by Raina Lynn
“So something did happen.”
Jill groaned.
“If Karen called or came over, I’ll take out a restraining order tomorrow.” He adjusted his hold on the baby and leaned against the counter to face her, fire blazing from his deep-set eyes.
“Karen didn’t call. But your father did.” Hurt and anger made it hard to think straight, and shutting her mouth before she did any more damage took all her willpower.
“My what?” His generous lips thinned. “What did he say?”
“Verbatim? Or my interpretation?” Her voice broke on a sob. So much for willpower.
His expression darkened. “Yours.”
“Your ex-wife has been filling them in on things about your life—our lives—that they should have heard from you.” The hurt took some of the wind out of her anger. “Mason, why were you keeping me and Claire a secret?”
He blinked. “I planned to tell them soon. Frankly, I wasn’t looking forward to it.”
The gut-level honesty of his reply extinguished the faint hope she’d held that perhaps one day they could have a normal marriage. “Soon? What was wrong with before? At first when you didn’t mention any family, I attributed it to your natural reserve. I even thought maybe you didn’t have any family—like me.” With a sinking heart, she watched his expression close. He walked into the living room and set Claire in her swing.
“No, they’re very much alive.”
“So why is it I’m such a chore to tell your family about?” Taking a long, slow breath, she faced the pain head-on. “Is my Ivy League husband ashamed of his lowly little bookkeeper wife?” She knew she sounded bitchy, but pain leaked from every pore on her body. She’d kept it bottled up for so long in the dark recesses of her mind; she hadn’t realized just how badly things had festered.
Mason’s face darkened ominously. “How in hell did you come to that conclusion?” The demand came in a low, offended growl.
“Can’t imagine, Bradshaw. Do I occupy one side of your life and your family the other?”
Mason’s chest expanded on a sharply indrawn breath.
“So you decided that I think you’re not good enough for me, that the pedigreed Bradshaws would be scandalized to find a mere commoner among their illustrious ranks.”
The sarcasm hung so thick that she could practically see it in the air between them. “Something like that.”
He took a controlled breath, and briefly closed his eyes. The thought crossed her mind that he might be trying to avoid strangling her.
“Jill, you and Claire are my family.”
That rattled her so badly she couldn’t move.
“Let me explain something about my parents,” he growled. “During my childhood, my mother was too busy climbing the judicial ladder to give a damn about anyone, particularly her son. The same can be said of my father, except his career ladder was Wall Street and assorted places in Europe. If abortion had been legal thirty-eight years ago, I wouldn’t be here.”
Horrified shock cemented her in place.
“Last I heard, they weren’t planning on returning from Spain for another month. They left on that trip the week before I learned about the baby.”
Jill couldn’t begin to relate to what had spilled from his lips. She found herself staring at him as if he were a complete stranger. The words echoed through her mind several times, but it didn’t help make them any more tangible.
“As you’ve probably gathered, we’re not close. Back in college, a friend talked me into becoming involved with the school paper. Within a week, it went from hobby to passion. I changed my major, and my parents were furious. They expected me to go into finance or law. They paid every dime of my education, then cut me off without a cent the day I graduated. They told me never come to them for anything again.”
Jill swallowed hard, unable to tear her eyes away from him. Everything she’d ever known or suspected about him played through her mind. More pieces to the puzzle materialized and fell into place. This all explained so much—the air of aloneness she’d sensed they had both lived with all their lives, his inability to write off Karen as quickly as another man might have.
Mason had apparently experienced little love in his life. Had he been subconsciously afraid that if someone took away his meager portion he might not get another? If so, no wonder he found it hard to make himself vulnerable again.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a constricted whisper.
His damning glower shot pure venom. “I don’t need your pity, Jill.” He turned on his heel and headed for Claire, whose face had scrunched up, threatening tears.
“That’s not entirely what I meant.”
He stopped but didn’t turn around.
