IN THE DARK

by Pamela Burford

  "Do you touch yourself like this?" He probed a little deeper and found her wet opening. "When you think about that night?"

  Her knuckles were white where she clasped the towel He moved his finger higher, to the taut little heart of sensation. She gasped. Her thighs fell open, and the last vestige of his restraint splintered.

  Brody was only dimly aware of lifting Cat, perching her on the edge of the vanity and wrenching the towel off her. His urgency had teeth. It was as if his next breath depended on being inside her.

  He opened her legs wide and positioned himself between them even as he kicked away his own clothing. Cat wrapped her limbs around him, panting softly. He widened his stance, steadied her and plunged to the hilt in one sure, deep stroke. She sobbed her pleasure, clutching him, arching against him. Her inner muscles clenched him and he groaned, struggling against the explosive imminence of his orgasm.

  Brody grabbed the towel and wiped condensation off the wall-to-wall vanity mirror behind her. Their first time had been in impenetrable darkness. Now he had an unobstructed view of every inch of her, front and back.

  Mesmerized, he watched himself slowly withdraw, as Cat clutched at him, whimpering. Just as slowly he pressed into her slick heat and lifted his gaze to her flushed face.

  "I knew you were lovely, that night, but I didn't know…" He smiled in wonder. "I didn't know you were perfect."

  He set a languid rhythm, which she met with supple undulations. Had she looked like this that night, when he couldn't see her? Had her expression been this endearingly open and unguarded? Had her eyes conveyed this heady potpourri of emotions? Euphoria. Vulnerability. Trust.

  If he'd been able to see her that night, he might have fallen in love with her right then and there.

  Brody hauled her close and tucked his face into the crook of her neck. His heart galloped with the realization, even as his rational mind disavowed it.

  She belonged to another man. She was carrying another man's child. Brody had no right to love her.

  As if she sensed his agitation, Cat held him tight. She stroked his hair and pressed her lips to his temple. Brody turned his head and captured her mouth in a desperate kiss, painfully aware that this physical joining, this pure and fleeting oneness of body, was all he dared ask for, hope for.

  As they rocked together, he watched Cat's gaze focus inward, felt her restless impatience as her passion mounted. He delighted in her breathless cries, in the ferocity with which she clung to him as her shuddering climax began to overtake her. Her eyes squeezed shut.

  "Look at me," he whispered, willing her to open herself to him absolutely. Her lids fluttered; her luminous gaze locked on his.

  "Brody…" she whispered, and smiled, and fell apart in his arms. He felt it, stoked it, until the violence of his own release consumed him.

  And even then, he never took his eyes from hers.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  "You have no reason to feel guilty, you know."

  Brody's words were a warm buzz against Cat's scalp. Clad in nothing but a thin sheet, the two of them cuddled spoon fashion in his bed, his chest to her back. The air-conditioning was off and the windows stood open to late afternoon sunshine that slanted into the sleeping alcove and across the old-fashioned four-poster bed.

  The summer-scented breeze, postcoital lethargy and the solid comfort of Brody's strong arms around her lulled Cat like a narcotic. If she'd ever felt this tranquil, she couldn't remember.

  He gave her shoulder a little shake. "Did you hear me?"

  "Who says I feel guilty?"

  "He doesn't deserve fidelity." When she didn't respond, Brody rose on an elbow and brushed strands of damp hair off her face. His fingertips were slightly rough. They felt wonderful. "I don't want you beating yourself up over this."

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  Cat sensed him debating the wisdom of pursuing the issue, before he settled behind her once more. She felt his steady heartbeat and the measured rise and fall of his broad chest. The angular swaths of sunlight lengthened, crept snail-like over the hills and valleys of their sheet-draped forms. Cat had begun to drift off when Brody spoke again.

  "I'd marry you myself if I didn't know you and the baby are better off without me."

  The bleak certainty in his voice made her eyes burn with unshed tears. She caressed his arm draped over her torso. "You're very hard on yourself, Brody."

