Diaz gently kissed her forehead, then withdrew and tucked the covers around her again, and left as quietly as he’d entered.
Milla lay there, drowsing and trying to decide what was different, for about a minute. She needed to get up and clean herself as she usually did after they made love, but she was so sleepy now and, really, she didn’t feel wet—
She came fully awake, aware of what had happened. Or rather, what hadn’t happened. He hadn’t come. He’d seen to her pleasure, then left without taking his own.
She was out of bed and moving before the thought finished. As soon as she entered the short hallway, she heard the shower running in the bathroom. She pushed open the door and saw him through the clear shower door. He stood with his head bowed and one arm braced against the shower wall in front of him, water beating down on him as he slowly worked his other fist up and down.
No. As she pulled her nightgown over her head and dropped it to the floor, everything in her rebelled at leaving him to this lonely release after he’d so unselfishly seen to hers. She jerked the shower door open and stepped in. “I believe that’s mine,” she said, reaching out to still his fist, then replacing it with her own.
Slowly he raised his head, and she was taken aback by the fierceness in his dark gaze. “Don’t do this unless you mean it,” he rasped.
She didn’t hesitate at the ultimatum. She shook her hair back out of her face as the warm water rained down on her head. His shaft was iron hard in her hand, and in her hand wasn’t where she wanted it. She didn’t let herself think; she just reached up and gripped the shower pipe and used it to lever herself up so she could wrap her legs around his hips. She wasn’t high enough, so she braced one arm on his shoulders and pushed herself higher, trying to maneuver so she could ease down on his thrusting erection.
With a growl he wrapped one arm around her hips and pulled her against him, dipping his head down to close his mouth over her left nipple. His penis pushed up between her legs; gasping, she adjusted her position just a little, then let herself begin to slide down, stretching, enveloping him in her wet heat. He released her nipple as she slowly dropped down, a rough sound catching in his throat.
Just as he’d done to her, she slowly moved up and down, caressing him with her body, drawing out his response. He ground his teeth together, fighting not to come when she was just as determined he would. Frustrated, she wondered why he was holding back—until she heard herself moan, and realized the friction was working on her, too.
The battle there in the shower was in close-combat conditions. With the clinging grip of her body she tried to wring a climax from him, locking her legs around him and pumping hard. He slowed her down with that one arm around her hips, grinding her against him and sending her response rocketing.
The warm water began to go, but the heat generated by their bodies was so intense she scarcely noticed. Diaz turned her so they were out of the spray, breaking her grip on the shower pipe and bracing her against the tile wall. Milla gripped his head with both hands, kissing him with all the fierceness she could muster; then she lost the battle and her head arched back as she began to climax. With an inhuman sound, as if he’d been pushed beyond his limits, he jerked convulsively and began pumping into her with short, hard thrusts that took him to the hilt and made her cry out.
Afterward he slumped against the wall, pinning her to the tile. She was beyond limp, beyond drowsy. He kissed her shoulder, then let his legs bend so that they slid down the wall to sprawl on the shower floor.
Again, silence fell. She didn’t know how to explain what she’d just done, and in any case, she was acutely aware of his stated condition: Don’t do this unless you mean it. Don’t do it unless she accepted him as her lover, though arguably what had just passed between them made that a moot point. Don’t do it unless she tore down the wall she’d erected between them. Don’t do it unless she was his and he was hers, with all the ramifications of what that meant. She’d done it, and God help her, she meant it.
Somewhere along the way she’d been stupid enough to fall in love with him. If she hadn’t loved him, his betrayal wouldn’t have hurt so much. Enraged her, yes, but not hurt. She couldn’t imagine how, in her lifetime, she’d managed to love two such different men as David and Diaz. One was sunshine, the other was darkness. Perhaps, though, it made sense: the woman she’d been before couldn’t have loved Diaz, but she was no longer that woman. She’d wanted to be, but she wasn’t. The terrible things that had happened had changed her, and there was no going back. She would always love dressing up and fussing with her hair, love decorating her surroundings, the way people did in that program that had so bewildered him, but she was a stronger, harder, fiercer woman than she’d been when Justin was snatched from her arms.
The big question now was: Where did they go from here? She was just as lost now as she’d been that morning. The difference was, now she wasn’t alone.
29
Milla woke the next morning cuddled in Diaz’s arms, her head on his shoulder, the warmth of his body a source of comfort in the cold, gray December morning. Rain was pouring down, much heavier than the day before. As usual, he woke almost simultaneously, either too attuned to her to sleep after she was awake, or too inherently cautious to leave himself so vulnerable. Knowing him as she did, she assumed it was the latter.
She sat up and stretched, easing muscles that were stiff from lying in the same position too long. Still lying beside her, he reached up and rubbed one hand over her bare back. Her hair hung in her eyes and she pushed it back, aware of what a mess it must be, since it had still been wet when they’d tumbled back into bed last night. His bed this time, not hers. Though she doubted there would be any his and hers after last night, just theirs. The prospect made her uneasy, knowing that while one essential question had been answered last night, a multitude remained undecided.
