“We can’t!” He winced, then softened his voice. “Look. I need money. I owe some people. So if my mom likes the boy, then she’ll probably loosen up on that checkbook she’s clutching so tight.”
When Poppy didn’t reply, he took a step toward her, that smarmy smile stretching his mouth. “Hey, if she does, I’ll share some with you.”
“No.” She strode for the front door, the hairs on the back of her neck going on end as he began to follow. “I don’t want your money.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs. “You’ve got that rich and famous new boyfriend.”
She didn’t have any of Ryan. “Leave him out of this, too.”
“I don’t think I can. I’m a little desperate, see? Do you want me to go away?”
“Fervently.”
“Then get me fifty grand.”
She laughed. “Denny, you know I don’t have that kind of money or any way of getting it, either.”
“Of course you do. You’ve got Ryan Hamilton.”
As the implications of what Denny was saying sank in, Poppy started to shake. She shoved her hands in the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt to hide their telltale trembling. “Do you actually mean—”
“Get me the money, Poppy, and I’ll leave you alone. Otherwise I’m going to have to bring my parents their adorable little grandchild for a visit. My brother and sister don’t have any kids, did you know that? Granny and Papa could very well decide they want ours full-time and sue for custody. Maybe I’ll sue for custody.”
A sick feeling swamped her insides and it took all she had to stay upright. Paternal grandparents wouldn’t have any legal standing to take a son away from his mother, she tried assuring herself, even if they were very wealthy and very well-connected. As for Denny—he was too self-centered to want to take care of a small child. “No,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t quaver. “Not a chance.”
“Yes,” Denny countered. “But you have your way out. Go sweet-talk your lover. Give him a kiss or two and he’ll give you whatever you want.” He turned to saunter back down the path to the street. “Fifty grand, Poppy,” he said over his shoulder. “And real, real soon.”
Poppy leaned against the front door, trying to pull herself together before going inside and facing her sister. She had to get back to Mason. Avoid Ryan. And figure out what she was supposed to do next.
Man-break had been a disaster.
* * *
AT DUSK, SHAY piloted the boat, skimming over the water on the return trip to Ryan’s, as Poppy cautioned herself to keep her composure. She would come up with some way to handle the Denny situation on her own—taking care of herself and her son as she always did. Her pride precluded her from discussing it with her brother and sisters—if they thought she screwed up by falling for deadbeat Denny in the first place, imagine what they’d think if she shared he was a blackmailer! Telling Ryan of the other man’s threats wasn’t a possibility, either. The idea that he might think she’d ever consider taking advantage of him by asking for money horrified her.
But the encounter had her insides raw and quivering—not a good state to be in when seeking a solution. So she’d calm herself with some cuddle time with Mason and then retreat to her room. There, she’d think things through...and keep her distance from Ryan. Her emotions were too ragged to be around him now.
Though she remained firm about retrieving her heart ASAP. No way could she allow him to have it forever.
Once inside the house, she found Mason in his room, where he put up with her tight hug for approximately three seconds. Then he proceeded to tell her about his action-packed day with Charlie and Linus. He’d spent time with Poppy’s cousin before and she knew all the things he liked best. They had indeed swum in the pool. And though ice-cream sundaes hadn’t been on the lunch menu, they’d had pizza for dinner followed by a cone of rocky road.
“You’ve eaten already?” Poppy asked, perching on the end of the bed so she could reach Grimm, sprawled on the mattress. He opened one eye as she fondled his soft ears, then closed it as he resumed his light snoring.
“Yep. Charlie says swimming makes a boy hungry, and she’s right.” He yawned hugely, then returned to the piece of paper he was coloring at the nearby desk. “I’m tired, too, but I have to finish this map and give it to Duke before bedtime.”
“I can take it to him.” She’d leave it in the kitchen, where Ryan was sure to run across it.
“Has to be me. So he knows I’m on the job, too.” He lowered his voice, speaking almost absently. “I’m on the job, too.”
Poppy bit back a smile. His tendency to repeat little phrases that appealed to him was one of the things that made him such a joy. She couldn’t imagine her life without her little guy.
Would Denny’s parents really—no. It wasn’t a legal worry and was just something Denny said to scare her. Shoving the concern away, Poppy watched Mason cap the markers then stand. “I need to find Duke now.”
So much for avoiding the man altogether, Poppy thought. She got to her feet, too, and reached for Mason’s hand. “Let’s go.”
Mason’s feet dragged as they went down the stairs. He yawned again. “You really are sleepy,” Poppy said.
“Will you put me to bed after I see Duke?”
“Yeah, honey.” With her free hand, she stroked his straight blond hair. “Mace, you know that we’re only here at Ry—Duke’s for a couple more days, right? A friend of mine’s working to fix our cabin after the big storm. We’ll be back there soon.”
“I know,” Mason said, and yawned again.
He perked up a little when they found Ryan in his office. He was surrounded by what appeared to be reports and other stacks of paper. When she knocked lightly on the doorjamb he glanced over, then his gaze sharpened and he got to his feet.
