Hot Under Pressure (23 page)

Fuck. He couldn’t even say it, not out loud. Not to her.

But it didn’t matter. Skye’s face crumpled anyway, like a rose clutched in a too-tight fist, and she rushed to him, hands outstretched.

“I told you! It wasn’t because I was sad, or stressed, or anything like that. Nothing you could have done would have made a difference if you’d been there. Nothing I could have done would have changed it, either, and trust me, part of me
still
wants to believe that I could have changed what happened if I’d been smarter, healthier, more careful, something. But there was nothing, Henry, nothing. From the moment of conception, our baby had Turner syndrome. The chance that she would survive to be born was minuscule from the very beginning.”

Skye had both his hands in hers, the firm grasp of her slim fingers the only anchor in a world that tipped and spun like the boat taking a sudden dive into deep, black waters.

She shook their joined hands, her face fierce and lovely as she stared into his eyes, the grief and determination on her face not letting him look away.

“Do you understand?”

But all Beck truly understood was the one thing he hadn’t heard before. “She … you said ‘she.’ Our baby was a girl?”

Skye’s lips parted for a long, soundless moment, and fresh tears welled up. Her voice, though, was soft and even. Steady. “Yes. All Turner syndrome babies are girls.”

A baby girl.

The knowledge ripped open the box of Beck’s suppressed emotions and stole the strength from his bones so that his legs shook. Without the table behind him and Skye hanging onto his hands, he would’ve crashed to his knees.

Somehow, knowing that made the baby real in a way she never had been before.

At least, not to Beck. Oh, he’d been happy when Skye found out she was pregnant. Happy, proud, worried out of his mind about how the hell they were going to afford the doctor’s bills and diapers and everything else when they could barely make their rent, but the baby had been … more of a concept. An idea. A certain loving smile on Skye’s face, a new roundness to her hips and sensitivity to her breasts. That was what the pregnancy meant to Beck.

But the baby had been real to Skye from the very beginning, he knew.

Which meant … everything he was feeling now, she’d felt nearly ten years ago. And she’d had to go through it alone.

“It would’ve made a difference.” Getting the words out felt like coughing up broken glass, and sounded worse, but he had to say this. “If I’d been home, it would’ve made a difference.”

She shook her head, heaving in a shuddering breath to deny it, but Beck leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Yeah, we still would’ve lost her … but we would’ve been together. I could’ve held you.”

“Henry,” she gasped, clutching at their joined hands and bringing them up to press between their chests. “You could hold me now.”

His breath broke in his chest, a mangled, wounded sound grinding out of his aching throat, and he broke her grip on his fingers to wrap his arms around her.

She pressed into his hold, burrowing in until her face was tight against his neck, her hitching breath damp against his collarbone.

She was warm and real and alive. He could feel her heart thudding steadily into his ribcage, as if she were inside of him, and the jagged, broken pieces of Beck started to put themselves back together again.

Skye cried a little more, and he held her through it, his big frame for once used to shelter and protect, instead of loom and intimidate.

Curved around his crying wife, with the savage burn of tears pricking at his own eyes, Beck had never felt like more of a man.

*   *   *

There were days in the last few years when Skye had been sure she’d cried herself out, that she had no more tears left to shed for the baby girl she’d lost.

The baby
they’d
lost.

And maybe that was it—maybe she wasn’t crying now for their little girl, and the life she’d never get to lead, and the hole in her own heart that would never fully close.

Maybe this time the tears were for that little girl’s father, and the fact that he’d been tormenting himself, blaming himself, for ten long years.

God. If he believed he was to blame, that his absence had somehow caused Skye’s miscarriage, no wonder he’d stayed away.

And it made a vicious sort of sense. After all, she knew Beck—always ready for people to believe the worst of him.

Feeling the need to make sure he understood, once and for all, she tilted her head back until her chin was propped on the smooth, hard plane of his chest. That was as far as she could bear to go.

“I don’t blame you,” she said, as clearly as she could through the last few tears clogging her head. “I never did.”

