She very well might be.
The thought whispered through him, leaving cold panic in its wake. They’d gone through maybe one box of condoms years ago, before the wedding, before she’d started taking the Pill, and that was the last time he’d been given responsibility for birth control. Once, when she’d tired of taking the Pill, he had suggested a vasectomy instead, and she had quickly decided a once-a-day tablet wasn’t so bad. She’d taken them right up until the accident, but as far as he knew, she hadn’t started them again since her discharge. Why would she, when her dearest wish was to get pregnant as soon as possible after the divorce?
She could be pregnant right then. She would be thrilled. He would be … what?
His first response to even the possibility was dismay. He didn’t want kids. They were a complication his life didn’t need and couldn’t accommodate. He’d been a failure as a husband and would probably fail as a father too, considering the example his own father had set for him.
If that response was selfish, the second was even more so. A baby would be a link from him to Maggie that she could never break. It would give him a reason to stay in her life. It would fulfill her dearest wish—and how many men got a chance to fulfill the dearest desire of a woman like Maggie?
There was just one problem: Her dearest wish was to have another man’s baby, not his. To fall in love, marry, and live happily ever after with any other man but him. Though she would love and treasure his child, she wouldn’t want him around. She would choose someone else—like Grayson—to take his place, to raise his child, to share their lives.
He was in a sorry state when the certain knowledge that Maggie wouldn’t want him playing father to a child he’d never wanted could hurt the way it did.
Beside him, Grayson hunkered forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever consider staying in Bethlehem?”
Ross scowled. “My business is in Buffalo.”
“But your wife is in Bethlehem. Your business can be moved. I don’t think your wife can. Is there anything about the business that requires you to be there?”
“No.” His base of operations was Buffalo only because that was where he’d always lived. Relocating would be a relatively simple process. He wouldn’t have to move his entire staff, just some of his top people. Tom would have to be in Bethlehem at least part of the time, but Lynda could stay in Buffalo to oversee things there.
The last thought made him blink. A few weeks earlier he would have said Lynda’s presence near his office was vital. He never would have considered moving across the street without taking her with him. Why was he now contemplating doing business with her five hours away?
Because now he knew how she’d treated Maggie. Worse, he knew how it’d made her feel.
But he wasn’t seriously contemplating anything. The last thing Maggie wanted was him in Bethlehem. This was her town, her friends, and she didn’t want to share them with him.
“What would it take to make such a move?” Grayson asked. When Ross simply shrugged, the doctor said, “Humor me. I’m curious, and we don’t have much else to talk about. What would it take?”
To start, some assurance that Maggie wanted him there with her. That he wouldn’t make such a major change, then have to watch her fall in love and make a life with someone else. “First, I would have to buy some property and build an office. I haven’t seen any space around here that would be suitable.”
“That could be done easily enough. Then?”
Irritation flickered through Ross. He didn’t care to expend energy on games of what-if that didn’t stand a chance in hell of actually coming to fruition. Still, it gave him something to do and eased the ache of watching Maggie smiling up at Holly’s date the way she used to smile at him. “I’d choose which of my staff to bring along and persuade them to relocate.”
“That couldn’t be too hard. Money will persuade a lot of people. The ones who are immune to greed could probably be won over by the promise of the good life in Bethlehem. And then?”
“Then … move. Get everything up and running.” That was simplifying things a bit, but all in all, it wouldn’t be too difficult. He wouldn’t allow it to be. The difficulty would be living here without Maggie.
Living anywhere without her.
Uncomfortable with the implication, he abruptly got to his feet. “Tell Maggie I’ve gone home. I’m sure someone will give her a ride to the inn, then home.”
“Don’t you want to meet us there?”
He did, he realized even as he shook his head. He wanted to be a part of their group, wanted to have a little of the fun Maggie considered him incapable of. He wanted to belong.
But he didn’t.
“No,” he said flatly, bitterly. “My lawyer was supposed to fax some records to me this evening. I need to go over them.”
“You know, even God rested.”
The only responses Ross could think of were flippant or pathetic, so he said nothing but good-bye and headed for his car. While the engine warmed, he watched Maggie, happy and laughing, and wished—
He had so many wishes that he didn’t know where to start.
When he got home, the house was still and quiet. He paused in the office door, saw the red message light blinking on the answering machine, and the pages of Tom’s records on the fax machine, but he didn’t go inside. He’d already proven that he couldn’t concentrate on business, not in this mood.
Instead, he turned into the living room. He took a seat in an overstuffed chair, propped his feet on the ottoman, slid down, and stared at the tree. He stared until tiny halos appeared around each light, until all the lights melded into one giant, twinkling form, and he listened. The clocks ticked. The refrigerator motor clicked on, then off. The phone rang and, a moment later, the fax printed out more work. The heat cycled on and off. Finally he heard the sound he was waiting for, that he’d waited for earlier today. A car engine out front, the solid thunk of a door closing, keys in the lock.
