He felt a cold chill run through him. This actually might be a dire emergency. Why hadn’t the ever-dependable Sarah called? What if she and Brady weren’t at the Sheelys? He knew that was the main reason he had delayed making the call to the Sheely home. Because he wasn’t ready to cope with the possibility that the two weren’t there, that nobody knew were they were.
The front doorbell sounded. Quint fought a fast growing fear. He knew from experience that state troopers made house calls if the news was bad enough.
He couldn’t even hope it might be Sarah at the front door because she wouldn’t ring the bell, she had a key. Anyway, she always used the kitchen door to enter the house because it was adjacent to the carport. He glanced through the window to see that the carport was still empty. The white Ford Taurus he’d bought for Sarah to drive Brady around in was nowhere in sight.
The bell rang again, and Quint decided to answer it, to put off making that call to the Sheelys. To gain a few moments respite before he had to face the unbearable …
He opened the door and found Rachel Saxon standing on the small cement porch. With Brady in her arms. Quint, rendered speechless by a breathtaking mix of relief and incredulity, could do nothing but stare mutely at the pair.
“Hi,” Rachel said after a few silent moments. She sounded slightly breathless.
“Hi, Daddy.” Brady’s head was tucked into the curve of Rachel’s shoulder, and he didn’t lift it as he gave Quint a sleepy grin.
There was another moment or two of silence while the three of them watched each other.
“Hi,” Quint finally managed a word. Was he hallucinating? Rachel Saxon with Brady? And this was a different Rachel Saxon than the one he was used to seeing.
She wore a pale yellow ribbed shirt that clung to her small breasts and a skirt of the same color in some gauzy material that swung loose and seductively around her legs. He could see their long, smooth outline beneath the material as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, backlit by the setting sun. His eyes lowered to her slim feet, encased in sexy strappy sandals, her toenails painted a deep shade of pink.
He swallowed the saliva gathering in his mouth. God, he was practically drooling over her! He had found her attractive in her courtroom power suits and sensible shoes, but in these soft feminine clothes she was pretty much irresistible. And she was holding his son, who looked perfectly content in her arms.
Quint couldn’t ever remember feeling so utterly confused. “Brady is with you,” he said, in what had to be the winner in the Comment-Most-Deserving-The-Comeback-Duh Contest. If there were such a thing.
“You didn’t know?” murmured Rachel.
At least she hadn’t said Duh! “No, I didn’t know where he was.”
“Oh, I—I’m sorry.” Rachel was nonplussed. Sarah hadn’t told him? Was Quint going to consider baby-sitting to be baby-snatching, when done by her? They hadn’t parted on the best of terms this morning. Actually, they’d never been close to being on anything other than bad terms.
Quint continued to stare, transfixed, as she cuddled Brady. The sight of his child in her arms seemed to be imprinting itself into every molecule of his being. Brady was safe and happy, and she was the most beautiful, appealing woman he’d ever seen, her expression tender, her wide hazel eyes soft with maternal warmth.
“Is Sarah back yet?” she asked at last.
“Sarah,” he echoed. The name had a familiar ring.
“Sarah called Katie at the office to say she was stuck on the Garden State Parkway with a flat tire,” said Rachel. “Matt was with her. Katie used Call Forwarding to connect her with me. Matt was changing the tire, and I told Sarah not to worry about the time. Brady and I were at my sister’s house. We ended up eating dinner there.”
She smiled at Brady, lifting one hand to smooth down his light, spiky hair. “You ate everything, didn’t you, Brady? All your potatoes and chicken and carrots, and ice cream and cake.”
“I eat it all up,” Brady affirmed.
Quint wondered if what she was telling him was supposed to make sense. At least he’d recalled who Sarah and Matt and Katie were. That was a start.
“I pay with Snowy,” Brady announced, snuggling closer to Rachel.
“I see,” said Quint, who clearly didn’t.
Rachel smiled, amusement momentarily displacing anxiety. She had never seen anyone look so befuddled. “I don’t think you’re following, Counselor.”
