by Gayle Wilson
Her voice faded and, because he was listening so hard, he could even hear the breath she took before she went on It was deep, and because of that he was afraid again.
“But to be honest,” she repeated, “nothing I do is that unselfish. I wouldn’t marry you just to give this baby a name Or even a daddy. I’ll marry you, Nick, because I can’t imagine living the rest of my life without you. Can’t imagine having to face getting up every day without you there. Can’t imagine…”
He knew why the words had stopped. He had heard the tears invade her voice long before they had choked off its low whisper.
“Abby,” he said. Comforting. He held out his hand. Invitation or entreaty? He didn’t care how she interpreted the gesture. As long as she responded to it.
“I’m right here, Nick,” she said
Suddenly she was. Slim, warm fingers closing over his, and he pulled her into his arms, settling her onto his lap and then crushing her too tightly against him. Crushing both of them.
She turned her head against his cheek, the softness of her hair moving against his face, evoking memories. They had been the first to come back, and they were still the most vivid. The familiar scent of her body seemed like a homecoming.
He put his hand over the baby, fighting emotion. “How’s Junior?” he whispered.
She laughed, her breath warm and sweet on his face. “She’s fine,” she said. She put her palm over the back of his hand, moving it a little. “But she’s got a kick like a mule”
“Little girl?” he asked. They could tell those things now. Maybe she had been serious about the pronoun that day.
She shook her head, which was still pressed against his cheek. “I didn’t want to know. Old-fashioned”
“You got names picked out?”
“No,” she said. “Not yet. I was waiting on you to help.” She lifted his hand and held it against her face a moment. Then she turned her head, kissing his palm, before she put it back against her cheek.
“They’re not ready to let me go,” Nick said. Bad news, but she was a cop. She knew how this worked.
“I know. Mickey told me. But he thinks they will. Soon.”
“Yeah. Me, too,” Nick said.
“I don’t think I want to wait.”
He nodded. “That’s why I told Mickey to bring the minister’s wife along.”
“The minister’s wife?”
“It takes two witnesses. At least that’s what I’ve always heard. How would you feel about Mickey being your maid of honor?”
“Never mind,” Abby said. “I’ll furnish my own maid of honor, hotshot.”
Her voice had lightened again with the teasing, and she carried Nick’s hand from her face to place it over the swell that was his baby.
Epilogue
“You aren’t the kind that faints at the sight of a little blood?” the doctor had joked.
“Not unless it’s my own,” Nick had answered.
He didn’t think the rest of them understood why Abby laughed so hard. They probably thought she was high on whatever they had given her. Maybe she was, but still, he had liked the sound of her laughter.
A hell of a lot more than he had liked the sounds that followed it. Maybe because he couldn’t see a clock, it seemed as if it all went on for an eternity. They kept telling him she was fine. That she was doing good. That the baby was Especially after they had figured out that his vision wasn’t one hundred percent.
Their voices had changed with the realization, just as they always did, but Nick had ignored that, concentrating on Abby instead. On holding her hand. On talking to her. Breathing with her. Wishing he was the one who was going through this.
Never again, he promised. His mom had said women forgot the pain of childbirth. Maybe so, but he wasn’t sure he ever would. He didn’t like things he couldn’t control, and he had so little to do with anything that was happening here that it was frightening and so damn frustrating.
Abby had talked to him Almost to the end. Reassuring him. She shouldn’t have had to do that. Not when she was the one who was suffering. But at least now he knew that the next time they decided to do this…
Abby’s hand gripped his suddenly, fingernails biting into his flesh. He welcomed the pain. At least it made him feel a part of what was going on. Some small part.
“Okay, Abby,” Dr Clarke said. “It’s time. Let’s do this.”
Abby’s hand tightened over his. There were more sound effects. None of them pleasant.
“Again,” the doctor commanded. And then after a little while. “And again, Abby. You’re doing great. Big one, now.”