Maggie came inside, bringing with her a breath of fresh air. Her skates landed on the hall floor with a gentle thud, then she came to stand in the doorway. Though he stared harder at the tree, he saw her peripherally, a shadow that remained motionless for one moment, then turned away disinterestedly. After a trip to the kitchen, she went upstairs. A moment later he heard the closing of her door. An instant after that he imagined he heard the click of the lock.
She was never going to forgive him.
Worse, he didn’t deserve to be forgiven.
The clock on the nightstand read one-fifteen when Maggie gave up on sleep. She pulled on a pair of thin cotton pants and slid her arms into her robe before slowly opening the door. Ross had gone to bed an hour ago, and his room had been silent ever since. She’d thought about waiting in the hall for him to come up, about knocking on his door after he did come up—even about inviting herself inside. Of course, she hadn’t done anything.
For two mature, intelligent adults, they certainly didn’t learn from their mistakes. The hurt feelings and anger never should have reached this point. If she hadn’t gotten defensive that morning, blaming him for their poor sex life before he had the opportunity to blame her, he wouldn’t have gotten angry and thrown back every complaint she’d made to him. And if she hadn’t overreacted to his response to her scars …
If, if, if. She hated that word.
She made her way to the kitchen. She should have apologized to Ross as soon as she came back from breakfast. She shouldn’t have let the silence grow. God help her, she never should have told him she didn’t want him skating with her tonight. That had been cruel, and he had every right to hold it against her.
It was too corny to even think without a groan, but there were other things she wanted him to hold against her—like himself. That was why she was down there, gathering baking pans, ingredients, and her heavy-duty mixer. She was going to bake a goodwill gesture and hope they could take it from there.
She worked slowly, taking the instructions one step at a
time, humming softly to herself. For the first time in months she was truly enjoying the process. She trusted the recipe, one of her old favorites. If she followed it halfway properly, the cookies were guaranteed to be good.
The first tray was in the oven and she’d just finished spooning the last mound of dough on the second tray, when she heard footsteps in the hall. She gave a moment’s thought to hiding the dough and the tray, but it was too late. Ross was coming through the doorway.
He looked uneasy, as if seeing her were the last thing he wanted in the middle of the night, and bewildered. He took in the mess she’d made on the island, the sight of her in T-shirt, pants, and robe—with her hair standing on end, she realized—then sniffed the air. “You’re making white chocolate macadamia cookies.”
His tone sounded accusatory, but maybe she was being overly sensitive. Maybe it was just the surprise of waking up in the middle of the night to find her baking. “You said they were your favorite,” she said cautiously. “When I use food to bribe someone, I try to use their favorite.”
“Why do you need a bribe?”
“Because I owe you an apology, and it’ll go down better with cookies.” She breathed deeply, appreciatively. The cookies smelled exactly the way they were supposed to, giving her high hopes for their taste.
He came closer. He wore a T-shirt and sweatpants—a lot of clothes for a man who slept naked. He’d learned a lesson, it seemed, about running around half-dressed—and about coming close to her, she added regretfully as he stopped with the island between them.
“This couldn’t wait until morning?”
“It is morning.”
“Sure, in England or Europe or somewhere. Not in New York.”
Feeling foolish now, she shrugged. “I didn’t expect you to eat them tonight. I just couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither could I.” He slid onto the nearest stool and folded his hands. He had great hands—strong, capable, with long, thin fingers. For a long time he’d worn a simple gold band on one of them. Later he’d traded it for a simple diamond band, and then one day he’d abandoned it too. She would give a lot to see that plain gold ring there again.
She would give even more if this time it would stay.
Or if she just didn’t care.
“Did you have fun tonight?” he asked, yanking her from her thoughts.
Her face flushing, she used the cookies as an excuse to delay answering. When the finished cookies were on a wire cooling rack, she finally looked at him. “No, I didn’t.”
“Come on, Maggie, I was there. I saw you.”
“You saw what I wanted you to see.” Her voice had been too bright, her smile too happy, her mood too phony. She’d put on an act, and then she’d seen that he was gone and she’d wanted nothing more than to sink down right there on the ice and cry. Only pride had held her together. She would have gone home as soon as the skating was over, but she’d been afraid, and so she’d gone to the inn and continued her farce. She’d continued it right up until the instant her bedroom door closed behind her. By then she’d been too drained to cry.
“I saw you having a wonderful time and pretending that I wasn’t there.”
“No. You saw me pretending to have a wonderful time and wishing that you were there.” When he started to disagree, she stopped him. “Wishing that you were with me—that you wanted to be with me.”
“You’re the one who said you didn’t want me to go.”
She clasped her hands tightly. “I lied.”
“Why?”
Her shrug was small and ashamed. “After what happened in my room, you just put on your clothes and went to the office and worked all day, as if none of it had meant a thing to you. You didn’t even speak to me when I came back after breakfast. You didn’t eat lunch with me. You ignored me, and you worked.”
