A Dad At Last

by Marie Ferrarella

  “I don’t mean now,” she told Connor quickly, not wanting to lose him again. “I know that would be asking too much, but maybe someday, if—”

  Connor saw the tears in her eyes. He was doing battle with some moisture of his own, surprised that he could be so moved after all these years. Except for the day of Clarise’s funeral, he hadn’t felt the need to shed tears since he’d been a boy.

  He felt something threaten to choke off the air in his throat. “Mother,” he said quietly, looking at her.

  “Oh, I do like the sound of that.” Unable to hold back, Megan put her arms around her firstborn again, and this time sobbed her happiness against his broad chest.

  Connor didn’t mind. He closed his arms around his mother.

  Standing in the doorway where she was confident neither one saw her, Lacy smiled.

  Mission accomplished, she congratulated herself.

  Very quietly, she slipped into the kitchen. They were going to want dessert eventually.

  “PRETTY PROUD of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Lacy turned from the door they had just closed on Megan. Connor’s mother had remained for another two hours, going on a tour of the house and then helping Lacy put Chase to bed. Lacy had been secretly thrilled to share the activity with Megan. It made her feel as if she were part of the family, as well, instead of on the outside, wistfully looking in.

  Delighted with bringing Connor and his mother closer together, she looked at him with feigned innocence. “Why, Connor, whatever do you mean?”

  “You know damn well what I mean.” But he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed, though he knew that might be the safer way to go. He had the uneasy feeling she had become one of those people who, if you gave them an inch, suddenly built a condo on it, complete with an iron-clad lease.

  He was glad she’d done this, she thought in satisfaction, searching his face. “Do I?”

  He snorted. “That smug look on your face says it all.”

  Her smile widened. She couldn’t have felt better right now even if someone had handed her a check for a million dollars. “Then there’s no need to ask, is there?”

  He had to stop thinking how adorable she looked. “This doesn’t give you the right to meddle in other things, you know.”

  She doubted that he was talking about them. “There aren’t any other things to meddle in.”

  “Right.” He’d almost said too much, he thought. That came from having her linger on his mind. “But just in case you get something in your head—”

  Was he talking about them? “Yes?”

  When she looked at him like that, he found his mouth growing dry. “Don’t,” he concluded. “Just don’t.”

  High on success, she let herself float a little longer, pretending that she’d guessed right. That what was circling his mind was the way things stood between the two of them. Maybe, just maybe, bringing him together with his mother had, however temporarily, aroused other emotions. Emotions involving her.

  Her eyes played along his face, memorizing every plane, loving every inch. “That’s rather a broad command, don’t you think?”

  Damn, but she was getting to him. She was doing nothing except standing here talking to him, yet she was getting to him as surely as if she’d just been injected into his arm directly, like life-giving serum. He struggled to sound distant. “It was meant to be.”

  She didn’t expect any thanks, but she wanted something, a small positive acknowledgment, just this once. “Tell me you don’t feel better for this.”

  His eyes locked with hers. “I don’t feel better for this.”

  Any six-year-old could have seen he didn’t mean it. It was written all over his face. “Liar.” Lacy laughed at him. “When you finally leaped over that chasm you created yourself, you lit up like a jack-o’-lantern at Halloween.”

  “A jack-o’-lantern?” Connor echoed incredulously. “You’re comparing me to a damn gutted pumpkin? The least you could do, after what you’ve done, is say I lit up like a star-filled sky or a Christmas tree, not some overgrown squash with a gland condition.”

  She went into the kitchen and began straightening up. Taking the dishes out of the dishwasher and putting them away. “Didn’t do much trick-or-treating, I take it.”

  Other than dressing up as a Native American one year for a Halloween pageant when he was eight, he’d never donned a costume. “No.”

  She’d only been kidding. The negative answer gave them something else in common. “Neither did I.”

  “Neighbors too far apart?” That had been the excuse Clarise had given him. It had been too much trouble to take him around.

  She shook her head. “No costume and—” She shrugged away the rest. “Never mind.” With a shove, she pushed the pot she’d used to make the roast into the bottom cupboard.

  This wasn’t like her. So far, she’d seemed to make a point to share everything, to tell him far more than he wanted to know. “No, come on, what?”

  She turned away, taking the flatware out of the machine. Wiping each piece one after the other, she returned them to the drawer. Her back remained to him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Curious, Connor leaned a hip on the counter, eyeing her. “Oh, you can gut me like a fish, inspecting all my insides inch by inch, but when it comes to your secrets, then it’s never mind? Uh-uh, the game’s not played that way. Spill it.”

  He wasn’t going to go away until she gave him an answer, she realized.

  “Nothing to spill. Most of my childhood wasn’t exactly the kind they write fairy tales or sitcoms about. By the time I went to live with my aunt, she thought I was too old for ‘such foolishness.’” Because she’d dearly loved the woman, Lacy had reconciled herself to the fact that Halloween, with its laughter, candy and costumes, was for others to enjoy, not her.

