Whatever It Takes (3 page)

“A bed’s a bed.” He drew up straight, his voice now more gruff. “I’m used to the room. Simple as that.”

He pivoted and disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving her to stare after him. It was all she could do, because his words replayed through her mind, taunting her. Just a room. Just a bed. Nothing special. Never mind the five years they’d spent making love in that room, in that bed.

Pain shot through her chest faster than she could stop it and tears sprang to her eyes. This, along with the knowledge that he did nothing to stop her when she left, proved what she’d known all along. His mother was right. His mother had told her a long time ago, when they’d announced their engagement, that Jackson had married her because he had to, because she was pregnant with his child. Because his strong sense of honor wouldn’t let him
not
marry her. Becca had dismissed the cold statement back then, but now, she couldn’t deny the truth of the woman’s words, however rude it was for her to say them. He’d proven it over the years.

Too bad she hadn’t realized sooner. She might have saved herself a lot of heartache.

Drawing what little strength she had left around her, she shook off the wayward emotions and turned her attention to the kitten. Fully awake now, Fred peered at her with soft, understanding eyes, then let out a barely audible mew. She nuzzled the soft little head, taking refuge in his sweetness, before unwrapping him from his makeshift blanket.

“Welcome to your new home, little guy.” When she set him to the floor, he slinked forward and sniffed at the air, slowly checking out his new surroundings.

She went back out to her car for the litter box and cans of cat food she’d picked up from the store on the way there, then set them up in the hallway. She showed him where they were by sticking him in the box, and then made her way to the kitchen. As she walked into the room, butterflies tumbled in her stomach. She halted, feeling too much like a stranger in a house that used to be hers. Jackson stood with his back to her at the island in the center of the room, his head bent as he spooned spaghetti and meatballs out of the Styrofoam container onto a plate.

She must’ve seen him doing something similar at least a thousand times, yet hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop herself from watching. The way he moved, deliberate and precise, always with purpose. The way his shirt shifted with the play of muscles in his back and shoulders.

Her gaze fell on the indentation between his shoulders blades. Her hands itched at her sides, begging her to slip them around his waist and up his chest. She longed to press her cheek there, to relish his warmth and listen to his strong, steady heartbeat. The action used to soothe her. At the end of a rough day, like today, doing so somehow always righted her world. She’d always been one to hold herself up, but tonight, she needed someone. Being here with him only made her yearn for what she’d thought they had, because right then, she felt too alone.

“Did you find anything salvageable in the house?”

His question drew her from her heavy thoughts. She shook her head and forced herself to move into the room, making her way to the kitchen sink. She raised her voice to be heard over the din as she washed her hands. “They wouldn’t let me in, said it would be hours before the house cooled enough to sort through. Kyle told me to go home, said he’d watch over things and call me in the morning. There wasn’t much left, though.”

After drying her hands, she turned to head back to the island, only to stop short just beyond it. Jackson stared at her, a speared meatball hovering halfway to his plate. He drew his brows together, his eyes flitting over her face, uncertainty echoing back at her.

The unchecked emotion in his eyes sent her stomach flip-flopping. Jackson Kade had to be the most confident man she knew. All of her brothers, even bossy Evan, who tended to run his house like a mini military troop, were more on the humble, homey side. As the CEO and owner of an advertising company and from a wealthy family, Jackson always seemed to ooze self-assurance but tapered it with humor. Yet, the longer he stared at her, the more emotion erupted in the depths of his eyes. Gentle sympathy, regret, indecision. Need burned the brightest there and told her that he too sensed how odd her being in the house again was. Which did nothing for the knot in Becca’s stomach.

“I’m sorry.” His quiet voice vibrated with the awkwardness of the moment.

“Not your fault.” She shrugged and clasped her hands to stem their shaking.

He stared for another moment, as if he had more he wanted to say, then dropped his gaze, depositing the meatball onto his plate.

