Soul to Soul (RUSH, Inc. Book 2)

by Carol Caiton

  "What do you want from me, Michael?" she asked, and it was clear she was still uncertain. Man, what she did to him . . . .

  He stared into her eyes, could lose himself in looking at her.

  "Everything," he told her. "I want everything you can give me."

  Her eyes teared up, but she gave him a shaky smile. Then she got up on her toes, slid one hand around his neck, and pulled his mouth down toward hers.

  "Take me to bed, Michael."

  Oh, honey, he was on it.

  CHAPTER 21

  It took effort and determination, but he lifted his dead weight off her sweet warm body and pretty much dropped down beside her. He'd wondered if it would ever happen again, if he'd erupt like a damn volcano that went on and on forever. Now he grinned to himself and wondered if it would be like that all the time with her.

  Filling his lungs with air, he pulled her in close. He felt good. Really good. And he felt even better when those little butterfly kisses of hers nibbled across his chest again.

  "Rachel?"

  The kisses stopped. She sighed like she was contented and rested her head against him. "Hmm?"

  Her fingers smoothed over his stomach, up into the hair on his chest, and he thought about the way she liked to touch him. It was still new to her, he realized. And that was something he could give her that nobody else could. "Will you move in here with me?"

  He didn't know if she'd give him an answer right away. He didn't know if it was too soon to ask. But if she needed time to think about it he'd try to be patient.

  What he didn't expect was to feel her whole body go still—and not the kind of still that came before something good. He braced himself. Still holding her, he eased back a little so he could see her face. "Rachel, look at me."

  She did. She tilted her head back and her eyes were all cautious and worried again. "Before I answer that," she said, "I need to tell you something."

  "What is it, baby?"

  She pulled out of his arms, then slid across the bed and climbed out on the other side.

  "Rachel?"

  He couldn't have gotten it wrong. Not after what they'd just done together.

  "I'm going to tell you something," she said again. "Then I'm going to go out to the living room so you can think about it in private."

  He frowned.

  "I'll wait in the living room for thirty minutes and—"

  What the hell? He sat up.

  But she turned away and started gathering up her clothes. Then she walked over to the door, took a couple of deep breaths, and said, "After thirty minutes, if you don't come out, I'll leave."

  Now he was getting pissed. Why all the drama? Why the hell didn't she just say it? "So what is it you want me to think about?"

  She looked down at the floor. So now he wondered why wouldn't she look at him.

  "I'm pregnant, Michael."

  He stared at her. He stared at her and felt the shock of her words course through his body. He knew damn well no one else had been with her, but he'd only had her one time before today. Fate wouldn't kick him in the gut like this, not after siding with him all day.

  So he kept staring at her, but she didn't turn around. She didn't turn around and she didn't take the words back.

  His mind raced. She wasn't on birth control. Of course she wasn't. And policy at RUSH wouldn't have required it of a guest, only clients.

  A chill ran up the back of his neck and into his scalp. He stared at the empty doorway.

  Empty? She was gone?

  Kicking aside the covers, he launched himself up off the bed and grabbed his pants. In the next second, heart hammering in his ears, he remembered she was going to wait out in the living room. He stood for a minute, waiting for the adrenaline rush to ease up. Then he dropped his pants back onto the floor and sat down on the mattress.

  Pregnant. She was pregnant.

  No. Not fucking happening. He couldn't do this. He couldn't chance it. He wanted Rachel. Just Rachel. And he didn't need thirty minutes to figure that out.

  He tried to clamp down on his anger and think. What were the options here? Abortion? Would she even consider it? Yeah, right. If she'd wanted an abortion she would've taken care of it without bothering to tell him she was pregnant. She'd already made up her mind and she was expecting him to deal.

  Well she was wrong. He didn't have to deal with anything anymore. Not ever. He'd paid his dues. He'd paid enough dues to last him twenty lifetimes. And millions of fucking dollars gave him the freedom not to have to deal ever again.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying once more to calm down. There had to be other options. But it wasn't like he was swimming in choices here.

