The Street Where She Lives (13 page)

A
T EIGHT O'CLOCK
that night Rachel opened the sliding glass door to the back garden. It had been an interesting afternoon. Gwen had called back twice, trying not to show her panic over the impending loss of
Gracie.
Their online server had gone down for several hours sending Emily into a tailspin over the lack of e-mail. Adam had called wanting to take her out to a new downtown dinner theater. Mel was acting pissy about God knew what. The puppy was going to be the death of her if she so much as chewed one more thing. And her doctor had told her she'd be a little longer on the casts.

All in all, a shitty day. But at least Melanie had taken Emily out for a movie and the puppy was sleeping. A few moments of peace. Maybe. She made her careful way outside, and at the sight before her, all her thoughts scattered like the light evening wind.

Candles burned everywhere, on the brick path, hanging from the trees, on the table that had been dressed up with her fancy linens and best china. And sitting at the table, looking at her with those dark eyes and sexy mouth curved in the slightest of a smile, was Ben.

Uh-oh. Thinking about resisting him and everything he made her feel was one thing when he wasn't actually in front of her, but Ben in the flesh was something else entirely. Her heart clutched, her stomach quivered. Her
palms went damp. The entire visceral reaction was more than a little disturbing.

Had she forgotten that this man, and this man alone, had once destroyed her? Had she forgotten he already had one foot out the door, and that when he left it would likely be another thirteen years before she saw him again?

He stood up and came toward her, wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt beneath an open, long-sleeved, blue chambray shirt. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself.”

He took her hand and guided her to the table. She eyed her best china, the three daisies in a small vase in the center of the table, the utter care that had gone into the setting and then realized he was studying her.
“What?”

“You look beautiful,” he said so simply she wanted to believe him. Wanted a lot of things, actually.

“Ben…about earlier. I'm sorry about getting mad over the McDonald's bribe. It's just that I'm used to handling her all by myself, and—”

“You handle everything by yourself.”

“I didn't—” She let out a breath and blinked at him. “What?”

“You handle everything by yourself—your injuries, your house, your hopes and dreams and fears. Your daughter.”

“She's your daughter, too.”

“I know that, I'm just not always sure you know it.”

Whoa. This didn't sound like a truce to her. “Ben—”

“Look, all I want to say is, don't apologize for something you're not really sorry for.”

“I…okay.” She blew out a careful breath. “You're right.”

“And be honest. You like routine, you like to get your way and when I wasn't here, you had both whenever you wanted it.”

“Yes,” she agreed tightly. “And when you're gone, things will go back to normal. They'll have to. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't spoil Emily while you were here.”

He let out a little laugh. “You act like I'm already half gone.”

“Aren't you?”

Still standing, they stared at each other, at the same old impasse. The thirteen years might not have happened at all, Rachel thought bitterly, and wondered how she'd ever let herself dream things might be different this time, even if those dreams had only been in the deep, dark of the night. “You could try to deny it,” she whispered, horrified at what she was revealing by even saying it, but unwilling to hold back.

He stared at her for a beat, then grimaced. Shoving his hands through his hair, he turned in a slow circle, then faced her again. “Rachel.” Just that, just her name, in a voice as tortured as her insides felt.

“Forget it,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Just forget it.”

“You know I had to leave back then. I had the offer of a lifetime. You
know
that. But I never meant to do it without you, it never occurred to me that I'd have to. That you'd send me away.”

She knew her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Knowing that her heart was in her voice, she said, “And it never occurred to you that I had to stay, every bit as much as you had to go.”

“Rach,” he whispered again and stepped closer. He slid his fingers along her jaw, beneath the straw hat she
wore over her extremely short hair. His thumb gently glided along her cheek. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you.”

“Me, too,” she said softly, and meant it. So sorry.

He let out a slow breath. “So.”

“So,” she repeated, and had to let out a little smile.

His returning smile stole her breath. He hitched his head toward the table. “Think we can manage?”

“We can try.”

“Good.” He slipped his arm around her bad side, gently pulling her snug against him so that as they turned toward the table and started walking, he was her cane.

“What's cooking?” she asked, trying not to think about how hard he felt from shoulder to thigh, how warm. How positively solid. She concentrated on something else instead—the itching beneath the cast, the residual heat of the day.

“Well, now.” He tipped his head down to hers, his mouth curving into a smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

He sat her down, scooted her chair in for her then moved to his side of the table. Shrugging out of his long-sleeved shirt, he set it over the back of his chair and sat as well. “Hungry?” Before she could answer, he pulled the lid off the steaming platter. Mac and cheese.

Not that Rachel wasn't grateful for any meal that she didn't have to cook, but she knew Ben's culinary skills and had to admit to surprise over the simplistic menu.

“Looks great,” he said, and smiled one of his killer smiles.

In spite of herself, she laughed. “Didn't it look great before?”

“Before?”

“When you cooked it, Ben.”

His smile froze a little. “But I didn't cook it.”

“But…I didn't either.”

“Sure you did. I got your note.” He pulled it out of the pocket of the shirt on the back of his chair. The piece of paper looked suspiciously like hers.

She stared at it in disbelief, then pulled out hers and handed it to him.

After reading it, he tossed his head back and laughed.

Rachel, who didn't think this was funny in the least, sat back. Her daughter had struck again.

Ben just laughed some more. “You have to admit, she got us.”

“Oh, she got us. And I'm going to get her.”

“How can you not find this funny?”

That was simple. Everything in her life was out of her control, including this, and she deeply resented that. With a shiver, she imagined what could have happened tonight if the truth hadn't been discovered, if she'd continued to believe Ben had set this all up himself. She shivered again, and with a frown Ben stood up and grabbed his shirt from the back of his chair. “Here,” he said, and draped it over her shoulders.