She took a moment to refocus by closing her eyes and drawing in slow, deep breaths, each one re-centering her chi, her life energy. Exhaling one last breath, she opened her eyes, calmer, more relaxed. More like herself. She squared her shoulders and strode to the island with renewed purpose, determined to make the best of this. Her mother had taught her to be strong. If her mother could work three jobs and go to school to earn her business degree on top of being a single parent, Becca could certainly learn to live with Jackson again. After all, it was only temporary.

When she stopped at the counter beside him, however, his subtle scent hit her, barely detectable over the marinara sauce and garlic but powerful all the same. It had been months since she’d come close enough to him to get a whiff of his exhilarating mix of maleness and warm, musky spices. The scent went to her head in a rush, completely undid her centering exercise, and left her wobbling on the edge again. All the worse, the warmth of his body radiated against her side, begging her to lean into it, into him, for whatever small measure of comfort his embrace used to give her. Except she was all too aware the action hadn’t appeared to mean anything to him. Because she’d just been his wife. He’d married her out of obligation.

He didn’t
love
her. She’d have to remember that.

She swallowed a sigh. She’d have to get used to being around him again. As she reached for a plate from the small stack in front of him, her hand brushed the top of his knuckles. Merely the lightest caress of skin over warm, silky skin, but everything inside of her jolted, and Jackson went still as stone beside her. His head turned, heat flashing quick and intense through his eyes. Tension rose between them, the air crackling with wants, desires, and things better left unsaid. Yeah, she remembered that, too. The passion that had always seemed so easy between them.

Jackson turned to pick up his plate from the counter. “Did they tell you what started the fire?”

Becca eyed the array of Styrofoam containers lining the counter in front of her. She wasn’t hungry. One container held chicken alfredo, though. It was her favorite. Jackson and Allie liked meatballs, which meant he’d ordered the dish for
her
. She hated when he acted kind or thoughtful. She’d rather deal with the cocky ad exec who flirted shamelessly with her. She could handle the flirty side of him. The thoughtful father made her long for things they’d never have.

She’d wanted the fairy-tale romance. At one time, she’d thought of him as her white knight. He’d always been tight-lipped, had never really confided in her, but they’d always had the passion. She’d allowed herself to believe passion equated love, because he’d wanted her a lot.

Now she knew the truth. She’d only seen what she wanted to see in him. When work became more important than their relationship. Jackson had opened his advertising firm just before she’d met him, and he was a workaholic, determined to drive his firm to the top. He often worked six days a week, sometimes sixty and seventy hours. He could be thoughtful when he wanted to be, though. Like now. And seeing that side of him only brought her heartache to the surface all over again, because it made her want to hope.

Becca shoved the thoughts away and shook her head as she filled her plate. “When I left, they were still examining the remains.”

Jackson stood silent for so long that she finally glanced over at him. Brow furrowed in irritation, he glared down at his plate, a telltale muscle working in his jaw. After a moment, he turned his glare on her.

“You should’ve taken
this
house.” He growled the words and pivoted, heading toward the kitchen doorway in long, determined strides.

Becca released a heavy breath. “We’ve had this argument one too many times, Jack. I didn’t want the house.”

He’d wanted her to have it in the divorce settlement. He’d insisted she take the Mercedes, too, so she could get rid of her death trap of a car, as he called it. She’d had her little Ford Escort since she was old enough to drive. When it broke down, either Chase or Evan did the repairs for her. Chase just happened to be good at tinkering, but Evan worked with engines as a part of his job on base. Really, though, the reason she refused to accept the Mercedes had nothing to do with her attachment to her car.

The house and car reminded her too much of Jackson. Of the day the dream had died, and she’d woken to the harsh reality that her marriage wasn’t what she’d wanted it to be. She’d waited a month, hoping he’d try to talk her out of leaving. And when she left the divorce papers for him a month later, he hadn’t called to argue over them once. Hadn’t asked her to come home. Hadn’t acted as if she meant anything to him. He’d simply signed them and sent them back via a courier. She’d learned the hard way exactly what she meant to her husband. An obligation. In the divorce settlement, she didn’t want anything to remind her of how much he didn’t love her.

