Midwife's Longed-for Baby & the Prince's Cinderella Bride & Bride for the Single Dad (9781488022142)

by Anderson, Caroline; Berlin, Amalie; Taylor, Jennifer

  “You’re leaving notes for me now?” Quinn’s voice cut across the cavernous ballroom-gymnasium, jolting her from her thoughts so that she had to grab the safety bars again to steady herself.

  Would his voice always jolt her?

  Heart hammering, she shut off the machine. At least she had the exercise to blame for the way her words came out, breathy and with effort. “I waited for an hour in the foyer, long past the time it started to look weird that I waited for you. Then I decided to write a note. The envelope was sealed, the front was as formal as could be.”

  Grabbing a towel, she dried herself off as she walked to meet him, pretending her legs wobbled because of the running too.

  * * *

  “I noticed.” Quinn thrust the envelope back at her, and looked around the ballroom to make certain they were alone. The last thing he needed this week was to have to explain why he was ogling the doctor or being overly familiar. “And I’m here. What do you want?”

  The nod to revenge he’d felt on leaving her there bent over the trash bin hadn’t even lasted until he’d gotten out the door—and that hadn’t even been a version of Anais who looked like his wife. While her hair and eyes remained the wrong color, her glasses were now gone and the hair pulled back from her face let him almost see her. Almost.

  Her hand shook a touch when she took the envelope, and he swallowed the urge to lash out at her again, to shock her with some other brutality from the frontline—he had a thousand such story grenades to hurl.

  “I just want to talk to you about something. Will you come to my office?”

  “Why not here?”

  “It’s private.”

  Their last conversation had been on repeat in his head since it had ended. While he’d met with his brother. While he’d found out the new family secret: the King was dying. Even sitting by his grandfather’s bed, he’d had her on repeat, enough to riddle out what had set her off.

  She’d paled before he’d even mentioned the cameras. She’d been sick about him, not about herself. She still felt something, no matter what she pretended.

  It would’ve been so easy to tell her to go to hell, ignore her, as he’d been more or less doing since that first day. To come when she was at lunch, leave when she’d gone home, and continue driving Ben up the wall by refusing to leave him alone in his misery.

  But she wanted to talk. And, God help him, he still wanted to talk to her. Maybe this was his opening. Apologies started with regret and, whether she’d admit it or not, he could see she had regrets.

  Quinn waved a hand for her to lead the way, and the relief on her face notched his hope higher. He had to pick up his usual leisurely pace to keep up with her and, directly in her wake, her scent channeled to him.

  Sweaty, but she still smelled fantastic. Clean, but sweet. Sexy.

  Her long, heavy locks had been pulled up high on her head, and the straightening she’d inflicted on it had come undone in the dampness. Waves stretched up from the bottom, where the mass had brushed against her bare back, gathering sweat. A shiver racked his body, raising chills all over him, and Quinn had to thank fate he was walking behind her rather than in her line of sight.

  Getting wrapped up in hormones wasn’t the right tack for this conversation—whatever it was going to be about. Before she’d left him, he could’ve easily made any private conversation with her about what his body wanted.

  He pulled his gaze to her feet, which seemed safest. Only feet attached to slender ankles, and then his eyes tracked up over the soft skin covering the newly acquired definition in her calves. Her thighs. Her rear…

  The shorts she wore clung in a fantastically distracting manner and, just below, he could see the dark little mole that always wanted to be kissed, peeking and retreating from the hem of her shorts on the right as her clothing moved with each step.

  By the time they reached her office he had to keep reminding himself of the objective, but every reminder was a little quieter than the hunger for her that had him shaking.

  “It’s hot in here,” he muttered, dragging his jacket off and tossing it onto the back of one of the guest chairs.

  “It gets warmer in here at night. Sorry. Would you like something to drink first?”

  “I’m fine.” He dragged the chair back and sat down, nodding for her to do the same. Hopefully outside of his reach. “But take out the contacts first.”

  “What?” She stilled, her expression shifting to something uncomfortably close to fear. “Why?”

  As if she had anything to fear from him. Aside from something he might say to upset her…

  “You want to talk to me? Great. I don’t want to talk to Anna. I want to talk to Anais. When you’ve got them in, it’s like I can’t see you, but you can still see me. You want me to stay? Take them out.”

  “Anna wants to talk to you.”

  Anna. Right. This wasn’t about them. This was about work.

  Grabbing his jacket again, he rose and headed toward the door. Only a romantic idiot would’ve gotten his hopes up. It angered him that he’d gotten them up without even realizing it. She’d been gone for seven years, now she suddenly wanted to reconnect? Sure. Dumbass.

  He’d reached the knob before she cracked. “Wait.”

  The sound of rustling came from behind him: drawers opening, things being dropped on the desk top. When he looked back, she had a contacts case and some fluid on the desk. Half a minute later, she had the contacts out and a tissue blotting her eyes.

  “Still not used to them?”

