Harlequin - Jennifer Greene (14 page)

“Positive.”

“You’re sure he’s not hungry or dying or anything? I mean, the way he’s crying—”

She nodded. “It sounds inhuman, I know,” she said softly. “His birth mom was an addict, so this little darling came into the world in agony. He’s been through the whole withdrawal procedure, so at this point he isn’t feeling the craving for drugs so much as…anger. Misery at being alive. And maybe we can’t help him, but you know, we can’t just keep throwing babies away—”

No, he didn’t know. He also didn’t know how Phoebe could think, much less calmly hold a conversation, with a baby crying that relentlessly. But for damn sure, the part of his plan about talking with her—and then making love—fizzled fast.

It was a shocking moment to realize he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. Not just because the chances of their making love any time in the immediate future were completely annihilated. But she was standing there in her bare feet, with the screaming baby and the spoon, backed by all her candy-colored rooms…and there it was. This overwhelming emotion, when he could have sworn he was no longer capable of any feelings, much less real ones. Yet just looking at her sucked him in so deep, so rich, that he could have died and gone to heaven, thrilled just to be with her in the same damn room for that instant in time.

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“You came over for a reason this morning?” she asked, just as if they’d been having a normal conversation.

“Yeah—I didn’t know if you were going to need the therapy room, but if it was free during the lunch hour, I figured I’d get some work done on the waterfall.”

“Oh! That’s great. And the room’s free—Manuel is all I’m trying to do today. I do have to wander back there now and then—”

“Well, will it bother him if I’m making noise?”

“Everything bothers him,” she said, with a tender pat on the baby’s diapered rump. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s the best thing for him to be exposed to normal sounds, normal life—because that way he finds out he’ll be protected no matter what’s happening around him. So go for it.”

He went for it.

First off, he hunkered down in the corner of her massage room and studied all the supplies she’d bought and her master plan. Good thing he had a contractor for a brother who could railroad the applicable licenses—and double good thing that his mom hadn’t raised any sons who ducked hard work. Act One had to be the plumbing, and after that he could move on to the easy stuff—mortar and stone and tiling.

Big messes. Big weight. Big work—at least for a guy who could barely bend without creaking and groaning. It was going to take some mighty long hours to build this insane indoor waterfall she wanted.

But it was so like her—to value something sensual and beautiful over something practical. And it was a way to do something for her. A way to give back. As far as Fox could tell, too damn many people took from Phoebe without her letting on that she needed anything—much less took anything—from anyone.

He poured on the coals, knowing that his body would give out quickly from this kind of physical work.

He didn’t realize how he’d become used to the sound of the baby crying, until there was suddenly silence. Instinctively he leaped to his feet, thinking that damn squirt must have died, and raced back through the house so panicked he forgot about his dusty hands and safety goggles.

He found Phoebe in her odd little mint-green room—the closet turned into an office. She was sitting at a desk, paying bills, the baby sleeping on her tummy.

Actually sleeping. He checked by hunching down and looking.

“It won’t last,” Phoebe whispered humorously. “But, yeah, he really is napping.”

“Any chance he’ll do this for a while?” Hell. He was afraid to even whisper.

“I dunno. When a baby’s born addicted, one of their problems is that they can’t rest. This little one’s past that…but he just seems angry all the time. No one got around to giving him a reason for living, you know?”

Fox said soberly, “Yeah. I do know.”

Phoebe glanced at him with suddenly sharp eyes. She opened her mouth—he knew she was going to start asking questions—so he swiveled around quickly and headed back to work.

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A half hour later he heard the baby start wailing again—followed by Phoebe’s slow, ever-patient, soothing voice and her ghastly off-key humming. A few minutes after that she showed up in the doorway.

“Are we going to be in your way if I give him a bath here, Fox?”

