For the Love of Family (15 page)

“Yes.”

“What happened, Sam?” Joe took two steps toward her father, seemingly before he realized he was moving. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do a goddamn thing to him.” Sam lowered his chin, and his square jaw and broad shoulders made him look like a bull about to charge. “I’ll tell you one more time, son. Watch what you’re saying.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nobody had to do anything to him.” Sam’s upper lip curled slightly. “I hear he checked himself out of the hospital the last time, against his doctor’s advice. If your father is a sick man, he has no one to blame but himself.”

Belle had seen her father intimidate many a man with that lowered head and razor-sharp eyes. Cowards were intimidated, and even brave men understood there was nothing to be gained by tangling with an ego freak.

Between the two, Sam had become used to prevailing.

But Belle could have told him that Joe, with his father possibly dying in the next room, was in no mood to be wise.

Joe took another step toward the older man, this one deliberate and provocative. “It can’t be a coincidence that my father was with you when he had this stroke. I know damn well you did something, or said something. You’re a toxic human being, Sam Carson, and I want you to get the hell out of here. Stay away from my family.”

Sam smiled coldly. “
Your
family? I thought you Frasers were so goddamn proud of being Carsons. I thought the whole point was that the pathetic bastard lying in there is my
brother.
”

Belle gasped, and so did Sue. But it was Emily who, out of nowhere, moved forward, her eyes blazing.

“You need to leave, Sam,” she said emphatically. “Right now. You need to go home.”

If her insubordination shocked him, he refused to show it. “I’ll be glad to. And you’d better come with me, I think. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

Emily took a breath. “No.”

“No?” He frowned. “No what?”

“No, I’m not going home with you. No, I’m not explaining anything to you.”

He hesitated a minute, and then tried to chuckle, as if he found her rebellion amusing. As if he considered her a child who might throw a tantrum from time to time and would have to be forgiven.

“Emily. Get hold of yourself. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Mom,” Belle said, as confused as her dad was by this new, self-contained woman who didn’t seem to care what Sam Carson wanted. “I can stay. Sue’s here, and Daniel will be arriving any minute. If you want to—”

“But I don’t want to.” Her mother turned and faced Belle, her eyes sad but not terrified, not meek, not red-rimmed or struggling to hold back tears. “I probably should have done this years ago, back when I could have saved you, too. But I’m leaving him. I had already decided, even before this shameless display of…cruelty.”

She looked back at her husband. “I’m sorry, Sam. I have no intention of ever going home again.”

A
N HOUR LATER
, Belle let the elevator lower her slowly to the lobby. Her mind was numb. She’d never been so emotionally drained in her entire life.

The news about Adam wasn’t great. Her heart felt bruised, aching for the opportunities lost.

After Emily’s announcement, Sam had left immediately. Sue and Emily had both left shortly after that, though they’d promised to return as soon as they could. Sue needed to coordinate care for the babies. And Emily had been picked up by a friend from the museum board,
a middle-aged widower who had offered her his guest room until she got a place of her own.

A male friend. Not a boyfriend, she’d assured Belle with a sad smile. Though of course Sam would probably paint it that way. Belle had tried to smile back.

Belle had stayed with Joe until Daniel arrived. Her cousin had apologized several times for causing a problem between Emily and Sam, but she’d assured him he wasn’t to blame. This storm had been building for years.

When she was a little girl, she used to fantasize about her mother bursting into her bedroom, two suitcases in hand, saying, “Hurry! We’re running away to Italy.”

Belle always picked that destination because of the boot-shaped birthmark on her hip. It was, she supposed, her version of believing she was secretly a princess kidnapped by the Gypsies, someday to be returned to her rightful throne.

But now that her mother’s flight had finally become reality…

Why did it leave her with such a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach? Paradoxically, it was the thought of her father that made her the most uncomfortable. Through the years, from all she could tell, he’d had a succession of “liaisons,” mostly with ambitious saleswomen who wanted to rise through the ranks faster than any business acumen could take them, but he didn’t have any real friends.

Her mother would probably, in the end, be fine. She was still beautiful, and she might find someone to give all that unwanted love to. Or she might just thrive on being independent.

