The circumstances were unsettling for him, Serena realized perfectly well. Nate was his son. Discovering so suddenly that he was a father was understandably traumatic. But what had drawn her to him years ago was sensing that Blake was afraid. Not of hard things. Not of danger, or insurmountable problems, or pain, or all the other serious things that everybody else in the universe was afraid of.
Blake was afraid of being human. Afraid of needing. That’s what had driven her into his arms seven years ago, and damned if it didn’t drive her just as crazy now. She charged forward, her arms swooping around his waist.
“Blake…” Her cheek nuzzled into his shoulder. “I want you to cut it out. You’re being ridiculously hard on yourself. And, sure, this is an uncomfortable situation, but you’re only making it worse. We’ll tell him about your being his dad when it seems right to both of us. But it’s not like this is a race. There’s no deadline, no fire. For that matter, we don’t need to know at this exact minute how you’re going to fit in his life—or if you should—or how any of this is going to work out. I think some of those answers will show up if we just take it easy. Breathe. Let it be. Spend a little casual time together.”
One minute, she was delivering that prosaically sensible lecture…and the next minute, the whole world went to hell.
One minute, her mouth was talking to his collarbone. The next, her lips were crushed under his. One minute, she was snuggled into an affectionate hug between old friends. The next, she was laid up against him like a flower connected to its life source.
One minute—one short minute ago—she’d been trying to communicate serious things to Blake. Important things. That he was a good man. That no matter how touchy or difficult the situation was, she trusted him. That she’d never doubted his integrity.
Her opinion hadn’t exactly changed. It was just that from absolutely nowhere, in the middle of that nice ordinary hug, he’d suddenly cocked his knuckles under her chin. The instant her face tilted, his mouth pounced on hers, prowled hers, took hers faster than a bank robber in a getaway car.
The tile floor in her kitchen was suddenly shaking, which was pretty amazing considering this part of Montana had never suffered an earthquake. Worse yet, she remembered this feeling. In seven years she hadn’t felt it. In seven years, she hadn’t wanted it.
It was frightening to discover a need this huge—but the sensation was exactly how it had been between them before. Hunger like an explosion. Desire like a fire. A need that seemed to surge from a desperate loneliness. Blake always had people around him, yet he’d always kept himself so self-contained. There was only one other time he’d allowed that private door to peek open—at least around her—and the result had been like a blast furnace blowing out, blowing up, out of both their controls.
Lips whispered over lips, bit, then whispered again. His first kiss was tender-rough. That one fed into another, coaxed into another, seeped into a haunting fourth kiss that involved tongues and tastes. Her mind was spinning at the luring taste of him, the promise, the sensation of being captured and captivated. She felt his hard muscular chest against her breasts, the heat shimming off his skin—not because the early evening was hotter than a cyclone, but because of her. Because he was hot for her. And Blake, that other time, had ripped all her moral and sensible moorings loose because of the naked, wicked longing he’d communicated to her. It was as if he’d never loved until he touched her.
More tantalizing yet—more terrifying yet—she felt exactly the same way.
A screen door suddenly slammed. “Hey, Mom. Hey, Dr. Blake.” One hand showed up on the other side of the kitchen counter. The lid on the ceramic cookie jar clattered open. The small, grubby hand filched two Oreos, replaced the jar lid and disappeared from sight again. Footsteps pattered down the hall, trailed by the clicks and claws of his critter side-kicks.
Still, it was Blake’s sharp hands on her shoulders that forced Serena’s eyes open. She didn’t want to wake from this misty dream. Her body hadn’t felt charged this way in so long. It wasn’t just the joyful, exciting lustiness but the feeling of being five hundred percent alive and female, the way she’d never been with anyone else. If this wasn’t wise, she didn’t care. In her heart, in her head, Serena believed in the court of emotions. Nothing could be wrong that felt this right. So there were risks. So there were problems. Even terrible, frightening problems.