At the kitchen entrance, Jackson stopped. Several beats of silence passed as he stood staring out into the hallway.

“Neither did I.” His voice came low and harsh in the quiet room. “It’s too big, too quiet. Feels too much like the boarding school houses I stayed in as a child. They used to empty out during the holidays. My parents would go off to some exotic location, leaving me the choice of staying at school or going home alone. Walking through the halls, all I’d hear were my feet echoing off the damn walls.”

Becca froze, so still even her breath halted for a moment. Had she heard him right? In all the time she’d known him, he’d never shared details about his parents or his childhood. He avoided all talk of the subjects. Oh, he’d told her the basics once when they dated. That he was born in Savannah, Georgia, but his parents shipped him off to private schools in the south of France. He spoke French fluently, had demonstrated it to her when they dated.

What she remembered most, though, was the way he’d told her the story. He’d spoken with a blank expression and a monotonous tone, the way Kyle talked about his cases at the precinct. Then Jackson had grown terse and changed the subject. Any time she brought the subject up, he always found a way to dismiss the topic out of hand.

Now, there was emotion in his voice he’d never revealed years ago. The quiet pain moved over him, rounding his shoulders, and for a moment, he seemed lost in thought, or perhaps the memories themselves. Watching him, hearing his heartfelt words, tugged at the part of her that still loved him. The part of her who’d always love him.

Because it hurt and it filled her with questions. When she left him, she hoped he’d come after her, that he’d say all those things she needed him to say. That he’d share, period. His life. His heart. That he’d tell her he loved her.

She’d hoped to discover she’d been wrong about him, that he was every bit as scared as she was. Her mother had suggested the notion that maybe Jackson was only doing what he knew, but not once in the month after she left did he come after her. He didn’t beg her to come back, or even tell her he missed her.

Hearing him talk about his childhood now only cracked the ice around her heart, filling her chest with pain and the impossible need.

Jackson drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Frankly, I almost sold this damn house.”

“So why didn’t you?” She forced her feet to remain rooted to their spot on the tiled floor and busied her hands with stirring her pasta. She needed to hear his answer like she needed to draw her next breath.

“Couldn’t.” He glanced back at her, his gaze intent on hers. “It has too much history.”

“History?” She drew her brows together and shook her head, confused. “The only history this house has is . . .”

Theirs
. She let her words trail off into the silence as the hidden meaning in his statement slammed into her. Her hands resumed their trembling, and the fork slipped from her grasp, clanging against her plate. Was he really suggesting that he kept the house for the exact reason she hadn’t wanted it? Because the place contained memories?
Their
memories?

Memories he either wasn’t ready or willing to release yet.

Which filled her mind with more questions she didn’t know if she wanted the answers to. What else hadn’t he told her over the years? Why tell her this now, when she’d given him a month to do it before she’d finally filed for divorce? When she’d all but begged him to open up to her?

Suddenly, living with him again became more complicated than she’d anticipated. Barely fifteen minutes back in this house with him and already he was throwing her, drawing her in. Because she yearned to voice the impossible questions. But would he answer them? Or shut her out again? She didn’t know if she wanted to find out.

She furrowed her brow, glaring at him. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you give a damn about me or like this house means anything to you. Because we both know I’ll ask the question and you won’t answer. You’ll make excuses or crack a damn joke, and you’ll shut me out, the way you’ve always done, and I’ve had a hell of a day. I’m not in the mood to be toyed with. All I want is to try to relax a little, because tomorrow I’m going to have to go through my nonexistent house and see if there’s anything left of it. I want to eat and shower and sleep. That’s it.”

Not giving him a chance to respond, she picked up her plate and fork and shoved past him through the doorway, striding toward the living room.

“Daddy.”

A poke in the ribs followed Allie’s whispered plea. Seated on the sofa in the living room an hour and a half later, Jackson jerked away from the tiny finger, which managed to hit a ticklish spot. He peered at his daughter’s upturned face. She sat curled against his side, with Fred, the little orange-and-white striped fur ball, asleep in her lap.

