Hunted (5 page)

“Says who?” She got up, too, and moved toward him. “I'm not your responsibility. We're not married anymore. Even if we were, it’s not right for you to treat me like a child. All I ever wanted was to be your partner, don’t you know that? To work through things together. But every time it got tough, you checked out. You disappeared inside yourself, and you never let me in.”

He stood up straight, with his arms at his sides. There was no remorse on his face, no guilt. Nothing. As if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said—or hadn’t cared. “I better go check on Sam.”

“Oh, don’t. Don’t leave now.” She reached over and touched his cheek.

He turned away. “It’s late. We both need to get some sleep.”

She let her hand drop. “For a brave man, you are one hell of a coward.”

He swallowed. That was all. He didn’t blink, or frown or get angry. Then she realized the man in front of her was an imposter. He looked like the man she’d married, but that was all. This man was a stranger. There was nothing she could do about it. And it broke her heart.

“I
don’t know what you want from me,” Mike said, struggling to keep still, to not let her see how her words were tearing him in two. “I tried to apologize.”

“You say you're sorry, but you still don’t talk to me. You don’t include me in the decisions. You came to my house in the middle of the night, and brought us to this godforsaken place. Did you discuss it with me? No. You said jump, and we jumped.”

“It was for your own good.”

“Since when are you an expert on what’s good for me?”

“I'm trying to save your life.”

Becky shook her head and walked over to the couch. She didn’t sit down, though. He guessed she just didn’t want to be so close to him.

He didn’t blame her. For any of it. He’d failed at the only thing that mattered—keeping his family safe. He hadn’t been able to save Amy; he hadn’t been there for Becky. And now he’d delivered his family to a madman. His wife and son might die because he loved them.

The worst of it was that, dammit, he still wanted her. That when she touched him, he remembered the feel of her hands and the taste of her skin, and that he could never have her again.

Let her be angry. Let her despise him. It would be easier for both of them.

“I'm going to see Sam,” he said.

Becky didn’t try to stop him this time. Mike felt her angry gaze on his back as he walked past her to the stairs. It was better this way. If she hated him, she wouldn’t let him touch her. One of them had to be strong.

He paused as he reached the door to Sam’s room. His son was on the bed, sitting cross-legged with the computer on his lap. He looked so serious. Mike remembered that little smile from dinner.

He’d done some job tonight. First he’d chased Sam away, then he’d run from Becky. He tried to blame it on lack of sleep, but he knew better. He was a bastard, plain and simple.

The least he could do was try not to act like one.

“Hey,” he said, as he walked toward the bed. “Why don’t you put that thing away and come downstairs? We can give that puzzle a try.”

Sam didn’t look up. “No, thanks.”

Mike walked over to the bed, and sat next to his son. Sam still didn’t look at him.

“I'm sorry I snapped at you,” Mike said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

Sam shrugged. At least he stopped typing.

“You don’t have to do the puzzle, but it would be nice if you would come downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Your mom needs you. She’s on edge, and she could sure use your company.”

“You were downstairs.”

Mike put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. It always surprised him how small his son was. How fragile. “I'm pretty lousy company. You know that. But I think you could save the day.”

Finally, Sam looked at him. He expected to see the hurt he’d put there at dinner, but Sam surprised him. His brown eyes were full of trust. The little guy didn’t expect much. Just a father he could count on.

He squeezed Sam’s shoulder and gave him the best smile he could. “Come on, sport. Let’s go make your mom happy.”

Sam nodded. “Will you do the puzzle, too?”

“You bet,” Mike said, as he stood up. “I'll do whatever you want.”

He watched his son put away his computer. He ached inside, as if he’d been punched in the gut. Sam was so young, and so innocent. He still wanted his dad to be a hero. But how long would that last? How long before he realized that his father was nothing but a fraud? That when things got really tough, Dad couldn’t do one damn thing about it?

He’d made peace with losing them a long time ago. When this was all over, he would make peace with it again. In the meantime, he would try to make things tolerable for both of them. He would act as if everything was going to be fine. That Mojo couldn’t touch them. He would spend time with Sam, and hope that his boy wouldn’t hate him for it later.

Sam walked in front of him down the stairs. Becky was still sitting on the couch. She turned to look up at them.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Sam and I thought we would take a whack at that puzzle,” he said. He tried to make his voice sound cheerful.

Becky’s smile told him he’d succeeded. It was a start.

