Starting from Scratch

by Marie Ferrarella

  Elisha noted with no small pleasure that the ex–Navy SEAL had qualified his statement by using the word when rather than simply stating that he was going to patently disregard her opinion. By his choice of words, he’d acknowledged that there were times when she was right. They’d come a long way.

  Not to mention that she had come a long way. And not just as his editor.

  She wet her lips, not to look alluring, but to keep them from sticking together as she spoke. “I want you to know that you’re my first author.”

  She watched as one sexy eyebrow rose quizzically. “Are you informing me of some pecking order?”

  No, oh God, no. She didn’t want him thinking that she’d just rated him.

  “No, I mean I’ve never done…this…” Very expressive, Lise. No wonder they pay you so much to be a senior editor. Your command of the language is nonpareil. “I’ve never made love—had sex,” she corrected, “with one of my authors.”

  Just the slightest hint of amusement curved his mouth. “You might consider it. You bring a whole new meaning to stroking a man’s…ego.” And then he laughed because her eyes had grown so wide. “I’m not being serious, Max.”

  She blew out a breath—and was not unaware that he was watching the way her chest rose and fell. She felt a hint of a blush rising to her cheeks and did her best to smother it.

  “I never know with you.” She looked at him for a second. “And I think you kind of like it that way.”

  He didn’t look displeased. “Guilty as charged. A certain amount of mystery makes things interesting.”

  Ryan knew he should be getting up, should be putting distance between them. That’s what he always did after exercising his sexual muscles. But for some reason, tonight he felt like lingering. Like savoring. He didn’t try to analyze it, he just did it.

  His arm tucked around her, he settled back and stared again at the massive dark beams that crisscrossed his ceiling some twenty feet above them. “So, you’re coming back on Monday.”

  “Yes.” Even as she said it, a certain insecurity set it. Elisha sighed.

  He eyed her. “What’s the matter? Changing your mind again?”

  “No,” she assured him quickly. “It’s just that I hope I’m doing the right thing. I mean, I’m doing the right thing for me, but as for the girls…” Was she jumping the gun? Taking too much for granted? When she’d called Rocky, it was because she felt that the girls would be all right without having her invested in every minute of their lives. But now she wasn’t so sure.

  She wasn’t sure about anything, least of all herself.

  “Do you love them?”

  Elisha turned to look at him. It was the last question she’d ever expected to hear from Ryan. She didn’t think the man even knew what the word meant. In any context.

  “Yes.”

  He drew her closer, even as he continued looking at the ceiling. His mind was aeons away. “Then that’s all they need. Kids can forgive a lot of transgressions, as long as they know at the end of the day that you love them and are there for them.”

  The man continued to be a source of endless surprises. This was actually very sensitive, especially for him. A thought suddenly occurred to her. A strange tightness in her chest accompanied it. “Do you have kids?”

  “No, but I was one.”

  She felt guilty about the relief that shimmied through her. Guilty, too, because there was a sadness in his voice. She didn’t think it had anything to do with not having children of his own. He wasn’t the type. No, this was something basic.

  The sadness reached out to her even if he didn’t. “How was it? Being a kid, I mean.”

  The laugh had no humor in it. She looked at him. His expression was grim. “Lousy.”

  “Why?”

  He wasn’t in the mood to share. His life, especially his past, was his own. “Just because we tangled together on my floor a couple of times tonight doesn’t mean you can dig into my life, Max.”

  Boundaries were for people who were afraid to venture forward. Little by little, since Henry’s death, she’d found herself becoming more and more fearless.

  “Why?” she repeated, her eyes intent on his. “What made it lousy?”

  He had no idea why he answered. “I had no control.”

  “Tell me,” she coaxed.

  When he examined his actions later, he had no idea why he didn’t just get up and leave then. Why he began to talk, to open doors that had been shut for so long. She made it easy to slip. Easy for the words that had not seen the light of day for forty years to slowly come out.

  “My mother died when I was eight.” Elisha made no sympathetic, almost involuntary sound at the information, but he was acutely aware that she placed her hand over his. Aware that there was sympathy in her touch. Not pity, but sympathy. Because she’d lost someone she cared about herself, he thought. “My father couldn’t handle the idea of raising a kid on his own, so he gave me up.”

  His words refused to compute. “Gave you up?”

  The words were ground out one at time, as if he was wrenching them from the grip of pain. “Handed me over to child services.”

  This time she did make a noise. It took everything she had not to put her arms around him. Instinct told her that was the last thing he would have accepted. It went against some manly code. But it didn’t stop her from offering the sympathy she felt.

  “Oh God, how awful.”

  “I thought so.”

  In his mind’s eye, he could still see it. Still see the small, scrawny kid he’d once been, desperately trying to hold on to the hand of the man who didn’t want him enough to make an effort to give him a home. His father had pulled his hand roughly away. And the social worker had taken it. Had taken him and dragged him away.