But she loved those kisses. And she loved being kissed by Blake.
Slowly, though, her heartbeat simmered down and then stilled. Blake’s hands dropped, as if burned by her shoulders. Guilt flamed in his eyes. He swallowed hard.
“Serena. Did he see us?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was still breathless. His fault.
“My God. I swore I wouldn’t make anything about this tough for Nate. Or you. That I’d be careful. I’m sorry—”
“I’m a grown woman. I could have stopped you if I’d minded being kissed.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Her eyes searched his. She wanted to see the light in his face that had been there moments before, the light that had been there for her, in the moments when nothing else existed but the two of them. Instead she saw the responsible frown, the worry in his gaze. The good-man-Blake…but the Blake who had never really seen her. Years before or now. “I don’t think kissing right now was the most sensible idea we’ve ever had. I’ll grant you that much. But as far as I know, the civilized world as we know it wasn’t completely annihilated because we lost our heads for a couple of seconds.”
“You’re making a joke. But I don’t think it’ll seem so funny if Nate saw us and starts asking questions.”
“Blake—”
“What?”
“Go home,” she ordered him.
Blake prowled restlessly around his kitchen. Go home, she’d told him. Well, he’d been home for an hour and the truth was, he figured he was lucky Serena hadn’t skinned him alive before kicking him out.
Irritably he opened a cupboard, spotted bottles of brandy and whiskey, slammed it. He’d never been a big drinker, but since discovering his real father had died with a bourbon in one hand and a cigar in the other, somehow he’d lost all taste for even a shot of hard liquor. Right then, though, he needed something. He yanked open the refrigerator, saw grapefruit juice and pop and a carton of milk. Yanking out the carton, he took a long pull.
It didn’t help. Serena’s face stole into his mind and filled up all the empty spaces.
He took a second long gulp, then slammed the refrigerator door closed and, hands on hips, paced a new hole in the ash-gray carpet in the living room. Blinds dulled the light, concealed the vibrant colors of sunset. The rental house on Stoney Ridge Road was a short mile from his pediatrician’s office and that was all he’d cared about when he’d come back to Whitehorn. A place to hang his hat that was convenient to his work. He didn’t really live here. When it came down to it, he didn’t really live anywhere.
Blake paced from window to door, then from door back to window. The one thing he’d always done right in his life was behave like a decent man. Except, of course, with Serena. So far he was batting zero with her. He’d done everything wrong he could possibly do. He’d gotten her pregnant and disappeared from her life without even asking if that one night had consequences. Yes, damn it, she should have told him, but he’d known for quite a few years that it took two to tango, so it was up to him to make sure he did the responsible, honorable thing. So fine—a little late—he finally shows up years later, only to bumble into her life like a case of poison ivy.
She didn’t want him, didn’t need him. That was obvious after the first meeting. It was equally obvious to Blake that she’d have found a reason or a way to tell him about Nate if she believed he’d be a decent father. So, Blake figured, he’d have to prove he was worthy of being a dad. No sweat. He didn’t want to risk being in Nate’s life unless he could prove that to himself and to Nate, as well as Serena.
He poun
ded a fist into his palm. He’d sure shown her, hadn’t he? And his son. One day with Nate and all he’d done was bore the kid witless. The kid was six years old and already had nice, polite manners and tact. But hell, Blake never imagined that his own son would have to practice tact on him. Then there was the business of jumping Serena. Right in the kitchen. Right in the window. Right where his son could have seen them—had walked in on them, for that matter. He never jumped women. Ever.
Just twice in his life.
And both times it was the same woman.
He stormed back into the kitchen to take another wallowing gulp from the milk carton. The real irony was that being a decent guy had never been that hard a challenge. It was just when he got near Serena that every good-man thought flew out of his head. He couldn’t explain it. She was a woman who giggled at sunshine and sang when she drove. A woman who seemed to find joy even in the corners of a dark day. She was light and exuberant life and as naturally sensual as a dew-dripping rose, a good person from the inside out. So there was no understanding why his fantasies of her were all wicked. All wild. All amoral.