“You’re very perceptive,” he said dryly.
“Snowy is my sister’s little girl. She’s three, and she and Brady played together today.”
“And Snowy is short for what?” Quint was curious. It struck him as a rather strange name. “Snowball? Snow-flake?”
“No, her given name is Snowy. My sister decided why not? After all, there are other names related to weather—Sunny, Skye, Rainie, Storm.”
“Misty,” added Quint. His dark eyes gleamed.
Rachel felt a queer little tingle of excitement flare through her, though she knew she should take offense at him for practically throwing down the gauntlet that was Misty Tilden. She cleared her throat. “About that will—”
“We pay Barbie, Daddy,” Brady said importantly.
“What?” Quint’s eyes widened. “Uh-oh.”
Rachel couldn’t help but laugh at his expression which was apprehension mixed with discomfiture. “Don’t panic. Brady was very macho. He pulled the heads off every doll and then used the bodies as guns.”
“Ah, so he is already reaping the rewards of his relationship with his uncles Austin and Dustin.” Quint was sardonic. “I hope your niece wasn’t too traumatized.”
“Not a bit. Snowy was thrilled. Her parents are fervently antiweapon, and she hadn’t realized how versatile Barbie can be.”
“I think you’d better come in.” Quint put his hand between her shoulder blades and gently but firmly propelled her forward, into the entrance hallway of the house. He reached for his son, but Brady tightened his small arms and legs around Rachel.
“That Mommy,” Brady said.
Rachel blushed. Quint hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she’d arrived with Brady, but now his gaze turned piercing and intense. She was acutely aware of the feel of his big, warm palm pressed against her back.
“Am I hearing correctly? Does Brady think you’re his mother?” Quint growled.
“I don’t think he thinks that,” she murmured.
“That’s what he called you. Mommy.” Quint moved even closer to her.
Unlike this morning in his office, Rachel didn’t try to get away from him. He’d put his other hand on Brady’s legs and she felt the warm strength of his fingers against her belly. She felt encircled by him, trapped. But she didn’t attempt to escape.
Rachel offered herself an assortment of excuses why not: she had a baby in her arms and didn’t want any sudden action to upset him, Quint wouldn’t let her go anyway, it was childish to run.
Each one legitimate, yet paltry, she nervously admitted to herself. She also made herself face the true reason why she didn’t move. Because she couldn’t. She literally could not move. The physical sensations occurring in her body precluded any chance of flight. Her legs were trembling too much to walk; she felt sluggish, as if her blood had slowed to a turgid crawl through her veins. Maybe it had because her pulses were throbbing thickly, heavily, in her throat, in her chest, between her thighs …
“Explain, Rachel.”
The deep sound of his voice made her shiver. The hard glint of something primal shone in his eyes. Not anger, but something far more dangerous.
Rachel gulped. “Some soccer moms were selling cookies at the mall, as a fund-raiser, and one of the women told Brady to ask Mommy if he could have a cookie.”
She remembered Brady’s thunderstruck expression as he followed the woman’s gaze to Rachel. “Mommy?” he’d repeated uncertainly.
The woman had handed him a cookie, and Rachel watched comprehension dawn on the little bo
y’s face. It occurred to her then that she hadn’t given Brady her name or any clue as to her identity. Sarah had plopped him into her arms, and off they’d gone.
He must have been wondering who she was, and now the mystery was solved; Rachel easily interpreted his toddler logic. Spending the day with Snowy and Laurel had cemented the word in his mind. Snowy called the dark-haired woman who looked a lot like Rachel Mommy. Obviously, Rachel was one of those mommy people too.
“He’s using it as a generic word,” she suggested, stroking the little boy’s head. “Like ‘lady’ or ‘caregiver’.”
“Lady doesn’t have the same connotation as Mommy,” Quint pointed out. “He’s never called anyone else ‘Mommy.’ He’s never once called Sarah ‘Mommy,’ and she is his caregiver.” They were standing so close, she was practically in his arms. The heat of sexual arousal burned through him fast and hard. “And why were you and Brady at the mall hobnobbing with cookie-selling soccer moms?”