  Thirty minutes. He looked over at the clock. Then wondered why he bothered. He didn't want this. He didn't want any part of it. What did she think—that thirty frigging minutes was gonna make him into father material? What did she want from him anyway?

  Nothing, Michael. Absolutely nothing.

  He froze. Then he shot up off the bed again and glared at the empty doorway.

  Goddamn it!

  She'd known about the baby last week at RUSH, watching him stumble into the hallway with another woman's hand down his pants. She was carrying his kid while he was busy screwing every female the computer gave him, trying to get her out of his mind. No wonder she'd been crying in the fucking bathroom.

  So maybe she was having a hard time with this too. Maybe she was feeling betrayed and attacked and every other shitty emotion just like he was. She only had a couple of choices here—abortion, adoption, or have the baby, and he was pretty damn sure she couldn't live with the first two. At least he could walk away and not feel guilty. Even if she kept it, he could pay her some child support and get on with his life, right?

  Nothing,Michael. Absolutely nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Fuck!

  He bunched up his fists, grabbed up his T-shirt, and threw it across the room. She wouldn't take a penny from him. He knew she wouldn't. Not a frigging penny.

  He strode into the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and stepped into the shower.

  For a little while, a couple of hours, he'd begun to think he had a chance at something good. Really good. Now he felt angry and bitter and screwed. So what was next? What the fuck did he do now?

  Shoving one hand up against the tile wall, he stuck his head under the water and stared down at the drain. He could still walk away and move on. He'd do okay, too. He'd been a loner for seventeen years. He'd get over her after a while and she'd be nothing more than a memory.

  He turned off the water, got out of the shower, and grabbed a towel. He had five minutes left of his thirty. Big fucking deal. He could park his ass back down on the bed and just wait for her to leave. But he tugged on a clean pair of jeans instead and walked out to the living room in his bare feet.

  And there she was, dressed again and sitting on the sofa, hands clasped together, looking down at her lap. She hadn't put any pressure on him. She'd just told him she'd leave after thirty minutes and she would have. She'd finish school, deal with her family, have her baby, and he'd never hear from her again. Ever. She'd get into her Bugatti and drive right out of his life and he'd be standing here in the muck, gasping for breath again.

  "Rachel?"

  Her head came up. She lifted a hand and threaded her fingers through her hair and it was shaking. It was shaking so bad, he could see it tremble from where he stood. Yeah, she'd been having a shitty time of it too. Even her features were tense. And goddamn it, she was still the most beautiful thing in his world. Even walking in here all pissed off, she'd centered him as soon as his eyes locked on her. He'd been able to think without wanting to smash his fist through a wall. And goddamn it, the whole fucking world was in high definition, crisp and clean and full of something big. Something huge. He sucked in a deep breath. "Will you marry me?"

  His heart thudded in his chest. She didn't move, and neither did he. He couldn't. Sweat broke out on his forehead. How the
hell was he gonna be everywhere at once, trying to make sure nothing happened to either one of them? Fear gnawed at him just thinking about it. And she just sat there, staring at him like he'd said something to her in Russian.

  Then suddenly, she shot straight up off the sofa—and froze. A second later she dropped back down again and swallowed. She was all shook up. Wired out. And fuck it, there went his heart all over again. Yeah, okay, this was what he wanted. But it was pretty plain that a marriage proposal wasn't what she'd expected. She lifted that jittery hand to her temple, closed her eyes, and rubbed.

  Ah, baby, he thought.

  Her father was right. She had the same inner strength he had. But she was fragile, too. She needed him. She needed him to hold her, to touch her, and there would be more times like this, times when it took a lot of that inner strength to pull it together and keep going. But right now she looked like she needed something solid to hold onto and he'd just decided he was gonna be that something, right?

