She shook her head.
‘‘Then what momentous event has brought Firebird Wilder, my former lover, from her home to mine?’’
‘‘Don’t be an ass. You’re not one of my brothers.’’ She took a short, hard breath. ‘‘But you are the father of my son.’’
He looked good. Older, more mature than the last time she’d seen him, but strong, muscled, wearing the uniform of a Washington State Patrol officer— French blue shirt with royal blue pocket flaps and French blue pants striped with royal blue.
Yet right before her eyes, she watched him grow remote, icy.
‘‘Your . . . son?’’ The two words dropped from his lips like twin ice cubes.
‘‘Your son. Douglas, I . . .’’ All the way down here, she’d been practicing what to say, and now, in the face of that implacable stillness, the words fled and she was left waiting, knowing that soon his rage would rise like molten lava around her and burn her to a cinder. ‘‘I’m not asking you for anything. You don’t have to do anything. I simply thought you ought to know.’’
‘‘How old is . . . ?’’
‘‘Aleksandr.’’
‘‘How old is Aleksandr?’’
‘‘He was two on November first.’’
He frowned as he calculated the months. ‘‘So you knew you were pregnant when you left me.’’
Remembering the plastic stick with the blue line in the result window, and the discarded Father’s Day card, she could only nod.
‘‘He’s the reason you left me without a word, without any explanation?’’
She toyed with lying to him. It might be easy to claim panic on discovering she was pregnant, easier than telling the truth.
But he caught on too quickly. ‘‘That can’t be it. If your baby was born in November, you knew you were pregnant for months before you left.’’
‘‘Not months. We were careful. I didn’t think it was possible. I wasn’t looking for the symptoms.’’ She stopped babbling. ‘‘In fact, I didn’t have symptoms.’’
‘‘What do you mean, you didn’t have symptoms?’’ He sounded scornful, as only an ignorant man could sound.
She leaned toward him and, in a level tone that did not conceal her irritation, she spelled out the facts, and didn’t spare his finer feelings. ‘‘I mean, I had a period the first month, I never had morning sickness, and I felt great. Why should I think I was pregnant? We used a condom every time.’’
He leaned back into her face. ‘‘Then why should I believe you?’’
‘‘That we have a son?’’
‘‘That I’m the father of your son. As you just reminded us both, we always used a condom.’’
Douglas hurt her. Coldly. Deliberately. He knew Aleksandr was his; the first time they’d made love, she’d been a virgin, and so much in love she cried for joy.
‘‘Condoms are not one hundred percent effective.’’ Especially if the guy bears a resemblance to Superman. She shoved her hand into her pocket, and in a steady voice, she said, ‘‘It occurred to me you might have . . . suspicions.’’
It had never occurred to her.
He caught her hand, held it still. ‘‘What are you doing?’’ His eyes were dark brown and flinty as stone.
‘‘I’ve got a DNA test.’’ Which she’d brought to obtain the material needed for the test to prove to herself he was the son of Konstantine and Zorana. But if he thought it was to prove to him he was the father of her child, so much the easier. ‘‘If you’ll let me take a sample of some of the cells from your cheek . . .’’
Slowly he pulled her hand out of her pocket and turned it upward.
Opening her fingers, she showed him the plastic package. ‘‘It’s sealed. It’s sterile. Inside is a tube with a cotton swab inside. All we have to do is swipe it across your cheek, seal it in the tube, and send it to Seattle. The lab will run the DNA and let you know if it’s a match to Aleksandr’s.’’
Doug let her hand go.
‘‘If you don’t trust me, if you’d rather go to a lab with Aleksandr—’’
‘‘Go ahead.’’ He opened his mouth.
He was so distrustful. He ought to be sitting in her seat, floundering on an ocean of uncertainty, no longer sure where she’d come from, and in doubt of her destination.
He shut his mouth. Taking her chin in his hand, he turned her face toward the light. ‘‘Why do you look like that?’’