“Look.” She extended her arm.

He followed her finger. In the corner of the room, Becca lay sound asleep in an overstuffed chair. She’d used one of the arms for a pillow while her legs dangled over the other. The sight of her tugged at him. She’d taken his advice and raided his closet after dinner. The woman hijacked his favorite robe. The dark blue terrycloth swamped her slender form. The hands resting on her stomach became lost in the sleeves.

What Becca wore underneath, only she knew. During her sleep, one end of the robe had slipped open, revealing the top of a taut thigh. For a moment, that bare limb caught him, and all he could do was stare. And want and need. Far too many months had passed since he last saw the tops of those thighs. Too damn long since he last had the pleasure of running his hands over her smooth, creamy flesh and following those thighs to the juncture between. Since Becca had even allowed him to touch her. It was times like these when he missed the simplicity of their relationship, how easy it used to be between them. He half wondered where in the hell they’d gone wrong, but he knew the answer.

“You better put her to bed, Daddy.” Allie’s whispered demand jarred him from his thoughts. He turned to look at her. The expression on her face made him want to laugh, yet tugged at a painful place. With her brow puckered and her mouth pursed, her expression was motherly and stern. Lord, she looked so much like Becca when she did that.

“Right you are, sweet pea.” He offered her a soft smile before prying himself off the sofa and crossing the room.

When he lifted Becca out of the chair, a quiet, sleepy moan of protest slipped from her lips, a frown puckering her brow. A soft, whispered breath later, she relaxed, curling into him and nestling her head into the curve of his neck.

The sweet smell of her hair rushed over him and the warmth of her body radiated through him. A tidal wave of memories threatened to drown him, but he shoved them back down before they fully took root. He wouldn’t,
couldn’t
, go there. Not now, with Allie in the room.

As he turned to carry Becca from the room, he glanced at the clock on the wall above the sofa, then down at Allie. “You’re next, sweetheart. As soon as the movie’s over, it’s off to bed, all right?”

She nodded, her gaze on the television. “Okay.”

As he made his way through the house, he managed to stifle the urge to do what he’d teased Becca about earlier and carry her to his room. To rid himself of the temptation, he carried her to the guest room farthest from his. She’d be more comfortable there, anyway.

As he gently laid her on the bed and pulled the quilt over her, the sight of her mesmerized him. Her golden lashes fanned her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell at a slow, even pace. She looked peaceful, angelic. Anger didn’t contort her features, now cast in shadows from the soft light drifting in from the hallway. Her eyes weren’t narrowed in warning because he’d said something he shouldn’t have, which made her all the more beautiful now.

This time, he couldn’t stop the soft swell of emotion making his chest ache. The urge to crawl in beside her hit him hard, nearly pulling his knees out from beneath him. Unlike the surge of desire he normally felt in her presence, this emotion was simpler, more basic. A deep-seated need to hold her while they slept. He missed crawling into bed at the end of a long day and curling around her warm curves.

The emotion, the woman, left him at odds with himself. He remembered all too well a time when he’d made a silent pact never to get married. The institution of marriage meant having children, and he’d been damn sure he didn’t ever want to do that. He refused to be responsible for screwing up someone else’s life. Damned if he’d risk doing to someone else what his parents had done to him. He had no desire to discover if he’d become the coldhearted man his father had been.

When he met Becca, his entire view of the world shifted. She was the first woman he’d allowed himself to fall in love with. Watching her leave had killed him, reminded him too much of his parents’ careless attitudes, how many times they’d pushed him out of their lives over the years. With Becca he’d allowed himself to dream, to trust, to believe. To hope maybe once in his life he could depend on someone to be there, simply be there. Someone who accepted him as he was, despite his faults. When she left, she blew the trust, the dream, to smithereens. Made him wonder if he’d kidded himself to think he could have perfection.

After she left, he’d spent several hundred dollars determined to rid the house of her delicate scent. He replaced darn near everything in the bedroom they’d shared, from the sheets and pillowcases to the comforter right down to the mattress. The empty house provided a far too painful reminder of everything he’d lost.