  He crossed the room and stopped a couple of feet away in case she needed the space. "Rachel?"

  She opened her eyes.

  "C'mere," he said, holding out his hand to her. Then he waited for her to do her processing thing and come to him.

  It only took a couple of seconds. She inched forward and got up off the sofa again. Then she came to him and slid her fingers into his. They were still shaking.

  "Marry me, baby." He slid his other hand along her jaw, into her hair, and realized she was trembling all over.

  C'mere." He pulled her in close and slipped both arms around her, offering her some comfort, giving her an anchor.

  "Marry me," he said again. And the more he said it, the more it settled on him. Not the kid part. That was gonna take some time. But the marriage part . . . with her . . . yeah, he was good with that.

  She rested against him for another couple of seconds. Then she eased back, lifted her face and looked up at him. Her soft blue eyes seemed sad though.

  "Michael, the last time I saw you, you were with another woman."

  "And today I asked you to come live with me," he reminded her. He linked his fingers together at the small of her back. "And now I've asked you to marry me."

  She frowned a little then said, "In a couple of months I'll be able to get a job that pays well. I won't have any problem supporting myself and the baby on my own."

  "Rachel—"

  "I know I've been a little weepy lately—"

  "Rachel," he interrupted. "I don't want you taking care of stuff on your own. I want to be the one who takes care of things."

  He could take care of his woman just fine. He didn't even want her to work. He wanted her here at home with him.

  "Michael, there are . . . obstacles."

  "What kind of obstacles?"

  She tried to step away but he held her where she was. "What kind of obstacles?" he asked again.

  "RUSH," she finally said. "I won't compete with RUSH."

  Relief washed through him. Yeah, he'd anticipated that. After what she'd seen, he'd known he was going to have to make some choices.

  Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he drew back and looked into her eyes. "Baby, I walked away from RUSH the day you left me standing in the parking garage and drove off."

  Her eyes widened. "You don't own RUSH anymore?"

  He'd surprised her with that one. But leaving RUSH was the single most convincing way he had to show her he was flat-out serious. She'd see he wouldn't be walking away from her a third time.

  "I knew RUSH was gonna be a problem," he told her. "It took a few days to tie up the loose ends, and I'll still have to show up once a month for board meetings until my shares sell. But once they do, no, I won't own any part of RUSH anymore."

  It had been surprisingly easy to let go of too. Easier than he'd thought. RUSH, the concept of it, had been his. But he had other stuff going on too. And now he had Rachel. Correction—he sure as hell hoped he had Rachel. She still hadn't agreed to marry him. And she was processing again. But maybe this time she was seeing how fixed he was on this.

  "You were that sure of me?" she finally said, surprising him,

  He snorted. "Baby, I wasn't sure of anything. And you still have me two beats away from a heart attack. I just knew— Ah, fuck, Rachel. I knew I wanted you and I knew RUSH was gonna be in the way."

  There. How much more was he gonna have to own up to?

  At least she wasn't shaking anymore. She looked up at him and smiled a little. Then her eyes went all soft and shit and he could have stayed right there, wallowing in all that emotion for a hell of a long time.

  "I'm falling in love with you, Michael."

  His heart just about stopped in his chest. Then it started racing with sheer exhilaration. Yep, heart attack on idle.

  He grinned. And if he looked like an idiot, well, he'd just have to look like an idiot 'cause those were some words he'd wanted to hear real bad. Or at least they were damn close to it. "Then I'm thinking you'd better marry me, princess. What do you think?"

  That soft look got even softer. She slid her hands up his stomach, running her fingers through the hair on his chest, then stopped to trace her index finger over one of the scars near his collar bone before resting her palm over it. "I guess I'm thinking the same thing you are," she said.

  "Yeah?" And now he couldn't seem to stop grinning. His world was getting bigger and fuller.

  But she grinned right back. "Yeah."