But Belle’s dad…

What would become of him? He had no real intimates. No one to talk to. No one to help him come to terms with what had happened.

No one to teach him how to win back his wife.

When Belle reached the quiet lobby, she pulled out her cell phone. She’d call a cab and get home somehow. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but she was already exhausted. Maybe, after a long night’s sleep, things wouldn’t look so grim.

But before she could find the cab company in her cell’s phone book, she saw Matt Malone standing by the front door. He smiled as she approached.

“How’s your uncle?”

“They can’t really tell yet.” Her brain didn’t feel as if it was working very well. She couldn’t figure out why he was here. “Have you been…Did you wait for me?”

“I wanted to be sure you had a ride home.”

“Oh, no. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did.” He tilted his head. “Did you think I’d just leave you here?”

For some reason, though she’d kept her composure through all the drama upstairs, through the disintegration of her family right before her eyes, this simple question suddenly made her eyes fill with tears.

“Belle.” He put his arm around her, and the safe warmth of him flooded through her chest. It felt good in a prickling, painful way, as if it began to thaw the stiff pride she’d been using to hold herself together.

“Come on,” he said softly. “We need to get you home.”

H
E SHOULD HAVE CALLED
her a cab. He should have phoned George to take her home.

Hell, he should have given her his sports car, title and all, and hitchhiked home, if necessary. He had another car.

He should have done whatever it took to keep himself away from her.

But he was a selfish bastard, and he didn’t do it. Instead, he bundled her into his car and drove her home.

He tried to persuade himself that he would just drop her off at the door. That he wouldn’t go in, on the pretext of making sure she was okay. That he wouldn’t take her in his arms and try to love away whatever was hurting her so much.

If he did any of that, it would be indefensible. She was vulnerable, undone by whatever had happened in the hospital. She tried to hide it, but she was crying. His car was too small for privacy, and he was aware of every unnatural hitch and subtle quiver in her breathing, aware of the silent tears that slid in glittering trails down her cheeks. Belle was so close he could lean over and kiss them away, almost without taking his eye off the road.

And he was burning up with the desire to do exactly that.

When one of her sobs reached an audible level, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He reached out and took her hand, which she had clenched in her lap.

She didn’t resist. Instead, she clung to him. It wasn’t personal, really. It seemed instinctive, as if she wanted him to tether her, wanted him to keep the emotions from sweeping her off, the way the bowlines in the boathouse kept the currents from tugging the
MacGregor
out into open seas.

He felt the heat of her thigh against the back of his hand.

He pressed his foot harder on the gas, hoping he’d reach her apartment before his willpower was completely burned away.

As if holding his hand did help, her tears slowed and finally stopped.

She began to tell him about the domestic rollercoaster ride she’d been on for the past few months. The discovery of her grandfather’s double life, and the secret family that had always been living beside them, on the other side of the looking glass. The tensions, her new uncle’s stroke, the rupture between her mom and dad.

No wonder she had to let off some steam in the form of a few tears. It was a miracle any of the Carsons, right side of the blanket or wrong, could function right now.

She seemed calmer after she’d talked about it. But she didn’t let go of his hand.

A few minutes later, he found the address she’d given him. It was in a modest section of Noe Valley, a bank of town houses very similar to the ones where
Diamante was located, except without the corporate gloss. Similar rentals were sprinkled all over the older neighborhoods of San Francisco, where people were willing to trade space for charm. He knew without seeing it that her apartment would be small but beautiful, with wooden floors that creaked and elegant crown molding whose detail had been blurred by too many decades of paint.

He knew because he’d lived in one, in his first couple of years after college.

For several seconds after he parked the car, she didn’t speak, just looked out the window at the town house. She didn’t even seem to remember she was holding his hand, which was fine with him. He reached across the steering wheel and turned the key with his left hand, reluctant to let the moment end.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” she said. It was growing dusky, but he could still see that her eyes were a little swollen, and rimmed with a hint of red, which only made them look bluer than ever. “And for listening.”

“It was nothing. I’m glad you were willing to talk. I wish there was something I could do.”

She bit her lower lip and, shifting, ended up leaning toward him just a little. He smelled the perfume he’d learned so well. Passing car lights spotlighted the yellow curls that tickled her graceful, ivory neck.

