Broken Angels

by Anne Hope

  Zach didn’t like the tone in the boy’s voice. “I better not catch you being rude to your aunt or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Thoroughly chastened, Noah retreated to the far corner of his room, where an impressive Lego collection waited.

  With a sigh, Zach headed to the door, wondering not whether Becca had eaten the baby, but whether the baby had eaten Becca.

  Oh, God. He was crawling her way, giggling and flashing a toothless grin. Well, technically, it wasn’t completely toothless, just partially toothless. Four front pearl-white teeth glistened with saliva. He looked like a rabbit about to bite into a juicy carrot.

  The fifteen-month-old stood with the help of the coffee table, then waddled toward her. It was obvious he hadn’t been walking very long. More often than not, he preferred to crawl.

  He watched her expectantly as he approached. What was she supposed to do with him now? Pick him up? What if he didn’t want her to?

  She flashed her most honeyed grin. “Nice baby.”

  Will shrieked. Was that a laugh or a cry? She couldn’t be sure. He shuffled closer, grabbed hold of her leg. Panic doused her, and she froze, afraid to move. The baby bent forward, then greedily started chewing on her knee. Drool spread over her white silk slacks. She made a mental note to wear only jeans and sweats from now on.

  His small, pointy teeth pinched her skin, but she fought not to move. If she disturbed him, he might start crying, and then what would she do?

  “Easy there, little one,” she cooed, but only managed to sound constipated. The baby squealed, bit harder.

  She jolted. “Ouch!”

  “I was afraid of this.” Zach’s voice rolled over her like a cool breeze on a hot day. He snatched Will up as if he weighed no more than a feather. “I walk away for a few minutes and you let him drool all over you.”

  “Anything to keep him from screaming.” She stood in an attempt to chase the tension from her limbs. “How’s Kristen?”

  “Better. She suffers from asthma. It hits her every now and then. That’s why it’s important that she have her pump on her at all times. Otherwise, it could be fatal.”

  Rebecca nodded. “It’s a good thing you told me. I’ll make it a point to remind her.”

  Will began gnawing on Zach’s shoulder. “He’s teething,” he explained. “He’ll chew on anything he can find.”

  “Yeah, I kinda figured that.” She looked down at her damp pants. “I better go change into something more comfortable.” Heat flashed in his eyes, and something equally hot flared in her belly, dancing along her nerve endings. “I mean more appropriate,” she amended. “Where did you put my suitcases?”

  “In the master bedroom.”

  Alarm gripped her. “Isn’t that where you’re sleeping?”

  “Not anymore. There’s an extra mattress in Will’s room. Lindsay used to sleep there whenever he was sick or teething. I’ll bunk with him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The air thickened. Something hot and electric thrummed between them. “Yeah. He wakes up every couple of hours. I spend most of the night there anyway.”

  “All right.” Her fingers twitched. She clenched them at her sides and struggled not to fidget. “I’ll head on up then.”

  “Take your time.”

  She walked away, making a conscious effort not to sprint, all the while feeling the intensity of his gaze sear her back. Anxiety pulsed through her, and for the umpteenth time she wondered what on earth had possessed her to do this.

  The house finally slept, bathed in silence and shadows. The only light came from a blue and white Chinese porcelain lamp with a silver-threaded shade in the living room, which sat opposite the one the kids had shattered earlier. It had taken Zach longer than usual to get the little imps to bed. Their nervous energy had been palpable. Not that he could blame them for being hyper. It had been a pretty wild day. In fact, he highly doubted he was going to get any sleep tonight, either. Especially with Becca just a door away.

  He entered the living room to find her sitting on the edge of the blue couch, sewing by the pale yellow lamplight. The soft glow gilded her skin, made her hair shimmer with bronze sparks. She looked so soft, so damn appealing he had to stop and catch his breath. He wanted to touch her, to taste her again. Wanted it with a fierceness that made his heart hurt.

  She lifted her chin, latched her gaze onto his face, and something hot and sultry tightened in his chest. For a second the last two years fell away. He almost convinced himself she was still his wife, waiting for him to come home after a hard day at the office.