“I’ll turn on the heat,” he said. She sat with her arms propped on her drawn-up knees and looked out the window, while he got up and left the bedroom. The house next door was empty, as was the one on the other side. In fact, theirs was the only inhabited house in this entire stretch of rental property. It made her feel as alone as if they were the only people on the planet, though she knew the locals were still here. A few times when she’d been walking on the beach, she’d passed one or two people who were also out getting their exercise, but for the most part she’d had the beach to herself. The windswept desolation had appealed to her aching heart, and in a way the pouring rain did now, too. Her mood was somber; had she made a colossal mistake last night? And even if she had, was there any going back?
Diaz returned with her robe and slippers, then left to put on the coffee. He wasn’t very talkative in the morning—or any other time—and that suited her. She crawled out of bed and hurriedly pulled the robe around her, then dashed to the bathroom.
The bathroom had its own radiant heater, and he’d also turned that one on. Because the bathroom was so much smaller, it heated more rapidly, and it was already almost comfortable. Milla stared at her reflection in the mirror and made a face; her hair was definitely a mess. For the first time in a long while, though, her eyes weren’t dull with misery. They weren’t exactly sparkling, but there was life in them.
She turned on the shower and let the water heat, then got in and briskly washed her hair. The hot water felt good on her sore muscles, reminding her how demanding Diaz had been during the night. He’d been a patient lover but, after the first time, not a gentle one. He’d been hungry in a way he hadn’t been even the first time they’d made love, in a way that wasn’t completely physical. She tried to analyze the difference, but it eluded her, and she wondered if it wasn’t because Diaz himself was so elusive and remote. What was startling was that he’d been neither the night before.
As she was drying off, she automatically touched her hip to make certain her birth control patch was there, and froze. Her fingers found only smooth skin. Horrified, she stared at herself in the mirror as she
realized that not only was the patch not there, it hadn’t been there for quite some time. For about three weeks, in fact.
She’d had a period. She remembered that, vaguely, because Diaz had gone out to buy tampons for her. Normally she wore the patches for three weeks, putting on a new one every week, then went without for one week, and that was when she’d have her period. That meant she had either removed the patch or it had fallen off after having been on for way longer than it was meant to be; it would have lost its effectiveness after a week anyway and she’d have had a period then. She had absolutely no memory of dealing with the patch, and putting on a new one hadn’t crossed her mind.
None of which would have mattered, if it hadn’t been for last night.
Realistically she knew her chance of getting pregnant was very small; her body wouldn’t return to normal for a couple of months after going off the patches. But accidents happened, and women got pregnant all the time when it wasn’t supposed to be likely.
Troubled, she dried her hair and actually took some pains styling it before the smell of coffee lured her out. She went to the bedroom and dressed in the warmest clothes she had, sweatpants and a flannel shirt, and frowned as she realized for the first time that she hadn’t brought them with her. Diaz must have gotten them. She hadn’t paid much attention to his comings and goings—or anything else—over the past few weeks. She just hoped that inattention didn’t come back to haunt her.
He was cooking breakfast when she left the bedroom. She poured herself a cup of coffee and said, “I’m not wearing a birth control patch.”
He turned the bacon with a fork. “I know.”
Of all the things he could have said, that flabbergasted her the most. She gaped at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I figured you knew.”
“No, I hadn’t realized.” She sipped her coffee. “This could be a problem.”
“Not for me, it isn’t.”
For a moment the callousness of the remark made her mute with surprise; then the truth struck her: the idea of her getting pregnant didn’t upset him at all.
She didn’t want to go there.
“It’s probably all right,” she said. “It takes a while for the system to get back to normal.”
“When will you know?”
She groaned and rubbed her face. “I don’t know exactly. Do you remember when I had my period?”
“It started two days after we got here.”
She should have put on a new patch before going to see David, she realized, but she’d totally forgotten about it. Mentally she worked out the timing; if she was going to ovulate this month—which she hoped she wouldn’t—the time for it, midcycle, would be right about . . . now. Perhaps. She’d worn the patches for so long that she had no idea of the exact timing of her natural cycle now. But she wasn’t going to take any additional chances; if—when—they had sex again, they’d have to take precautions.
“I’ll get some condoms,” he said as he broke eggs into a mixing bowl, added a little milk, then stirred the mixture with a fork. He was either reading her mind or had been following the same path of logic.
He finished cooking breakfast with the same competency he did everything, and as she tucked into the scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, she realized she had done absolutely nothing while they’d been here, other than bathe and feed herself. Diaz had done everything else, from the shopping to the cleaning. Uneasily she shied from examining his motives, because she was just now becoming capable of dealing with herself again, on a very limited basis. She wasn’t ready to start thinking about what he wanted.
She helped him clean up afterward, though, and other than a faintly surprised look he showed no reaction. Right after breakfast he showered and left on his condom-hunting expedition; he wasn’t likely to leave something that important to the last minute.