“Good question.” She fought a crazy impulse to lean into him.
It was becoming difficult to maintain her normally straight, upright posture when her body wanted to relax. Against him. To let him support her with his strength. He could do it easily. Rachel felt her eyelids grow heavy, her neck felt weak. She wanted to lay her head on his chest and close her eyes.
“Yeah, I’m noted for my aggressive cross-examinations. And if you don’t want me to treat you like a hostile witness, then stop stalling and answer me.”
The authoritative demand in his tone sent a shiver through her. It seemed that the more submissive she was, the more domineering he became. A very telling response.
Rachel knew what she must do and tried to kindle a much needed spark of spunk. She had to take charge and stand up for herself. Which was directly at odds with this overwhelming need to cuddle against him and let him hold her.
“Down, Mommy,” Brady demanded, suddenly beginning to stir in her arms.
Rachel was loath to relinquish her little charge, but knew she had no other choice. She bent to set him on his feet.
“It’s time for your bath, Brady,” said Quint.
Brady immediately stopped squirming and regained a stranglehold grip on Rachel. “Mommy do it!”
“Yes,” agreed Quint. “She will.”
He slid his arm around Rachel’s waist in an ironclad hold. When she straightened, she was even closer to him, their bodies aligned and touching. Rachel had to remind herself to breathe.
“You’re not leaving here until he’s in bed and I have all the facts,” Quint warned. “And maybe not even then.” His voice was low and husky against her ear.
Rachel’s heart thumped. The situation called for her to rip his throat out for daring to issue such a threat—or at least to make some sort of protest. Even a simple “No” would suffice.
Instead she remained silent, and she knew as well as anybody that silence could be interpreted as compliance. She was too amazed by her uncharacteristic subjection to be alarmed. Where was the snarling retort she normally would’ve given anyone who dared to order her around?
And Quint’s command had been more than an order, it bordered on a threat.
Except she didn’t feel threatened. Not by what he said or implied. Not when he hustled her up the stairs, holding her against him, their shoulders pressing, their hips brushing against each other. Not even when he failed to release her at the top of the landing, after she put the wriggling Brady down.
The little boy raced toward the bathroom, hollering, “Bath” at the top of his lungs.
“You’re going to get soaked. Brady splashes around in the tub like a killer whale trying to bust out of Sea World,” Quint warned, smiling down at her.
That smile obliterated the little that was left of her emotional equilibrium. He kept his arm locked firmly around her, gently, slowly kneading the hollow of her waist, and the thought of stopping him never crossed Rachel’s mind. His fingers were long, and he stretched them so the tips reached the curve of her hip, the soft swell of her stomach, and it felt so good. So very, very good.
Rachel felt something that had been dormant within her all her life stirring, blossoming, unleashing tendrils of heat that streaked through her. She could almost feel her common sense abandon her as if melted by the fiery, deliciously erotic sensations surging through her.
She had never felt this way before, and she didn’t know how to fight against it. She didn’t even know if she wanted to.
Quint used his other hand to turn her toward him, bringing her fully against the long hard length of his body. She leaned her forehead against his chest, feeling helpless and weak as he smoothed his hands over her in slow, sexually explicit caresses. As if of their own volition, her arms slipped around his waist and she held him.
He lowered his head to nibble sensuously along the graceful, almost painfully sensitive curve of her neck. “Not now,” he whispered, nipping her skin with his teeth, then soothing it with his tongue.
She shivered and clung to him more tightly, arching her neck to give him greater access.
“Later, baby,” he said raspily, and reluctantly but firmly removed himself from her embrace.
Rachel, who’d never been drunk in her life, experienced intoxication of a purely sexual kind. She couldn’t have walked a straight line; she was so shaky, she could barely walk at all. Her head spun, but the dizziness was pleasurable. Exceedingly so.
Quint kept his arms around her, half-walking, half-carrying her toward the bathroom.
