GUILTY SECRETS

by Virginia Kantra

  But not standing up in the hall. She wanted, needed, more romance than that.

  She eased her mouth away from his with tiny, tasting kisses. "Joe."

  "Yes." His voice was hoarse. His forehead was damp. "Whatever it is, yes."

  She flushed with pleasure. "Do you…"

  She bit her lip, that sense of inevitability, the it-had-to-be-you-and-now feeling, fading a bit. It was so much easier to be swept away than to make a choice. A demand.

  "Do you want to have dinner first?" she asked, which wasn't what she'd started to say at all.

  Joe smiled at her with those brooding blue eyes, making her pulse hitch. Maybe he was going to sweep her away after all, she thought hopefully.

  "No, I don't want—" His face went utterly blank. "Oh God. Dinner."

  Alarmed, Nell asked, "What's wrong?"

  His hand slid from under her sweater. "What time is it?"

  Trying not to feel insulted, Nell looked at her watch. "Five-twenty. Why? Do we have reservations?"

  "I wish. We could cancel reservations."

  But if they weren't going out… "Where are you taking me?" Nell asked. Not to bed, obviously. Her chest burned with disappointment.

  "Home," Joe said.

  "You're cooking?" Maybe he had a roast in the oven.

  "No. My mother is." For once, Joe's smile was more sheepish than sharklike. "I'm taking you home with me for Sunday dinner."

  He must have been out of his mind, Joe thought. He watched through the kitchen door as Nell chopped—what was it, carrots?—with his mother.

  They could have stayed at her apartment. He could have had her in her bed, all the clean lines and soft curves of her, her fair skin stained with color, her clear eyes dark with desire. The thought of her, of what he was missing, buzzed in his blood and put an edge on his mood.

  "Sulking," Will observed, not unsympathetically, as he sprawled on the couch. "Because Mom poached his date. You should have known what would happen when you invited her, paperboy."

  Mike looked over from setting the table. The good china, Joe noted, and the lace tablecloth. He was in such deep trouble here.

  "Why did you invite her, anyway?" asked his brother the cop.

  Will raised his eyebrows. "What are you, blind? She's hot. I'd have invited her myself, except then Mom would be grilling her about my sex life over the salad."

  Joe wished he and his brothers were fifteen, thirteen and ten again, so he could pound them into silence.

  But their father spoke from his chair by the window. "She seems like a nice girl. And your mother likes having somebody to keep her company in the kitchen."

  "I keep her company," Mike said.

  "You're twenty-five-years old and still living in the basement," said Ted Reilly. "Your mother gets enough of your company."

  Will snorted with laughter.

  Mike threw the bread basket at his head. Will grabbed it out of the air, sending rolls bouncing on the pillows of the couch.

  "Do I need to come out there?" Mary called from the kitchen.

  "No, ma'am," her sons chorused.

  Will picked up the rolls and launched them one by one at Mike, who brushed them off and dropped them on the table.

  They might as well be fifteen, thirteen and ten again, Joe thought. Except for him. He didn't play anymore. They didn't expect him to. He bent to pick up the basket.

  "So, I hear your young lady is a nurse," Ted said.

  Joe straightened cautiously. "That's right."

  "You meet her at the hospital?"

  "No, a clinic. I'm writing a story about her clinic. I'm not her patient."

  "Ah," Ted said, and took a pull of his beer.

  Joe was a reporter. He knew the tricks. So he didn't fall for the old man's say-anything-to-fill-the-silence ploy.

  He glanced toward the kitchen where the two women had their heads together over the roasting pan. None of her menfolk—not her oldest son the reporter or her youngest son the cop—was a match for Mary Reilly when it came to getting information. So he could still be in trouble.

  As he watched, Nell looked up from the stove and met his gaze. The rueful appeal in her eyes tore into his chest like a bullet.

  His breath stopped. Trouble? Oh, yeah.

  Setting the bread basket on the table, he limped to her rescue.

  Mary Reilly was five foot two and fifty-three, with an explosion of charcoal curls, a quick smile and deft hands. Nell liked her immediately.

