Her Secret, His Child

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "How old were you when you had her?"

  "Eighteen."

  "Must have been rough," he said, damn sure he wouldn't have had the guts at eighteen to do what she'd done.

  "More like traumatic," she said, her voice flavored with humor. "I was extremely emotional in those days."

  "And now?"

  "And now I'm the serene, unflappable Dr. Alderson who rules Bradenton with a fist of iron," she murmured, only half kiddingly. She did have a reputation as a hardnose when it came to standards and discipline.

  "A fist of iron, huh?" Reaching out a hand, he took hers and balanced it on his palm. "No, I don't think so," he said, curling his fingers around hers. "More like velvet."

  Her mouth dropped open, and he chuckled. "Didn't know I was a poet, did you?"

  He tugged her closer. Carly knew that to resist him would reveal just how vulnerable she felt.

  "I still don't," she muttered.

  His shout of laughter reverberated around the enclosure, and she felt her heart take an extra beat. "Looks like you're determined not to be impressed, no matter what tack I try with you."

  "I've been swept off my feet before," she said with perfect honesty. "It's not an experience I care to repeat."

  "Then I'm the guy for you, because there's no way in hell I can do that."

  "Somehow I think you'd find a way if you really wanted to."

  He grinned, but his eyes were shadowed and somber. "Cards on the table, Carly. Does my being crippled turn you off? Is that why you keep putting up a big Off Limits sign around me?"

  Because he didn't wince at the term, she didn't either. "No, your being crippled doesn't bother me."

  His gaze didn't waver. Hers did, but not for the reason she knew he must think.

  "That's not what I asked," he said, a slight edge to his voice this time. She knew exactly what he was angling for, but she also knew that to tell him the truth would take them in a direction that terrified her.

  "No," she stated flatly, tugging her hand free. Only a romantic fool would feel disappointed that he let her go. And she was no fool. "Your disability doesn't turn me off, but your lifestyle does."

  "I won't deny I had a good time when I was a kid. More than a good time. I've grown up some since then." He splayed one large hand over his heart and looked boyishly contrite. She wasn't fooled. Scanlon was all man, and she was far too aware of the response he seemed capable of stirring in her.

  "You've gotten older. There's a difference between that and growing up."

  Again he laughed. "There'd sure as hell better be. I'd hate to think I was still the same horse's ass who bought into all the hype."

  "Ah, so that's your excuse. You were just a naive kid?" Even as she spoke, Carly hated herself for her mocking tone. Who was she to be snide? God knew, she'd made her own share of mistakes, and most of them could be laid at the door of inexperience.

  "No excuse. Fact." He studied her face intently, a frown slowly gathering in his eyes. "But I can see you don't believe me," he said slowly, as though feeling his way. "And I'm beginning to think that has more to do with you than me."

  His hand came up to cup her waist, and she flinched. "Don't," she whispered.

  "You don't like to be touched?"

  Wary of revealing too much, she settled for saying, "That depends, I guess, on who's doing the touching."

  He slid his hand to the small of her back and pulled her closer. "If I look hard enough, I can still see that scared eighteen-year-old unwed mother in your eyes."

  "I doubt it," she murmured. Her nerves were humming. He was getting too close. Too personal.

  "Why didn't you get Tracy's father to marry you?"

  "None of your business." She brought a hand to his chest, determined to push him away. It was time they ended this game they were playing. But his chest was immovable, a wall of steely muscle and unyielding sinew.

  "Did you love him?" he asked softly, his expression taut, as though the answer really mattered.

  "Even if I did, he didn't love me. And I knew he never would." Admitting that aloud hurt, even now.

  "And you were too proud to live with a man who didn't love you." He smiled. "I don't blame you. Charity's hard to accept under the best of circumstances."

  Her senses were beginning to fog. It wasn't a comfortable feeling. Or particularly safe.

  "Mitch, it's late."

  "I have this problem, Carly." His hand tightened, and then, before she could guess his intent, she found herself sitting on his lap. "I've tried to shake it," he whispered, "but so far, no luck."