He wore dark jeans and a dress shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled to reveal his forearms. They were roped with muscle and dusted with dark hair and she stared at them, wondering how that simple length of bone and flesh could represent so much maleness and so much power. She felt her pulse pounding at her wrists and her throat. Looking up, she caught Ryan’s hot gaze running over her slowly, taking in every inch. Oh, boy.
“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, his focus now trained on her face.
“Hey back.” She felt another baffling blush heat her face. Embarrassed, she looked down at Mason and squeezed his hand. “Don’t you have something to give Duke?”
Mason thrust out the colored sheet. “This one I did today after Linus and me scouted around.”
Nodding, Ryan took the paper. “I appreciate your hard work.”
Her boy sent Poppy a triumphant look. “Hard work,” he repeated, then turned back to his idol. “Don’t forget about the X’s. The best hiding places are there. Escape routes are yellow.”
“Sure, kid.” Ryan set the paper on his desk.
“We’ll say good-night, then,” Poppy said.
Ryan’s gaze sought hers. “Come back when he’s down for the count, okay?”
“Uh...”
“I have something for you.”
Perhaps her heart. Perhaps he’d found it somewhere among the mussed sheets and now he intended to return it. Oh, Walker, she thought, you are really reaching.
“Poppy?” He stepped close. Touched her face.
Scrambled her thoughts. Made her skin prickle with a rush of almost painful awareness.
“Come back.”
And because she was weak when it came to this man, she agreed.
Still, she stalled after getting Mason into his Spider-Man pajamas and under the blankets. Showers were always a good thinking place, so she took a long, hot one, letting the water fall over her as she leaned against the cool tile. But instead of the Denny problem, her mind kept returning to the man
downstairs. He was so wrong for her, as she’d known from the very beginning in his dark glasses and expensive clothes. But he’d taken off his disguise around her, hadn’t he? She knew him now, his tragedy, his cell-deep pain, the way both tried to destroy him in March.
And that didn’t make it easier to keep away.
So she found herself walking toward his office once again, dressed in her most comfortable jeans, a long-sleeved pink T-shirt of the softest brushed cotton and her sheepskin boots. As armor, it probably wasn’t particularly effective, but she figured anything short of chain mail wasn’t going to protect her from his touch, anyway.
No more skin-to-skin with him, she promised herself, even as she pressed her palm against the place he’d caressed just an hour before. The four points where his fingertips had met her cheek continued to tingle.
Getting her heart back and getting over him prohibited any further physical contact.
This time when she approached the office door, there was no need to knock. He was seated in his chair, staring off into space, but his gaze snapped to hers when she stood framed in the entrance. As he rose, he gave her a smile.
She could count on her hands how many of his she’d seen. A Ryan smile boosted his magnetism by about three thousand degrees and it already started out at a number she couldn’t even name. As it widened, her pulse skipped and then settled into a solid thrum. Watch yourself, Walker, she thought, and stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I’m here.”
“Now.” He cocked her head and studied her face. “But you were gone all day. Something about a ‘man-break’?”
Charlie. Poppy shrugged.
“Well, as you said, you’re here now.” He walked toward her. “This way.”
She hesitated to follow him as he made a turn in the hall that would take her toward his rooms. “Uh...”
He glanced back. “Please, Poppy.”
Though her concerns were not allayed, her feet had their own mind. When they reached the door that led to his sitting room, he pushed it open, then stepped aside.
Her breath caught. The room was lit only by the low flames in the fireplace and the candles in holders on a table for two set up nearby. There was soft music playing and the scent of good food in the air. A bottle of wine cooled in a bucket of ice next to stemware that gleamed like diamonds.
She was drawn toward the pretty sight. “What’s all this?” she asked, pulling a hand free of her pocket to touch a linen napkin.
“I thought...I wanted to treat you right tonight. Special.”
“It’s all very pretty.” The plates were covered with silver warmers. She lifted one and the scent of mushroom-and-chicken penne made her mouth water. “Linus cooked?”
“I set the table myself. Picked the wine.” He crossed to her and drew out a chair.
“Well, then.” It was impossible not to be charmed. She sat. Once he took his place, he poured them both wine. With the delicate stem of the glass in her hand, she looked at the fire through the straw-colored liquid. “This is nice.”
The rim of his glass pinged when it met hers. “To us,” he said.
She froze. He must have read the dismay on her face because he replayed the moment. “I mean, to...”
“Spring,” Poppy offered.
“To spring,” he repeated.
And with that awkward moment out of the way, the meal proceeded. They ate slowly, sipped at the wine, let quiet moments of companionable silence stretch the interlude.
It was all too comfortable, Poppy suddenly thought. Too...domestic.
Romantic.
Wrong.
But she didn’t protest when he poured her coffee from an insulated carafe and led the way to the couch, where they’d made licentious use of freesias the night before. The remaining flowers were still in their vase and Poppy wouldn’t allow herself to look at them as she settled into a spot on the cushions far from Ryan.
Still, it remained too cozy.