‘‘Like what?’’ She heard the truculence in her own voice.
‘‘Like someone has hurt you.’’
‘‘That’s life, isn’t it? Even when you’re in the safest place you can think of, you can still get hurt.’’ That was the irony. Ever since she’d discovered the truth about Douglas, ever since she’d seen him turn from a cougar into a man, she’d stayed close to home, leaving only when she had to. She had lived in fear that he would find her and take their son to be raised as a Varinski. She had believed that at home, trouble would never find her.
It had. Trouble would not be denied.
‘‘I am a police officer. I can help you.’’ Douglas still held her chin, still examined her face, and for the first time, he sounded almost nice.
In fact, he sounded like he felt sorry for her.
She jerked herself free. ‘‘There’s nothing you can do to help me with this problem.’’ In a way, you are the problem. But she couldn’t say that. She wasn’t ready to tell him that he’d usurped her place in her family. Not until she had the results of this DNA test.
Not until the last damned minute.
Chapter Twelve
Firebird opened the packet and pulled out the swab. ‘‘Open.’’
Doug caught her wrist and held it. ‘‘These results are going to prove I’m Aleksandr’s father, aren’t they?’’
‘‘What other reason would I have to carry a DNA test around in my pocket?’’ Her eyes were hot and angry.
He had a son. A boy he’d never met, never seen, never hugged, never held.
And now, this woman sat here, angry because she had to come to him and tell him he had a son.
She had guts.
‘‘You haven’t yet told me why.’’ His voice grated in his throat.
‘‘Why what?’’ She tried to wrestle her wrist free.
He tightened his grip—on her, and on his temper. ‘‘Why you didn’t tell me three years ago. Why you’re telling me now.’’
Her gaze dropped. ‘‘It’s a long story. It’s complicated. Let’s just get this test and then—’’
‘‘Do you realize what you’ve done? What you’ve denied me?’’ Did she realize what he had thought? That she’d come to him because she needed him? What a laugh. He flung her wrist away before he hurt her. ‘‘I’ve got a son. A son, and I knew nothing about him. I didn’t see his birth. I didn’t see his first smile. I didn’t hear him babble, see his first step. I’ve never rocked him or carried him or played patty-cake or held his hand while he tried to walk or clapped while he blew out his first birthday candle— or second birthday candle, either. I missed those things, and I can’t get them back.’’
She made a move toward her purse. ‘‘I’ve got pictures—’’
‘‘Pictures. What am I, a toddler like Aleksandr, to be distracted by a shiny toy? Pictures are flat. They don’t laugh. They don’t cry. They don’t cuddle. They don’t . . .’’ He came to his feet and strode to the door, on the verge of leaving.
But he couldn’t leave now and give Firebird another chance to run away. He paced back. ‘‘All my life, I have sworn that when I had a child, I would be there for him. You made me break my vow. You did.’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’
‘‘You denied me my time with my baby, but worse than that, you denied Aleksandr a father.’’ This was his nightmare. He was living his nightmare.
‘‘I will never forgive myself for that.’’
Her low voice made him look at her, look at her hard.
She sounded like she meant it. She look
ed like she meant it.
‘‘How can you act like this? Like you care that I have missed . . . Oh, wait.’’ Good sense stopped him cold. ‘‘It’s not about me, is it?’’
‘‘No.’’ She admitted the truth unashamedly. ‘‘It’s about Aleksandr. You said it, and you’re right. I denied him his father, and he’ll never be the same because of it.’’
Okay. Doug could deal with that. Firebird put her son first, and that was the way it should be. She believed the boy had missed something by not having Doug in his life.
But he still didn’t understand why. ‘‘Why did you run away from me? Did you think I would hurt you?’’
She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t answer right away.
She had actually thought he would have hurt her. ‘‘My God, what did I do that you would think that of me? That I’d be mad because you were going to have my baby?’’
‘‘It’s not what you think.’’
‘‘What do I think?’’
