The Harder They Fall (13 page)

Helene removed the ring from the box and slipped it onto her finger. She had to push it past the knuckle.

“Too small?” he said anxiously.

“No, my fingers swell a little at the end of the day. It’s the pregnancy. After the baby comes it will fit fine.”

He nodded.

“More coffee?” the waiter said at Chris’ elbow.

“Thanks.” The waiter refilled his cup and then departed unobtrusively.

“They certainly treat you like royalty in this place. How do you rate it?” Helene asked.

“The owner is a relative of my mother’s.”
 

“But I thought they were all...” she stopped.

“Poor?” he suggested.

“Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“I gave him the money to get the place started eight years ago, after I was making a good profit on the ranch. Let’s just say he’s been very grateful.”

“You mean you’re a part owner here?”

“No, I just gave him a loan which he later repaid. I didn’t ask for any interest. He has a long memory.”

“You’re a good person, do you know that?”

“Please,” he said, looking away, embarrassed.

“I think it was your way of remembering your mother,” Helene said gently.

“Don’t get started on that again,” he said.

“Chris, we don’t love people because they’re perfect—you must know that. You obviously loved your mother, no matter what kind of problems she had.”

He said nothing, his face pensive.

“I tried to hate my father after he brought our whole world crashing down about our ears, but I found I just couldn’t do it.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that my capacity for hate was greater than yours?” he asked evenly.

Helene met his intense dark eyes and found herself saying, “No, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Then don’t judge me by your reactions. She ruined my life. I was glad when she died.”

“Maybe so, but you didn’t hate her.”

“I hated her life. I think she did too.”

“That’s not the same thing.”
 

“Don’t play word games with me, Helene,” he said testily, fiddling with the salt shaker.

“Chris, I don’t want to ruin this lovely evening , but I can’t have a relationship with someone who constantly shuts me out every time a painful subject comes up. Can you understand that?”

He sighed, eyeing her warily.

“Do you want me to be one of those toy wives who just talks about the weather and decorating the den and what’s for dinner? I want to really help you, be with you, face everything with you. Isn’t that what you want too?”

There was a long pause, then he nodded slowly.

“Then answer one question for me. Why didn’t she ever tell you who your father was?”

“She was afraid I would leave her if I knew I had a better place to go. She put it in her will because then she would already be dead and it wouldn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “She was terrified of being alone. The men she went with, well, they were never good for more than a few days, a week. I was the only constant in her life.”

“Would you have left if you had known earlier?”

He thought about it, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“It’s a shame, Chris. With your father’s help you might have been able to do something for her.”

He nodded. “I’ve thought about that many times.”

The waiter came back and Chris asked for the check. When he was told there was no charge, he threw up his hands.

“Tell Jorge I’ll be in touch,” he said to the waiter, who smiled and left.

“I don’t come here as often as I would like, because Jorge always does this and I feel like I’m taking advantage of him,” Chris said, as he pulled out Helene’s chair.

They made the drive back in a shared, comfortable silence; Helene had never felt so close to him. They walked through the door and Chris said, “Ready for bed?”

“Yes.”

“But not for sleep.”

“No.”

He nodded, his eyes locking with hers.

They walked hand in hand down the hall to his room and closed the door behind them.

“Why do we sleep in here?” Helene asked, as she stretched to pull down the zipper at the back of her dress.

“The bed’s bigger?” he suggested.

“I think it gives me an illicit thrill to be running back and forth between bedrooms,” she said, laughing.

“How can it be illicit?” he asked, pulling his shirttails out of his pants. “We’re married.”

“It feels illicit.”

“That’s because you’re having a good time,” he said, standing behind her and bending to kiss the back of her neck.

“Very true,” she replied, closing her eyes.

He pulled her dress off her arms and she stepped out of it as it fell. His hands slipped down to her hips and he arched himself against her.

“A perfect fit,” he murmured in her ear.

Helene sighed as she felt his arousal and he dropped his head to her bare shoulder. His mouth moved along her naked back, the friction of his tongue against her skin causing her knees to weaken.

“Helene?” he said, sliding his hands under her arms and enclosing her breasts, his voice muffled by her flesh. He stroked her nipples with his thumbs, teasing them into peaks as she moaned helplessly.

“Yes,” she whispered, turning to face him, lifting her mouth for his kiss.

He responded instantly and she opened her lips under his, welcoming the invasion of his tongue. She ran her palms over the hard surface of his back, pushing aside the folds of his loosened shirt. He put his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her, setting her on the bed. He stripped off their remaining clothes and then fell with her full length, pulling her tight against him again.

“Each time I’m with you I’m afraid it will be the last,” she said, burying her face against the smooth expanse of his shoulder.

He held her off to look at her.

“Don’t talk like that,” he said sternly.

Helene reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair, the silky strands slipping through her grasp, and then dug her nails gently into his scalp.

“I guess I can’t believe you’re really mine,” she whispered.

He grunted and shifted position, adjusting himself so she could feel him more fully.

“I really am,” he replied.

Helene wrapped her legs around his hips, her eagerness inflaming him. He kissed her again, so intensely that she thrust against him restlessly, muttering something he couldn’t understand.

