that they think I can't see, or sneaking from tree to tree or trying to make themselves invisible among the cornstalks. I won't have it, Robert. Not this morning. Is that understood?”
He nodded, certain that Doug would comply, since the order of the day seemed to be, Whatever Daisy wants, Daisy gets. “Just you and me,” he said. “We can do that.”
“All right, then.” She shook out her napkin and draped it over her lap. “I'll be down at ten.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He turned toward the door.
“Oh, and Robert?”
“Yes, ma'am?”
“Have I thanked you for what you did the other night when the car was vandalized and afterward, when I fell asleep in that horrible trailer?”
“Not yet,” he drawled, suppressing another grin. Gratitude wasn't Daisy Riordan's longest suit, especially gratitude to a Secret Service agent, but he wasn't going to make this any easier for her. Hell, she wouldn't want him to. It was one of the reasons Bobby liked her so much. He thought he had a fairly good take on the president's mother. She didn't really want to walk all over people. She wanted them to stand up to her. The woman just enjoyed a good fight.
“Well…” She took a sip of orange juice before she added a pretty stiff and grudging, “Thank you, Robert.”
“You're welcome.”
“And see that you're ready at ten,” she said. “Sharp.”
Bobby trotted down the stairs, glancing at his watch, wondering if there was time to nudge Angela back into the bedroom for a quickie. This morning hadn't been nearly enough, not after waiting over eleven months, and tonight was a long way away. He turned into the kitchen from the hallway with another goofy grin on his face that he just couldn't remove. Hell, he didn't want to remove it. Let her see how damned in love with her he was.
Only it turned out to be Doug, sitting at the kitchen table, who witnessed the lovestruck expression.
“Kinda getting into this houseboy stuff, aren't you, Bobby?” his supervisor asked, not bothering to hide his own grin, one that came dangerously close to a smirk.
“Where's Ange?”
Doug aimed a thumb toward the bedroom. “In there. Packing.”
“Packing?”
“Yep. I just gave her the good news. Washington called. Your replacements are corning in late this afternoon.”
“Replacements.” It wasn't a question. It didn't even qualify as a statement. Bobby just found himself repeating the word. And then again. “Replacements.”
Doug glanced at his watch and then at the clock on the oven. “One's flying up from Atlanta. The other, the woman I believe, is driving over from Indianapolis. Turned out the agency did have another married couple on the payroll, after all.”
“Who?” Bobby asked with a hint of belligerence in his voice.
“Demmler. Daimler.” Doug shrugged. “Something like that. The paperwork hasn't come through yet.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Maybe that's because they've never done protective duty before. Hell of a time to start, with a woman under a death threat. But nobody asked me for my opinion.”
Bobby's brain was clicking at warp speed, trying to process this information, but mostly getting stuck on one image. Angela was packing. Packing to leave. Him. A kind of panic was building in his chest.
“Do you think that's fair to Mrs. Riordan, Doug?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
Bobby pulled out a chair, sat, and leaned his forearms on the table. “I mean, the lady's just getting used to having us here in her house. Then suddenly we're out, and she has to start all over again with two new people.”
Doug's stare was inscrutable—part astonishment, part annoyance. His tone was wholly annoyed. “Who was the one begging me to get him off this detail? Was that you in my office, Agent Holland, prac
tically down on your knees, or was I just hallucinating, just making it all up?”
The panic made Bobby's heart feel too large for his chest. Not a good fit anymore. It was hitting his ribs, moving up in his throat and choking him. How he could wave his hand and smile so cavalierly was a mystery to him, but he did and then said, “Hey, Doug. We're here. We're settled in. The old lady's accustomed to us. It's no big deal.”
Doug's eyes narrowed to fine, gray slits. “You're telling me you want to stay?”
“Yeah.” Bobby swallowed. “That's what I'm telling you. I want to stay.”
“Well, your wife doesn't, mister,” he snapped. “She lit up like a two-hundred-watt bulb a few minutes ago when I gave her the news, then she rushed off to pack so fast she just about laid rubber on this shiny tile floor.”
“Oh.” He couldn't think of anything else to say. He couldn't think of anything except Angela packing, Angela walking out on him again. He didn't even know how many minutes passed before his supervisor spoke again.
“What the hell's that on your arm?” Doug asked.
“Tattoo.”
“I never noticed that before. You had it long?”
Bobby sighed. “Years,” he said. “I had it done when I was at the Point.”
“That long, huh? Well, I'll be damned. I usually notice things like that.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you're losing your touch, Doug.”
The older agent shook his head. “Could be, son. This job has a way of wearing you down every once in a while.
You look like you could use a little vacation yourself, Bobby. Cheer up. Go fishing or something. They don't expect you back in Washington before next Monday.”
“Both of us?” Bobby's heart leapt up for a second.
“No. Just you. Angela's going back to California.”
15
The moment she saw Bobby walk into the bedroom, Angela knew that Doug had given him the news, and that for her husband, it wasn't good news at all. He looked as if he were trying to hold himself together with spit and a couple lengths of frayed string. He looked as if Doug had punched him in the gut instead of informing him he could bid a fond farewell to Has Been, Illinois, today.