‘‘Just let me do this thing my way. Would you? Would you just let me . . .’’ Her voice rose, and she bit her lip as if trying to rein in her frustration. ‘‘I know you’re mad. I don’t blame you. I’d be mad, too. Livid. But there’s more to it than you realize. This isn’t easy, Douglas. I’m not some bitch who took your son away out of spite. There were reasons, and quite frankly, I may have made a mistake about you, but I had a good reason.’’
‘‘What reason could be good enough?’’
‘‘Sit down.’’
He remained standing and stared forbiddingly down at her. ‘‘Answer the question, damn it.’’
‘‘I’ll explain when I’m sure about you. Now.’’ She stood, popped his mouth open, and swiped the swab across his cheek. She sealed it in the little tube, inserted it in the envelope to go to the lab, and offered it to him. ‘‘Do you want to mail it to make sure this is the package that goes directly to them without tampering?’’
She was challenging him, reproaching him for his skepticism, and as she did, the air between them grew dry and hot, hurting his lungs. ‘‘What if I switched it?’’
‘‘Then I don’t want you to have anything to do with Aleksandr anyway.’’ She looked him right in the eyes, unsmiling and fierce when it came to Aleksandr.
And he realized how glad he was that she had borne his son. She was strong. She was intelligent. She did . . . she did what she thought was right. He simply didn’t understand how she could have thought that cutting him out of Aleksandr’s life was right.
But she’d promised to explain it.
Without looking at the envelope, he took it, leaned forward . . . and slid it into her pocket.
Their faces were almost touching.
Her eyes dilated as she watched him.
When he kissed her . . . she didn’t lean back. She didn’t participate, either—her lips were cool and un-moving, but she closed her eyes and let him taste her.
She tasted the same as the Firebird of his memories, of Doublemint gum and sweet, warm woman and curiosity.
And he echoed that curiosity.
Why had she come . . . now? She had a son. His son. But she’d known about the child every minute since she’d left him. So . . . why today?
Then she slipped her tongue into his mouth, and all his questions were ripped away by a blast of pure, hot lust.
He slid one hand behind her head, into her hair— soft hair—and one arm under her sweater—soft sweater—and around her waist—soft skin. He pulled her against him, chest to belly, and lost himself in the heady lavender scent of her. He wanted to lick her, suck her, take her in every way possible, until she yielded, until she recognized him by his voice, by his flavor, by his scent, until he saturated her through her pores and her nerves, until she missed him when he wasn’t inside her.
It was what he’d always wanted. It was what he’d thought he’d done in all those seductions on the Brown campus.
With an instinct long refined by many seductions, he slid his hand up her spine until he reached her bra, and smoothly opened the clasp. Pressing her against the pillows, he slid his other hand under her sweater and to her breasts, pushing the cups aside to reach the treasure beneath. Taking a pinch of the soft cashmere, he rubbed the material over her nipple, around and around, and watched her eyes grow wide.
He saw the moment she realized how far and how deftly he’d pushed her—and how easily he could push her all the way. Her hands flew to his shoulders; she shoved him.
He didn’t sway.
She didn’t have a chance against him. Not now. He’d been waiting almost three years for this moment. He’d imagined it, planned for it, laughed at how he would make her come over and over . . . and in the deep, secret hours of the night, he had longed to make her come over and over.
His longing was his weakness.
But she didn’t have to know that.
Catching another pinch of the rich, warm, soft cashmere, he moved to the other nipple and rubbed again.
With each circle, he felt her yield.
‘‘Douglas. No. We haven’t talked. We need to discuss . . . discuss . . .’’
He lifted her farther onto the bed. Her legs dangled, but she was prone on the mattress, stretched out like a pagan offering. He straddled her, shoved her sweater up to her rib cage, and unzipped her jeans.