“You told me to get out,” he murmured stiffly.
She had, and at the time she’d meant it. She’d felt ugly and ashamed and had wanted only to be alone with her humiliation. But later … Would it have hurt him to pretend that nothing had happened? To look at her instead of through her? To speak to her just once during the day?
“You regret it, don’t you?” she asked. If they hadn’t made love, they wouldn’t have argued, he wouldn’t have seen her naked, and they wouldn’t be up at two in the morning, having this painful conversation.
“Of course I regret it. I never meant to …”
His voice trailed off, and something inside her died. An empty throb settled in her chest, and her throat grew tight. She turned away and faced the window, hugging both arms tightly to her middle.
“Damn, Maggie, how could I not regret it?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice sounded funny, teary. “Maybe because you were so willing every time that regret seemed the furthest thing from your mind.”
For a long time there was silence, then … “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Making love. Having sex. Whatever you prefer to call it.” His confusion caused her to turn around, to risk a look at him. “What are you talking about?”
He left the stool and walked around to lean against the island a half dozen feet from her. “I’m talking about giving you the very wrong impression that those scars make a damn bit of difference in how beautiful you are.” The words were quiet, sincere, unarguable. For one moment they hovered in the air between them, then slowly they started to ease the emptiness in her chest, to make it possible for her to breathe again. “I was stunned, Maggie. The scars … They’re obscene, and they’re my fault. I did that to you, and I’ll never have the words to tell you how much I regret it.”
Staring at him, she focused on the one important part of his speech. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Incredibly so.”
“Scars and all?”
His faint smile was sad that she felt the need to clarify. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Scars and all.”
“Then sometime you might want to—” She broke off, suddenly too shy to continue, and his smile gained strength.
“Make love with you again? I’ve wanted to all day. All evening. All night. I want to right now. But …”
She waited, edgy and uneasy, to hear his objection.
“You’re not taking birth control pills. You could get pregnant.”
And for him that was a major objection. He’d wanted no part of creating a baby with her when they were happily married, and he wanted it even less now. Though the knowledge broke her heart, she kept her expression smooth, her voice level. “Yes, I understand the connection between the two. What do you want? A sworn statement that I wouldn’t expect anything from you?”
He looked offended, then irritated. Before he could speak, though, she did.
“It doesn’t matter. This is the wrong time of the month. You have nothing to worry about.” She tried to not notice the relief that eased across his face. “So … what do we do now?”
“First you finish with the cookies. I’ll help you. Then we go upstairs and you work off some of this tension. I’ll help with that too.”
She knew exactly how, knew that when he was finished “helping,” she would be limp, too spent to make the slightest demand on her muscles. She would have only enough energy to curl up beside him for the rest of the night.
Seconds slid into minutes while she watched him and he watched her, until finally he gestured toward the oven. “The timer’s beeping.”
She glanced at the oven, then back. “I don’t care about the cookies.”
“Hey, white chocolate macadamia’s my favorite.”
“I know plenty of your other favorites.” But at last she moved to the oven. She set the finished tray aside, then began spooning dough onto the next. She’d managed only one neat mound, when Ross came to stand behind her. He reached around her with both arms, pulled the spoon from her, then slid her robe down, leaving it to puddle on the floor around her feet. When he put the spoon back in her hand, for a f
ew seconds she couldn’t remember what it was for.
“Cookies, Maggie.” His reminder was murmured right into her ear, tickling, followed by the touch of his tongue. She dropped the scoop of dough back into the bowl, tried again, and got it on the tray this time.
“I don’t think this is what Dr. Grayson had in mind when he suggested that you help me cook,” she said in a voice as unsteady as her legs, as fluttery as her heart.
“Screw Dr. Grayson.”
Her laughter dissolved as his hands slid over her breasts, and her breath caught in her throat. Her T-shirt was old and soft and heightened the impact of his caresses. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and lost track of everything but his mouth, his hands, and the gentle, lazy pleasure they were creating. “I—I thought …” It was a lie. She couldn’t think just then, not without a struggle. “I thought … you liked … Dr. Grayson.”
“My dislike for him is directly proportional to your liking. The cookies, Maggie.”
She felt blindly for the bowl, filled the spoon, emptied it on what she hoped was the tray. “You sound almost …” The word disappeared as he slid one hand underneath her shirt to rub her breast, to torment her nipple with caresses gentle and teasing and wicked and hard.
“Jealous? Damn straight. He’s not your type.”
“Then who is?”
“Me. I’m your type.” As if to emphasize his words, he pressed against her, thrusting, rubbing. She dropped the spoon with a clatter, braced her hands on the cold counter, and wished desperately that they were naked, that he was inside her, that they could stay that way forever. When he slid his hand underneath the waist of her pants, over her hip, between her thighs, she groaned. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to …”
He moved his fingers gently. “To what?”
Some Enchanted Season Page 23