He heard an abrupt knock on his front door and swiftly ran for it. God knew, he was expecting no one at nine on a Saturday summer night, but he was so grateful for the interruption that he didn’t care who it was.
Just as he reached the door, Garrett Kincaid turned the knob and cocked his head inside. “It’s perfectly okay if you kick me out. I should have called before coming. I never like dropping by without warning, but I was already in town and I just wondered how you were getting on.”
“Just fine, sir. And I’m glad you stopped by. Come on in.” Automatically, Blake extended a courteous hand, then ushered the older man toward the chairs in the living room. Mentally he wanted to kick himself for calling him sir. Garrett had never treated him formally, in fact he’d warmly encouraged Blake to call him “Grandfather.” But the relationship was still so new that it was hard for Blake to feel comfortable with it, even though he’d both liked and respected Garrett Kincaid from their first meeting.
This evening, as before, Garrett’s ramrod-straight posture denied his seventy-two years. His straight hair had gone silver, but his features were strong, his eyes kind as they first studied his grandson, then wandered around the room. “Neat as a pin. Just like it was last time. Of course, you haven’t added a single thing to gather dust.”
“Um, I’m not much on collecting doodads and decorating. What can I get you to drink?”
Garrett slapped down his Stetson, then settled slowly in a dove-gray chair under a window. “Willow bark tea, if you’ve got it.”
“Somehow I sense I’m being teased,” Blake said dryly.
“Because you are. No common sense natural remedies for a high-class Los Angeles doctor, huh?”
“Ex-L.A. doctor. And I may not have willow bark, but now that I’m a high-class Montana doctor, I can probably scare up some ibuprofen for you. You want it with water, iced tea? Are we talking arthritis?”
“We’re talking a man who’s too old to spend seven hours on a horse in heat like today. But I never could stand being idle, so I’m just stuck paying the price. And water will do. But I didn’t come here to talk about my aches and pains.” Again Garrett’s gaze swept the room, taking only a second to visually vacuum the contents. “I’d hoped you’d be more settled in by now.”
“I am settled.” The instant Blake fetched the ice water and tablets, he tried to subtly examine his grandfather’s coloring and general health without getting his head bitten off. Though whipped, Garrett looked fine. He was as straightforward and perceptive as in their first meeting.
“No. You’re just camping here still. No pictures on the wall. No color. Nothing of your own. I’d hoped once you spent a little time in Whitehorn that you’d want to stay.”
“To be honest, I haven’t made any long-term plans. For right now I’m happy to be back in Whitehorn, happy to get to know you, and I couldn’t feel luckier at Carey needing another pediatrician. I love the kids, the office setup, everything about joining her practice. So far, people seem to have accepted me back with no problems. If anything, they’ve been unexpectedly welcoming.” Except for the only two people who really mattered to him. But his grandfather was the last person with whom Blake would willingly discuss Serena and Nate.
“Did you think the townspeople wouldn’t be welcoming?” Garrett studied him again, then sighed. “You’re still troubled. You thought folks would judge you because of who your father was? And are you feeling shamed to find out whose blood is in your veins?”
Blake met his eyes. “I won’t lie and say your son was someone I’d ever emulate. But I was both honored and proud to find out that you were my grandfather, sir.”
“Hell. You’ve got better manners than I do. You’re also a kinder man.” Garrett leaned forward. “But I just had a feeling we needed to talk about this a little more. In my opinion, the only shame in this situation is mine. You had no choice in who sired you. I had choices about how I raised my son. Somehow I failed to raise Larry with honor and principles.”
“No.” From the start, Blake had felt drawn to the older man’s sense of justice. “Blaming yourself isn’t right. Maybe if a child goes through some terrible tragedy, they’ve got an excuse for turning out rough. Otherwise, when a man grows up, it’s up to him to quit hiding behind excuses and to take control of his own life. My father had no business stepping out on his wife, much less populating the country with a half dozen illegitimate kids.”