“No sweat.” He was nowhere ready for power-tool noise yet. He was still interpreting the plumbing instructions, laying out the fittings. And he kept at it, although he watched her from the corner of his eye and became more and more confused at what she was doing. She filled up the big claw-footed bathtub in the middle of the room. The location of the tub didn’t surprise him; he’d just figured she used it for physical therapy, but it was huge, hardly baby-size. He’d have thought the sink would be a lot easier way to bathe a baby that little. But he’d stopped talking by then, didn’t want to interfere, and truth to tell, he’d sunk into a skunky mood. Her comment had done it, the one about how the baby hadn’t found a reason for living.

His mind kept jolting back to the little dark-haired boy—the one in his nightmare, the one he’d tried to approach. The one he’d tried to show that there were people in this life who could be trusted, who wanted to help, who’d reach out. Everyone in his family and circle of friends had fought him about going into the military. They said it was a crazy choice for a man who hated guns, but they didn’t get it. That was the point. That he hated guns. That he loved children. If people didn’t stand up for kids, didn’t take a risk and reach out, how was anything going to change?

Aw, hell. Whenever his mind crept down those dark alleys, he always seemed to sink like a stone. He could feel the ugliness creeping inside him, the darkness he’d been trying to swim out of for weeks now.

Or at least he’d been trying to—since Phoebe.

And there she was, suddenly. When the tub was full, she stripped the baby of clothes and diaper—no surprise—but the surprise when she scooped the baby into her arms again and stepped into the tub.

His jaw dropped.

She wasn’t naked herself. She had on a little T-shirt and boxers. But he’d just never expected her to climb in the bath with the baby. The little one almost immediately stopped crying—possibly from shock, possibly because it liked the warm water. Who could guess?

But she laughed with delight, praising him softly, gently. “So is water going to be your Achilles’ heel, Manuel? Because if we’ve finally found out what turns you on, little one, we’re going to be wet a lot.…”

Finally he understood what she was doing. She’d already told him that her intent was to stay physically in touch with the baby 24/7 if possible; he just hadn’t realized that meantreally 24/7—that even in activities like a bath, the baby would have her to hold on to, like now. Naked as a newborn, he was lying on her tummy, feeling her security, her hands, the warmth of her heartbeat.

Fox’s pulse suddenly drummed, drummed. She was really a damned extraordinary woman. Her confidence with the baby, her endless patience, the love she gave so freely, so generously…God. It was no wonder he couldn’t help loving her. What human being couldnot love her?

But it still ripped through his mind that there’d been a time he’d had confidence and patience. A time he’d believed he even had a gift with kids. Kids had always been his calling. He’d really believed it.

But that sure as hell wasn’t true anymore.

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“Fox?”

He turned around at the doorway, carrying his jacket and tool box. “I didn’t want to interrupt the two of you. But I have to go.”

“Right this second? You weren’t going to say anything?”

“When the kid wasn’t crying?” He motioned toward the work corner. “I know I left it a complete mess, but I’ll be back later. I figured I’d just cover it up for now.” Both theoretically and symbolically, he thought.

“You’re due over tomorrow night for your session.”

“Yeah, I know.” But right then he felt the worst hell-hot headache coming on that he’d suffered in a while. He knew it was bad. The kind that would make him sick as a dog. He just wanted to get out of there and get home.

And right then he was unsure whether he was coming back. Ever.

Eight

Phoebe lit the melon-scented candle and blew out the match. She stepped back with her hands on her hips and surveyed the table worriedly. Mop and Duster both yipped, just in case she’d forgotten they were there. They certainly couldn’t forget the fabulous smells drifting from the stovetop, and for some God unknown reason, no one was giving them tidbits.

Phoebe had given the beggars plenty of treats, but right now she was too concerned about Fergus to concentrate on anything else.

The rap on the front door inspired the dogs to race, barking the whole time, to great the visitor. Phoebe had barely opened the door before they leaped on Fergus, but when he looked up from the petting frenzy, his eyes were definitely only on her.

“Iam due here tonight, right?”

“Right.” Sheknew how he could make her feel, yet still had to fight the rush and her zooming pulse rate.

Naturally he was surprised to find her dressed differently, because he never saw her in anything but loose-fitting clothes. Form-fitting attire would hardly work for a masseuse. Her soft black sweater and slacks were hardly sexy—she didn’t do sexy—but yeah, she’d made a different kind of effort tonight.