“I didn’t understand. I made assumptions based on stereotypes and my own battle scars. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
He cast her a wary look over his shoulder. “Apology accepted.” The words fell dead and lifeless in the room. “You’re normally very up front about things, Jill. If not knowing about my family bothered you, why didn’t you ask before it became a problem?”
She mulled over her answer, picking her words carefully.
“I think ‘problem’ is the operative word. We have too many of them to tackle more.”
Curiosity mixed with caution, and he turned to face her.
“Mason, you’re in a marriage you don’t want. I’m in a marriage that’s killing me by inches. In light of what we’re living day to day, parents seemed sort of trivial for now.”
Claire squalled, her face pleading with somebody—anybody—to pick her up. Mason scooped her out of her swing, and she grinned at him. The love that shone from his eyes as he kissed one chubby cheek made the gaping wounds in Jill’s heart ache more sharply.
With a sigh, she said, “Since she has wrapped you around her finger, I’ll serve dinner.”
Jill woke gasping for air, wringing wet and clinging to the blankets for comfort. She bolted from the bed to the crib wedged in the corner of the master bedroom.
Claire slept peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, but that did little for Jill’s racing pulse. The need to touch the soft, warm, tiny body overwhelmed her, and she laid her hand on the baby’s back, knowing that she risked waking her.
Mason rushed into the room dressed only in his briefs. “What’s wrong?”
Underwear. The man looks good even in underwear! Convinced that even in the deep shadows, he would be able to see the lust that must be written all over her face, she turned her back to him. “Just a stupid nightmare,” she whispered, fighting to keep her voice normal.
Mason stepped into the hall and flipped on the overhead. A wedge of light spilled into the room, angling across the bed, missing the crib completely. That’s my Mason, she observed with silent pain. Thinks of everything.
“Have you been having nightmares lately?” He stepped back into the room.
Jill needlessly fussed with the baby’s blankets, acutely aware of his proximity to the bed where Claire had been conceived, a bed he showed no interest in sharing with her. Claire bunched into a ball, then frowned and squeaked in her sleep.
Mason’s hands closed around Jill’s shoulders. Liquid heat oozed from his fingers into her skin. Every muscle in her body rebelled from her brain’s command to move out of reach.
Slowly, inexorably, he pulled her away from the crib and turned her around. Concern etched into taut lines of his face, his hazel eyes a warm invitation to share her burden. Sexual need ran hot. Held immobile by the power of his gaze alone, she stared into his face, drinking in every detail.
“Want to talk?” he whispered, his voice low and caring.
For a moment, she stared helplessly at him. “Yeah,” she whispered back. “There ought to be a law against any man throwing off as many pheromones as you do.”
He started, his eyes round. Then his dark eyebrows lowered in dawning illumination. Taking her arm, he steered her ahead of him out into the hall. “Humor,�
�� he muttered tightly. “Well, that tells me how badly that dream scared you.”
“What do you mean?”
The arms she ached to have hold her crossed over his lean, naked chest. “I’ve learned a few things in the last two and a half months.”
“About what?”
“You. Whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed, your sense of humor comes out to play. I used to see it all the time at the paper, but I didn’t know what it meant.”
She stood gaping at him like a beached trout, feeling so thoroughly exposed that she was tempted to crawl into her room and bolt the door. Unfortunately, it would be a juvenile stunt to pull. Besides, the door didn’t lock. “You’re imagining things. I’m a smart aleck. That’s all.”
“Now it’s me who’s frightening you, not the nightmare.”
If she had felt like a beached trout before, now she felt like he’d just hauled her up for inspection. “Bradshaw, you’re suffering from sleep deprivation. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Mason’s eyebrows shot up. “Now you’re really hiding,” he said, somewhat amazed. “You have absolutely no qualms about invading my personal space, particularly if it keeps me on the defensive. But if I invade yours, it scares you to death.”