Encompassed in his warmth, she closed her eyes when his hands lingered over her shoulders, gently squeezing and massaging the tightness of her muscles there.

“Rach…” His mouth was by her ear so that she could feel his warm breath against her sensitive skin. If she hadn't learned the truth, she'd probably have melted back against him, let herself get lost in what he was so silently offering, lost in a way she hadn't allowed herself since…
him.

Damn it. Straightening away, she grabbed her fork.

“All right.” He pulled away with a low chuckle. “I can take a hint.”

“If I'd been hinting, I'd have picked up the knife.”

He smiled and served them both. Lifting the crystal water glass, he toasted her. “To our ingenious daughter.”

“Should we really toast her antics?”

His eyes were warm and laughing, and yet behind that was something else, something that took her breath with its heat and intensity. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “And here's to something else, Rach. Here's to us.”

“While you're here.”

“While I'm here,” he agreed.

She ignored the hitch in her heart and nodded lightly. “Okay. Then here's to us not killing each other for the duration.”

He grinned.

Suddenly starving, she leaned into the table to eat. In the breast pocket of Ben's shirt a paper crinkled, poking her through the material. Thinking her daughter had been meddling even further, she pulled out the folded paper, opened it and read what was on it. “Dear Ben, Do you think you've paid? Don't stop watching, waiting…I surely won't.”

Ben came out of his chair the moment he saw what Rachel had, but it was too late.

She lifted her head and pierced him with horror-filled eyes. “What is this?”

Cursing himself would do no good, lying to her even less, though Ben considered both. Would have done either if he could have gotten away with it, but Rachel would have seen right through him.

Still, he might have tried if it wasn't for one thing.

He
owed
her the truth, probably should have given it to her long ago. Carefully he took Asada's letter back, folded it again and put it in the pocket of his jeans.

“Ben.” Her voice shook. “Are you in trouble?”

He scratched his jaw and considered that. “Aren't I usually?”

“Ben.”

“Yeah. I'm, uh, thinking about how to start.”

“From the beginning,” she suggested, her voice a little thin. “Who wrote that letter? My God, is someone stalking you? Are you in danger? Could you be hurt?”

He stared at her, stunned by the realizations that she was shaking, pale, terrified…for him. She thought
he
was in danger…

Planting her cane, she went to rise out of her chair, but he stopped her, and went to his knees before her so that their faces were level. “I'm sorry you found out like this.”

“Just tell me,” she begged. “Tell me what's going on.”

“Yeah, okay.” He put his hand on her casted arm, imagined himself being struck by the car that had hit her. Imagined the pain, the fear, the subsequent nightmare of the long hospital stay. Imagined all she'd been through since, and tried to figure out how to tell her that the true hell could be just beginning. Oh, and that it was his fault.

“About six months ago,” he started. “I was looking for a new story.”

When she nodded, silently urging him on, clearly still worried about
him,
he felt sick. “I found an American retreat based in Brazil, where the so-called minister raised money there for what he called his missions of hope. He solicited unsuspecting, generous patrons from all around the world, raising millions.”

“I read that piece,” she said. “Instead of building and
feeding villages with all that money, he pocketed everything, right?”

She'd read it. She'd followed his work. Probably not the smartest time for him to be both blown away and flattered by that.

“You exposed the international scam,” she continued. “And the guy went to prison.”

“Manuel Asada, and yes, once in prison, he lost everything. His people, his empire, everything. He…” Ben drew a deep breath. “He vowed revenge on me for destroying his world.”

Her eyes were huge on his. “And…?”

“And during his extradition to the States, where he would have stood trial for bilking a bunch of rich Americans out of their spending cash, he escaped.”

“And…?”

He smiled grimly. Emily hadn't been just randomly blessed with brains, she'd gotten them from this woman sitting before him, her eyes sharp on his. “And now he's vanished.”

“And wanting your head on a platter.”

“Not mine exactly…just those I care about.”

She went utterly still. “My God, Ben…” She stared at him for another breath, then pushed to her feet with her cane. When he tried to help her, she shoved his hands away, stared at him some more, then paced away from him the best she could. Thinking. Putting it all together.

When she whipped back, he thought he was ready.

“So you didn't come here to South Village for me, for this….” She gestured to her casts and cane. “You came out of some misguided notion you had to protect Emily.”

“And you.”

“But why would Asada think you cared about
me?
”

“Because I do,” he said tightly.

Again she froze. Stared at him with numbed horror. “The accident.”

“Yeah. Only I don't think it was much of an accident at all. God, Rach…” How to convey the guilt, the sorrow, the regret? The murderous rage swimming inside him without an outlet? He went to her, took her shoulders in his hands, felt her trembling. “I didn't mean for this to happen, I'm so sorry.” She let out a sort of choked sob that stabbed at him. “If it could have been me instead,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I'd do it in a heartbeat. Anything,
anything,
to have kept you safe.”

Her eyes filled and she covered her mouth. “It could have been Emily. Our baby—”

Unable to hold back in the face of that, he slid his arms around her, holding her close. For a moment, she clung to him, and he lost himself in the familiar feel of her, her scent and shape beneath his hands feeling so overwhelmingly like…home.

Then with shocking strength she once again shoved free. “I thought you were home because…that you…” She let out an embarrassed sound and covered her face. “I want you to go,” she said from behind her fingers.

“I can't.”

“Won't, you mean.”

“Damn right. I'm not budging until Asada is found.”

She dropped her hand from her face and stared at him with those big, expressive, hurting eyes, making him hate himself all over again as he watched emotion after emotion chase across her face. “I knew there had to be something tying you here,” she said quietly. “Something more than us.”