  She felt his trademark smile as he nuzzled her hair. "I try not to be blind to my own shortcomings. There are only one or two of them, but they're doozies."

  Cat tried to look over her shoulder at him. "Is that why you've never married? Because you feel—what? Unworthy? Like you wouldn't be a fit parent?"

  "Not everyone's cut out for it. They should leave the job to people who know how to do it right." His hand slid down to Cat's belly. His touch was cherishing, almost reverent. Brody's unquestioning faith in her mothering ability sent a rush of pride through her. She placed her hand over his.

  "For the record," she said, when she could speak around the lump in her throat, "I think you'd probably figure out how to do it right."

  "Does that mean you accept? Should I book a wedding band?"

  Though she knew Brody's proposal was in jest, Cat sensed a hopeful undercurrent in his voice, and in the way he tensed, almost imperceptibly, awaiting her response. It was her imagination, of course. Brody Mikhailov was the poster boy for confirmed bachelorhood. She knew she should leave it at that, but she couldn't. She turned onto her back, still snuggled against him.

  "Why do you assume you're not cut out for parenthood?" she asked. "Is it what you went through as a kid?"

  He leaned up on his elbow and propped his head on his palm. "We're all a product of our upbringing. Mine didn't include any role models for how to be a good daddy."

  "Brody, my parents weren't exactly Ozzie and Harriet. Yet you seem convinced I'll make a good mother."

  His grin tugged at her heart. "Honey, you've got this classic, ferocious maternal instinct. You're a natural."

  "I've never changed a diaper in my life."

  "So?"

  "I'm terrified. I'll probably faint the first time I have to give the baby a bath."

  His smile turned tender and teasing at once. "Why do I think you'll get the hang of it in record time?"

  "Who taught you how to bathe Spot?"

  That prompted a gust of laughter. "There's nothing to hosing down a dog."

  "As if you 'hosed down' that pampered mutt. I've seen you, Brody. We're talking a whole damn spa treatment. The flea check. The nail clipping. The ear cleaning. The precise water temperature. The special shampoo. And all that brushing!"

  "No sense having an animal if you're going to neglect it," he grumbled.

  "And all those trips to the vet. You're like an anxious parent."

  "It's a dog! It's not the same thing."

  She turned to face him, mimicking his posture with her head braced on her hand. "Then what about me?"

  "What about you?"

  "To say you've been solicitous of my condition would be the understatement of the year. You hold me through the bouts of nausea. You won't let me lift anything heavier than a pencil. You've bought me books on everything from natural childbirth to baby names. That liver you cooked me last night weighed more than my head."

  "You need the B vitamins and folic acid."

  Her smile was crooked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're acting downright nurturing."

  "You can't compare that to taking care of a baby, a brand-new, helpless human being."

  "Didn't I say something like that when you told me I'd make a great mother because I'm a good office mom? In the beginning, I think everyone's afraid of the responsibility of parenthood—or in awe of it, anyway. It's probably a healthy attitude. Keeps you on your toes."

  He regarded her intently. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, but we both know what kind of father I'd make." />
  Did they? Brody had been living in his skin for forty years. He knew himself and his failings far better than she. What was she doing?

  Cat flopped onto her back again. She was leaping headlong into the very trap she'd been so anxious to avoid. Trying to convince not just herself, but the father of her unborn child that he had what it took to be a good dad. For no better reason than that he'd unknowingly provided half the genes.

  It was becoming harder and harder to stick to her guns, with Brody coddling her, practically reorganizing his entire household around her needs. No one had ever been so sweetly attentive to her.

  And now that she'd given in and made love with him again…

  Thank goodness she only had one week left.

  "Maybe I…" She stared at the ceiling. "Maybe I just hate to admit some people are a lost cause. I like to think anyone can be a good parent if they just want it badly enough."

  She didn't look at him. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat. "Yeah, well, I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid, but that's not going to happen, either."

  Some things aren't meant to be. Cat repeated the adage to herself, but it did nothing to ease the aching emptiness.