  You’re an idiot, he told himself. A flaming idiot. She’s not your wife and never will be again. Accept it.

  “What are you up to?” he asked. Maybe if he struck up a conversation, he’d keep his thoughts from venturing into dangerous territory.

  “Sewing a baboon.” She showed him the monkey.

  “Don’t bother. That thing is butt ugly.”

  “I promised Kristen.” She sank the needle into the fabric, pulled it back out again. “I always keep my promises.”

  Was that another jab for his benefit? She seemed to draw immeasurable pleasure from driving in the fact that he’d failed her, almost with the same zeal with which she plunged the needle into the toy.

  He sat in the armchair across from her, leaning against the backrest and letting his head fall backward. He closed his lids, drew solace from the darkness. In the dark he couldn’t see the bitter accusation in her eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders, the disappointment thinning her lush, sexy mouth. Silence stretched between them.

  “Voula said something today that got me thinking.” Her voice was hesitant, as heavy as the silence it pierced. He opened his eyes and looked at her, anxious to hear what was on her mind.

  “Are you sure—” She pricked her finger, brought it to her mouth and sucked on it.

  The blood in his veins pumped faster, rushed straight to his crotch. He remembered the feel of that mouth, the heat of it.

  “Are you sure the shooting was a random break-in and not a hit?” Her words shattered the mood as effectively as a bucket of ice chips.

  Tension twined and snapped inside him. “Course I’m sure. A hit—” he shook his head, “—that’s damn crazy.”

  Small furrows formed between her brows. “What if you’re wrong? Liam was a lawyer. He interacted with people on the wrong side of the law on a daily basis. What if he got involved in something he shouldn’t have or knew something someone was desperate to keep quiet?”

  “Don’t go there, Becca.” He didn’t mean to be short-tempered, but this was a sore subject for him. She was adding salt to an open wound, scraping it open until it bled again. “It’s hard enough knowing that my sister and her husband were murdered for no good reason, now you want me to believe someone intentionally gunned them down?”

  “I just want you to acknowledge that it’s a possibility. Voula said Liam was acting edgy lately. Apparently, he and Lindsay argued on the day they were killed. He wanted to ship her and the kids off to his parents’ place in Ireland, but Lindsay refused to go. She was angry because he was keeping secrets from her.”

  “Voula’s just a busybody with nothing better to do than stick her nose in other people’s business.”

  “I don’t think so. She didn’t strike me as a gossip.”

  She was doing it again—looking to make sense of a senseless situation, the way she had when she’d realized she couldn’t get pregnant. She’d dragged him to doctor after doctor, subjected them both to a slew of tests that had left them drained, frustrated and embittered. And for what? Nothing but pain had come of it.

  Still, he understood her need for answers. When he first heard about the shooting, he’d wanted an explanation, too. But the truth was, finding someone to blame for a tragedy didn’t lessen the sting of it. All it did was fuel the anger.

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his spread knees. “Look, no one wants to catch this bastard more t
han I do.” If he could, he’d tear the son of a bitch apart limb by limb for what he’d done to his sister. “If I had a lead, any lead, I’d be all over it like a dog on a bone. But all we’ve got are theories.”

  A leaden sigh blasted from his throat. “I know you want answers. So do I. But letting this Voula character fill your head with delusions isn’t going to do anyone any good. Sometimes we just have to accept things for what they are and move on.”

  Fire flashed in her eyes, deepened them to a glittering shade of rust. “The way you did when our marriage fell apart?”

  The blade fell, slashing through him, cutting him deep. He thought of all the nights he’d lain awake aching for her, all the times he’d rushed home after landing an account to share the news with her only to find she wasn’t there, all the regrets that plagued him even as he told himself he’d had no choice.

  He took in the condemnation twisting her features, the pain no amount of resentment could mask, and spoke the first honest words he’d spoken to her in years. “Who says I moved on?”

  Chapter Seven

  Who says I moved on?