Just saying the words stabbed Blake’s conscience with a guilt-sharp knife. He had, of course, produced an illegitimate son of his own. That his father’s blood flowed in his veins nagged like a sore on his soul. He’d never meant to be careless with Serena. He’d never knowingly desert a woman in trouble, or a child. Yet he’d done both things—just like his scoundrel of a father.
“Blake,” Garrett said quietly, “something is seriously bothering you.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Have you talked to your father since you found out about your Kincaid background—obviously, I mean the father who raised you, Harold Remmington?”
“No. Neither has Trent. But we’ve both been estranged from him since my mother died. There was no sudden hostility, but none of us ever had a family feeling. Now, of course, I know why. He knew he wasn’t our father.” Blake stood and ambled toward the window to flick open the blinds. Nothing outside to see; night was dropping faster than a stone. But weeks before he’d realized that Garrett hated feeling cooped up and started acting antsy and claustrophobic if he couldn’t see outside. “If Harold called, I’d help him if I knew he needed something. But after Mom died, he moved, retired south. He’s made no effort to keep in touch with me or Trent.”
“So you have no one in your life from before,” Garrett said thoughtfully.
From before it was discovered that Larry Kincaid was his real father, Blake understood him to mean. “If you’re asking if I have anyone to count on, I don’t need anyone. For that matter, if there was some crisis, I have a brother. And you’ve been nothing but real family to me from the day we met. There’s no problem, sir.”
“I didn’t encourage you to come back to Whitehorn to make you unhappy.”
“I wanted to come back. To meet you, spend time with you. And once I was divorced…well, I’d become disillusioned with big-city doctoring by then, anyway. I don’t know that I’ll stay. I don’t know where I belong, if you want to know the truth. But the last thing you need to do is worry about me, sir.”
“I’d just hoped…” Garrett hesitated. “I’d never have known about my son’s behavior if he hadn’t developed a conscience at the end and left a letter in his will. But by contacting you and the others, I’d hoped to make things right. Not just by leaving you a slice of the Kincaid ranch, but by being kin to you.”
“I understand about that drive to make things right. I think you passed that trait straight on to me,” Blake said with a
touch of humor. “I never could sit still more than two seconds when I felt responsible and capable of making something better.”
“Blake?”
“What?”
“I’m proud you’re my grandson. I’m just sorry I never had the chance to be your grandfather through your growing-up years.” Garrett pushed at his knees, then stood up, carefully rolling his shoulders as if to shake out the kinks. “Would you come to dinner at the ranch on Sunday?”
“It seems to me I owe you an invitation the other way. But I’m not much on cooking, eating most of my dinners at the Hip Hop Café in town.”
“Sounds fine by me. What day?”
Wily old man. A few minutes later Blake walked him to his pickup, thinking Garrett was one brilliant, manipulative dude. Blunt as bananas, but straightforward and honest. He wanted a relationship with his grandson—and all the other grandsons that his womanizing, philandering son-of-a-seadog Larry had fathered. But Garrett was nothing like his son. He was a good man. A moral man. With heart.
He’d been reaching out to Blake steadily for three months now.
Standing in the driveway, he watched Garrett’s truck pull away. The sky had turned a dark sapphire. Lamplights were popping on in the neighborhood, screen doors clapping as moms called for their kids to come in, fireflies dancing in the front yards. An occasional car passed, but Whitehorn closed down early. Families were all gathered up by this time of night. There were still sounds—an occasional burst of laughter or screeches of rock and roll through the open windows, a dog barking, a baby crying.
Blake closed his eyes, inhaling all the smells and sounds of Whitehorn. It was home. But he wasn’t sure now—any more than he’d been sure as a child—if he really belonged here.
You Belong to Me Page 6