  He stroked her brow, smoothing the lines of tension. "You might be interested to know that I came up with a way for you to keep your job."

  She looked at him.

  "All during your pregnancy," he said. "And after—as long as you want it. You could even bring the baby to work with you."

  "Why is my uh-oh alarm screaming at me right now?"

  "Nana wouldn't dare fire you if I insisted on keeping you on. Indefinitely."

  "Brody…"

  "She wouldn't even have to find out about the baby."

  "We have regular staff meetings," she said. "I have to show up."

  "Well, it doesn't matter. Your boss might be puritanical, but she's not going to give you the boot when she's got a well-heeled client who just can't live without his office mom. And anyway, I'm betting she'll do a little arithmetic and finger me as the likely culprit. She might figure if she lets your dastardly seducer keep you around, sooner or later he'll make an honest woman of you."

  Cat sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest. "I warned you not to try this, Brody."

  He sat up, too, resting a forearm on his raised knee. His playful expression turned wary. "I'm just throwing this out as an idea, Cat. That's all."

  "You won't arrange it behind my back?"

  Something died behind his eyes. "No. And don't worry, I won't bring it up again." He got out of bed. Shafts of sunlight skated up his body, gilding each perfect part of him in turn as he moved out of the sleeping alcove. He kept his back to her as he started to pull on his clothes.

  "Brody, I…" How could she make him understand, without revealing too much? "It's not that I don't want to be here."

  His chuckle held no warmth. "Honey, you haven't wanted to be here from day one."

  "But it's not you." She hugged her knees. "I mean, it is, in a way. This is difficult for me."

  He zipped his shorts. "Because of that SOB who knocked you up."

  Cat recoiled from the coarse words, and the venom behind them. She didn't have the heart to compound the lies at this point, so she said nothing.

  "You must really be head over heels for the guy, to walk away from a cushy gig like this." He tugged a white polo shirt over his head and turned to face her. "But maybe you have a point. As long as you stay on here, you're going to keep cheating on Mr. Perfect. We both want it, and God knows I'm not noble enough to keep my hands off you."

  * * *

  The doorbell, and Spot's howling accompaniment, roused Brody from a dead stupor the next morning. Flaming arrows perforated his brain just behind his eye sockets as he forced his lids open and squinted at his sunlit surroundings.

  The computer room. At some point in the wee hours, he'd conked out on the freshly sanded and polyurethaned hardwood floor, cradling a half-empty bottle of vodka and a paperback called The Complete Guide to Breast-feeding. He rolled to the side and managed to overturn the ashtray with his shoulder. Fine ash and squashed butts pelted his face and his rumpled white shirt.

  The racket downstairs escalated as a heavy fist shook the front door and Spot responded with a frenzy of barking. Brody's "Shut the hell up!" came out as a croak.

  He staggered to his feet and had to grab the floor lamp when the room dipped and rolled. He struggled to locate the digital clock and bring it into focus: 10:17 a.m. Who would be pounding on his door at this ungodly hour?

  Sleeping on the hard floor had effectively battered those parts of him the vodka had neglected. Every molecule of his body shrieked with pain as he hobbled down the stairs. Passing the living room, he glanced at the ornate mirror hanging over the mantel and caught a glimpse of his reflection.

  Oh yeah, he thought. There's a real Hallmark image.

  Brody opened the door to the enclosed porch. "Get out of here," he growled to Spot, who offered a compromise by parking his butt on the carpet. "I said get out." Brody pointed to the back of the house. "Go."

  Spot did his classic fake-out, pretending to retreat only until his master's back was turned. Brody didn't pursue the issue. He'd never raised a hand to Spot, and it was about fourteen years too late to start now.

  He yanked open the front door. "What?"

  The stranger on his doorstep didn't so much as flinch. He was a good-looking guy about Brody's age and nearly as tall, with long, dark hair loosely tied back at the nape. He wore a white-and-black T-shirt that read Instant Human—Just Add Coffee, baggy chino shorts and brown leather sandals. He stood casually with his hands shoved in his pockets, jingling change or keys or something. To Brody it sounded like steel drums.