“Don’t be absurd.” It gave her great satisfaction that her voice held steady, not an easy task in the face of humiliated exposure. Jill doubted he’d intended to embarrass her, but knowing that didn’t lessen her discomfort one bit.
He made a scoffing sound low in his throat. “As you’ve told me more than once, ‘spill it, Bradshaw.’”
Such a statement was so out of character and his mimicry of her voice so perfect that she wanted to wrap herself in an invisible cloak.
Telling him the details of the nightmare would just give him another handle on her she couldn’t afford. Mason would never deliberately hurt her, but the fact remained that he held her heart in his hands and the best he could do was try not to mangle it. That made for the greatest pain of all.
“The dream, Jill,” he urged, sounding more like himself. “Tell me about it. You’re as pale as a corpse.”
Jill’s mind kept telling her the danger to Claire had only been a dream, a figment of her subconscious mind, but the terror it had spawned hadn’t begun to abate. Groping for a rational thought, she waved him off dismissively. “Hormones, Bradshaw. Nothing more.”
“You lost me,” he said blankly.
“I dreamt she died of crib death. That’s why I bailed out of bed to check her. My body chemistry is still out of whack. Hormones.”
“Are you sure?” His brow furrowed.
So much concern was written on his face that if they had shared anything more than a baby and a last name, she’d have slid her arms around his ribs and burrowed into his embrace. A taunting voice told her to go ahead. Mason would never refuse her. She need only take one step forward. The yearning to be held became strangling in its intensity. Maybe another night, when she felt more in control. In mock camaraderie, she made a fist and lightly punched him on the chest. “And you thought the pregnant crazies were over, didn’t you?”
“Stop it, Jill.” The order zinged from his lips like the crack of a whip, shredding her last defense from the wrenching vulnerability she feared more than the loneliness.
“All right,” she snapped, determined to go down with her chin held high. “The nightmare scared me out of my wits. I could use a little TLC, and you’re standing here in your Fruit Of The Looms, flaunting the best set of buns I’ve ever seen.” She hadn’t intended to slip back into wisecracks.
Mason’s spine straightened almost convulsively, and Jill was ashamed to admit how much better it made her feel to shove the vulnerability onto someone else’s lap.
“Good night, Bradshaw.” Pointedly ignoring him, she went back to bed. His speculative gaze never wavered, and she had the hideous feeling he stood there analyzing her as thoroughly as if she’d handed him a full set of X-rays.
“Hello, Dad, it’s Mason.” He’d procrastinated for two days before making this call.
“Mason? What the hell have you done now?” bellowed the familiar voice. His father was in his early seventies, but that hadn’t dulled the authoritarian edge. “I got the damnedest call from Karen.”
“So I hear.”
“Well?”
“Well, what? You know everything. I married my bookkeeper. Her name’s Jill, and we have a two-month-old daughter named Claire.”
“Judas K. Priest, boy. What did you do, fall for the old ‘oh, woe is me, I’m pregnant’ routine? I’d have thought you’d know better than getting wrapped up with another social climber.”
Mason had a lifetime of experience dealing with his father. Even so, it never ceased to amaze him how someone with his education, resources and advantages had so little class. “When did you and Mom get back from Spain?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“The one you chose is none of your business. My wife said you called. If you want to be civil, I’ll talk to you. If not, I have other things to do.”
The older man sputtered in outrage. This, too, was familiar ground. “We made you what you are, Mason.”
“You’re too used to buying and selling people, Dad. Check your inventory. I’m not on the list. Now if that’s all you called about, I’ve got a paper to run. Tell Mom ‘hell’.”
He started to hang up, but his father yelled, “Wait a minute!”
“Yes?” A bad taste had settled in Mason’s mouth, the usual result of talking with either of his parents.
“If you think it will help, you can tell her that you’ve been disinherited because we don’t approve. I’ll back you up.”
