A hot open mouthed kiss at her nape sent a shiver coursing through her and her senses reeling.
“I’ll promise to be good.”
God, he was always good. The man could be good in the backseat of a Volkswagen Bug. Good wasn’t the problem. Nor the distraction.
It was him.
Inside her gallery. Penetrating her last refuge.
She wanted to hold out. Protect it. Only deep down, she knew he’d infiltrated that sanctuary weeks ago. His touch haunting her memories, the question of when she’d see him next dominating her thoughts.
Strong hands closed over her shoulders as he turned her to face him. Playing with the red bobble at the base of her throat, he smiled wolfishly. “Cherries. My favorite.”
Her gaze shot the length of him. Open white oxford and dark-rinse jeans. No shoes.
Her favorite, too.
Catching her hand where it had drifted to the hard plane of his belly, Ryan rubbed a thumb across the rise of each knuckle. “So, what do you say? Work date?”
“Yes.” Resisting Ryan just wasn’t part of her makeup.
Claire was in her element. Now he understood. The gallery was something she’d built to be a part of her, rather than simply a place where she worked. Something she did.
They’d walked through the doors that morning and it was as if the space breathed her in, drawing her away from him in a way he hadn’t expected. Couldn’t compete with.
Not that he wanted to. Not really.
He just hadn’t been prepared for her move away from him so abruptly. Both physically and mentally.
He should have though. At least in the physical regard. The relationship hadn’t been publicized. They’d been selective in their outings and quiet about the affair in general. New York had been a risk, but one Ryan ultimately had been willing to take.
And if he were totally honest with himself, he’d been curious about her life here. He’d wanted to see the home she’d made without him. Wanted to touch the part of her that hadn’t existed when they’d been together. But of course that meant touching her in public was out of the question.
At the gallery, Claire garnered the same “look all you want, but hands off” treatment as the works of art adorning her walls. So they’d stood three feet apart. And he’d tamped down that recurring impulse to lay a proprietary arm across her shoulders or hand over the curve at her waist.
There had been a few questioning stares from both patrons and staff alike, but Sally, Claire’s competent assistant, had stepped in, deftly diverting the attention as they’d made their way back to Claire’s office. And if he’d thought to get her on top of her desk or against the door in there, he’d been sorely mistaken. Claire was a workhorse with an open-door policy. One that she wasn’t modifying for him.
They worked across the desk from one another through most of the morning. Claire stepping out from time to time and then settling back to look through another prospective artist’s work or answer calls from her clients.
Ryan wasn’t accustomed to sharing an office, but it had worked out and by early afternoon he was ready for a break.
Claire was just wrapping a call when he rounded her desk and, miraculously finding a square of open space, rested one hip atop the surface. It wasn’t provocative or overly presumptuous, but Claire’s gaze invariably shot to the door as she rolled her chair back a few inches. Only, Ryan had been good all day, and he didn’t want her getting away from him quite so quickly. Reaching out easily enough, he grabbed her seat back, holding her trapped momentarily captive.
“Think you’ve accomplished enough to justify breaking for lunch?”
Her gaze roved over the desktop as she openly considered. Then, blinking up at him, “Something quick?”
“No roach-coach, if that’s what you mean.” He valued her life too much to risk it on lunch off the back of a truck.
When she continued to hesitate, he briefly caught her chin before pulling back his hold. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be stroking his thumb across her lips and slipping his hand around the back of her neck. And it would only get better from there.
So he was being careful. Damn it.
“Even if someone spots us together at a restaurant. So what? I could be a client.”
She leaned back into her chair. “Or you could be my husband. If my name weren’t Brady it would be different. But all it would take is one person putting Brady and Brady together, getting curious and— Honestly, I don’t know exactly how I feel about what we’re doing, myself. I’m just not ready to answer questions for anyone else.”
“Claire!” The enthusiastic squeal sounded from the doorway, followed immediately by a small body, smelling distinctly of chorine, barreling into the office. “I told you she’d be here!”
“Corbin, you need to knock first… Sorry, Claire” came the patiently chiding voice of a woman a few paces back.
Ryan stepped clear of the desk and out of the fray just as Corbin crashed into Claire’s chair.
“Hi, Jane. How’s it going, little man?” she asked, laughing even as she waved off the mother’s apologetic frown.
“Good.” The boy grabbed his belt, hitching his jeans to rib height as he readied his response. “We watched Clone Wars this morning and I had swimming and you said my painting was gonna be ready on Saturday, so I told Mom we needed to come.”
Ryan watched as Claire’s brows incrementally rose with each fact bulleted off, emphasizing to the little tyke that she was following his every word. And was duly impressed as well. Her entire posture relaxed around this family and Ryan wondered who they were to her. And if she intended to simply pretend he wasn’t there rather than acknowledge to her friends who he was.
Apparently that was exactly what she intended, as evidenced when she rose from her chair and began ushering the lot of them toward the door. “What do you say we head back to the studio and check it out?”