Except seeing her lying there, he was reminded too much of everything he’d done wrong in their marriage. Becca’s earlier words, when she’d left him standing in the kitchen entrance with his heart in his hands, had wiggled their way into that painful place in his chest.

It had taken him months after she left to realize that, despite his best intentions, he’d become his father. She was right. He’d never talked to her, because his father had drilled it into his head that a gentleman doesn’t burden his lady with emotional nonsense. That’s what his father had always called emotion—useless nonsense. His parents had never shown him a measure of kindness beyond polite conversation. He’d never been hugged or kissed or told he was loved. He wasn’t even sure they
did
love him.

And he flat out had no idea how to show Becca what she meant to him, how to share the emotions he held closest to his heart. That she and Allie were his whole world. Instead, terrified to lose these wonderful beings God had somehow seen to grant him, he’d reverted to what he knew. Namely, working his tail off to give them the life he thought they deserved. He’d worked hard making his business a success, because in his family, success meant love.

He’d only just gotten used to living without her, and now here she was, filling the house with her scent and once again dumping his carefully planned life on its ear. Except this time he knew. He couldn’t stand by and watch her leave again. Somehow, he had to find a way to stop her.

***

The following morning, Becca stood beside the kitchen’s center island with the little kitten, Fred, asleep in the crook of her arm. Out in the hallway, bare feet padded across the wood flooring, slow and meandering, yet each step distinct. With every step, Becca’s stomach tightened further. Allie usually came down the hallway in the mornings with her eyes half open, shuffling her feet, which meant there could only be one person heading in her direction. Jackson. He never slept late, even on weekends. He got up early every morning, almost like clockwork, because
“life doesn’t wait for you
,
”
as he so often put it.

She let out an exhausted breath and stroked Fred’s tiny little head. He looked so content, resting his forehead on her arm, breathing deep and even. A feeling she sincerely wished she shared. “Oh, to sleep like you, Freddy boy.”

She’d hoped to get at least her second cup of coffee in her before she had to face Jackson this morning. She was barely halfway through her first. Waking in this house had left her at odds, once again edgy. She was entirely too aware that this wasn’t home anymore. Too aware that she essentially had nothing. Nothing but the clothes on her back. She’d spent the last ten minutes pacing the kitchen and petting the cat while the coffee brewed, trying to find some semblance of normal. Trying not to go
there
, to the painful place where emotions she no longer wished to face lived. Things like regret and pain. All being back in this house did was make her yearn for everything she’d never have. She loved this house, but it was his now, and the very thought made her want to sit down and weep for everything she’d lost.

“Morning, Beck. How’s our boy doin’?”

Despite the footsteps signaling his approach, Jackson’s voice, deep and gravelly from sleep, still managed to startle her. Her heart jumped and she pivoted to face the kitchen doorway. He leaned against the frame, crossed one ankle over the other, and folded his arms.

It didn’t escape her notice that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His gloriously bare chest was out on display. Jackson worked out religiously, five days a week, and his body was all lean, sculpted muscle.

God, she hadn’t prepared for that. She’d forgotten that Jackson didn’t sleep with a shirt on, no matter the time of year. He always got too hot. How many times had she slid her hands over him, following the hills and valleys of solid muscle and smooth, warm skin, simply for the pleasure of it? How many times had she been cold and pressed herself into his arms just to absorb some of his natural body heat? God, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel the texture of the triangular patch of golden curls between his pecs, coarse yet soft beneath her cheek. Her eyes followed the trail as the downy hair ran the length of his flat stomach, then disappeared below the waistband of his navy pajama pants. The line of hair looked like an arrow that started at his . . .

Great. Not only had she ogled his chest like a sex-starved teenager, but she’d stared at his groin, too.

Heat crept up her neck until she was sure her face had caught on fire, and she dropped her gaze to Fred. “He’s doing fine. I woke up to him prancing on my chest. He’s had his breakfast and he knows where his litter box is. Happy and full, he’s gone back to sleep.”