  The guy gave Brody a quick once-over, seemingly unperturbed by the sleep-matted hair, squinty, bloodshot eyes, two-day beard stubble, ashtray effluvia and obviously slept-in clothes.

  "Rough night?"

  "Go away." Brody tried to close the door, but his visitor's unimpeded reflexes won out. The fellow braced the door open with a brawny arm. Spot, ever vigilant, sniffed his new friend's pockets, looking for doggie treats.

  The man asked, "Are you Brody Mikhailov?"

  "In the flesh." Brody patted his empty pockets. "You got a smoke on you?"

  "My name's Greg Bannister."

  It took a moment.

  Mr. Perfect.

  Shit. Now I'm gonna get my ass kicked. Thank God he was still a little drunk.

  Cat must have confessed all to her boyfriend, letting her conscience overrule her common sense. Brody backed up into the porch, palms raised. "Listen, man, I just want to say one thing. Just hear me out a second."

  Bannister stepped inside, letting the front door swing shut behind him. Spot leaped on him in welcome and was rewarded with a brisk head rub. "Sit, boy," Bannister said. "Good dog." Spot lifted a paw without being asked, and Bannister shook it. He glanced around the cluttered porch before letting his unreadable gaze fall once more on Brody. "I'm listening."

  "It was all my fault. I want you to know that. You want to wipe the floor with me, I can't blame you. But don't take it out on Cat."

  Bannister stuck his hands in his pockets, which Brody took as a hopeful sign. "Go on."

  Brody shoved his fingers through his spiky hair. He reread his visitor's T-shirt. "Uh … how about I put on a pot of coffee?"

  "Why not? I could use a cup."

  Brody led the way, wondering if he was about to find out how it felt to get garroted. When he made it to the kitchen intact, he began to think he might actually get off easy.

  Spot sprawled in the corner he favored as Brody opened the canister of coffee and began scooping grounds into the filter basket. "How much did she tell you?"

  Cat's boyfriend lounged in a chair and started playing with the pepper mill, looking so at home Brody almost wished the guy would take the first swing. "I think I'd like to hear about it from you."

  So. Mr. Perfect was
comparing stories, ferreting out lies, inconsistencies. Cat had no doubt provided a full and honest accounting, in an effort to unburden herself of her guilt and shame.

  Brody flipped the switch on the coffeemaker and grabbed a couple of mugs out of a cabinet. "Well, I guess she told you it was a, uh, kind of a comedy of errors. The first time."

  Bannister leaned back in his chair, all ears.

  "The thing is," Brody continued, "she never meant to cheat on you. But it was dark. Because of the blackout. So she thought I was you." He couldn't believe how lame the truth sounded. Why should Bannister believe such an outlandish story? The two of them didn't even look that much alike. "So the first time was this crazy case of mistaken identity. Milk and sugar?"

  "Black. And the second time?"

  Brody reeled on him, stabbing his finger for emphasis. "Now, the second time was your fault!"

  Even hung-over and half-drunk, he realized he'd probably just earned himself a mouthful of broken teeth, for starters, but Bannister merely asked, "My fault?"

  Brody spread his arms. "If you'd just done the right thing, she probably would've quit her job and gone off with you to Alaska and it never would've happened again."

  "The right thing?"

  "If you'd married her! So the second time was your fault, buddy."

  "And the third time?"

  Was this a trick question? "There hasn't been a third time." Not yet, you bastard.

  "And you think I should marry her?"

  Hell no! "Hell yes!"

  "I don't know…" Bannister rubbed his jaw, deep in thought. "First there's that mistaken-identity thing. And then that second time. What would you do? In my place?"

  Brody's vocal cords seized up. He couldn't verbalize what he was thinking. He couldn't think what he was thinking—that if he were in Bannister's place, he'd make Cat his and never let her go.

  "What I would do isn't the issue," Brody said, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms over his chest. "I'm not the one who got her pregnant."