* * *

“You've got his eye in upside down.” Sam lifted the puzzle piece and put it aside.

“Come on,” Becky said with a laugh. “Where’s your creative spirit? If you push hard enough, anything will fit.”

Sam shook his head. “You are too weird. Dad, tell her.”

Mike looked at Becky sitting at the opposite side of the dining room table. “You're too weird,” he repeated.

“Thanks,” she said. “Both of you.” After a brief glance at him, she went back to studying her side of the picture.

She had spent most of the last hour talking to Sam. She’d been pleasant to Mike, but she hadn’t looked at him. Not really. He’d tried to ignore her, too, but he hadn’t been very successful. He kept stealing glances. Whenever their gazes met, she turned away.

Sam didn’t seem to notice. He was sitting on his knees on the kitchen chair, leaning over the table. Although he’d groused about the puzzle, he was the one doing most of the work. He picked up a small piece, a corner of a mouth, and slipped it in place. “See?” he said. “If you're careful, you can make it work right.”

Becky nodded. “Ah,” she said. “A million apologies. I'll try to be more careful in the future, Professor.”

Sam snorted. “Geez. Women.”

Becky’s mouth came open in a loud gasp. “What did you say?”

He giggled.

Becky stood up, her mouth still open in mock surprise. “What did you say, young man?”

Sam scrambled off his chair and backed away from his mother. Mike knew he wasn’t scared, though. No, he was feeling that incredible mixture of delight and anticipation that precedes a major tickle. Mike recognized it with his own blend of pleasure and remorse. He hadn’t tickled Sam in years.

The boy continued to back away. Becky wasn’t even close to him, and he was already protecting his vulnerable parts by keeping his arms up tight against his chest. Mike couldn’t hold back a smile as he listened to his son’s laughter. Becky kept on moving toward him, wiggling her fingers to show him what was in store as she chased him into the living room.

Mike got up and followed them.

Sam had backed up all the way to the front door. Becky pounced. The squeal was loud and high, filled with anguish and glee.

“Dad, help me!” Sam struggled to get away from his mom. “Dad!” he said, but an octave higher.

Mike laughed. It felt strange and wonderful, like a long-lost friend had come to call. He moved toward the wriggling twosome. “Here I come,” he said, in an awful imitation of Dudley Do Right. “I'll protect you.”

He grabbed Becky around the waist. She yelped as he lifted her into the air. Sam broke free and ran across the room, then fell in a laughing heap on the couch.

Becky tried to get out of his grasp, but he didn’t budge.

“Mike, put me down.”

“Never!” He looked at Sam. But his boy wasn’t smiling any more. He was staring at his mother’s face. All the laughter had gone.

“Mike, put me down. Please.”

He heard her this time. He did as she asked. The second her feet touched the floor, he let go and backed away.

“It’s time for bed, Sam,” she said.

Mike couldn’t see her face, but her posture said enough. Her back was stiff and straight. Her arms were crossed, hugging her waist. She hated that he’d touched her.

Sam didn’t argue with her. He looked from his mother to Mike with wide, sad eyes. He didn’t even say good-night. He just walked up the stairs.

Becky turned around slowly. Her cheeks were still flushed. “It’s late,” she said. “We all need some sleep.”

He couldn’t speak. He’d let down his guard for one split second, and look what had happened. She couldn’t have hurt him worse if she’d picked up his gun and shot him.

* * *

Mike listened to the storm as he stretched his legs in front of him. It was late, after midnight, but he couldn’t get up and put himself to bed. He stared at the dying embers of the fire and thought about the night.

She’d fooled him. She’d smiled and made jokes. Even laughed. For a while there, he’d thought she’d forgiven him. But it had all been a pretense for Sam’s benefit. She deserved an Academy Award.

“Mike?”

He turned abruptly, startled by Becky’s quiet voice. He figured she would have been sound asleep by now. “What are you doing up?”

“I can’t sleep,” she said, as she walked down the stairs. “I thought I would make myself some hot milk. Do you want some?”

“No, thank you.” He stretched as he stood, trying to ease the stiffness in his back. Now seemed like a really good time to go to bed.

“Please?”

He almost said no. In fact, he wasn’t really sure why he didn’t walk right past her. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded.

Becky led him to the kitchen. She’d changed from her jeans and sweater into her bathrobe. Her hair was loose and tousled, falling below her shoulders. God, how he used to love to see her when she’d just gotten out of bed.