After he left, she wandered around straightening the house, rearranging the decorative pillows on the living room furniture so they were color-coordinated, making his bed, stripping hers and putting the sheets in the wash, since she doubted she’d be sleeping there again. She didn’t know how she felt about that, if she was worried or relieved. Just yesterday she had thought she’d never forgive him for what he’d done, that the breach between them was total and final. Then with one blow he’d smashed down the wall dividing them and she was right back where she’d been: flat on her back beneath him.
Last night, she hadn’t wanted to be anywhere else.
At last, with nothing else to do in the house, she made some fresh coffee and got a blanket from the closet, then carried that and a cup of coffee out onto the screened front porch. She wrapped herself in the blanket and sat down on the wicker love seat, pulling up her feet for warmth. The darkly overcast sky, the gray and turbulent Atlantic, and the cold gray rain all blended together, robbing the day of both sunlight and color. She wrapped her hands around the warm coffee cup and inhaled the fragrant steam, staring into the curtain of rain as she tried to bring order to the multitude of thoughts swirling around her brain.
Today, for the first time, she realized how much the sharp edge of agony had dulled in the last few days. She could function, she could think of other things, she could carry on a conversation. She could smile. The hurt would never go away, but it had become manageable, and would become more so in the weeks, years ahead.
She wondered what she would have done if Diaz hadn’t been there. Even though she had cursed his existence, she’d been totally dependent on him. Mostly he’d left her alone, staying in the background and going hours without even speaking to her, while taking care of the basics of life. At first he had followed her during her walks, but lately he hadn’t even done that. He had, uncomplainingly and silently, done everything he could to help her through this.
He loved her.
The realization was almost blinding, and she bowed her head to rest her forehead against her updrawn knees. How on earth was she supposed to reconcile what he’d done concerning Justin with the care he’d given her these past few weeks?
She heard the sound of a motor; then it stopped and was followed by the slam of a door. He was back. She listened to the sound of his progress as he opened the back door and came inside, but then she lost track of his movements because his walk was so damned catlike and she couldn’t hear a sound.
The door to the front porch opened and he stepped outside, his sharp gaze sweeping over her in a lightning assessment, as if checking that she was all right. He put his hands in his pockets and moved to lean against the frame of the screen door, his profile somber as he stared out at the gray ocean.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice.
The words lay there between them. He wasn’t apologizing for last night—she couldn’t imagine that—but for Justin. She doubted he’d ever apologized to anyone before in his life, but there was a simple grace to the offering that told her it was sincere.
“I know you meant to protect him,” she said, and wondered why she was making his argument for him.
“I didn’t know what you planned to do. It never occurred to me.”
“You could have asked.”
Except he wasn’t a man who easily trusted, who opened himself up and let people get close to him. How could he have predicted how she would react? His own mother had virtually abandoned him, dragging him back into her life whenever it was convenient to her. What he knew of mothers came from his own experience, and though intellectually he knew, had seen, that most mothers truly loved their children, he’d had no personal connection with that kind of love.
Until she’d handed those legal papers over to the Winborns, she hadn’t been certain herself that she could actually go through with it, and her soul had wept. If she hadn’t been certain, how could she expect him to have intuitively known that she would never harm Justin in any way?
But she was still unable to let it go. She said, “One night while we were in bed you could have asked me. ‘Milla, what will you do if y
ou find Justin? How can you take him away from the only family he’s ever known?’ Then you’d have known what I felt, what I’d already realized.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It never occurred to me,” he repeated. “I—when you turned over those papers, I felt like I’d been shot. I wanted to get down on my knees and kiss your feet, but I figured you’d probably kick me.”
“No ‘probably’ to it. I would have.”
He nodded and turned back to once more watch the ocean. “I didn’t love you.” His tone was low and almost absent, as if he were musing over the words. “Or I don’t think I did. Not at first. But when you kicked me out, I felt”—he paused, and frowned as he considered his own feelings—“cut in half.”
“I know,” she said, remembering her own sense of loss.
“Looking back, I know when it happened. When I tilted over.” He rocked his hand, demonstrating the slight degree between loving and not loving. “In Idaho. I dragged you out of the river and you rolled over on your back and started laughing. Right then.”
And he’d done something about it right then, too. Until then the attraction had been building between them—she’d been half-crazy with wanting him—but neither of them had acted on it. Until that moment, with the sun beating down on them and the relief of being alive sweeping through them, when he’d looked at her and said—
She chuckled. “Some declaration of love that was. Offering your left nut.”
“That wasn’t a declaration of love; that was a declaration of intent. This is a declaration of love.” He had his head tilted in that quizzical way she loved, and for a man who found communication difficult, he wasn’t doing badly at all.
Silence fell between them as they both digested what had been said. She felt him waiting to hear her say that she forgave him, that she loved him, too, but though she was certain of the one she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to do the other. The hurt and anger were still there, but no longer on boil. The most she’d be able to do, she thought, was put it behind her and say, okay, we go on from this point. If one wanted to argue the quality of forgiveness, perhaps that was forgiveness, just the willingness to go on. But this was Diaz, not your average blue-collar Joe, or even your white-collar Joe. With Diaz, where did they go on to?