Her Secret, His Child

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  A shudder ran through him, and he knew that he was close to the edge. Close to feeling an emotion he'd never felt before. Too close. But he couldn't seem to let her go. Not when it felt so good to hold her.

  Suddenly she was aware of the extent of his need, not so easily hidden as hers. Nor as easily denied. But it was exultation that filled her, not fear. It was different, somehow, feeling him through the material of his trunks. More erotic.

  She moaned, feeling a sweet, unfamiliar pressure building inside her. He touched her everywhere, his hands gentle, his concentration absolute. She arched and twisted, sensation building upon sensation, her hands clenching in his hair.

  The water slapped the tiles, and the scent of chlorine teased her nostrils with every gasping breath. With every stroke of his fingers, every erotic pressure of his mouth, he was sensitizing her inch by inch, until she was mindless with the deepest, warmest pleasure.

  Like a dance for perfectly mated partners, he took her soaring, stripping her out of the bikini top between long drugging kisses. And then, like an artist suddenly confronting a masterpiece, he stared down at her, his face tortured with emotion. Without hesitation, she lifted a hand to his face and caressed his cheek until the worst of the tension eased.

  Mitch kissed the corner of her mouth and felt her tremble. He had no words to describe the feelings running through him. He only knew he was slowly, surely losing part of himself to her with each kiss, each sigh. Feeling her sweet, trusting response had him dizzy with emotions so powerful he was stunned. It was such a precious gift, her trust, especially since he knew how dearly it had cost her.

  "I'm losing ground fast," he murmured, his voice thick with passion. "I want to make love to you, but I didn't exactly come in here prepared for this."

  "You're not the only one," she whispered, her smile shaky.

  "I can't make you pregnant, and I don't have anything you can catch, but if you want me to use a condom, tell me now while I can still stop."

  His face was tight, his eyes dark with a need so strong it seemed to reach out to her. If, in those long-ago nightmares, she'd been afraid of him, that fear was gone now. And when she'd been so busy hating him, she'd been hating someone who didn't really exist. He had made some mistakes, yes, but so had she. They were both older and wiser now.

  Even so, she had to be crazy to want this man, she told herself through a haze of desire. Crazier still to think that the history between them no longer mattered. She couldn't love him. She wouldn't love him. But perhaps allowing herself to feel pleasure at his touch was the last little bit of healing she needed to put the past behind her once and for all.

  "Carly? Do you want me to stop?"

  In answer, she offered her lips, greeting the thrust of his tongue with her own. And then his mouth was skimming her throat, his tongue trailing fire over her skin.

  Slowly his hands stroked her thighs wider, her small eager gasps filling the lonely places inside him. His fingers dipped beneath her bikini bottom to tangle in the wet ringlets between her thighs, and just as she had earlier, she cried out at the pleasure.

  "Easy, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice thick with strain and his own need to be touched. She clung to him, her head thrown back, her throat creamy in the hazy light. He didn't want to frighten her again, but, God help him, he couldn't stand much more of this.

  He maneuvered until she was riding his hips. His body was already engorged and ready as he pushed aside the material of his trunks.

  Her skin was hot where he pressed, and slick from the water and her own arousal. Watching her face for any sign of panic, he eased into her, so ready it took all of his control and force of will to keep from burying himself inside her with one hard thrust.

  Carly leaned forward, her fingers clutching his shoulders for support as a new and unbearable ache built inside her. He was filling her slowly, inexorably, and she loved the feel of him inside her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel anything but the glorious spiraling pleasure.

  And then in one blinding, cataclysmic moment, she was filled with him and the world was spinning in a vortex of sensation and joy. The climax took her by surprise, and she cried out as wave after wave of pleasure shuddered through her. She was spinning, soaring, and then she was being crushed against him.

  His body shuddered. Clinging to him, she pressed her face against his strong throat and wrapped her legs around him.

  Melted against him like this, she knew what rapture meant for the first time. Pure, delicious, enveloping bliss. She was at peace, the shame and humiliation and heartache forgotten. She wanted to laugh and cry and hug him so tight he would never get away.