  “Especially when I begged him not to. But he said I’d be better off this way. Have a more stable home life than he could give me.” He shook his head at the memory of the words. “Stable. Yeah, right. I lived in over a dozen foster homes from the time I was eight until I reached eighteen.” His mouth twisted cynically. “The system turns you out when you reach eighteen. You’re considered a man and on your own by then.”

  At eighteen he was probably more of a man than most men were at forty, Elisha thought. A man who had never been allowed to be a child.

  Her heart ached for him. “Is that when you enlisted in the navy?”

  It had seemed like the logical thing to do. Even if it had been a snap decision. “Wasn’t much else someone like me could do. I didn’t like taking orders, but I liked starving even less. Took me a while to get my bearings, to learn when to pick my fights.” A few beatings from bullies had him bulking up and training almost obsessively. Until he was a force to be reckoned with. “I made some mistakes.”

  She couldn’t believe he was admitting something like that. She felt incredibly close to him. Closer than she’d felt while they were making love.

  “Such as?”

  He turned his face toward her. What was there about her that made him talk like this? That made him want to share? His boundaries were being threatened and yet he couldn’t seem to work himself up about that. Was he getting old?

  “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?” But there was no edge in his voice, only mild amusement.

  She smiled, propping herself up on her elbow and looking down at him. “Thought I’d press my advantage.” Elisha waited a second, then prodded. “What kind of mistakes?”

  He shrugged. It seemed like a hundred years ago. When he’d still believed in things like love. “Got drunk one shore leave in San Francisco. Got married.”

  Her chin slipped off her upturned hand. She felt as if someone had just detonated a bomb inside of her. “Married?”

  Ryan nodded. He toyed with the idea of playing this out a little longer, but that would have been cruel. He gave her the short version.

  “Sweet thing. She was a barmaid and I was out of my head. I was looking for love and she was looking for a gr
een card. Didn’t last long.”

  “Then you’re divorced?” Did that come out as if she was happy about it? She was going to have to watch her inflection, she upbraided herself.

  “I’m divorced. Got the paper around here somewhere,” he said vaguely.

  “Is that the only time you ever got married?”

  “I’ve been pretty sober ever since.”

  Did that mean he thought only people not in control of their faculties pledged to love and honor? “People get married when they’re sober.”

  “Not me.” His voice was flat. Final.

  She took a stab at the reason. “Because your childhood scarred you so much?”

  He looked at her sharply. Ordinarily, he put people who asked him personal questions like this in their place. Succinctly. Why he didn’t now mystified him. It was like an out-of-body experience and he was observing himself play the part of someone else.

  “I didn’t exactly get a blueprint on how to maintain the perfect home life.”

  “No,” she agreed. “But that shouldn’t have stopped you. You said it yourself earlier.”

  “Said what?”

  “Like the Beatles sang, all you need is love.”

  “Some people need more.” But then, who was he to judge? “Maybe drugs help some people over the rough spots.”

  She was trying very hard to follow his train of thought. “You have too much character for that. To do drugs.”

  It had never appealed to him. It meant the loss of control. And the last time he’d done that, he’d wound up with a wife. He’d learned fast. But that didn’t give her the right to talk as if she knew him. “How do you know what I have?”

  As she smiled at him, she trailed the tips of her fingers along his chest. Monday they’d be author and editor. Tonight belonged in a bubble all its own. A bubble that would have to break before the hour was up.

  “I’m a pretty good judge of character. I know you’re not as hard as nails, as you like everyone to think.”

  He took exception to that. “I’m exactly as hard as nails.”

  But she shook her head. “A man without a heart wouldn’t make arrangements to have a portion of his royalties sent to a bank account for the father who abandoned him.”

  Anger flared in his eyes. His father had shown up five years ago, his hand out. His first impulse had been to see how far he could toss the man. His second had been to give in to the pity he felt. So he’d set his father up with a monthly allowance on the stipulation that they were to have no further contact. His father had readily agreed. So much for parental love.

  “How do you know that?”

  “You’re not the only one with connections. Granted, mine are minor compared to yours, but then my world is a lot smaller than yours.”

  He could give in to his anger, but then he’d deprive himself of her company for the evening. Tomorrow there were boundaries to regain. Tonight belonged to another world. A world where the lady was full of surprises.

  “You’re something else, Max, you know that?” Raising her hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her palm.

  The thrill was taking hold all over again. Showing her an Elisha she’d never been acquainted with. An Elisha she could get to like.

  “No, but I’m beginning to find out.”

  “Let the search resume,” he said, kissing her again.

  CHAPTER 38

  Life looked different to her now.

  Every so often, she had to stop and just take stock of all the changes. Like now, in the middle of her busy day. She pulled a not-so-empty second to herself and took a long breath.

  Every moment of the day was still filled, but it amazed her how much more she could cram into a day than she had before. She was a “homemaker” now, a parent. There was no time to lie awake at night, with that soft refrain echoing through her head, whispering, “Is that all there is?” in Peggy Lee’s husky voice. When she went to bed at night, she was asleep before her head found the pillow, waking up only when the alarm insisted on rousing her the following morning.