Studio? Was this some child prodigy? The boy didn’t have the gloomy gaunt intensity he would have figured to go along with that kind of youthful creative genius, but maybe he’d just watched too much TV. There was no law that said well-fed, happy kids couldn’t paint.
Jane shot him a nervous glance and began shaking her head in protest. “I don’t want to interrupt your meeting…”
Claire, obviously seeing no way around it, set her shoulders and faced Ryan with a strained smile. “No, this is nothing. Nothing to interrupt. Totally nothing.”
He wanted to laugh.
Way to sell it, Claire. She couldn’t lie to save her life. Never could.
“I’m Ryan,” he said, offering his hand for a quick shake. Then, unable to resist a poke at Claire, added, “Nothing, Ryan.”
Jane giggled and Corbin twisted up his face with pained urgency. “Come on.”
Claire, all too happy to accommodate, led the way down a back hall to a room he hadn’t been shown on the introductory tour. A brightly lit studio stocked with children’s-size easels, clotheslines strung with pictures and bin upon bin of colorful supplies stacked low against the walls.
Corbin, who didn’t seem to walk anywhere, skidded across the open floor to a drying rack where he retrieved his latest masterpiece, gently displaying it for their approval.
Claire crouched in front of him, talking quietly about his use of color and negative space. The kid couldn’t be seven, but he nodded along with everything she said, making sure his mother fully appreciated the technique. Then, noting an audience member fallen out of the fold, Corbin hiked up his belt again and strode over to Ryan, thrusting the painting up at him.
“It’s the blue park behind my house.”
“I like it.” There was plenty of blue. And surprisingly enough detail to back up the park claim. Though this kid’s work definitely wasn’t the next exhibit in the gallery’s West Hall.
“Do you see the sandbox?”
Obviously a cursory examination wasn’t going to do it. And the boy was so proud, really—what would a few minutes’
praise cost him?
Crouching as he’d seen Claire do, he looked more closely. Picked out as many recognizable details as he could. Asked questions and warmed to the critique as their exchange continued.
And then he was laughing with this little boy whose antics were peculiar and irresistible all at once. Charmed by his exuberance and glee.
It was funny. Ryan had always liked kids—thought he’d have a big brood of them himself one day. But it hadn’t worked out that way, and after Claire left he’d found it easier to steer clear of domesticity as it happened around him than to deal with it. It hadn’t been difficult. For the most part, his interactions tended toward the professional. He worked. A lot. And the people he played with worked a lot, too. It was their common interest, so to speak. As an only child himself, there weren’t any nieces or nephews to be tossing around either. So he’d effectively distanced himself from moments like this one.
But, as devastated and broken as she’d been by their loss, somehow Claire had not. It made him happy to learn that she’d made room for children in this life she’d constructed for herself, even if they weren’t her own.
Their own.
He swallowed, taking another look at the boy who huddled against him. Saw the dark mop of straight hair, the bright blue eyes, and olive skin, and wondered if this was what Andrew might have looked like. If their child would have been bursting with so much energy that his little feet couldn’t stop moving even when he’d been trying so hard to stand still. If he’d like to paint pictures for his mother, who had wanted him so badly, and tell his daddy about the bus ride to school and the bug that got into the library.
And then he felt it. That tiny weight in his hand that was the end of everything he’d loved, all the plans they’d made. His baby so small, so young, that he’d never had a chance.
For a moment the sense of loss was so fresh, so sharp, it cut through him like a knife. Reminding him why he’d worked so hard not to think about those old dreams at all. He needed to get out of there. Needed to breathe—something. But as he straightened, he caught sight of Claire. Stricken. Staring at him.
At them.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHE’D followed his thoughts. Or found her own path to the same end. But either way, in that moment they were together. United in the loss that had eviscerated their lives.
He wanted to run. To get away. To lose himself in anything that would blot that decade-old heartache from his memory.
This was what he hadn’t wanted.
Only then, Corbin darted around a small table, hurtling himself at his mother’s knees, chirping about his next painting and how many days was it until the next workshop and what were they having for dinner.
Claire laughed—the sorrow in her eyes miraculously replaced by mirth—and reached out to rub the boy’s head. “Next week. You’re going to be here, right?”
“Uh-huh,” came the vigorous reply, and a nod so big it set him back a pace.
Jane took her son’s hand with a soft chuckle, guiding Corbin out of the studio behind her.
Ryan rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, then crossed his arms, watching Claire. She’d recovered quickly, but he’d seen it. The heartbreak that had been the end of their marriage. The end of who she’d been to him, to herself, and the predecessor to who she’d become. “You want to talk about it?”
She shook her head, busying herself with a pile of Conté crayons. “It was you. Seeing you with that little boy.” Her eyes closed, her head angling a degree, as though she was mentally replaying the moment. “Laughing and carrying on. And then you looked at him. Really looked at him… And I saw it.”
Ryan crossed the room, pulling her into his arms, anyone walking past the studio be damned. She didn’t stiffen or pull away, but leaned into him. Let him hold her and pretend he had some comfort to offer.