  She didn't like the glint in his eyes, and for sure she didn't like the warm little waves of longing that assailed her senses. "I think I heard that before."

  He gave a low laugh, but its husky vibrancy did little to lighten the tension. "Really?"

  "Really. I believe I suggested a cure."

  "Castor oil? No way." His mouth found hers, and her mind went blank, all her senses retreating in protective shock. And then, like a sleep-numbed limb coming alive, she felt everything at once. Not the pain or the fear and shame she might have expected, but a white, hot insidious desire she seemed powerless to resist. Not when there was so much hunger in his kiss. So much wild, sweet yearning in her body.

  Shivering with pleasure, it took all her concentration to brace her hands against his massive chest to push him away. Then, as though they had a will of their own, her fingers curled over his broad shoulders. In the back of her mind, she knew history was repeating itself, and what was even worse, this time she couldn't blame her response to him on beer. She was perfectly sober, nearly two decades more mature, and, God help her, she still couldn't resist him.

  Did you love him, Mom? Tracy's question whispered through Carly's mind as she pressed closer to the warmth of Mitch's body. Earlier this evening, when Tracy had asked that question, she'd felt so distanced from the naive, eighteen-year-old girl she'd once been. Now, encircled by this man's strong arms once more, the years seemed to fall away. Overwhelming attraction? The right chemistry? Rationally, Carly knew it could be nothing else. But that didn't lessen the impact Mitch had on her senses. Love at first sight existed only in fairy tales.

  She would be the first to admit that. But neither could she deny that some feelings defied explanation.

  He drew a hand up her side, his fingertips tracing each of her ribs and searing a path over her skin. Without realizing it, she must have stiffened, for he froze suddenly and whispered huskily against the corner of her mouth, "Carly? Are you all right?"

  Taking on light from the windows, his eyes seemed to glow as he searched her gaze. Carly had a feeling he could see far more than she wanted to reveal. A word from her was all it would take, and he would release her. But was that what she wanted? Or did she want more of his drugging kisses? More of those tender caresses?

  Shifting the position of his hand on her face, he lightly dragged his thumb over her mouth, his gaze fixed on the sensitive flesh at the inside of her bottom lip. When he slowly lowered his head, she knew he meant to kiss her again.

  One heartbeat, two heartbeats. If she meant to protest, she had to do it now. No waiting this time until it was too late. She'd learned the hard way that with Mitch, you shouldn't play with the fire unless you expected to get burned.

  "Ah, Carly…" he whispered in a gravelly voice. "I don't know what that bastard did to you, but, trust me, I won't hurt you. I swear I won't, sweetheart. Just relax."

  She closed her eyes at the sensation of his mouth on hers, unable to breathe, unable to think. Memories, the present. The two swirled inside her mind, entwining, becoming a jumble. There was a part of her that couldn't entirely forget the past. The pain, the fear, the sick feeling of helplessness. But there was another part of her that was very much anchored in the present and filled with a wild, sweet yearning that only this man could slake.

  When his mouth retreated, she murmured a dazed protest. At the sound, his eyes heated, and then, before she quite g
uessed his intent, his hand was against her spine, urging her closer, then closer still, until she was pressed intimately against him. His body was lean, hard where the muscles had been honed to springy steel, his skin radiating masculine heat more seductive to a tired body and soul than the heated water.

  Like a man starved too long to ration himself, he explored her throat, her shoulder, the upper swell of her breast, his mouth hot on her skin. At the same time, he was painstakingly gentle, his callused palm making lazy circles on her belly until her skin was quivering beneath his. Methodically, relentlessly, he was building fires faster than she could put them out.

  Summoning her voice to protest, she heard herself moaning instead, lost in the exquisite sensation of his hungry mouth on her hot skin. Nearly mindless, she arched back suddenly, needing air. His mouth skimmed her cheekbone, her temple. When his tongue plunged into her ear, she caught her breath and moaned again.

  Suddenly the wall of the pool was at her back, and the breadth of his chest held her anchored.