Mason clenched his teeth and let his breath out slow. “That’s quite generous of you. I’m sure she’ll be devastated to learn I won’t be coming into money she never knew existed.” He almost fired off a Jill-type retort. It sure would set the old man back on his heels. Following through was tempting—very tempting. Oh, what the hell. “Live long and prosper, Dad. Bye.”
A few minutes later, Vicki walked in with a bunch of letters for him to sign. “Mason, I have never seen you grin like that.”
He chuckled. It felt great. “Jill’s good for me, Vicki.”
“I’m glad you’re seeing the light.” The satisfied smirk on his secretary’s face made him defensive. He just wasn’t accustomed to revealing his inner thoughts to other people. “I’m starting to see a lot of things.”
“I still think white people can be damned slow sometimes.” Her eyes twinkled.
Mason spread his hands in helpless resignation. “Just give me the letters.”
After she left, he pondered how he’d handled his father. For the first time in years, the conversation hadn’t deteriorated into a shouting match. Whether Jill realized it or not, she was largely responsible.
He just wished her humor wasn’t her way of protecting herself. He didn’t know when she’d laid out her soul before him like a blueprint, but she had. When he’d first met her he’d admired how she handled anything that came her way. Then again, he’d been mildly jealous of it, too. Learning that much of her strength was a facade shook him.
She deserved his best, and guilt blasted him that she wasn’t getting it. Looking back, he’d welcomed the fight on their wedding night. He wouldn’t have been averse to making love to her. Lord knew, he wanted her. But every time he thought about approaching her, he saw the love in her eyes—a love she desperately tried to hide. It made him feel like a louse. Sex would only make the guilt worse.
Perhaps he could find a way to use this new revelation as a pathway to building a marriage both of them could live with. Win or lose, he was sick and tired of that sofa bed.
The next morning, Mason walked back into his office after the production meeting and grimaced slightly at the country music blaring from his stereo. In all fairness, Jill had the volume at a reasonable level. But any of that stuff loud enough to actually hear was entirely t
oo loud.
Jill sat with her back to him, working on invoices. From the tense set to her shoulders, she’d heard him come in and knew he watched her. Claire lay in the crib on her back, contentedly staring at the stuffed bears on the mobile suspended above her.
Feeling like he had lost all conscious will of his own, Mason moved across the room to lift the infant into his arms. Her big blue eyes stared intently into his face, and he cuddled her against his throat. If only he could fall in love with her mother as easily.
“Why the long face, Bradshaw?” Jill looked up at him, her dark gaze penetrating. He found her desirable most times, but knowing that she’d given birth to his daughter added a startling dimension. Her resemblance to Karen no longer hit him every time he looked at her, he assumed because of the tremendous differences between the two women.
“Tough question?” she asked, flipping the radio station over to the classical one he preferred. Her question was a typical wisecrack, but this time he noticed a difference in the delivery. It lacked the usual spark. Her limited bag of tricks no longer worked. She hadn’t had the time to find new ones, and she knew that he knew it. Guiltily, he admitted to himself that he liked it better this way. Being the only one on the hot seat all the time got old.
Claire began to fuss and squirm in obvious hunger, and Jill held out her arms. Mason braced himself for the usual. As she fed the baby, he grew hard, a miserably predictable reaction. He’d seen Jill nursing their child, cooing softly, countless times, and it never failed to turn him on. Now, in the light of his recent discoveries, it defied description. Possessive fire roared through him, its force nearly dropping him to his knees. Shocked, he sat down at his desk and rummaged through the stack of letters to the editor, pretending she wasn’t there. The alternative was to keep staring and make a fool of himself.
He needed time to think.
For the rest of the day, Jill sensed a major change in Mason, but couldn’t define it. Actually, he’d been watching her speculatively ever since the night she’d accidentally wakened him with her nightmare. When asked about it, he shrugged it off and walked away. But something was brewing, and Jill had the horrible feeling she was in the middle.