He glanced down. Suddenly, the way their naked fingers were braided together, skin to skin, seemed unbearably intimate, even sexual.

He had to take a deep breath, to bank the fire that was building.

“Matt…I…” She tried to smile. “Would you like to come in?”

Yes
, his body said. His fingertips twitched. He gritted his teeth against the sudden fiery pain.

“That probably isn’t the best idea,” he forced himself to say.

“Please. I’d like to thank you. I don’t have any wine, but I could make some coffee.”

“No. Thanks.” His voice didn’t sound right. It sounded husky and almost angry. He wasn’t angry. It just took extra force to make the words come out. “It’s probably better if I go.”

Another car’s headlights revealed the tiny frown line between her eyes. “Why? I’m finished being weepy, I promise. I won’t—”

“No, damn it,” he said gruffly. “That’s not why. I
want
to come in. God knows I want it so badly I’m about to lose my mind. But surely you know what will happen if I do.”

She looked down at their hands, still entwined in her lap. And then she looked back at him. “You’ll make love to me.”

“Yes,” he said. “I will make love to you. I won’t be able to help myself. Frankly, the only thing that’s stopping me right now is that stupid gearshift on the floor between us.”

“Then come in,” she said. “Please. Come in. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

He groaned softly. “There’s every reason in the world. You’re hurting right now. I don’t want to take advantage—”

“Yes, I’m hurting.” Her voice was surprisingly firm. “But only because I’ve seen what can happen when people waste years, afraid to be honest about what they feel and what they want. Only because I’ve seen how you can live your whole life preparing for tomorrow, but then it’s too late. Tomorrow doesn’t come.”

He wanted to believe it. Every nerve ending he possessed was screaming at him, telling him to shut up, to stop arguing. He had the “yes” he’d been dreaming about, and he should take it while he could.

“Belle, all the rules say no. My job…your job…”

She smiled. “If that’s the problem, I quit. Tonight I won’t be your employee, and you won’t be my boss. You can hire me back tomorrow if you want. If you don’t, I don’t care.”

She raised their hands to her heart. It was beating hard, almost too fast to believe. “I want this, Matt. I want it more than I have ever wanted anything. Please. Come upstairs with me.”

In the end, he wasn’t strong enough. It was as simple as that.

He nodded.

She let go of his hand, finally, and opened her car door.

He opened his, too, welcoming the brisk San Francisco air that blew in on him. He stood, still throbbing from head to toe with longing, and followed her up the small flight of stairs to her door.

As he watched her put the key in the lock, he forced himself to be honest, to look past the easy delusion of sensual witchery. He was making a mistake, a big mistake, and it was no one’s fault but his own.

He wasn’t drunk, or hypnotized or tempted beyond sanity. He was going to take what Belle Carson offered him because he wanted it. Pure and simple. He wanted it, he wanted her, and he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving here tonight, only to endure another eight years of regret.

Maybe he was doing it for the same reason she was doing it. Because he’d seen what happened when you let a chance at happiness pass you by.

Soundlessly, the door opened. The interior was dark. Her face was a pale, heart-shaped ghost against the blackness.

“Matt?” Her voice trembled. “Please…”

He joined her in the shadows, shutting the door behind them. Shutting out reality. Instantly they were plunged into a silver-black half world, where he was a stranger, she was a mystery and the rules no longer applied.

He pulled her into his arms without a word, groaning with relief as his hands roamed over her body with a license he would never have permitted himself out there in the real world, where he wasn’t allowed to touch her.

She was hot and trembling, and her hands were moving, too. She traced her palms, her fingertips, her lips, across his face, as if she wanted to learn his shape and contours, learn him in ways vision alone could never allow.

Their panting breaths were the only sound in this twilight world, and moonbeams filtered through a leafy maple were the only illumination. He recognized nothing. A twinkle on the wall might have been the frame of a picture, and the glimmer off to the right might have been the chrome on a kitchen appliance.

Or it could all have been magic.

He unbuttoned her shirt, his fingers flying, driven by the need to feel the high, hard thrust of her breasts against his palms. The shirt fell to the floor, skimming past his own bare chest, and he realized that she had unbuttoned his shirt, too.