“Good. What about you? Did
you
sleep well?” The tone of his voice drifted across the expanse of the kitchen all too relaxed and casual, like her presence didn’t bother him in the least.

Becca swallowed a snarky response. No. She hadn’t slept well. At all. She’d woken in the guest room with little idea how she’d gotten there, aroused and still exhausted. Her thoughts the night before were correct. Having no other choice, she’d taken his offer and raided his closet after dinner last night. She’d unknowingly chosen the top to the pajama bottoms he was currently wearing, thinking he never wore it, then grabbed his robe to cover herself. She’d woken this morning to find herself in one of the guest bedrooms, still wearing the robe.

Sleeping in his robe felt too much like she’d slept wrapped in him. The material still smelled like him. Like soap and musk. She’d tossed and turned, tortured by the wickedest of dreams. She woke this morning with an ache not easily soothed, at least not without a certain Southerner’s touch. The scent had bothered her so much she’d taken the robe off first thing, tossing it over a chair in the breakfast nook before starting the coffee. Being a good head taller, his shirt fell to midthigh, plus she was still wearing her panties. It wasn’t like she was naked.

Now, however, she wished she’d kept it on, because his gaze flicked over her, taking
her
in.

Desperate not to let him know he was unsettling her—because he’d take
that
little tidbit and run with it—she turned to her coffee mug, seated on the counter. “I slept fine, but I’d be better if you’d put a shirt on.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could suck them back. She swallowed a miserable groan, and closed her eyes as regret sank in her stomach and her cheeks caught fire.
Great. Now he knows you were ogling him.

“Allie will be up soon.” She rushed to add the amendment, hoping to save face, and turned to set Fred on the floor. He let out a silent meow, rubbed against her leg, then slunk off toward the breakfast nook. “Thank you for putting me to bed.”

She picked up her discarded cup and refilled it from the pot for something to do with her shaking hands. If he caught her slip he’d no doubt have something cocky to say in return. God, how he loved to rile her.

When a chuckle rumbled out of him, her heart picked up pace, hammering like a runaway freight train. Becca’s mug trembled in her fingers as she lifted it to her lips and peered across the kitchen.

Jackson’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief, as if he read her mind and knew the naughty thoughts running rampant, and her stomach did flip-flops. Yeah, he’d noticed all right.

“I could put a shirt on, but you’d have to take it off first.” He winked and pushed away from the doorframe, moving toward her with a casual stroll. “And you’re welcome. I couldn’t very well leave you to sleep in that chair, now could I? It gives you a wicked crick in the neck.”

As he moved in her direction, his gaze trailed the length of her. His slow perusal made every inch of her prickle with awareness. When they dated, his openness with his desire had swept her clean off her feet. Nobody had ever found her desirable. She was a tomboy and had grown up with three older brothers. She was more comfortable hanging with the boys than trying to kiss them. She’d never been feminine. She didn’t do dresses or high heels. But Jackson would look at her like she was a meal he wanted to devour, and everything inside of her would melt.

When he stopped in front of her, she squared her shoulders, resisting the urge to go get his robe and put it back on. It wasn’t like she was naked, for crying out loud, but the heat of his gaze stripped her bare in two seconds flat. While her brain screamed, “Do something!” all she could manage was to stand there and try not to drop her coffee. Because those eyes had zeroed in on her, and her pulse reacted, launching into orbit.

“You know . . .” He fingered one lapel of the nightshirt, the warmth of his hand radiating through the all-too-thin silk. “. . . I recall you wearing this on one of those weekends we spent at the cabin. Our second anniversary. Do you remember? You wore it then, too, when you made breakfast the next morning.”

A twinge of melancholy shot through her chest. Jackson owned a private cabin out on Puget Sound. Up until Allie was born, they spent almost every weekend there. She didn’t miss the meaning behind his statement, either. Here she stood, wearing the top to his pajamas. The way she used to after they spent the night making love.