  Foolishness. It didn’t sound like something she’d say, he thought. Connor guessed that was her aunt’s word, not hers. “How old were you?”

  “Ten.”

  At ten, he could picture her with pigtails, a wall-to-wall grin and eyes that rivaled Fourth of July sparklers. “Ten hardly seems old, unless you’re a house pet.”

  Connor paused, knowing this was the perfect opportunity to walk away from her. Lacy was feeling vulnerable and for once was protecting her territory instead of invading his. But, perfect or not, he found he couldn’t get himself to do it—precisely because she was so vulnerable. He felt very protective, even though deep down he knew he should probably get his head examined.

  “So, what else were you not allowed to do besides trick-or-treating?”

  Finished unloading, she closed the dishwasher door. “I didn’t mean to make it sound that way. I wasn’t deprived, I just—hey.” Light dawning, she swung around abruptly to face him. “Wait a minute, we were discussing you, not me.”

  Catching her against the wall, he leaned his hand against it just above her head. All this banter had him feeling like some kid in high school. “I’d rather do you.”

  She knew he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but she couldn’t resist teasing. “Really?”

  Something serious slipped into his eyes and his expression. “Really.”

  Excitement rippled through her. She banked it down, knowing that she was fooling herself. There was nothing going on between them.

  “That’s twice you’ve lied in the last ten minutes,” she accused him. “One more time, and your nose is going to start to grow.” She ran the tip of her finger over the bridge of his nose. Even such a little action warmed her. She was hopeless, she told herself. “You’re just trying to make me forget that I just had a major victory here.”

  He didn’t even bother to contest her words. Something felt as if it had opened up inside him tonight, and he knew he owed it all to her and her stubborn pigheadedness. But he wasn’t about to tell her so. She would become unbearable to live with.

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  Lacy heard what she wanted to hear. “S
o, you admit it.”

  “I admit nothing.” He couldn’t quite carry off his neutral expression. She made him feel like singing. Like standing out in the rain and tilting his head back like some damned stupid turkey.

  “C’mon, admit it.” She laughed, doubling her fists and pretending to beat on his side—as if she could make a dent. “Admit that I did a good thing getting you and your mother together and talking. Admit that you wanted this.”

  “You’re getting carried away.”

  “That’s because I’m right.”

  “Okay, you’re right. And for such a little thing, you’ve also got a hell of a right fist.” He caught both fists in his hands, holding them still. “How long do you intend on pounding me?”

  She looked at her immobilized hands. “I guess I’m about done now.”

  He opened his hands, releasing her. “I see this really is a red-letter day.”

  She was surprised to hear him admit it. He’d made even more progress than she’d thought. “Why, because you and your mother finally connected?”

  “No,” he said, deadpan, “because you backed off and gave up.”

  She pretended to sniff. “The day I do it over something important, that’ll be your red-letter day, not before then.”

  The woman struck him as a tireless crusader. And one royal pain in his butt. “You like bashing your head against a wall?”

  He made her sound far more obstinate than she saw herself. “Only when the wall finally caves in.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  He was talking about them, she thought. About him. “I make sure I have a giant supply of aspirin on hand.”

  In an incredibly magnanimous mood, he laughed, shaking his head. “She was right.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother.” He realized, pleased, that he hadn’t hesitated this time when uttering the precious word. Mother. Megan Maitland was his mother. Maybe it was time he acted as if he was damn grateful to Lacy for what she’d done. “She said you were something else.”

  “I bet you were quick to jump in and tell her just what that something was—or were the words that came to your mind a bit too spicy for mixed company?”

  “The only thing in this house that’s spicy is you,” he told her.

  Maybe it was the evening, or the breakthrough he’d just experienced. Whatever it was, there was an exhilarating feeling racing through him, infusing every part of his being until he was certain he really could have lit up the sky.

  His eyes on hers, he combed his fingers through Lacy’s hair, framing her face. Bringing it closer to him.

  “And I’ve suddenly got this overwhelming craving for spicy.”

  “By all means,” she murmured against his lips, excitement filtering through every pore, “indulge your craving.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TINGLING sensations ran along her body, growing stronger as his kiss deepened. Her body heated as she felt his hands glide, every so lightly, along her arms.

  Please, let him want me. Just for a little while, let him want me.

  She dug her fingers into his arms as if for leverage, as if to keep from being swallowed up whole, leaving slight impressions in the muscles. Her head swam with hope, with excitement.

  Each kiss flowered into a cluster that robbed her of her senses. Someone else would have said she was crazy, leaving herself open this way to a man she knew didn’t love her. A man who could only break her heart in the end.

  But it wasn’t the end she was thinking about. It was the moment. And the way he could make her blood churn and ignite.

  Connor tugged at the ends of her blouse, pulling them out of the waistband of her skirt. Very slowly, his lips still on hers, he slipped his hands beneath her shirt, touching her waist. He felt her bare skin quicken. Tremble. Something within him quickened, as well, responding. Glorying.

  This wasn’t right, he upbraided himself. If he had a shred of decency in him, he’d stop now, before he let this go too far.