He shrugged it away from his arms, and then he pulled her in, unable to get her close enough. Her nipples were tight, creating flashes of heat where they pressed into his skin. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, and then he couldn’t wait any longer.

Sinking to his knees, he unzipped her skirt and pushed it to the floor, as well. She stepped out of it gracefully, groaning softly as he buried his face in the lace of her panties. He reached up and hooked one finger through each side of the flimsy elastic that held the two scraps of fabric together.

She put her hands on his head, tunneling her fingers through his hair, as he slid the panties down, slowly, exposing inch after inch of skin, trailing kisses until he felt the warm tickle of blond silk between her legs.

“Matt,” she whispered, a ghost voice in the darkness.

He didn’t answer. His mouth was busy, opening her gently, searching for the secret nub at the core of her. A tremor passed through her thighs as his lips closed over it. He tasted her, the intensely female, salty sweetness of her, and felt his penis pressing at the confines of his jeans, answering the primitive call of that scent.

She was damp. Warm. Ready. He tugged softly with his tongue, then released, then tugged again, making her harden, and swell, and throb to his guided rhythm.

She called out, more a noise than a name, and he increased the tempo. Tug and release, tug and release, until her fingers tightened in his hair and her thighs trembled under his hands.

She arched back, gave a half-strangled cry. Her whole body seemed to quake and shudder, and then collapse into his waiting arms.

He picked her up, and carried her through the door that he knew must lead to the bedroom. In here, a streetlight picked up sparkles and glitters on every surface…a mirror, a silver hairbrush, a crystal decanter, something on the wall, something in the closet.

He would make her sparkle, too. He would give her a night to remember.

He laid her on the bed. She was loose-limbed, but still breathing shallowly, and her hands reached for his belt buckle, one last glimmer in the enchanted midnight. Together, they removed the jeans, and the boxers beneath. He always kept a condom—one benefit of his former life with a series of temporary Tiffanis was that taking risks was out of the question.

And then the waiting was finally over. He entered her with a strange sense of joy he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. She was beautiful, her body receptive….

But it was more than that.

He filled her slowly, savoring the rightness, the perfect fit, the warm, fluid ecstasy. The sense of completion, as if he’d found the part of himself that he hadn’t even realized was missing.

She was smiling, and her eyes were glistening, as if they still held tears. He touched her cheek.

“No,” she said. “I’m happy, Matt. Make love to me.”

His body took over then, only too willing to obey. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he began to move, slowly at first, hunting for the rhythm and depth and force that would take them to the edge and keep them there forever.

She rose to meet him, and her body spoke to his, asking for more. Her legs wrapped around his back, pulling him in, and he kept answering, giving her anything she wanted. He flirted with the razor edge of the release, driving perilously close, then pulling back.

But suddenly, somewhere in that dangerous game, he realized with a momentary sense of panic that, for the first time in his memory, he wasn’t in control anymore.

With the scent of her filling his lungs, and the satin of her skin sweating beneath his hands, the sensations were stronger than he was.

This wasn’t a climax he could toy with like a yoyo, reeling it in and out in some kind of torturous, sensual sport.

It was an earthquake moving through him.

He called her name, as if she could save him, even though he could hardly see her anymore.

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him together as he shuddered, arched and fought the beautiful pain. And when he collapsed against her, lost and exhausted, she stroked his damp brow.

He tried to breathe. Tried to find the strength in his muscles. He waited for the conflagration’s smoke to clear from his brain.

He rolled to the side, afraid he would hurt her. She curled up under his arm and, still smiling, went to sleep.

He blinked, dazed and drained, trying to figure out what had just happened to him. Trying to understand why making love to Belle Carson was so different from anything he’d ever done in his life.

And so terrifying.

He stared, only half seeing, at the small spot of crystalline sparkle on the wall beside her dresser, wondering idly what it was. It seemed important somehow….

But how? He couldn’t follow any of his thoughts through to an answer. Car lights moved across the spot on the wall, making the crystal glimmer on, then off, then on again.

It was like watching the chain swung by a hypnotist.

His eyelids grew heavy. A few more sleepy blinks, and the crystal, the room itself, and even Belle beside him, disappeared into the mist.