  “They’re fine.” She dropped the tissue on the desk, squared her shoulders, and came back around to sit as he’d done, chair turned, facing him. When she finally looked at him, his chest squeezed. Blue-green, like the southern seas on sunny white sand. Even with all the other changes, she was truly his wife in that moment. His eyes burned at the thought and he let his head bow forward until the burning passed, needing to get on with things, to keep from reaching for her, his tropical songbird masquerading as a pigeon.

  And with the door closed, he couldn’t smell anything but her.

  God, this was a mistake.

  “What did you want?”

  Don’t touch her.

  Don’t touch her. Don’t touch her.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Lieutenant Nettle.”

  Ben. Right. Good. He’d spent all that time at the facility for Ben, and she was one of his doctors. Made sense, if someone had a functioning brain.

  Rather than saying anything else, he nodded. The sooner he let her get on with it, the sooner he could leave.

  “I think it’s been really great for him to have you here. I’m glad you keep coming back. Not just because you averted disaster; he wouldn’t see anyone but staff otherwise. But now he’s talking a little, mostly to you, I think. But he’s having you stick around when the therapist comes, right?”

  “Right,” he said, then added, “What does Ben need? Just spit it out.”

  She shifted, tried to sit up straighter, but her shoulders already nearly reached her ears because of her stiff posture.

  “It’s not my place to say this—it has nothing to do with his limbs. I treat bone injury, not…soft tissue. But, since he’s allowed you to become part of his care, I’m taking the liberty on the chance that you can help him.”

  * * *

  Anais waited for his nod of understanding, and swallowed past the lump of fear in her throat. Since her mad scramble out of the country, she’d made a point of being good at eye contact. When you looked someone in the eye it established a connection that usually helped you in some fashion—intimidating muggers, letting professors know you meant business, letting patients know you were there and cared about what happened to them. Helpful.

  Looking Quinn in the eye, she felt small. And hideous. The conta
cts didn’t change her vision in any way, but they made her feel hidden, and unseen was safe. Now she had to dig deep for the courage she hadn’t even glimpsed since she’d seen him.

  One piece chipped free from her Anna armor, and she was stuttering with tears burning.

  “He’s got more damage than just his legs.” Her voice was too high, too shaky.

  Quinn’s stormy eyes lifted to hers again, narrowed. “I haven’t seen his chart and getting him to talk about his injuries is almost impossible. Was he shot? I know about the IED. They throw off shrapnel.”

  “He wasn’t shot. There were a few abdominal wounds from shrapnel, but most have healed nicely.” She should’ve rehearsed this. The words didn’t even want to move through her throat. “He lost one testicle.”

  Anna would be stronger. She’d look him in the eye again.

  It took force, and strength she didn’t really have at the time, but she met his gaze. The description of damage took the disappointment out of his eyes; he’d focused on Ben, just as she’d hoped.

  “They were able to restore urinary function. But there’s more…” She saw understanding dawn on his face and, the second it came, she wished she hadn’t needed to tell him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “MORE TO RESTORE?” Quinn’s words came slow and low, as if tension and gravity made him pause for a breath after each word.

  “Repairing areas with vascular damage.” She clarified, “They did what they could the first time, but it didn’t heal properly. The surgeon is confident he can restore full function, but Nettle—Ben—won’t talk to anyone about it. I even tried once, early on, because the staff GP said he’d gotten nowhere either. The psychiatrist also had no luck. He shut me down really quickly.”

  Quinn took it in dead silence.

  Was he getting it? She couldn’t tell if it was his usual tactic—letting the bad wash over him like water off a duck’s back—or if he was processing. There was concern on his face, but his silence didn’t give any hint to his thoughts. She’d have to put it to him straight.

  “I think if you talk to him about the procedure and why he should have it, he might listen…”

  He reached behind him and rubbed the back of his neck, finally pulling his gaze away from her for a moment. “He’s talking a little, but I don’t want to push him. It’s a delicate balance, right now.”

  Like Quinn was talking a little. It was only an opening, but one she’d never got before. Talking about problems, at least his friend’s problems, might be within his capabilities. He hadn’t said no. He just needed convincing.

  Anais stood and dragged her chair closer to him, close enough that their knees almost touched.

  “He’s got a chance at a normal life if he has the procedure. I doubt he feels like getting married knowing he won’t be able to father children, or…be…with his wife.” Don’t linger on the sex, even if she knew Quinn would definitely get that rationale. “I think that particular injury is an even bigger one mentally to him than his legs. It’s the reason for how you found him, I’m sure of it.”

  Quinn’s expression hadn’t changed—concerned, maybe a little out of his depth and horrified at the idea of talking to his friend about something so personal. But what got more personal than asking your friend to cut your dangling fingers off?

  She kept going. “With the surgery, he could have a normal life. We can work with him on his mobility—his life won’t ever be entirely normal because he’s a double amputee, but he could have a family.”

  A family. Something she’d wanted with Quinn. Something she still wanted, but had never been able to picture with anyone else. The word had become like a weapon, a word that could hurt them both. But if she couldn’t reach Nettle, she had to reach the person who could.

  Whatever it took.

  Before she could think too much about it, she took his left hand, forcing him to look at her again.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his stormy gray eyes sliding from their hands to her eyes, but lingering heavily over her mouth.