  Her priorities in the last few months had shifted. Her workload had not. Despite Rocky’s promise to lighten her responsibilities, work continued to pile on. Elisha didn’t mind. She liked what she did. Enjoyed it even when the pace threatened to destroy someone with a lesser ability to cope with stress. She’d even approached a movie icon she knew about writing a book. The man told wonderful, complex, entertaining stories and she’d suggested hooking him up with a professional ghostwriter to help him along through his first attempt. When he’d agreed, she’d turned the project over to Carole Chambers. Her former assistant had accepted the gift warily.

  “Why would you give this to me?” she’d asked, smiling so wide she could have given Alice in Wonderland’s Cheshire cat a run for his stripes. The emotion behind the smile was just as genuine as the feline’s had been. But that had no bearing on Elisha’s decision. Logic had brought her to it.

  “Because I think you’re more suited for this project than I am. I have my mystery authors. That’s my niche. This is straight fiction. More your forte,” she’d added, then said with a smile, “Have fun with it.”

  When she had walked out of the befuddled editor’s cubicle, she’d felt good about what she’d done. Not insecure, not uneasy, but content. She hadn’t even gone to the ladies’ room after that to check for stab wounds in her back. It didn’t hurt to have Carole completely thrown off guard in the bargain.

  Of course, the final decision rested with Rocky, but Elisha felt fairly confident that he wouldn’t oppose it. Almost as dear to him as profit were peace and tranquillity. The project would keep Carole busy for some time. And out of everyone else’s hair. Besides, Rocky trusted her judgment. If she thought Carole was suited to the endeavor, then so did he.

  Moving from her chair, Elisha approached the window that had sold her on this corner office. She wrapped her arms around her waist as she stood there, looking down at the city below. It had snowed last night. More than just a fair dusting. From this height, everything appeared to look warm and cozy. The fresh blanket of white hadn’t turned to slush yet, hadn’t begun to turn gray from all the exhaust it continually absorbed.

  It looked picturesque. Like the cover of an old-fashioned greeting card.

  Christmas was coming soon, she mused. She’d already begun shopping for the girls. There were so many more details to remember this year than before. Lists littered her life now.

  She’d always loved Christmas, always celebrated the holiday at Henry’s place. Even when she and Garry were together, she’d always considered Henry’s house home and spent both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day there.

  This year, Christmas was up to her.

  Turning away from the window, Elisha went back to her desk and sat down. She was going to make it the best Christmas she possibly could for the girls. It wouldn’t be easy, but she was determined. She owed it to Andrea and Beth. And herself.

  And Henry, she added silently with a bittersweet smile.

  She wasn’t going to go there yet. She missed Henry with her whole heart. The wound was still raw. She knew it would be for some time to come.

  Elisha glanced at her desk calendar. There was a notation in red marked in around noon. Lunch with Sinclair. She grinned. Around this time of year, little children began approaching him, asking if he was Santa Claus in disguise. It never failed to tickle him.

  The author was busy working away on his new book and from all indications it was going very well. There had been very few emergency phone calls from him since he’d begun. This time around, his insecurity had toned down considerably. He’d gotten it under control faster than she could ever remember. When she’d mentioned it, he’d told her that was her doing. When she’d returned to be his editor again, he’d been so relieved, he’d suddenly felt inspired.

  That had been more than two months ago. Two months and he was still firing on all four burners. Obviously he’d found a way to make his inspiration last i
ndefinitely. She hoped it remained with him until he was finished. He was far less stressed this way. And so was she.

  Baby steps, she thought fondly. Sinclair was taking baby steps.

  They were all taking baby steps, she amended. All but Ryan.

  Her mouth twisted into a smile. The man probably didn’t think he needed to make any changes, but he had. Consciously or unconsciously, he’d begun to bend rather than remain inflexible. They fought passionately over her final corrections to his latest book, but even so, she won more than a handful of the skirmishes.

  When the manuscript had finally gone into production, it bore more than a few of her annotations, and he had made changes in the manuscript. Most notably to his main character. The man had become not just an action figure but someone with a soul.

  That was due to her, she liked to think. She wondered what Ryan would say if he knew she’d sent his book off to be reviewed by several of the more notable critics. She was fairly certain that his comments would definitely not be G-rated.

  She’d half expected him to stop inviting her over for the weekly poker games now that the manuscript was no longer a bargaining chip between them, but he hadn’t. She was still included. Had grown accustomed to being included. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe that was setting herself up for a fall once the invitations dried up.

  But there wasn’t anything she could do about that and she knew it. Somehow or other, she’d slipped into a brand-new world here, as well. And she liked it. Liked being with him.

  More than liked it.

  She was working without a net and she knew it.

  Her natural optimism warred with reality, striking up a compromise. She didn’t go as far as thinking of him as her lover, but they had gotten together a number of times since that first time. And to her astonishment, each time had been better than the last. For her.

  For him as well, she would have liked to believe. But she couldn’t be sure. He never came right out and said anything. Once the moment was over, once their clothes were back on, a mask would descend over his face and a fence would go up around him. Keeping her out.