  Those words had bounced inside Rebecca’s head all evening. Like nervous grasshoppers, they whizzed through her, stopping only long enough to tie knots in every organ they encountered along the way.

  What had he meant by that?

  She’d never gotten a chance to ask him. Will had chosen that moment to start fussing, and Zach had rushed off, leaving her with nothing but unvoiced questions and a funny feeling festering in the pit of her stomach.

  Now, hours later, as she changed into her pajamas and prepared for bed, she still couldn’t quell the jittery excitement his statement had elicited. She’d always believed he’d walked away from their marriage without as much as a backward glance. While she’d been busy trying to reassemble the broken pieces of her heart, he’d gone on with his life with the same cool self-possession for which he was renowned. While she’d lain in bed at night, her eyes painfully dry, her cheeks stinging from all the tears she’d shed, she’d imagined him with some other woman. One who could give him everything he wanted, be everything he needed.

  Not once since the breakup had he called or dropped by for a visit, so she’d naturally assumed he’d been glad to wash his hands of her. Even the divorce had been handled through a lawyer Liam had recommended, with as little personal contact as possible.

  She applied her face cream, checking—as she always did—for the telltale sign of wrinkles. She was only thirty-four, young by anyone’s standard, but she still couldn’t help but feel time evaporating around her. Her youth was slipping away, gently, imperceptibly. One day she’d look in the mirror at a face she barely recognized and ask herself what she’d accomplished. Her failures would snarl at her with vivid clarity—no husband, no children, just loneliness and a gaping emptiness that simply couldn’t be filled.

  It seemed unfair that Lindsay—who had everything to live for—no longer existed, while Rebecca continued to forge ahead, building nothing. Nothing that lasted.

  Maybe this was her chance to change that.

  The stuffed animal she’d sewn sat on the nightstand, staring at her with bulging eyes. She went to it, gathered it in her arms and cradled it as if it were a baby. Maybe if she practiced, one of these days she’d be able to hold Will, hug Kristen or take Noah’s hand in hers without experiencing that plummeting sensation in her abdomen.

  With a sigh, she wandered into the darkened corridor and walked to Kristen’s room. Across the hall, Will’s door stood closed. From behind the thick wooden divider Zach’s presence called to her, connected with that secret corner of her being that was still intimately aware of his every move, his every breath.

  Who says I moved on?

  Warmth inundated her, made her pulse trip and her heart crash.

  She shook her head at her stupidity and swallowed a snort. Decisively, she pushed open Kristen’s door and entered. A nightlight cast a thin, shivering glow through the room. The curtains were parted and moon-silvered shadows danced on the walls. Beyond the glass, winking stars salted the black cloak of night.

  Rebecca approached the bed, where the girl lay in a tangle of sheets, her hair draped over her forehead like fallen straw. She looked serene, almost angelic.

  Peace was infectious, hypnotic. It made you want to believe it would last forever. But it couldn’t. Reality wouldn’t allow it. Even now it hovered in the air, as pervasive as it was invisible, waiting to awaken with the sun.

  In her arms the girl clutched something white. At first Rebecca thought it was a blanket. Upon closer inspection, however, she realized it was a sweater. She recognized it because she’d given it to Lindsay for her twenty-eighth birthday, a short six years ago. She’d picked it for its warmth and softness. No wonder Kristen favored it. It didn’t hurt that the garment probably still carried the scent of her mom’s perfume.

  Rebecca reached out, assailed by the sudden urge to brush Kristen’s hair from her face, to stroke her dimpled cheek. Instead, she placed the stuffed animal at her side.

  “Sweet dreams,” she whispered.

  Then, with a last lingering glance at the girl’s dozing face, she left the softly lit room and slipped into the waiting embrace of night, where regrets dimmed and her failures didn’t clang quite so loudly.

  Something boomed. A shrill cacophony that slithered into her consciousness and yanked her from a dreamless sleep. Rebecca moaned and covered her head with a pillow, but nothing short of deafness could block out the racket pummeling her brain like a jackhammer. What was all the commotion?