  "Oh, Mitch…" She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for having misjudged him for so many years, but to do that would be to draw back curtains on a truth she wasn't quite ready to discuss.

  He murmured her name in response, his face against her throat, his skin damp and hot, his hand stroking her back. She listened to the sturdy thud of his heart as their breathing slowly returned to normal. Then she drifted, too spent to move, utterly relaxed. She felt safe, and so marvelous, so cherished. The surprise came slowly, like the first breath of a spring breeze. He was holding her as though she were precious to him. As though he couldn't bear to let her go.

  A smile curved her lips, and she heard him murmur her name again. "Mmm?"

  "Much as I hate to let you go, I think it's time you scooted upstairs."

  She sighed, knowing that he was right. Just because she was blissfully unaware of the passage of time, that didn't mean it had come to a stop. She had no idea how long they'd been lying there, buoyed by the gently lapping water, but she guessed it had been quite a while. Thirty minutes, possibly even an hour. Every second she lingered here, there was a greater risk of discovery. In spite of that, she couldn't quite bring herself to move.

  "In a minute," she murmured, snuggling closer.

  Mitch felt a lump the size of a regulation football in his throat. He'd made love to a lot of women, but he'd never felt such contentment afterward. It was as though he'd finally come home after a lifetime of searching, and he didn't want this closeness to end any more than she did.

  Shutting his eyes, he pulled her nearer and wished that he could magically be whole again. Just long enough to carry her to his bed. Not to make love, but to sleep together, wrapped in each other's arms. The mere thought of holding her all night long had him aching inside with need.

  "Carly, don't fall asleep on me, honey. It's only a guess, but I don't think your mother and Tracy are ready for that kind of a wake-up surprise."

  Carly sighed and sat up. She couldn't resist kissing the corner of his mouth, so controlled now. "I have a feeling you're right about that," she murmured, winning a lopsided smile that had her heart turning over.

  With apparent reluctance, he let her go. Just as reluctantly, she moved off his lap and looked around for the top to her bikini. It took her a moment to snag it.

  Quickly, aware that he was watching her with an absorbed look on his face, she put it on, her fingers fumbling with the hook in the back.

  "Very nice," he said, his eyes smoldering. "If you ever get tired of running Bradenton, you can always start a second career as a swimsuit model."

  "No thanks," she said, leaning forward to kiss him. "I'm happy where I am."

  He held her shoulders and kissed her a half dozen times. "Good night, sweet Caroline. Pleasant dreams."

  He let her go with a hesitancy that disarmed her, then watched while she hoisted herself from the pool to pad across the tile and collect her towel. Without looking back, she pushed through the French doors and disappeared.

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Mitch had been deep in a dream of Carly when he woke to hear banging at his door. "It's open," he mumbled into his pillow. When the pounding continued, he called more loudly, "It's open, damn it."

  The door swung inward, and Carly stalked in on bare feet, waving the portable pho
ne at him. "For you," she muttered, handing him the receiver. Her hair was tousled, and she had the sleepy-eyed look of an extremely annoyed lady. He was pretty sleepy himself, but not sleepy enough to keep from noticing how desirable she looked.

  "Who is it?" he said, pushing himself to a sitting position with his free hand.

  "Someone named Scott. He didn't deign to give me a last name, just ordered me to 'give that no-good SOB a nudge and put him on the phone.' Obviously he has an utterly erroneous impression of our sleeping arrangements. And another thing, how did you get the number of my private phone?"

  "From Tracy. I was using the phone in the kitchen when she decided to raid the refrigerator. Seems she was cramming for a final exam, poor kid." Mitch glanced at the clock, saw that it was half past five and figured he'd managed three hours of sleep. "I've pulled a few all-nighters myself—not that it helped much." He grinned at the memory of those late-night study sessions. He'd slept more than he'd studied, sitting up at the desk with his book open in front of him.