She had never been handled in such a proprietary manner, but instead of aversion, she felt exhilarated. And unnerved. How could Quint Cormack, of all men, make her feel this way? Even more disturbing, she strongly suspected that only Quint Cormack could make her feel this way.
They arrived on the threshold of the bathroom. Brady was ambitiously removing his clothes. He’d managed to discard his sunsuit, socks, and shoes but was tugging at the adhesive tabs of his disposable diaper.
“Off,” he insisted.
“What on earth are you wearing, Brady?” Quint released Rachel to kneel in front of his son. “There are pink bunnies on this diaper.”
Rachel swayed and propped herself against the door-jamb. Freed from the overpowering sensual effects of Quint’s touch, she found herself able to think again, though it was slow going. Her thoughts were muddled and fuzzy, and she had to concentrate to string them together in a coherent fashion.
“I didn’t have any diapers for him, so I used ones that belonged to my niece.” Her voice was thick and quavering, and Rachel winced at the sound of it. “Snowy is potty-trained but Laurel, my sister, still had a box of diapers on hand.”
“Brady’s diapers have trains or planes or firetrucks printed on them,” Quint grumbled as he pulled the offending diaper from the child.
“Bunny,” Brady exclaimed, pointing to one of the adorable pink figures.
“Never again,” promised Quint. He reached over and turned on the taps. Water rushed to fill the big white bathtub. “Barbie dolls and pink bunnies,” he muttered under his breath. “Brady is a boy, Rachel.”
“He is only two years old.” Rachel looked from the toddler’s childish form to his father, that all-masculine hunk of strength and muscle. It was impossible to believe that sweet, lovable little Brady would grow into a man like his father.
Rachel swallowed hard. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. There weren’t too many men like his father around, or if there were, she hadn’t been aware of them.
Her eyes grew larger and rounder as she stared at Quinton Cormack. She took notice of the breadth of his chest and the hard bare muscles of his arms revealed by his navy T-shirt.
Her gaze compulsively lowered to study the jeans he was wearing and the way the well-worn denim conformed to his powerful thighs. To the straining bulge pressing against the metal-buttoned fly. He made no attempt to conceal his erection, not even when he caught her gaping directly at it.
He arched his dark brows at her
, but instead of triggering her temper—her usual reaction to that particular gesture—it sparked an entirely different response. A sharp piercing stab deep in her abdomen that she felt again and again.
“I said later.” Quint read the hunger in her eyes and smiled a seductive promise. “After we bathe Brady and put him to bed. Come here,” he ordered, moving to make room for her alongside the tub.
Rachel froze. Memories of her behavior in the hall a few minutes ago swamped her. She had been clingy and dependent and now he fully expected her to jump to his command.
And take her to bed? That was what he meant by “later,” wasn’t it?
She quivered. He had called her “baby,” a term as sexist and condescending as “sweetie” which she’d expressly forbidden him to use earlier today. Except hearing him call her “baby” didn’t infuriate her as it should It made her feel sexy and desirable. Rachel was horrified.
What next? she wondered. Was she on the verge of turning into one of those addle-brained women who fantasized to gooey romantic songs? Who cried whenever the man in her life spoke sharply to her or ignored her? Her sister Laurel was like that, a romantic daydreamer whose state of mind at any given moment was dependent upon the whims of the man she loved.
Laurel had completely bought into their mother’s belief that life for a woman without a man was useless misery, that men are stronger and smarter, and women should always acknowledge a man’s superiority in all areas. Even if it wasn’t true!
Rachel had rebelled against that doctrine early on. By third grade she’d discovered that her aunt Eve believed that women were equal to men in every way, that it was quite possible for a woman who had a man to lead a miserable life while an unattached woman could be blissfully happy on her own.
Rachel eagerly signed on for Aunt Eve’s particular brand of feminism. She aspired to her aunt’s cool independence and sharp tongue, she tried to emulate Eve’s aura of confidence. She would not be a fool over some man!
When Lightning Strikes Twice Page 9