As though he wasn’t years too late, and a lifetime together too short.
“You looked at your hands like he was still there. And—” she swallowed, pulling in a shaky breath where her head rested against his chest “—it just caught me off guard.”
“Yeah, me too,” he breathed into her hair, stroking a hand down her back as much to soothe as to keep her in his arms. Keep her close enough that she couldn’t see his face. Read the rough emotion that was tearing at him from the inside out.
Only, somehow she didn’t need to see him to know. “Ryan?”
And right then, he just didn’t have it in him to try to hide the truth that was eating at him. Had been eating at him for nine years. “I didn’t do enough.”
Claire pulled back, shocked by the admission. “What are you talking about? There was nothing we could do. The doctors explained, the cyst ruptured before anyone knew it was there—”
“After that, Claire.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “When you couldn’t heal your heart, and I couldn’t figure out what you needed, I gave up. You might have said the words, but I let you go. Too easily.”
Her heart began a slow pound that seemed to reverberate through every cell in her body. “What are you saying?”
“I saw the opportunity and I wanted it. I wanted out. I wanted to be something other than the guy who’d let his wife down when she needed him to be there for her. Who couldn’t hurt deeply enough to connect anymore. Who worked himself into oblivion so he didn’t have to come home and see the heartbreak scattered around him. I made it easy for you to leave because I’d already found a way to be gone.” Abruptly Ryan turned away, crossed to a worktable, where he braced his arms wide and let his head hang forward. “What kind of husband does that?”
She blinked back the tears she couldn’t afford to shed, relieved in that moment to have Ryan’s back. She knew the answer, but couldn’t voice the words without revealing the depth of hurt they caused.
The kind of husband who’d married his wife for the sake of a child lost before he’d ever had the chance to live.
Yes, they’d been in love. In lust. In everything a couple of kids—and at eighteen and twenty-two that’s what they’d been—could be. But they’d married because she was pregnant. If not for that, chances were their romance would have died out on its own within a year or two. They’d have gone their separate ways. Led their separate lives. And done it without the burden of a past neither wanted to face, tainting every interaction that followed.
Ryan had done the honorable thing, and he’d done it without a moment’s hesitation or a single word of prompting. And after they lost Andrew, yes, he took refuge in his work. But he hadn’t left.
“You did everything I let you. More. You might have felt some relief when I left, but how could you not? The way I treated you…” Her lips pressed together as she sought the strength to say the words she’d owed him for too long. “It wasn’t right. I was angry, Ryan. Angry at the injustice of it all. Angry at my parents for abandoning me when I needed them the most.”
“Your parents were self-absorbed jerks without a clue what love or commitment or responsibility meant. They deserved every bit of your anger.” He bit off each word, his rage sounding as fresh as it had nearly ten years before.
“I know. But those feelings weren’t something I’d ever had to deal with before. I was so spoiled. And if I were just angry at them, it would have been one thing…but I wasn’t.”
“You were angry with me.” He’d known it. Said the words without any trace of condemnation, which made it all the worse.
“Yes.” She nodded, unable to look him in the eyes as she laid open the wound of their past. “For not breaking. For being stronger than I was and being able to go on with your life. Your job…for having something left, when I felt like I had nothing.”
“Nothing,” he echoed with a hollow resignation that pained her all the more.
“All I could see was that you’d married me because I was pregnant. And I’d lost our baby. And—”
“And, what, you thought I was like your parents? That you somehow hadn’t kept up you
r end of the bargain? I loved you.”
“I ruined our lives! If I couldn’t stop resenting myself, blaming myself, how could you?”
His hands clamped tight around her shoulders as he shook. “What was there to blame?”
“I was terrible to you, Ryan. When you tried to help me, I wouldn’t even talk to you. I wouldn’t look at you. Touch you.”
“Claire, your life went to hell in a matter of months. You were eighteen. Yes, you pushed me away. But I let you. And then I let you go.”
“When I needed you to. You did.”
“God, you make it sound like some kind of a gift instead of a failure.”
“It was a gift. I needed to make my own life and I needed to let you have yours. And because of your support, I was able to.”
He stared hard into her eyes as though he couldn’t believe what she was saying. As if he knew there was something more.
And he was right. But there was only one more part that she could give him.
“I loved you,” she whispered, the old words ragged with emotion and the painful need to be renewed. But that wasn’t what this was about. What was happening between them now, more than the nights in each other’s arms, was closure. “I would have given anything for the life we almost had together, Ryan. I mourned the loss of it, like I mourned Andrew. But some things just aren’t meant to be.”
Ryan’s arms slid around her back, pulling her against him completely. And for once, it felt as though she was lending as much strength as she took.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CLAIRE woke to the muted light of a nightside lamp and Ryan’s hand coasting across her belly. Drifting from the rise of one pelvic bone to the other. Brushing lightly over the bare skin with a touch so gentle it almost wasn’t there. His broad shoulders tensed as he supported his weight on one elbow, leaning close to follow the progress of his hand with his eyes.