She still hadn’t put on shoes because she never wore shoes if she could help it, but she’d brushed her hair loose and put on a little face goop. Not much. Just some lip gloss, a little blush, a little mascara.

Judging from the dangerous glint in Fox’s eyes, you’d think she’d put on major war paint.

She led him toward the kitchen, musing that shehad strategized a major war effort tonight. From her clothes to the setting, she’d wanted to create something that would startle him—because she had really, really doubted he intended to show up today.

Something had been seriously wrong when he left two days ago. She didn’t know what, but in the space of a short conversation, Fergus had changed from a recovering, functioning, whole-hearted guy back into a taciturn shadow again. When he’d left, she’d desperately wanted to chase after him and confront
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whatever was wrong—but she’d had the baby to take care of. Besides which, she’d realized joltingly that she had no right to chase after him—that she had no personal right to care about Fergus.

Tonight, though, she’d convinced herself that her strategic choices were all strictly professional. His recovery was her business, right? So if she chose to wear a snuggly black sweater and if it happened to catch his attention—as long as it was for a professional reason, that was okay.

He asked about Manuel, and they chatted a few minutes about the baby and how her work was going.

Since he was only planning to stay for the usual two-hour session, though, she needed to hustle the dinner along, and motioned him to sit down. “I have another exercise for you to try today.”

“Oh, yeah?” He didn’t seem to notice the candles, the linen, the setting she’d worked so hard on. The darn man hadn’t taken his eyes off her yet. It was downright distracting. “What are those smells?”

“Dinner.”

“Dinner wasn’t part of the deal,” he said.

“It is today. Anything’s part of the deal that puts you on a healing track, cookie.”

“Cookie?” He almost choked on the teasing endearment, but she just chuckled—and put on oven gloves. Her scarred relic of a kitchen table had been covered with an elegant navy blue tablecloth—alias a bedsheet. She’d dimmed the lights, set up a centerpiece of melon-, peach- and strawberry-scented candles. Scraps of navy velvet ribbon tied the silverware, since she didn’t own real napkin holders.

The menu was far from gourmet. Hot buttered, homemade bread. The potato dish everybody made for holidays with sour cream and corn flakes and cheddar cheese. Chicken rubbed with fresh cilantro and island pepper. Fresh cherries and blueberries, and eventually, a marshmallow sundae with double-chocolate ice cream. All easy, basic stuff. All comfort food.

Fox, though, raised an eyebrow as more bowls and plates showed up on the table. “What is this?”

“Like I said—just dinner.”

“This is ‘just dinner’ like a diamond is ‘just a stone.’ You think I can’t tell when a woman’s determined to seduce me?”

“What?” She dropped a hot pad. Then a fork.

“Give me a break. You know what the smell of homemade bread does to a guy’s hormones, don’t you?”

He was teasing with her. Flirting. Her heart soared a few thousand feet—not because he made her feel mooshy inside, but because, darn it, all the risks she’d taken for him really were paying off. For him, if not for her. Even a few weeks ago, he’d still been locking himself in a dark room, unwilling to be around people and, for darn sure, stingy with his smiles.

“The homemade bread was about motivating your hunger,” she insisted.

“That’s exactly what I said. That the smell of homemade bread is a foolproof way to motivate hunger in a guy. Better than just about anything on earth—give or take that sweater you’re wearing.”

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“It’s just a sweater, Fox! I—” The cell phone chimed, forcing her to peel off an oven glove to answer it.

It was her mom, and because it was an unusual time for her mother to call, she motioned to Fox that she’d just be a few seconds, and continued bringing on the food. “There’s nothing wrong is there, Mom?

You’re okay? Dad’s okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” Her mother’s magnolia-sweet voice was a little too careful, but Phoebe swiftly learned why. “I just wanted to tell you something, honey. I saw in the paper tonight that Alan’s getting married. I know you two are long over, but I just didn’t want any stranger springing the news on you.…”