Just Like a Man (28 page)

So after Alex trundled off, when Michael asked her if she'd be interested in an after-dinner brandy, Hannah told herself to tell him thanks, but no, she really had to be leaving. Instead, she heard herself say that yes, that would be nice, thanks so much.

And
then
she would leave, she told herself. As soon as she was done with her brandy. But since she was driving, she figured she better drink that brandy pretty slowly, so that it didn't impair her in any way. Yeah, that was it. Didn't want to rush things like that. Could be dangerous. So she'd just take her time.

"Why didn't you ever marry?" Michael asked as he splashed a
very
generous serving of cognac into a wide-mouthed snifter and handed it to her. Wow, she was
really
going to have to take her time with that one.

They were still seated at the dining room table, but Michael had cleared away the dirty dishes and stacked them in the kitchen, pshaw-ing when she'd offered to help him clean up. He'd moved to her side of the table, though, and seated himself beside her instead of across from her, close enough that she could see the shadow of his beard darkening his face and the black swirls of hair peeking out of the V-neck of his sweater. And when she found herself wanting to reach out and touch the things that made him so masculine, so much different from her—and therefore so complementary—she focused instead on the floral pattern in the creamy damask tablecloth and tried to picture Michael buying it. She couldn't do it. It must have been a gift. Or something his wife had purchased and left behind when they'd split up.

So much of the house was like the tablecloth—cozy, comfortable, traditional. Everything touted a happy family existence. The way Alex was growing up was so different from what Hannah had known as a child. And Michael, even though he was a single father like her own had been, had nothing in common with Billy Frost. Hannah's father had never mistreated her, and she supposed, in his own way, he had loved her. But he hadn't known how to care for a child, and she'd always suspected he would have rather traveled alone. He'd done his best, all things considered, she supposed. He just hadn't cared all that much. Not the way Michael cared about Alex. And as often as Hannah had pretended to have come from a home just like this, she truly couldn't imagine what it would have been like.

But she wished, just once, she might have known.

"Why do you ask?" she said in response to his question as she watched him pour himself a brandy, too. And she hoped Michael would also take his time drinking his, even though the only place he'd be driving tonight would be Hannah to distraction.

He shrugged, then placed his elbow on the table, cradling his jaw in his hand. "I don't know," he said as he looked at her. "Just curious, I guess. I can't imagine some guy not snapping you up a long time ago."

She smiled at his compliment, warmth spreading through her at the casual way he had offered it. "No guy was ever that interested."

"Were you?"

"Was I what?"

"Ever that interested?" he asked. "Interested enough in a guy to be snapped up by him, I mean."

"Not really," she said.

He studied her thoughtfully. "You answered that pretty quickly."

"I didn't have to think about it," she said.

This time Michael was the one to smile, obviously pleased by her response. Idly, he ran the pad of his middle finger around the rim of his glass, tracing a leisurely circle once… twice… three times… four, and Hannah was entranced by the subtle, rhythmic motion. As she watched, he halted, then slid his palm under the bowl of the glass, the stem positioned between his middle and ring fingers, lifting it to his mouth to enjoy a small sip. He savored the flavor of the brandy for a moment before swallowing, his throat working easily over the spirit, then he placed the glass back on the table.

The gesture should have been an unremarkable one, and should have been in no way arousing. But as she watched Michael, Hannah suddenly felt as if he'd just run those fingers over her naked flesh, and had lifted her to his mouth for a long, unhurried sip.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because when he looked at her again, clearly meaning to say something else, he stopped with his lips parted, the words unsaid. Then he unfolded his arm from the table and sat up straighter, and although she looked away too quickly to be sure, she thought he started to extend his hand toward her—which was why she looked away too quickly to be sure.

"I, um, I like your house," she said abruptly, a little breathlessly, uttering the first thought to pop into her head, hoping that would banish the odd spell that seemed to have settled over them.

She stood and moved around the table to the other side, hoping maybe even that symbolic barrier would prevent her from doing what she really wanted to do, which was curl up in Michael's lap and thread her fingers through his hair, and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

"Did you have a decorator?" she asked as she began to make her way from the dining room into the living room.

Michael rose, too, and followed her, but he didn't try to reach for her again. Probably, she thought, he realized what a mistake it would be. And not just because Alex was upstairs, either.

"No, I didn't, actually," he said. "Most of what's here belonged to my parents."

She nodded, surveying her surroundings again. So this was the way he had grown up, too, she thought. Lucky him.

"And when Tatiana left," he added, "she only took with her what she'd brought to the marriage."

When Tatiana left,
Hannah repeated to herself. So it had been she, and not Michael, who wanted the divorce. She was dying to ask more about his ex-wife, wondered what had led to the breakup. She wondered even more how he had felt when it happened. How he continued to feel now. But there was no way she would ask such invasive questions. The last thing she wanted to do was stir up the past. His or her own. And it didn't matter, anyway, because there was no future for the two of them together.

"Tatiana and I both wanted out of the marriage, Hannah," he said anyway, as if he had read her thoughts.

She spun around and met his gaze. "You don't have to tell me about it," she said, half hoping he wouldn't. But the other half hoped very much that he would. And she decided not to think about why.

"I know I don't have to tell you," he said. "But I want to."

He took a few more steps forward, his shoes scraping over the hardwood floor until they connected with the Persian rug spanning the floor between two sofas. They faced each other on each side of the fireplace where the fire had burned low, until only a few flickering flames licked at what was left of a few charred logs. Michael pulled a poker from the collection of fire tools and jabbed perfunc-torily at the few flames, but they only sputtered a bit, puffing a few lazy embers up the chimney, and never leapt any higher.