  "Tell me you want me," he demanded hoarsely, his eyes nearly bronze in the dim light. Unable to speak, she stared up at him, her heart pounding.

  Against her thighs, she felt the hard bulge of his arousal. Heat, an insistent pressure. Oh, dear God… Only the cloth of her suit and his separated them. What had been pleasure an instant ago now turned to terror.

  Panic burst someplace in her head, and then she was struggling, pushing hard at the arms that encircled her. Instantly, he relaxed his hold, but not before her nails raked his biceps, drawing thin bloody lines against the deep tan.

  No! Don't, please, don't.

  Mitch jerked backward, his passion-drugged mind struggling to make sense of her reaction. Seizing her by both arms, he held her away from him, his gaze searching her face.

  Her eyes glittered like a wild woman's—not with tears, but rage. "I said no," she ground out, her voice trembling violently. "I meant no."

  He stared at her, not quite believing what he was seeing. Or hearing. His own temper spiked, and then he saw the black terror behind her rage. Ready to slam something, anything, to ease the frustration raging inside him, he forced himself to grow calm.

  "Think a minute," he said, his voice rough, but quiet. "Did you say no, or only think it?"

  She stared at him, her eyes slowly regaining their focus. Like a sleepwalker, she shook her head, realizing too late that she was confusing the past with the present. What to say? She hadn't had a panic attack in years. But then, she hadn't come this close to having sex in years, either.

  "I … you're right," she admitted, her voice quavery. "It was—I let—you were just—I let you think—"

  He touched a fingertip to her mouth. "Carly, don't. It's all right, really. And it sure as hell isn't your fault. A woman has a right to change her mind. It happens."

  She flinched, her thoughts turning chaotic again.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "There's nothing to talk about. I changed my mind, and he … didn't."

  "The bastard raped you?"

  She heard the horror in his tone and felt a rush of emotion—some of which she could identify, some of which she could not. Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

  "Tracy's father?"

  She nodded again, then added tersely, "Please don't ask me any more questions, because I don't want to talk about that time—or that man—ever again."

  He accepted that unquestioningly. "Want a hug?" he asked with a hint of humor in his deep voice.

  "No, I want to sink under the water and drown," she murmured with absolute sincerity.

  "No you don't, honey." His smile was so gentle she could only stare. Who was this man?

  "Come here. Let me hold you a minute." Before she could answer, he put his fingers very carefully against her lips again. "I know, you don't want a hug, but I do."

  Maybe, just maybe, she could have ignored the words, if only he hadn't smiled quite so self-consciously as he held his arms wide. But the need for human warmth, for an undemanding touch—those she understood.

  "Just a tiny one, okay?"

  Mitch heard the faint tremor in her voice and wished to heaven and hell he had five minutes alone with the guy who'd done this to her. Instead, he swallowed the questions that would only have her diving into that polite shell he was coming to hate.

  "Your call all the way." He watched her eyes and saw the infinitesimal change that said she'd decided to trust him just a little. His breath hitched in his chest as he guided her head to the hollow of his shoulder and closed his arms loosely around her small, soft body.

  At first she held herself stiffly, refusing to yield to the temptation to snuggle against him. But his warmth and the slow, even, undemanding cadence of his breathing lulled her into relaxing bit by bit until she was leaning into him, supported only by his wide chest.

  She sighed, and the soft curling hair on his chest fluttered. "Tickles," he murmured over her head. "I like it."

  Gingerly she touched the scratch marks she'd left on his muscular arm. "I'm sorry, really sorry," she said achingly.

  "Some guys get notches on their bedposts. I get battle scars." He let that hang there a second. "Be honest, all right? Do you think it's my technique?"

  She chuckled, then let her eyes fall closed. "I'd say it was more just bad timing."

  "Bite your tongue. I've had some extremely knowledgeable people tell me that my timing is faultless."

  "With a football, maybe," she came back with another laugh.

  Only then did his big hand begin to stroke her back in a slow, reassuring rhythm. "Like that?" he asked in a low husky tone that rippled like pleasure through her.