  Fuck, but he liked her. "Okay then. We're gonna get married." He could breathe again. "Now let's go back to bed."

  Before his knees gave out.

  Before he had that heart attack for real.

  He was getting married. This princess who grew up in the kind of house he used to case out and rob wanted to marry him.

  CHAPTER 22

  When he could finally move again, when he had enough air in his lungs to utter a full sentence, he rolled over, wiped the sweat off his brow with a forearm and said, "There's some stuff you need to know about me."

  She was all tangled up in her hair and he smiled, thinking about how she'd gotten that way.

  She was still trying to catch her breath too. Her breasts jiggled with the little gasps of air she took and he stared at them while she pushed herself up onto her elbows. He liked that. He liked that he did to her exactly what she did to him.

  "That sounds ominous," she said, meeting his eyes.

  He didn't want to tell her anything. But he needed to know now, up front, if she was willing to deal with his shit. He wished he could bury the past so deep it would never touch her or the life he wanted for them. But if any of it ever caught up with him—and certain parts of it would —he didn't want her shocked and pissed because he'd never confided in her. So it was better to get it out now where he could gauge her reaction.

  "Yeah," he said, "it is ominous."

  She struggled up onto her knees, scooted around to face him, then swished all her hair out of the way and gathered it in front of one shoulder. "Legal stuff?" she asked, her eyes concerned.

  "Some," he told her. He pulled himself up and propped his pillow against the headboard. "C'mere."

  Opening his arm to her, he waited while she slid in against his side. He liked holding her. He liked it when she played with the hair on his chest. He even liked it when she touched his scars, and there was nobody else he could say that about. Women were always curious when they saw them but it was different with Rachel. She didn't ask. She knew how he'd gotten them, and they meant something to her. He could tell by the way she touched them. They were markers of torture and survival. And every time she touched one she paused like she was giving it tribute, then she'd rest her fingers over it. She knew what he'd gone through and she understood. It was another one of those soul things that made what he felt for her strange and powerful.

  He kept his arm up until she settled herself, then he draped it around her. She pressed a kiss to his chest, eased back, and looked into his eyes.

  "Tell
me," she said.

  He didn't want to dig everything up. And she'd be able to fill in the blanks easily enough. But he was glad for a change that he'd gone over it all so recently. Picking and choosing what to tell her would be quicker and a hell of a lot easier than if he had to go deep again.

  "I didn't have the kind of upbringing you did, baby." Then he smirked. The differences between them were obvious as soon as he opened his mouth. "What I'm trying to say is, my childhood was about as different from yours as it gets. I never knew my father. In fact, there wasn't a kid on my block who had a father living with him."

  "Did you know your mother?" she asked.

  "Yeah. For a while." He even had some good memories of his mother. "One day though, when I was nine years old, she left the house and I never saw her again."

  "She abandoned you?"

  "No baby. She was hit by a bus and killed, only I didn't know it. I kept waiting for her to come home."

  Rachel was appalled. "No one came to tell you? The police? A social worker?"

  He gave her a wry smile. "Nobody knew I existed. We were squatters. We lived in a vacant, boarded-up house in a shitty part of Philadelphia. It was probably a nice neighborhood at one time—brick streets, big old Victorian houses, lots of shade trees . . . . But when I lived there it was run down and poverty-stricken. Everybody I knew had leaky roofs and rotten floors and you had to be careful out in the street because some of the manhole covers were gone."

  She frowned. "The manhole covers were gone?"

  "Yeah." He chuckled with the memory. "The older kids went out at night, lifted them, and sold them as scrap metal."

  That surprised her. But as a kid, he hadn't known anything different. He'd had all the freedom and space of three stories and six bedrooms, and all he had to worry about was putting food on the table—that table being the upended bottom end of a trashcan he'd stolen.

  "There were six or seven houses on our street that were abandoned," he went on. "So we pretty much had our choice. Well, more or less. There were other squatters living in a couple of them."