  "I'm not much of a cook," she apologized, sweeping her misshapen carrot slices into a wooden bowl.

  "Plenty of time to learn," Mary said. "Does your mother cook?"

  After Nell's father left them, Alice Dolan had struggled to hold two jobs, manning a cash register in the daytime and cleaning offices at night. As far back as Nell could remember, dinner had consisted of whatever she could pour from a can or heat in the microwave.

  "My mother died eight years ago," Nell said.

  Mary made a soft, sympathetic sound. "Well, the salad looks lovely," she said. "And as long as we're putting dinner on the table, that lot out there can eat it and be grateful."

  "Don't you make them help?" Nell asked.

  "I make them offer," Mary said. "Truth is, I like to cook, and they get in the way."

  She proved her point by opening the oven door and forcing Nell back against the counter. Grabbing pot holders, Mary wrestled her roasting pan to the top of the stove. Fabulous smells assaulted the air, rosemary, beef and bacon. Nell's mouth watered.

  Mary transferred the roast to a carving board and started to make gravy in the pan.

  "You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble," Nell said.

  Mary grinned, looking for a moment startlingly like Joe. "This isn't trouble. I was going to make codfish with garlic sauce, but I didn't want to give Ted heartburn." She whisked beef broth into the pan, shaking her head. "Irish men."

  Unable to resist the smells, Nell took a step closer to the stove. "You're not Irish?"

  "Half Irish. My mother was a Cifelli. What about you?"

  Nell smiled. "With a name like Dolan? I'm Irish."

  "I thought that might be your husband's name." Mary ground black pepper over the bubbling gravy. Tasted. "One of the boys mentioned you'd been married."

  She was like a surgeon, probing and digging until she'd extracted something. Nell looked around rather wildly for reinforcements and caught Joe's cynical eye. No help there.

  "My husband's name was Burdett," she said.

  Mary sniffed and poured the gravy into a large white boat. "Sounds like an Orangeman."

  "I don't know what he was, actually."

  A liar. A junkie.

  "Protestant, though." Mary spooned roasted potatoes around the beef.

  "Yes." What did it matter?

  "That's all right, then," Mary said with satisfaction.

  "Ma, in her infinitely tactful way, is trying to find out if you were ever married in the church," Joe drawled, strolling into the kitchen.

  Nell was grateful for the interruption. But she still didn't get it. "No, the Drake Hotel. Why?"

  "Because this way we're still eligible for a large Catholic wedding."

  Nell's jaw dropped.

  Joe grinned and pressed a firm, brief kiss on her open mouth. "Don't panic. Since we're only going to indulge in a torrid, temporary affair, it doesn't matter to me either way."

  Mary clicked her tongue. "Stop trying to shock the girl, Joseph, and take out the roast."

  "I was trying to shock you," he complained, but he carried the carving board through the door to the table.

  "Don't mind him," Mary said, handing the gravy boat to Nell. "Or me, either. We're all too free in speaking our minds."

  Nell murmured something and fled in the direction of the dining room.

  She didn't have any reason to feel nervous or embarrassed. She wasn't the one asking intensely personal questions or making outrageous personal announcements.

  Her hand sh
ook slightly as she set down the gravy boat. Nell bit her lip. She was not going to spill on her hostess's lovely old lace tablecloth.

  A large Catholic wedding? Or a torrid, temporary affair?

  She got hot just thinking about it. Hot and terrified. She'd made a mess of her marriage. And the possibility of conducting a torrid affair under the curious eyes of Joe's family… No, she couldn't do that, either.

  To her relief, the conversation over dinner stayed general. Everyone seemed to talk, tease and eat with their mouths full. The Reillys passed bowls, heaped plates and argued amiably about video games and precinct politics, this uncle's new car and that neighbor's lawn, the Bulls' dismal chances in the play-offs and the start of the Cubs' season. It was chaotic, it was comfortable, it was intimate and alien at the same time.