  She crawled out of bed and dragged herself to the door, half expecting to find the house on fire. Maybe Zach had decided to cook again. He was adept at many things, but cooking wasn’t one of them. Once, on their anniversary, he’d decided to bring her hash browns and scrambled eggs in bed. She had a sneaking suspicion that he’d unwittingly broken the yolks and tried to cover his blunder by insisting he’d intended to scramble them all along. Whatever the case, he’d forgotten to turn off the burner, while failing to remove the oily pan from the stove. When they’d come down quite some time later—she blushed recalling the heated love they’d made on that rain-swept morning so many years ago—the pungent smell of hot oil had burned their nostrils.

  Instantly, the neglected pan had ignited in a burst of orange flames. Zach, always ready to take charge of a situation, had rushed in and attempted to extinguish the blaze with a glass of water. Big mistake. He’d nearly incinerated his eyebrows.

  It hadn’t been funny at the time, but now the memory made Rebecca’s lips quirk with amusement. She’d never loved him more than she had at that moment, when complete ineptness had afflicted him and left him cursing.

  She grabbed the baby-blue robe she’d left on the dresser by the door and ventured outside. No inferno raged. No flames crackled and roared with deadly intent, yet the house still simmered with a furious undercurrent of energy. Noah and Kristen whizzed past her, howling like injured wolves. For a second she wondered if they were in pain, then realized they were only playing.

  From his room, Will hollered.

  Blinking to chase the cobwebs of sleep from her eyes, she hurried to see what all the fuss was about. The door to Will’s bedroom was open, so she stole a glimpse inside. The sight she beheld made a smile spread through her. Zach was on the floor, wrestling with Will. He clutched a diaper in one hand while struggling to pin the baby down with the other. Will kicked, screamed and writhed. Tiny feet and fists flailed.

  “Sit still, you little rug rat,” he muttered between oaths.

  Again, Rebecca had a vision of him tossing a glass of water onto a flaming pan. There were many kinds of fire, and this was definitely one of them.

  She edged into the room. “Need some help?” she offered.

  He started at the sound of her voice. His gaze rose to her face, then glided over her in a slow sweep that made a rush of self-consciousness roll through her. She knew exactly how
she looked in the morning. Her hair was a wild tangle of untamed curls that brought to mind clumps of Spanish moss. Her skin was pale without the benefit of blush, her eyes slightly swollen and misted by sleep.

  “No one ever told me that dressing a kid was more exhausting than an Olympic marathon,” he grumbled. “I’d take a five-thousand-meter run any day over this.”

  He tried to slide the diaper under the baby, but Will kicked it away. “First he pulled the melt on me,” he explained. “Now he’s doing the jiggle.”

  “The jiggle?”

  “Stick around long enough and you’ll know what I’m talking about.” Will managed to wriggle free from Zach’s grasp. Not bothering to waste time trying to stand, he made a dash for the door on all fours, zipping across the room with the speed of a jackrabbit. Rebecca never would have believed anyone could crawl that fast.

  “Don’t let him escape,” Zach yelled.

  She hastened into the room and shut the door behind her. Zach ran and scooped up the baby, then placed him back in the crib. Will let out a whoop of indignation so loud, it made her ears ring.

  “Come here and hold him down for me,” he said.

  She did as he asked, grabbing the baby’s legs as Zach struggled to attach the diaper. The kid was surprisingly strong for one so small. She was barely able to keep him still long enough for Zach to dress him. Like a contortionist drenched in Vaseline, he turned onto his stomach and slid out of her grip.

  Her eyes rounded with surprise, but Zach just smiled knowingly. “The jiggle,” he said.

  “At least you got the diaper on him.” Relieved, she took a step away from the crib and inched toward the door.

  “Not so fast.” Zach walked to the dresser and pulled a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from the drawers. He flashed an unsettling grin that made dread congeal in her veins. “We’re not done yet. Not even close.”

  The morning went a little smoother than usual, maybe because Becca was here. Noah and Kristen were behaving surprisingly well, playing as if they were the best of friends. Even Will refrained from practicing his falsetto. Overall, life was good.