  It had already gone too far.

  His hunger for her had gone too far. And his desire for her had gone too far. As for decency, it found itself outnumbered by demands of the flesh that were far stronger. It might have been possible to do the right thing if she hadn’t melted like cotton candy on his tongue when he’d brought his mouth to hers. If her lips hadn’t been so willing, her body so soft, her kisses so eager. He’d taken a young, virginal girl the first time. This time it was a woman who returned his ardor, and she was too much for him to resist.

  With every pass of his lips against hers, every sigh that echoed in his brain, every ache that throbbed within his body, Connor sped further and further from the right thing and streaked like a bullet toward the only thing.

  In his feverish brain, he kept hearing a fragment of refrain from an old song, something about if loving her was wrong, then he didn’t want to be right. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to make love with Lacy tonight.

  Over and over again, Lacy relived the first night he’d taken her. That night she’d found him, sitting in his room, lost and alone. Her heart had broken to see him like that, and when he’d turned to her for solace, she’d given it and herself freely. The single night was almost two years in the past. She’d clung to it all this time. Even when she’d had amnesia, somewhere deep in the night, silvery pieces of the memory would come back to her. Haunting her. Making her long to return to the life she’d lost, if only to find the man who had made her feel this way.

  And now he was here. Wanting her. Making her head spin as he stood with her in the living room, stealing her breath. Claiming her heart.

  With hands not quite steady, she unbuttoned his shirt and splayed her fingertips along his bare chest. She could hear his sudden intake of breath. Could feel his desire flaring. Triumph thundered in her veins, sending her to the next level.

  A single salvo of guilt pierced him, and he struggled to rally around it. Decency was making a last, enfeebled stand. He drew his head back, trying to focus on her face. It swam before him, beautiful, still as innocent as the morning dew.

  “Lacy, maybe we shouldn’t—”

  Unlike the first time, when she could only follow where he led her, this time she was his equal. She knew exactly what she wanted and exactly what it would cost her.

  On her toes, she brought her lips to his. “Maybe we should,” she whispered against them.

  It was all he needed. Any aspirations he had toward sainthood crashed and burned with those three words. With all his heart, he wished he were stronger or that there would be no regrets for her, but wishing was for children, and he had long ceased to be one. There would be regrets, a host of them. But they were for morning.

  And the night was here now.

  Slipping his hands higher on her waist, he cupped her breasts, surrendering his very soul in exchange for the look he saw in her eyes as he touched her.

  She took him prisoner with her innocence, an innocence that had somehow survived despite everything. He was captivated and captured by the woman he knew, ultimately, he was wronging.

  If she was his, then he was hers. For the night.

  He kissed Lacy in a way he had never kissed anyone, not even her, before.

  Picking her up in his arms, he carried her up the stairs to his room, his mouth sealed to hers. Instinct and familiarity brought him to his door.

  Once inside the room, an eagerness sprang up within him. He freed her of her blouse, her skirt, then curbed himself as he peeled away her undergarments. He caught his breath. The last time he’d seen her like this, his mind had been hazed with grief and alcohol. Now there was nothing fogging his brain except desire. She was magnificent. And his.

  The battle of right and wrong raged within his brain, giving him no peace, even as he lost himself in the pleasures of her eager mouth, her willing body.

  If her innocence captured him, her prowess closed the prison door.

  Moving with instincts she had no idea she’d had,
Lacy not only was made love to, but made love on her own. She matched every pass of his hands with one of her own, divesting him of his clothing just as he did her. Divesting him of any barriers that existed within his soul. His shirt fell on top of hers, his pants sank against her skirt and their undergarments, hers flimsy, his practical, were relegated to a place of their own.

  Cloaked in only the moonlight streaming into the room, Lacy made herself irresistible to him.

  Her fingers, so nimble, reduced a towering man to a supplicating teenager. Bringing to life responses, emotions that had long since faded from his life. She made him catch fire. It wasn’t merely the stripping away of her clothes and seeing her young, supple body that transformed him from a confident male to a man who would have willingly dropped to his knees before her if she merely gave the sign. It was the confidence that radiated from her very being.

  She felt so right in his arms. So right in his bed. The more he kissed her, the more he touched her, the more he wanted her until he felt as if he was on fire. And with each move he made, the bars around him closed in a little more.

  Even the sound of her breathing excited him. And her eyes—her eyes seemed to look right into him. Humbling him. Igniting him.

  He couldn’t have turned his back on her and walked away if the ransom of the entire earth depended on it.

  It was hard to keep her wits about her, to focus and not give herself up completely to the pleasures of his caress, to the fire he so skillfully stoked. But she wanted him to remember this. To lie awake in his bed and relive this night over and over again in his mind until his body was a mass of pulsing desires and needs. Until he found he wanted only her in his life.

  She was determined.

  But it was difficult to stay focused and determined when his lips traveled the length of her, outlining every pulse point with deep, openmouthed kisses that reduced her to a throbbing mass. When he made her body twist and turn against him, desperate for that final moment of extreme gratification.