  Dinner with her mother had been a mostly silent affair, punctuated by celebrity news and canned laughter from the TV. Richard had seldom been home for dinner during their marriage; even when he wasn't working, he preferred to go out or claimed he was too exhausted to talk. To her. To keep the peace, to preserve her marriage, Nell had accepted the painful truth: she simply wasn't very interesting to her husband. And so she had settled for the gossipy camaraderie of her co-workers, the loyalties created by late hours and bad coffee, the bonds forged by the hectic pace and shared purpose of the work lane.

  The ties between the Reillys were different, but Nell felt their pull all around the table. These were ties of affection. Of habit and history. Of love and blood.

  Cynical Reilly the reporter was a family man. The thought made Nell smile. Made her yearn.

  And yet, sitting at the noisy table, she sensed a wall around him, a barrier that laughter and affection could not breach. It was subtle, hinted in a look, heard in a deflected question.

  Will got up to clear the table, balancing two plates in each large hand.

  "I'll wash, you dry," Mike volunteered, tipping his chair back from the table.

  Nell laid her knife and fork across her plate. Maybe, she mused, she recognized Joe's essential isolation because she was an outsider herself.

  "Hell, no," Will growled. "I'm clearing. Joe can dry."

  "Drying's for fairies," Joe said. "I'll wash. Mike can dry."

  Bemused, Nell watched a general scuffle develop in the kitchen door, with lots of shoulder bumping and elbow jabs.

  Isolated? Right. And maybe she was imagining things.

  Mary flinched, her attention on the doorway. Her sons jostled through, and her shoulders slowly relaxed.

  "Sorry about that." Mary met Nell's gaze, her eyes rueful. It wasn't clear if she was apologizing for the scuffle or her own reaction to it. "I worry about Joe's ankle."

  She shouldn't ask.

  She wouldn't ask.

  He wasn't her patient, it was none of her business…

  "What's wrong with his ankle, exactly?"

  "Well, he broke it," Mary said.

  "Yes, he told me." Or rather, his brother did.

  "I don't know how bad the initial fracture was, but he didn't treat it properly while he was over there," Mary confided. "He said he got some kind of boot cast put on it, but he didn't rest it properly. I know he kept working. Eventually he, well, he just collapsed."

  Even though Nell figured Joe's complications were probably the result of his own stubbornness, her heart squeezed at the thought of him hurting and helpless and miles from home.

  "So, what happened?" she asked.

  "The paper brought him home," his father said gruffly.

  Mary covered her husband's hand with her own. The gesture spoke volumes about Joe's condition, Nell thought. And his parents' relationship.

  "Joe had surgery to repair the fracture alignment," Mary said. "A screw and plate fixation, the doctor called it."

  Nell nodded.

  "But it didn't heal correctly," Mary continued. "He needs to have the surgery redone. A complete reconstruction of the ankle, the doctor said."

  "Won't do it," Ted said. "Damn fool."

  His gaze shifted. His broad face flushed.

  Oh, no, Nell thought, and turned her head.

  Joe stood in the kitchen doorway. His mouth was grim. His eyes were blazing blue. Clearly, he'd overheard at least part of their conversation. Equally obviously, he was furious.

  Nell's stomach sank.

  "The dishes are done," he said coldly. "When you all are finished discussing my personal medical history, I'm ready to go."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  It was his own damn fault, Joe accepted grimly, for being stupid enough to break his own rules.

  It was Nell's fault, for being compassionate and caring and worming her way into his parents' confidence.

  He stalked up the stairs behind her to her third-floor apartment, burning with anger at her intrusion and eaten with fear at what she could have discovered.

  He had to protect himself.

  Joe leaned his weight on the banister, doing his best to ignore the grinding in his ankle. Trying not to notice the sway and flex of Nell's butt half a flight above him.

  Before he hauled her off to bed, they were going to get some things straight. Right now.

  Nell reached the landing and stood with her keys in her hand. Waiting for him. The realization that she needed to wait only pissed him off more.

  Joe pulled himself up the last two steps and leaned an arm against the wall above her head, supporting himself, trapping her.