His arms around her tightened, even though a moment ago she would’ve sworn he couldn’t hold her any closer than he already was, and the look on his face … Skye closed her eyes and turned her head down, pressing her mouth to his chest so his expression wouldn’t set her off again.

He was so steady, so strong, with a couple more years and infinitely more life experience—he’d always been a rock for her to lean on.

But with this stuff? Throw anything emotional at him, and Beck was the inexperienced one.

Most of the time, he kept the strength of his reactions buried so deeply, she’d forget how it was for him. She’d start to doubt, to tell herself he was so stoic and impassive all the time because he didn’t care.

But when something happened that he couldn’t prepare for, couldn’t fight down and push away, she glimpsed a side of him that never failed to grab her by the heart.

He kept his emotions locked down so tightly
because
he cared … a lot.

And something had taught him early on that showing his feelings was a weakness, a chink in his armor that would instantly let in the sharp point of a knife.

Maybe it was his years shuffling from house to state facility to group home in the foster care system—or whatever had happened when he was eight years old to put him in foster care. She didn’t know what had happened to his parents; Beck would never talk about it.

The old hurt tried to surface, an inner voice (one that sounded an awful lot like her mother) whispering that Beck had never shared his past with her because he didn’t love her, didn’t trust her, didn’t want a life together … it was a horribly familiar litany that had served as the soundtrack for her entire relationship with Beck, but tonight she managed to squash it.

Tonight wasn’t about her hurt feelings. Tonight was about healing, reconnecting, and making damn sure, once and for all, that Beck knew he wasn’t to blame.

No matter what else happened between them, she couldn’t stand the thought of him walking around with that heavy burden of guilt on his broad shoulders.

At some point during her crying jag, he’d started rocking them, just a gentle sway from side to side, like the chaste, awkward way kids slow-danced at their first boy-girl party, and the image made Skye smile into Beck’s chest.

No one had asked her to dance, back when she was thirteen and discovering the joys of braces, acne, and hormonal bloating all at the same time. Not to mention the fact that she’d always been That Weird Girl, even in a school full of bohemian artists’ kids.

Yeah, Skye hadn’t exactly had a lot of interest from boys that year … or any of the years that followed.

Until Henry Beck showed up and kissed her under the moonlight on a secluded beach.

He’d been so handsome even then, already radiating the aura of inner strength that had never left him. He’d been more wiry back then, with that lanky, pulled-taffy look some guys had before they grew into their bodies, hands and feet too big for the rest of him, the new width of his shoulders making him carry himself differently.

The body sheltering hers now felt … fully formed. The essence of masculinity, all hard, corded muscles layered thickly over his swimmer’s frame. Unable to resist, she ran her hands up the sloping plane of his back, feeling the dip of his spine and the smooth tension of his shoulder blades.

The muscles tensed, then relaxed when she touched them, as if her caress over the warm cotton of his shirt gave him chills.

Inhaling deeply, Skye took his scent of sun-warmed sand and salty air into herself, filling her lungs and her head with it until she felt dizzy.

“Skye,” he said, his voice rumbling deep in his chest, pushing the vibration into her mouth where she’d pressed it to his collarbone.

There was a plea in that voice, and an ache she knew she could ease—wanted to erase, with every fiber of her being.

She stilled, her fingers mid-knead against the line of his shoulders.

Was she really going to do this? After all her second thoughts and self-shaming this morning, it seemed crazy.

But as Fiona loved to point out, Jeremiah wouldn’t care. And Beck would take it for what it was and move on—he’d made his intentions clear on that score.

So who would she be hurting if she gave Beck the comfort of her body tonight? No one but herself.

And as Beck speared one hand into the tumbled mess of her red curls and palmed the shape of her head, she tilted her gaze up to his and knew … It would be worth any amount of future heartache to replace the stunned pain in his dark brown eyes with the glow of desire.

Chapter 22

Beck felt … hell, he didn’t know what he felt. Too many emotions to name tore around inside him in a chaotic mass. Like sharks in a feeding frenzy, all razor teeth and whipping tails and blood in the water.