She’d always had the best stomach, flat and strong, with a mole beside her belly button that drove him crazy. Her belly was still flat, still strong, but now he traced the pale white lines that proved she’d carried their child . . . and an unwilling smile crooked his mouth. He could imagine her pregnant, swelling every day as their son grew. . . . He looked up.
She gazed at him, the lines of her wide, soft mouth shattered by anxiety.
‘‘Beautiful,’’ he whispered.
She closed her eyes with relief.
Had she worried he would be so shallow as to condemn her for a body changed by childbirth? By the birth of his son? Foolish woman. She knew him not at all.
He had made sure of that.
When he met her on campus, he had already known who she was. That was why he’d taken the job. That was why he’d sought her out. He had intended to use her for his own purposes.
Instead, she’d made a fool of him.
What a mistake she’d made returning to him now.
As he slid the jeans off her hips, her eyes flew open again. ‘‘Please, Douglas. There’s so much to say, and we can’t take up where we left off—in bed.’’
‘‘We’re not going to take up where we left off. This time, it’s going to be more. Much more.’’
She wore a pair of plain white hipster panties.
Did she think that would subdue him? She could wear granny panties, and his cock would still do an imitation of one of the rock stacks offshore.
Using the banding around the edge of her sweater, he rubbed it across her abdomen, making her stretch and sigh. Then, as if to deny her weakness, she sat up on her elbows and said sternly, ‘‘That’s enough, Douglas.’’
‘‘Did you learn that tone while talking to your son?’’
Her face softened at the mention of Aleksandr. ‘‘It’s effective.’’
‘‘No. Not with me.’’ He moved swiftly to take advantageof her tenderness. Taking her shoulders, he lowered her back to the bed and kissed her. Kissed her with all the repressed passion that raged within him.
When her hands had crept around his neck and her breathing matched his, he spanned her belly with his long fingers.
Her skin felt like velvet, and as he stroked her, her legs moved restlessly.
She’d always been like this, wanting him with a desperation that drove him beyond his black-and-white sphere of wisdom and prudence and into a world splashed with vivid color. And all her passion had been for him. He’d never doubted that.
Now once again he would sink into her body, hear her cries in his ears, know that in this one time and with this one woman, he belonged—
<
br /> A vibration on his belt froze him in place.
His pager. His pager had gone off.
Like a splash of icy water, the call of duty brought him out of his passion-induced coma and back into the real world, where everything was black and white, and he was just where he belonged.
Chapter Thirteen
Douglas stood up. Looked at the pager on his belt. Said, ‘‘I have to go.’’ Straightened his tie and walked out the door.
Just like that.
Firebird lay there, sprawled on his bed, her jeans around her ankles, her bra around her neck, her sweater above her belly—and he straightened his tie?
She came to her feet so fast she stumbled on her jeans.
He straightened his tie. That was all he needed to look exactly as he had looked before he had kissed her, run his hands over her, removed her bra and used her sweater to . . . She shivered as she remembered the sensation of cashmere against her nipples.
Then his pager beeped, he stood up, granite faced, straightened his tie, and he left her here looking like a slut.
She pulled up her pants. She fastened her bra. She pulled down her sweater.
That bastard.
She had to get out of here. She had to get out of here now.
She marched downstairs and plucked her coat off the kitchen chair.
She would drive straight through to Blythe, to her family, to her son. They’d be disappointed when she came back without solutions. Aleksandr would be upset when she didn’t bring his daddy. But they’d still be happy to see her. She might not belong to them, not really, but they loved her. They did.
She walked out the door. The wind struck her like a slap to the face. She ran to her car, got in, and slammed the door as hard as she could—and wished she could do it again. She turned out of Douglas’s driveway; her tires squealed.
As she drove into Rocky Cliffs in search of a post office, her cell phone rang. She didn’t answer. Because she was driving, she told herself, but the truth was, she didn’t want to talk to her mother or her brothers or her sisters-in-law. She didn’t want to explain what she was doing and why, or assure them that she was well and they didn’t have to worry. She wanted to do what she had to do and enlighten them later.