“Tell me about your life,” she said, to burst the mood. “Tell me about what you do in L.A.” Anything to stop herself from picturing him with her.
His eyebrows rose as if he were surprised by the question, but he answered readily. “Pretty much what you’ve seen me do here. I read a lot of material, examine a lot of reports. We have a production company—a couple of partners and I. For some projects I’m the executive producer...essentially the guy who gets the money. My real interest is on the development side, though. That’s when I work at identifying and acquiring good material.”
“Ah. No acting anymore?”
He shook his head. “It became something I didn’t enjoy any longer. Being in someone else’s skin—the skin some writer had dreamed up—didn’t feel like living to me. As a profession it was more like wallowing...and the lifestyle attached to it no longer appealed. So there came a time when it was important for me to move forward.”
But he was stuck again, Poppy thought. Stalled. Wallowing. Unable to fight free of the dark nightmare he’d entered four years ago. Oh, Ryan.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” With a little shrug, she put her coffee aside.
“Your emotions cross your face like clouds cross the sky,” he said. “Something’s up. I saw the shadows in your eyes when you returned from your man-break.”
“I...” And then it all descended in a deluge like that last-of-winter hailstorm: Ryan’s bottomless grief and his inability to escape it. Her devotion to Mason and the unexpected reappearance of his father. The love she felt for Ryan and the fact that he was the last man she could have.
“Poppy.” He moved swiftly. One moment he was four cushions away, in the next he was close enough to make contact.
To protect herself, Poppy pressed back against the sofa’s arm. “Don’t.”
He cursed under his breath. “Baby. Something’s wrong. Can’t you tell me, sweetheart?”
At the endearments, tears stung her eyes. She was accustomed to Mommy and knucklehead, not baby. Not sweetheart. Nobody called her such tender names. Desperate to hold herself separate from him, she shook her head.
His fingers speared through his hair. “All right. All right. Keep your secrets. Just...let me hold you, Poppy. Please. Let me do that one small thing for you.”
That’s when she realized he didn’t have to be touching her to touch her. That he didn’t have to know he held her heart to rend it in two. That she was weak, weak, weak, because she let herself be taken into his arms, scooped against a wide, strong chest.
Her cheek turned into his throat and she pressed a kiss there as he carried her into the bedroom.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A SOUND YANKED Ryan awake. His eyes snapped open and he stared into the dark, still bleary from sleep.
A child’s voice cried out in terror.
Acting on instinct, he rolled from the bed. Another whimper had him shoving his legs into his discarded jeans and running from the room. Fear was fully engaged, not his mind, and it drove him down the hall then up the stairs. Not until he pushed open a bedroom door and saw the small blond figure lying in bed did he come conscious to the present.
Lake house. Night. Earlier, he’d taken Poppy to bed, flipping on the switch to monitor her son’s room.
It was his cry he’d heard, not Tate’s.
Then Poppy’s son moaned again, his legs thrashing beneath the covers. For a moment Ryan hesitated, but a sharper cry had him moving again, crossing to the mattress. He put his hand on a small bony shoulder.
So familiar, he thought, his belly knotting.
Ignoring the sensation, he shook the child. “Kid. Wake up, kid.”
Little hands clutched at the sheets. Another sound of distress.
Ryan dropped to the mattress and brushed his hand over the boy’s damp f
ace. “It’s just a bad dream.”
His eyes fluttered open. He blinked. “Duke? Duke!” Then he launched himself into Ryan’s arms.
What could he do but fold them around the small figure? Though his belly cramped tighter, he let the boy press against him, little-kid tears falling onto his bare chest.
In a muffled voice Poppy’s son told a story about scary monsters and snowmen on wheels and how he couldn’t find a good hiding place from them. What would happen if the bad things came back?
“You have your maps,” Ryan murmured, “remember?” To get more comfortable, he propped his back against the pillows and stretched out his legs.
“Yeah.” The boy accommodated the new position, plastering himself to Ryan’s side, a skinny arm stretched across his waist.
“You have your escape routes. You need to hide, you head for those places you marked with an X.”
“Right, Duke,” the kid agreed in a sleepy voice.
Ryan’s hand passed over corn-silk hair. “Go back to sleep.”
“You’ll keep me safe?”
He stiffened, the question stabbing him straight in his clenching gut. Surely Tate had expected the same from his daddy. Ignoring the pain, he cleared his throat. “I’ll do my best.”
It didn’t surprise Ryan that Poppy’s son still had his suspicions. “Duke’ll stay on the job?”
Hell. “I’ll stay on the job.”
The boy was back to sleep in five minutes. Ryan remained in place, however, propped against the headboard with the child slumped against him even as the room lightened with dawn’s approach. He stayed awake by imagining his eyes propped open with toothpicks, afraid if he fell asleep he might fool himself into thinking that he was beside his own boy.
That his son was still alive.
I failed you, Tate. I’m so sorry. I’m so damn sorry I didn’t keep you safe.
Anguish took its dark hold on him, like a skeletal hand reaching from a grave. It would be so easy to fall six feet deep, he thought, and pull the dirt over himself like bedcovers.
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