“What do you want?” he said, his lips against hers, his tone low and sensuous.

“You,” she said. “Now.”

He gave her what she wanted.

* * * *

“I’m hungry,” Helene said.

“I’m not surprised. You ate almost nothing at dinner.”

“I was excited.”

“Honey, that wasn’t excited. Excited is what we just had here in this bed.”

Helene punched him. Lightly.

“Ow,” he said, unconvincingly.

“I sure wish somebody would get up and make me a sandwich,” Helene announced.

Silence thundered through the room.

“I had such a big night, the ring and everything,” she added hopefully.

There was a slight rustling of sheets, some thumping of pillows, but no verbal response.

“I am pregnant, after all,” she said dramatically, pulling out her trump card.

“Oh, all right,” he replied, sighing loudly and shifting in the bed. She heard his feet hit the floor and then the lamp on the bedside table snapped on, shedding a buttery glow across the spread.

“Turkey with lettuce and tomato on a hard roll,” Helene said with satisfaction.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “This is not Joe’s deli,” he replied. “You’ll have to take what’s there.”

“I bought all of that myself yesterday,” Helene said smugly.

“For just such an emergency,” he said, pulling on his pants.

“You never know,” she said, grinning.

“Apparently, you do,” he replied pointedly, laughing as he padded into the hall.

“Don’t use the roll if it’s stale. There’s whole wheat bread in the keeper,” she called after him.

He stuck his head back into the bedroom. “Anything else? How about a fresh rose on the tray?”

“That would be a nice touch,” she offered brightly. “And don’t forget the mayonnaise.”

“On the rose?”

“On the sandwich, wise guy.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said dryly, and she listened contentedly to his progress down the hall and then heard the squeak of the refrigerator door. She propped several pillows against the headboard and sat back against them comfortably, drawing the sheet up under her arms and smoothing the spread across her lap. She relaxed, closing her eyes, and was almost asleep by the time he came back.

“Wake up,” he announced as he came through the door. “If I made this masterpiece at two in the morning you are going to eat it.”

Helene blinked and straightened. “Looks great,” she said.

“It looks like I hacked the roll in half with a machete,” he said apologetically, “but I did the best I could.”

Helene surveyed the plate, which bore what might have been the remains of a kaiser roll stuffed with what resembled a wilted day-old salad. She picked it up gingerly.

“How does it taste?” he asked doubtfully, as she took a bite.

“Yum,” she said, truthfully. It tasted a lot better than it looked. She chewed enthusiastically.

“Well, anyway, it’s food,” he said, sighing and climbing in next to her. He popped the top of the can of beer he had brought for himself and handed her a glass of seltzer.

“Thank you,” Helene said tenderly.

“You’re welcome.” He rolled onto his side, watching her eat.

“Want a bite?” she asked, proffering the ragged roll.

“No, thanks. I killed it, I’m not going to eat it too.”

Helene giggled and then hiccupped loudly.

“Oh, no. Not again,” she said, gasping for air. She put the plate on the floor and tried to hold her breath, but she hiccupped once more.

“You know what the doctor said,” Chris reminded her. “It’s the baby pressing on your diaphragm. Just relax and breathe normally.”

Helene relaxed, took a deep breath, then hiccupped twice.

He sighed and pressed her flat onto the mattress. “Close your eyes,” he instructed.

Helene did so.

“Close your mouth and exhale through your nose,” he said.

She obeyed.

“Now let your arms and legs go limp,” he intoned.

Helene felt all her muscles go slack.

He peeled the sheet back from her torso and took one of her nipples in his mouth.

“Hey,” she said, sitting up.

“Cured your hiccups, didn’t it?” he asked.

Chapter 7

“What do you want to do tonight?” Helene asked, as they were finishing dinner the following evening.
 

Chris looked at her and grinned lasciviously.
 

“Besides that,” she said.
 

He shrugged.

“Can we go to Brodie’s?” she asked.

“Why do you want to go there?”
 

“Just to see it.”

“It’s not a place for you,” he said shortly.

“Why not?” Helene demanded. “Is it the national headquarters for Murder, Incorporated?”

“It’s a beer joint, Helene, you won’t be meeting a lot of first grade teachers there.”
 

“Maybe that’s why I want to go.”

“Expanding your horizons?”

“Possibly. You spent a lot of time there. Are you trying to hide your past from me?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Playing district attorney again?”

“I suppose I can always go by myself,” she said airily.

“You’re not going there by yourself,” he said firmly.

“Well?” she countered.

“All right.” He ran his glance over her outfit. “You’ll have to change your clothes,” he said.

She looked down at her skirt and blouse, sheer hose, dark pumps. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” she asked.

“You look like you’re about to give a lecture on the difference between hard and soft
g
.”

“I thought you liked the way I look,” Helene said softly, suddenly feeling hurt.

Chris put down his coffee cup and slid out of his chair, coming to stand behind her at the sink.

“I love the way you look,” he said, pushing her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck. “But it will make you stand out like a reindeer in the Easter parade at Brodie’s Bar and Grille.”