  He started to pull away.

  “Wait!” She transferred his hand to lie on her palm and traced the jagged edge left after the blast. “If you could have back these parts that were taken from you, if you could have them, fully functional, wouldn’t you want it? I know this was terrible for you, and I haven’t—” she swallowed “—I can’t close my eyes without seeing it.”

  Her throat squeezed so hard she could barely breathe, let alone talk. Blessedly. Those weren’t the words she’d needed to say. This wasn’t about her. It was about him. About Ben.

  “Imagine you could have a place for your wedding ring, the next time you married.” She felt tears slip as she said the words. “Wouldn’t you want that? I know…it didn’t…go the way…either of us hoped it would, but sometimes…”

  “I have no desire to get married again.” The words dropped like lead.

  A sharp jerk pulled his hand from hers and she lifted her eyes to his, not even trying to hide the tears quivering in her vision.

  She’d messed it up, yet more proof they never knew how to talk to one another. This wasn’t supposed to be about them. How had it become about them?

  Pressure on her neck made her lift her head, and the next instant his mouth covered hers. The moment stretched out and she measured it in breaths and heartbeats. One breath she was in her chair, the next she was in his lap, her sluggish mind struggling to catch up.

  All she knew in that moment was an ache that seared into her. His mouth, hot and desperate, on hers echoed the frenzied need crouching in her own breast since the moment she’d heard his laugh. She was a silly, naïve twenty-year-old again, starved for his kisses, for his touch, for the heat of him against her.

  When she opened her eyes, it hurt to see him. His brows were wrenched, as if touching her hurt more than helped. As if he tortured himself with every kiss, but couldn’t stop.

  She didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want to feel him shaking or the mingling of pleasure and bitter need that twisted her insides. But she couldn’t stop.

  Her arms came around his shoulders, pulling him close, reveling in his solidity, the breadth of him. His face had matured; his body had as well. He was a new man, but still the same.

  His arms around her waist bent her toward the floor, and he paused only long enough to shove chairs violently away, making a space for them.

  There was no way for reason to intervene, not when his unfamiliar and heady mass pressed her into the cold wood floor, and his hands began frantically pulling at the material separating them.

  Her tank top came up and her front-clasp bra popped open at his insistence. He only took his mouth from hers to turn his attention to her breasts.

  Her breath left her and she moaned so loudly that he lunged back over her, covering her mouth again with his own, absorbing every tortured gasp he ripped from her.

  Before she registered movement, he’d stripped her from the waist down. She could only hold his mouth to hers, needing his kisses to continue blocking out the world. Needing to fill her lungs with him.

  Tenacious, unhesitating, he pulled her legs around his hips, and launched himself into her.

  Dizzy and breathless, only his mouth kept the broken sobs of her regret and need from echoing through the whole facility.

  Like a wild thing, he set a thundering pace, hollowing her out and tearing down those carefully constructed walls of protection. Anna was gone. Anais was too. All thoughts gone. Nothing left but this need to get closer, to wrap her legs around him and pretend that the years in between never happened. Forget the bad times. Forget the end. Even forget the wedding. Pretend she didn’t know it was only lust and anger driving him. This was hate sex for him. That horrible need to be closer. They might never be cured of it but it had been twisted by her leaving, and
by his never showing up to begin with.

  Still, she hung in that heartbeat where she’d still believed they could have that future she’d so desperately wanted. With this man—the only man who could bullhead through her reservations and convince her to act against her best interests.

  He was with her, connected, inside her, but leaned away until it was his idea to return for another desperate, suffocating kiss. That frequent distance kept her from reaching for him until he deigned to return to her.

  The last time she’d held him, he’d still been a boy. A decidedly handsome, sexy boy, but now, broad-shouldered and deliciously heavier than he’d been, he still felt like hers. Angry, but hers. Wanting to punish her, but still part of her.

  It was wrong. All of it. The sex. Wanting to see him. Wanting to know him… Wrong. Stupid and wrong.

  Stretched too taut, the thread of her pleasure snapped, and the first wave of her climax blasted through her, but she was too far gone for moans or any sound. It was all she could do to keep breathing.

  When he stiffened and jerked, his broken breaths told her he’d come with her, and there had been no barriers in those few moments. Not even the sort that would prevent pregnancy.

  Pretend it was still then. Back when they’d had a future. When she’d have felt only bliss at the idea of having his child. Before she’d learned how much to value a quiet life.

  Quinn relaxed against her, his stubble-roughened cheek to her shoulder, rapid breath fanning her hair.

  What were they doing? Why had she kissed him back?

  Her hands ached to smooth over his back, to relearn the body she’d once known. To comb through his hair, trace his jaw and feel the rasp of his whiskers against her fingertips. She wanted to luxuriate in the tactile experience his body could bring. Just hold on and pretend for a little longer.

  Instead, she curled her fingers to her palms to keep from stroking his skin. As soon as she got control of her thoughts, of her mouth—as soon as she could stand the idea of him looking at her again—she’d push him away. Off her, out of her…