The kitchen seemed too bright and cold. He thought about getting his jacket, but he just sat down. He yawned and rubbed his face with his hands, the stubble of his chin scratchy and uncomfortable. When he looked up again, Becky was standing over the stove, pouring milk into a pan.

The bathrobe was the one he’d given her for Mother’s Day three years ago. It was pink terry cloth and it made her look soft. She wore socks, big thick white ones. Her feet were always cold. She used to warm them on his back. Or he would lift them on his lap and rub them until she was comfortable.

His gaze traveled up slowly, but instead of seeing the bulky robe, he pictured what was underneath. The length of her thighs and the swell of her hips. He was a fool for thinking about that. Especially now. Hadn’t she made it perfectly clear she didn’t want anything to do with him? That she couldn’t even stand to have him touch her? It seemed to be an apt punishment, knowing what was under her robe, remembering how good it had been.

The moment before she raised her hand, he knew she was going to push a lock of hair behind her ear. Because she always did that. Even when there was no hair on her cheek. It was just her way.

He stared at her hands, the short oval fingernails unadorned and all the more beautiful for it. There was something intoxicating about her hands, even when they did something as mundane as pour milk. He’d always loved her hands. He could still remember the feel of them when she ran them over his body as they made love. When they finished, he always lifted her palm to his lips and kissed her.

She’d liked it, too. There had been a time when she’d begged him to touch her. To make love with her.

She brought the small pot and the glass to the table and sat next to him. She waited a minute or so, then poured the warm liquid so she could drink it.

He held himself still, afraid that if he moved, she would see what he was thinking. He watched her through half-open eyes and tried to ignore the ache between his thighs.

She put both hands around her glass, then brought the milk to her mouth. He watched her lips part, and her tongue touch the rim of the glass just before she drank. It seemed to take forever. His heartbeats grew farther apart, the seconds stretched. She placed the glass on the table, sighed, then turned to look into his eyes, all in slow motion.

“I shouldn’t have reacted that way,” she said. “I know you were just having some fun. I didn’t mean to spoil everything.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes, I do. You really tried hard tonight with Sam. You were good with him. I haven’t seen him laugh like that in a long time.”

So it was all about Sam. He should have figured. “It was no big deal.” He had to stop looking at her. He kept thinking about old times. About making up after fights.

“He loves you so much, Mike.”

“I love him, too.”

“You need to tell him that.”

He stared at his hands, then his gaze slid across the table to hers. She rubbed one finger along the side of her glass.

“Okay,” he whispered. “If you want me to tell him, I will.”

She didn’t respond. He heard the trees outside, whipping in the wind. Then she moved the hand that wasn’t on the glass. She moved it closer to him. Just an inch. Before he could think, he leaned forward and slipped his open hand beneath hers. He knew she would pull away from him. It was obvious she hated his touch. But somehow, for some reason, her small fingers slipped between his. He didn’t look at her. If he did, she would see what he wanted, she would realize what she was doing.

Still, she didn’t pull away. She gripped him tightly, moving her thumb so it rubbed the back of his hand. Something stirred inside him, something stronger than the physical need. It was an emptiness so deep he felt hollow inside. He’d tried to fill that hole, packing his days with work and exercise until he could barely move. Now, as he felt her beating pulse with his fingertips, he knew the emptiness had won a long time ago.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

She was exquisite. Her mouth opened slightly, showing the edges of her even, white teeth. Her breaths were deep and slow, her chest rising and falling beneath the pink robe. Her gaze met and held his. He saw something he’d thought he would never see again. She wanted him.

“I've missed you,” he said.

She nodded. “I know.”

“Do you?” He leaned forward, never letting go of the connection of her gaze. “Do you know what I think about most? Waking up next to you. Not sex, although that’s there, too, but about feeling you next to me when I first open my eyes. Turning over in bed to see your hair on the pillow. Sometimes I would wake up and you would be in my arms. I wouldn’t remember how you got there. I would just be grateful.”

She sighed and looked down. “I think about you sometimes, too.”

He squeezed her hand, wanting her to look at him again. “I know I can’t have you back,” he said. “I know that. I would never even ask.”

She did look at him, then. He saw the tears in her eyes.

Then he was standing, and he pulled her up and into his arms. He stopped the trembling of her lips with his own.