  "Mmm."

  She heard him chuckle, but she was too drowsy to do more than curve her lips in a smile she knew he couldn't see. He nuzzled her hair with his chin, then tucked her more firmly against him and began to talk about growing up in California, learning to surf and the countless times he'd been dumped by a wave too big and too wild for his skill. About the fear and exhilaration of tumbling over and over in the same wave, not knowing whether he was up or down, and nearly drowning a time or two, before he'd been able to stay on the board. "Looking back, I can't count the times, about halfway through a wave, that I wished I'd never waded into the water," he admitted with a rueful chuckle.

  He ran his hand up to her nape and stroked the hair there, his fingertips dragging lightly on the silken curls. "There's nothing quite like the panic a person feels when they're caught up in something frightening and discover they're helpless to make it stop."

  Carly squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, suddenly and acutely aware that he was trying in the only way he knew to let her know he understood how she'd felt a few moments ago. An aching lump lodged itself in her throat. "I'm sorry," she said in a thin, taut voice.

  "I don't want you to feel sorry." He cupped her chin and lifted her face. After searching her gaze, he said, "I never would have ridden a big wave clear to the finish if I hadn't forced myself to climb back on my surfboard, Carly."

  She felt her mouth quiver as she said, "Sort of like climbing back on the horse after it throws you?"

  He flashed a sheepish grin. "Something like that, only somehow I don't think riding a horse can compare to topping a wave and flying with the wind. By the same token, I don't suppose flying with the wind can compare to making love."

  The promise in his eyes was unmistakable, and something within Carly responded. She wanted so badly to ask him to show her how glorious making love could be, but she didn't have the courage.

  In the end, he settled the matter by dipping his head to kiss her again. Lightly, cautiously, keeping his hold on her relaxed. The fact that he was taking such care not to alarm her was reassuring. Against her better judgment, she rested her weight against him, and once again, his hands began to caress her skin, tantalizing her senses, making it difficult for her to think.

  As he traced burning kisses over her throat, he whispered to her, ta
lking about the surf and how terrified he'd been to try another wave, how he'd taken to floating on the board, letting the swells lull him, reacquainting himself with the water until he felt comfortable with it again.

  Only fools got themselves in too deep. Into dangerous waters. Suddenly, like a wisp of warm air, the past slipped away, and she opened her mouth to his kiss, no longer capable of holding herself back. She expected him to immediately deepen the kiss, to take what she offered with hungry urgency. But instead, he lulled her until she felt comfortable, surrounding her with warmth, lightly teasing her skin with his fingertips, carefully exploring the recesses of her mouth. His fingers curled around hers, and his thumb rubbed her wrist.

  "I can't guarantee exhilaration, Carly. But I can promise I won't do anything to make you regret this."

  She felt her lips tremble into a smile. "I'll settle for that."

  He kissed her again, giving her time to retreat. Only she didn't want to. Not when his mouth was doing such sweet things to hers.

  She felt him move, felt him lean backward slightly to use the steps behind him as a support. And then, slowly, his hands slid up her arms to frame her face. He lifted his mouth one more time, as though savoring the taste of her. When his lips settled over hers again, there was no hesitation. His mouth took hers completely, drawing in the taste of her breath by breath.

  Afraid that her knees would buckle, she clung to his shoulders and felt the burning fatigue in her muscles fade as pleasure washed over her, as heady as anything she'd ever experienced.

  She was no longer a giddy small-town girl grasping for a dream. And he was no longer that selfish, careless boy without a worry in the world. Her body trembled as it strained against his. The doubts in her mind slipped away. She would think later. Much later.

  Mitch knew the moment she decided to completely trust him. Her body lost the last of its resistance, melting against his until he was certain she had to feel the pounding of his heart. Like a drowning man losing his last hold on the sky, he was being pulled down into her until all he felt was her warmth, her softness.

  Years of self-discipline, of loneliness, of doubt slipped away into the vortex of need inside him. Holding her, losing himself in her sweetness, he felt whole again. Invincible.