  "You still haven't told me why Tracy gave you my private number," she said impatiently, clearly unimpressed with his former study habits.

  "Seems to me that's a question you'll have to ask her."

  Her mouth firmed. "Scanlon, I have limited patience under the best of circumstances, which these most definitely are not."

  Mitch relented. "When I was talking to Scotty—this was around two a.m., you understand, and I'd gotten him out of bed—he asked for a number where he could reach me, and since there wasn't one on the phone I was using, I asked Tracy."

  "But—"

  "Later." Mitch cleared his throat, pressed the button and spoke into the receiver, his gaze never leaving hers. Carly in a temper in the morning was almost more than one lovesick guy could handle.

  "You better have good news, old buddy." As he listened to the caller's reply, his grin spread, and Carly could see that he was clearly pleased with what he was hearing.

  "Yeah … okay, wait, I'll find out." His gaze met hers, and she felt a definite shiver. "Where's the nearest TV station?"

  "Medford."

  "How far from here?"

  "Twenty minutes south. Why?"

  "In a minute," he promised, before repeating what she'd just told him into the phone. "How the hell do I know? Hang on…" Frowning, he looked at her again. "Call letters?"

  She had to think a minute, then recited them slowly. As he talked, it dawned on her that he was talking to the guy on the other end about giving an interview.

  Her heart started racing, and her mouth went dry. By the time he hung up after promising to call back within the hour, she was biting her lip.

  He tossed the phone to the foot of the bed before using both hands to hitch himself higher against the headboard.

  "Scott who?" she asked.

  "Scott Bendix, CableSports. Ever hear of him?"

  "Of course I've heard of him, Scanlon. Everyone's heard of him and his megamillion-dollar contract."

  Grinning like a kid anticipating Christmas, he patted the bed beside him. "Make yourself comfortable, honey. Gives me a crick in my neck having to look up at you."

  "If I do, will you tell me what that phone call was all about?"

  "Cross my heart."

  She snorted, but sat. "Okay, talk."

  He intended to, but first he treated himself to a long look. She would be a dream to wake up with, soft and warm and just a little grumpy.

  "I slept great. How about you, bright eyes?"

  "Fine—until your buddy Scotty woke me out of a sound sleep. He said you'd told him to call early." She poked him hard in the chest, and he winced.

  "You know how those guys on the East Coast think—everyone should run on eastern time. Give him credit for waiting until it was eight-thirty in New York to call." He kept his gaze lowered while he idly played with the sash of her robe and wondered what she had on under it.

  "I'll give you a cracked rib if you don't tell me what's going on."

  Making a mental note to wake her up early again some time when he could put that feisty temper to better use, he relented.

  "Here's the way I figure it. Duncan's going to break the story anyway, so we get a jump on him by giving Scotty an exclusive. He figures he can clear air time at noon their time." He grinned. "Nine our time, in case you're confused."

  "An interview about what?" she asked cautiously.

  "About Bradenton and the farsighted, brilliant decision made recently by the administration."

  "You mean the one about trying to save Artemus's beloved elevator?"

  His mouth slanted. "No, Ms. Smarty, the one about hiring one Mitchell Steven Scanlon as head football coach, effective immediately." He indicated the contract on the nightstand, the one he'd signed before he'd turned in. "Scotty thinks you should be interviewed, too, along with Coach, of course."

  She had a moment of pure relief before she managed to corral it behind a thoughtful frown. "Certainly Coach should be with you, but I fail to see the reason for my presence."

  "Moral support?"

  "Are you kidding? If Coach can turn my mother into jelly with his gift of gab, he can talk to God himself and never flinch."

  His mouth twitched. "Not for Coach. For me."

  Carly made a very unladylike sound that had him lifting one eyebrow. "We've already discussed the kind of moral support you want."

  He clucked his tongue. "Carly, you wound me. Here I am, admitting to a bad case of camera fright, and you belittle me. Shame on you."

  She managed to keep her lips from curving. "How many times have you been interviewed on TV?"