  He put his face down into her face and said with soft menace, "If I need your help, I'll tell you. In the meantime, keep your nose out of my business."

  Of course, Nell being Nell was not impressed. "That tone doesn't exactly work for me, Reilly."

  "You know what doesn't work for me? You talking to my parents about my ankle. If you were that curious, you could have asked me."

  "And would you have told me anything?"

  He wasn't in the mood to be managed or reasoned with. "That's not the point."

  "That's precisely the point. Two people can't form a relationship without sharing some details of their personal lives."

  "Some details," he repeated with heavy sarcasm. "How much sharing are you willing to do, Mrs. Burdett?"

  The color drained from her face. Her eyes were bright and angry. Joe felt like a jerk. But in some twisted way he was relieved to know he could get to her the way she got to him.

  "You knew I'd been married before," she said.

  "And you knew I'd busted my ankle. That doesn't entitle you to all the gory details."

  "I was trying to help."

  "Well, don't."

  He didn't want her help.

  He didn't want her pity.

  He wanted her admiring. And preferably naked. And soon.

  "Fine." Nell ducked under his arm and unlocked her door with jerky movements.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I believe this discussion is over."

  Thank God. Now that she understood his limits, maybe they could finally get somewhere.

  He'd been on edge all evening, his body fired and his imagination fueled by the memory of her warm and soft and pressed against the wall. Watching her smiling and relaxed with his family, he'd burned for her. He liked her, damn it. That didn't mean he had to spill his guts to her until they both floundered in the slippery mess.

  He flattened his hand against the door to hold it open.

  Nell turned her head, her hair brushing his cheek. "What are you doing?"

  Joe narrowed his eyes in surprise. "I'm coming in with you."

  "No, you're not. I am not having sex with a man who puts restrictions up front on our relationship."

  Frustration made him blunt. "It didn't bother you before dinner that there were restrictions on our relationship."

  Her mouth opened. Closed. A pink flush moved up her pale cheeks. God, she was pretty. Gotcha, Joe thought smugly. But he was wrong.

  "You were the one who took me to meet your f
amily," Nell pointed out.

  Cool, he thought, admiring and resentful. How could she be so cool?

  He stuck his thumbs through his belt loops. "So?"

  "So it bothers me now." She slipped inside. He was losing her.

  "Why don't we both sleep on it?" he suggested. "You can kick me out in the morning if you change your mind."

  "Thank you for the very attractive offer. But no."

  She leaned on the door to shut it. He resisted the urge to stick his foot over the threshold like a damn salesman.

  "No good-night kiss?" he taunted.

  The door jerked open again.

  Nell stood framed in the opening. "Okay."

  Before he could think, before he could react, she stepped up to him and twined her arms around his neck.

  She planted one right on his mouth. Full. Hot. Wet. Deep. She curled his toes. She fried his brain. And then, when his fingers flexed on her back and his stunned mind struggled to catch up with his amazed and grateful body, she dropped her arms and stepped back into her apartment.

  "Sleep on that," she said, and shut the door in his face.

  No sex, no sleep, no beer, no cigarettes. He might as well work.

  Joe tapped another search word into his computer, compiling his sources and statistics on the uninsured and underinsured of Chicago.

  It's not about statistics, Nell objected in his memory. My patients aren't numbers. They're people.

  Maybe people made an issue a story. Joe bookmarked a site on emergency-room costs at Chicago Memorial. But numbers made it news.

  And he was, or he had been, a decent newsman.

  He stretched his neck. Cracked his knuckles. He'd been at it for a couple of hours now. And Nell still kept butting into his head. He still wanted her. She'd imprinted herself on his body, impressed herself on his brain.

  That kiss… His blood surged heavily at the memory of her mouth, moving and hot on his, of her breasts, full and soft, of her belly cradling his erection.

  Okay, he was really uncomfortable now.

  To distract himself, he typed "Burdett" into his search engine. He wasn't really investigating her. He was just curious. Anyway, he thought with a flash of resentment, she sure as hell hadn't shown any scruples about digging into his personal life.