He wondered how Dr Clarke could sound so calm, but of course she did this every day Delivered somebody’s baby. Somebody’s son or daughter. Somebody’s—
Abby cried out. It was the first time she had done that, and it scared the hell out of him. At least until he had heard what followed. The thin, mewling wail of a newborn, volume increasing as lungs expanded and it awakened to the realization that all that warmth and safety had just been exchanged for bright lights and cold hands.
Welcome to the world, angel, Nick thought, hot tears unexpectedly burning his eyes. Sweet Christmas angel, he thought again, listening to her cry.
“Congratulations, Nick,” Dr. Clarke said. “You have a beautiful, healthy son.”
“Son?” Nick repeated. Abby had been so certain…“Are you sure?” he asked.
There was a lot of laughter, spontaneous and natural. And then it faded as they realized that perhaps their laughter was not appropriate to the situation. To his situation.
“They’ve been doing this a long time, Nick,” Abby said, amusement still in her voice at least. “I think maybe they’d know.”
“You sorry?” he asked, moving his thumb over the back of her hand. He was so afraid she’d be disappointed.
“Are you kidding me, Deandro?”
“He might grow up to be just like me,” he warned.
“If we’re very, very lucky,” Abby said softly. There was no doubting the sincerity of that, her voice wiped clean of laughter, and in response he had to fight the burn again.
“Yeah, well…” he said awkwardly. “You might be prejudiced”
“I just might be,” she agreed. “You want to hold him?”
“You trust me?” he asked, knowing she would.
“With my life,” Abby whispered.
She must have nodded permission to somebody because the next thing he knew they were putting his son into his arms. There was a blanket of some kind around him, but Nick’s fingers found the important things. Ten fingers and ten toes. Nose. Chin. Everything he expected.
He looked up at Abby. “At least he looks like you.”
“Actually…” she began, amusement creeping into her voice.
“I mean I know he’s got blue eyes, but—”
“You can’t tell that,” she said, laughing. “Quit trying to show off. Besides, all babies have blue eyes.”
“And black hair?” Nick said. That much he could see.
“A headful,” Abby acknowledged.
Nick’s fingers drifted over the down-soft fluff, almost afraid to touch the baby’s head because he seemed so tiny, at least in contrast with the size of his hands.
“And soon you’ll be able to—”
“They said it was okay.” Mickey Yates’s voice was tentative, seeking verification of the permission someone had given him.
“Hey, Mickey,” Abby said.
“They said it was a boy,” Mickey said, moving into the room. “I brought you something.”
Nick looked up at that, squinting a little. “A Christmas tree?” he said in disbelief. “You brought him a Christmas tree?”
It couldn’t be anything else. The shape was right and there were things on it. Primarily red blurs against the green. What he saw was still pretty indistinct, but it was getting better. Day by day. And the doctors who had been so cautious at the beginning were now confident that his vision would b
e fully restored. He’d even been offered a job in the NOPD when they finally released him. Nick wasn’t sure how he would like working under Abby, but he was proud of her promotion. He knew there was no one more capable of running the newly reorganized O.C. unit than Abby.
“Hey, man, it’s Christmas,” Mickey said, his voice slightly offended. “I just didn’t want you guys to forget to celebrate.”
Not much chance of that, Nick thought, his gaze dropping back to the oval blur that he knew represented the face of his son. Not much chance of the three of them forgetting to celebrate. Not this particular Christmas, anyway.
And probably not much chance of them forgetting to celebrate the next forty or fifty of them, either. Forty or fifty together if they were very lucky. And apparently, he thought, as Abby’s hand closed over his, apparently they really were. Very, very lucky.
eISBN: 978-14592-6179-2
NEVER LET HER GO
Copyright © 1998 by Mona Gay Thomas
All rights reserved Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retneval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone beanng the same name or names They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention
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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Table of Contents
Excerpt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Copyright