  "A few."

  "Dozens? Hundreds?"

  He cursed himself for starting this. She had a way of making him go too far, too fast on a lot of things against his better judgment.

  "Never kept track."

  She arched an eyebrow. "You mean you don't have row after row of videotapes of yourself?"

  "Used to. Gave 'em all to UCLA. I hear they use 'em to show rookie quarterbacks what not to do."

  "You mean you gave them copies."

  "Nope. Originals." He lifted a hand to flip a curl away from her cheek.

  "Why would you do that?"

  "'Cause I like to touch your hair. It's soft. Smells good, too."

  She frowned. "No, why did you give your tapes away?"

  His gaze dropped, and he ran one hand lightly over his thigh. She couldn't help noticing how pitifully thin his legs looked under the sheet. Catching her looking at his legs had his mouth tightening.

  "When I finally got it through my head that I wasn't going to play again, I put that part of my life behind me. Moved out of the media fishbowl to a quiet little suburb of Sacramento, started my business with Dante. Tried to forget all about football."

  "You really didn't watch the Super Bowl, did you?"

  His eyes grew cool. "Did you think I was lying to you?"

  "I thought you were being a smart-ass," she admitted, wishing she'd never initiated this line of conversation.

  His grin flashed, catching her by surprise. "I am a smart-ass. Picked up the habit as a kid. I've tried to kick it, but no luck."

  She couldn't quite prevent her lips from curving this time. "At least you admit it. That's a start."

  "So they tell me."

  Mitch glanced at his travel alarm. It was getting close to six. He needed to get his butt out of bed and into the tub. He had a fleeting urge to ask her to join him before reality intruded.

  "By the way, I don't recall getting a good morning kiss," he said, letting his gaze rest on her mouth.

  "Mitch, about last night, I'm not usually so impulsive." Carly kept her gaze fixed on the small silver medal dangling from a heavy chain around his neck.

  "Okay."

  She nudged her gaze higher. Dark with stubble, his strong jaw had more than a promise of stubbornness, and at the moment, those brooding eyes had a rogue's twinkle. "What I mean is—"

  "I know what you mean."
He tugged on her sash and earned himself a fast little frown. "You found yourself attracted to a man you're not sure you even like all that much. It's got you spooked, and you want to back off. Is that about it?"

  She blinked. "Well, yes … no. I mean, I want you to back off. I don't have casual affairs."

  "Caroline, believe me, there's nothing casual about you. Or, for that matter, about how I feel about you."

  "You don't even know me, Scanlon." Because she had her mind made up to be friendly but cautious, she smiled. "And I don't know you."

  "Only my reputation, remember?" His voice was gently rebuking. "But that's okay. We can deal with that." As he took her hand, he fought down a need to pull her closer. "And now, bright eyes, you'd better get the heck out of here and into something presidential for the camera."

  "Now, Mitch—"

  "Waste of time arguing with a man who's working hard at being a gentleman, which is damn near impossible when he's sitting buck naked in bed with a very sexy lady less than an arm's length away."

  She fought a sudden rush of heat. "I'll meet you out front at seven-thirty," she murmured. "Don't be late."

  "Call Coach, okay? Fill him in."

  Nodding, she got to her feet, and though he'd told her to leave, he let her go reluctantly, his fingers trailing along her arm like a caress.

  "Hey, Alderson," he called, when she was about to reach for the door handle. "Here, catch."

  The phone came arching toward her a split second before she saw it. Somehow she managed to pluck it out of the air before it hit the floor.

  "Good hands, but the attitude could use a little work."

  She couldn't resist a smile, so she didn't. "I'll keep that in mind … Coach," she said, and then left.

  Mitch felt the laughter in his mind fade as quickly as it had come. It wasn't easy to accept the power she had over him. Nor to admit that there were major obstacles to be overcome before he could find out how far he could travel this particular road.

  His friend Dante had told him that he would turn a corner some day and come up against a woman he wouldn't be able to blast out of his mind.