"Tati and I met through OPUS," he said. "She was one of my instructors when I went through training. Their weapons specialist."

Tati,
Hannah repeated to herself. A pet name, obviously. And a weapons specialist. How glamorous she must have seemed to him. How glamorous she must have been.

"Looking back," Michael continued, "I guess I was really more infatuated with her than I was in love with her. She was older than me, and I thought she was just incredibly hot."

"Michael, really," Hannah said. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," he said again.

Well, then she just hoped he'd ease up on the
incredibly hot
business and focus more on the
older
business.

"I guess, what it all came down to," he began again, "was that we never should have gotten married in the first place."

Now, that's more like it,
Hannah thought.

"Because in the long run, Tatiana's career meant more to her than anything else did."

Wait a minute.
Because
Tatiana
didn't think they should be together? That wasn't what Hannah wanted to hear.

"And really, after all was said and done, I realized I never loved Tati the way a person needs to be in love before deciding he wants to build a life with that person."

Oh. Well. That was okay, then.

And why was she thinking these things? Hannah demanded of herself. What difference did it make why Michael's marriage had ended? What difference did anything that had happened to him in the past make? It wasn't like Hannah was a part of his future. Or even his present. They were only here now because they were two people who needed to eat dinner, that was all. She was
not
going to get involved with him. Not only had he invaded her privacy most egregiously—she didn't care if he
was
only doing his jot»—but that very job was everything she
didn't
want in her life. It was anything
but
normal, stable, and secure.

Even if that job was only temporary—which he had never said it was—there was no reason to believe he wouldn't return to it again whenever he was needed, since he'd been pulled back this time after swearing he'd left it behind. Yes, he had a young child to think about. But if Alex's presence in his life hadn't prevented him from accepting this assignment this time, then Hannah's presence in his life certainly wouldn't prevent him from accepting future assignments. No way would she involve herself with someone like him. She'd grown up depending on a man who could never be counted on because she'd had no choice. She wasn't about to choose that life as an adult.

"And she's not involved in Alex's life?" Hannah said, still finding that difficult to believe. Alex was a great kid. Even when she'd thought he was a pathological liar, she'd been charmed by him.

"Tati wasn't suited to parenting," Michael said. "And don't get me wrong, I don't mean to disparage her when I say that. She cares about Alex. But she also knows her limitations. She's an excellent spy. And she's a lousy mom. She'd be the first one to tell you that. And she didn't see any reason to make everyone unhappy by trying to be something she wasn't. Even before she and I split up, I was Alex's primary caregiver. I worked at home by then, had all my equipment there. Tati was a field agent who had to travel a lot. And she was happiest when she was on assignment somewhere. It would have been unfair to ask her to be anything else."

Hannah nodded. She understood that, too. And when she thought about it that way, she supposed maybe it was better that her own mother had left, instead of staying and resent-ing Hannah for simply existing. Even if her father hadn't doted on her, she hadn't ever felt unwanted by him. Not really. Well, not
too
much, anyway.

"Alex is lucky to have you," Hannah said. "He's lucky to have the life you've made for him."

"He's no luckier than any other kid," Michael said, shrugging off the praise quite literally.

"Actually, he is," she said. "He's lucky to have a parent who is so devoted to him and puts his needs first. And he's lucky to be growing up in a house like this. He's lucky to have roots and some semblance of stability and security. He's lucky that when he wakes up in the morning, he knows exactly what's expected of him, and what sort of day it's going to be. He's lucky that at night, he goes to bed with a full stomach and happy memories, knowing his father is right downstairs if he needs him. And he's lucky to be able to know that the next day holds more of the same. He's really, really lucky, Michael. Trust me."

Michael said nothing in response to that at first, only studied her in silence, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't quite know how. Finally, though, he told her, "But his life can't be that much different from most. His childhood can't be that much different from, say…" He shrugged again, but there was something about the gesture this time that made it seem less than casual. "From, say, your own."

Hannah remembered then Michael's being at her house on her birthday and seeing the gifts she'd told him were from her friends and relatives. And she remembered telling him all the things she'd told him—all the lies she'd told him—about her happy childhood and her adoring family. This was the perfect opportunity, she thought, for her to come clean with him, the way he'd come clean with her that day at her house. To confess that she'd made up all that stuff because she hadn't wanted to seem so pathetic, buying her-self presents on her birthday because there was no one else to do it. And she
would
tell him the truth, she assured herself…
If
there was some reason to think that the two of them would ever be more to each other than what they were now—weirdly connected by a strange attraction that had no hope of being anything else. But she still feared looking pathetic. Being thought pathetic. To him. By him.

So, reluctantly, she told him, "No, I don't guess his childhood is much different from what mine was."

"Except that your parents are still married," Michael said in a voice that didn't seem quite like his own.

"Right," she said quietly.

"And that they doted on you," he added. "Both of them, I mean."

She nodded. But all she could manage by way of a reply this time was a halfway strangled, "Mm-hm."

"And where Alex doesn't have much of an extended family," Michael continued, "you have your grandmother and great-aunt and cousin. And probably others you haven't mentioned."

"Of course," Hannah agreed dismally.

They were still standing in the middle of the living room, neither of them having taken a seat as they spoke, but now Michael strode over to one of the sofas and sat down, patting the cushion next to him in silent invitation. Hannah told herself that was her cue to bolt, her unfinished brandy be damned. But there was something about the way he looked at her as he patted that cushion that was just so… inviting. It was the way a husband would look when he was patting the cushion for his wife after the kids had gone to bed and he felt like being naughty. And Hannah just couldn't resist. With a soft sound of resignation—and a promise to herself that she really would leave soon—she traced his steps and sat down beside him.