The warm softness of Skye in his arms was a haven of calm, real and tangible and right there, grounding him in the present. Where she was alive, so was he.

God damn. He’d never felt so alive. Not in combat training, not during the heat of the Rising Star Chef challenges … never.

But this moment, right here, where he could feel Skye’s living heart throbbing in his own chest and the heat of her seeping into his core, was one he’d remember for the rest of his life.

When her mouth opened against his chest, he felt it like a brand, even through the thin cotton of his T-shirt.

Her name ripped from him in a near-groan, but he didn’t know what he meant to ask her … all he knew was that he needed her, couldn’t let her go, and he wanted her to know.

He cradled her head in his hand and tugged lightly on her hair, suddenly desperate to see her face.

Blinking slowly up at him, Skye had never looked more beautiful. Even with red rimming her eyes, they were bright blue like a rain-washed sky, and the flush of high emotion stained her cheekbones.

Her lush mouth trembled into a smile, lips parted and so, so tempting. He searched her gaze for second thoughts, for denial, but all he saw was acceptance. Recognition.

And a growing flame of desire that ignited an answering fire in him.

As quickly as pouring brandy into a saucepan, his lust shot up in licking spurts of scorching heat, high enough to blacken the kitchen ceiling.

Crap.

They were still in the Queenie Pie kitchen.

Using the last bit of brain function before all the available blood in his body drained south, Beck ground out, “You want to do this here?”

Skye was panting lightly, her fingers clutching hard at his back as her eyes went heavy-lidded and glazed. “What?”

He combed his fingers through her curls, loving the slip and slide of their silkiness over his hands. “Health hazard. Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“No. Right.” She blinked, shaking her head and nudging it more firmly into his caress as she gestured over her shoulder to a door in the side wall. “Office.”

Hell and damn, but he loved reducing her to single-word sentences. Ignoring her shocked squeak of protest, Beck scooped her up in his arms and headed for the door.

Staring down at the frustrating doorknob, Beck fought the urge to draw his leg back and just kick the door in. “Shit, who designed this thing? And why isn’t it just a swinging door, like all good doors should be?”

“Sorry.” Skye snickered into his shoulder, then twisted her torso to try to reach the handle.

They fumbled together in a quick comedy of errors until Beck finally backed off and let Skye handle it before she laughed herself right out of his grasp.

He got them out of the kitchen and kicked the door shut behind them, juggling Skye around until he could snatch that happy laugh right out of her smiling mouth.

Her giggle died away into a low, breathy moan as he plunged his tongue past her teeth and danced it over the roof of her mouth, licking into her and stealing every bit of her addictive flavor for himself.

For long, frenzied moments, his entire world narrowed down to the woman in his arms, the deliciously squirming weight of her trapped against his chest and the deep, drugging sweetness of her mouth under his.

When the need for air finally forced him to lift his head, he sucked in lungfuls of Skye-scented breaths and buried his face in the red-gold cloud of her hair.

In the darkness of the room, little more than a closet with a couch and a folding-tray table holding a laptop and printer that partly blocked the window on the back wall, Skye’s hair looked auburn, the color of aged sherry. Her skin glowed as if lit from within, pale and luminous and spattered with freckles like flecks of cinnamon in a bowl of milk. Her eyes glowed, too, when he pulled back to catch a glimpse of her flushed face.

Licking her kiss-swollen lips, she said, “There’s a futon. Want to put me down?”

Beck squinted at the futon, then did a double take. “Is that…?”

“Oh!” She wriggled a little, as if she were embarrassed. “Actually, yeah. I moved it in here when we opened. Couldn’t quite stand to get rid of it, for some reason.”

It was the futon from their first apartment over the corner grocery in Chinatown. They’d rescued it from the curb and dragged its wooden frame and single, unwieldy cushion eleven blocks uphill to their third-floor walk-up, and for a long time, it was the only piece of furniture they’d owned. They’d slept on it for months before they’d managed to put away enough money for a real bed.