The Street Where She Lives (4 page)

Ben's lips curved, forcibly reminding her of Emily. Oh yes, her daughter was indeed a true gorgeous
chip off the old gorgeous block. She'd just forgotten how much.

“I understand the sentiment, believe me.” Gaze still on Rachel, he extended an arm, bringing Emily back into the crook of it, hugging her again. “How are you holding up, Emmie?”

The voice. The face, the same rugged, tanned, open face, framed by the same sun-kissed, light-brown hair Rachel had loved to run her fingers through. It was still long to his collar, with the same tousled look that assured her he used his fingers far more often than his comb. His clothes were clean but nondescript, allowing him to be the chameleon he was, fitting in wherever he felt the need. Even so, an aura of strength and confidence exuded from him, and Rachel could only return his stare.

It'd been thirteen years since she'd last seen him. Why did it suddenly feel like yesterday?

His movements, as he held his daughter and came farther into the room, were fluid and lithe…everything hers weren't. Muscles rippled beneath his T-shirt and faded jeans, reminding her of her own weaknesses. But his eyes, still holding hers, reflected her same discomfort.

Finally, Ben broke the unsettling eye contact to look at Emily. “Tell me you asked your mom before you called me.”

“Asked me what?” Rachel's heart started to beat heavy in her chest, threatening to burst not yet healed ribs right open.

Ben shook his head at Emily, love and irritation swimming in his gaze. “Chicken,” he chided softly.

Emily lifted a shoulder and gave him her saddest, most pathetic look.

With a soft sound of annoyance and love all mixed
in, Ben let go of Emily and came toward Rachel in long, easy strides, hunkering down before her wheelchair with such casual strength she wanted to kick him.

If only she could have lifted her casted leg.

He sported a day's worth of dark stubble, but it didn't hide the fact he had beautiful cheekbones and a strong, wide jaw. His mouth was full and, she had to admit, still sexy as hell. How in God's name she could look at him and notice such a thing, after all this time, was beyond her.

But those eyes, those dark, haunting eyes. Such a deceptively soft color, and yet there was nothing soft about him. Try sharp. Probing.
Blunt.

“You look like hell,” he said, proving the point.

“Yes, well, I've been in hell.”

Nodding slowly, he reached out and touched her pale fingers with his sun-kissed, callused ones. She felt the jolt all the way to her toes. So did he if his quick inhale meant anything, which proved one thing—as much as it shocked her, for she was
not
a sensual, sexual creature by nature—they were still explosive in each other's presence.

“I'm sorry you're hurting,” he said.

He spoke the truth; it was his nature. Stifling an emotion wasn't in his genetic makeup. Which made his pity more than she could take. “Don't feel sorry for me.”

Amusement flickered briefly across his face. “I wouldn't dare.”

Trussed up as she was, her senses were on overload, especially her sense of smell. His scent came to her—warm, clean, earthy male—and it was so achingly familiar, her traitorous nose flared, trying to catch more of it. He always had been a disturbing combination of un
tamed outdoors and infectious sensuality, full of passion, of fire, zest for life.

No, he hadn't changed a bit.

But she had. He might have once walked away from her, but she was tougher now. Impenetrable. She just wished he hadn't come for Emily now, when she was shaking with the effort not to fall over with exhaustion.

“You're in pain now?” he asked, perceptive as ever.

Hell, yes, because just looking at you brings me pain, stabs into my carefully hoarded memories. Reminds me of my failures.
“I don't want you h-here.” Stuttering on the last word as her brain once again failed her was the ultimate insult, and as if it was his fault, she glared at him.

Ben pursed his lips as he studied her, rubbing his jaw. The growth there made a raspy noise that seemed to cause a mirroring tug in her belly. God, she remembered him, just like this. Looking at her, through her,
in
her. She'd always been positive he could see far more than she'd wanted him to.

Which was all tied up into why she'd asked him to go. Once upon a time he'd been everything that had been missing in her life, and everything that could destroy her. When he'd done just that, she remembered thinking how naive she'd been to think she could handle a man like him.

She wasn't so naive now. She
knew
she couldn't handle him.

“I can't go away this time, Rachel.” His voice was full of apology and a pent-up frustration to match her own. “I promised Emily I'd stay.”

She jerked her gaze to her daughter, who was hovering behind Ben, wringing her hands, biting her lip.

“That's why I said I'm sorry, Mom,” Emily said
quickly. “I know, I know, I'm probably grounded for a month.”

“For
life.
”

“Yeah, well…” Emily laughed nervously. “I deserve that.”

“No, she doesn't.” Ben shook his head, watching Rachel. “She was frightened. Alone and worried about you. And she wanted me to be here.”

“For one of her trips with you while I recoup. Fine.
Great,
” Rachel added. “Thank you for that.”

“Don't thank me for caring about my own daughter. Emily is everything to me.”

“I thought that was your camera.”

That caused a shocked silence.

“Is that what you really think?” he asked softly.

The present and the past commingled, and for a moment she couldn't tell where she was or when. He'd always had his Canon around his neck. He'd had an amazing talent for reaching past his subject, capturing the heart and soul in a way that had never failed to steal her breath. At seventeen, he'd been determined to use that talent as his ticket out, knowing the odds but not giving up.

Ben never gave up.

Compared to his outspoken and obvious ways, Rachel fought her battles differently, internally, but she didn't want to be so cruel as to hurt him with words simply because she was in pain. “I'm sorry. I know you care about Emily.”

“Damn right I do. She needs both of us. How else will she ever learn to do certain things?
Feeling,
for instance.”

Once again, she considered kicking him. “You don't know me anymore.” Every word was a trial to get out
past the sheer exhaustion creeping through her body, but she wouldn't collapse, not until she was alone. “It's immaterial anyway. You can't take off with her right now, she's in school and summer break isn't for another month.”

Emily didn't look relieved, which was her first hint. Her second was Ben's direct, unwavering stare.

She stared back, the truth sinking in. “No.
No.
”

“Afraid so,” Ben said evenly, even lightly, though his eyes alone expressed his own unsettled emotions. “I'm staying. Until you can care for yourself.”

“
You're
my help?”

“Yep.”

Being so tired made remaining even moderately social difficult. Being in pain and betrayed on top of it—by her own daughter no less—made it impossible. “I'd rather go to a convalescent hospital.”

Emily shifted closer.
“Mom.”

She'd deal with Emily and her betrayal later. “I mean it.”

“Fine.” Ben rose in one smooth, swift motion, making her dizzy when he looked down at her from his full height, his gaze inscrutable for once. “I'll just take you there myself.”

“Now?”
she croaked.

“As opposed to never? Yes, now.” He put his tense, lived-in face uncomfortably close to hers. His eyes flashed. “You don't want me here, then you can't stay either. You didn't expect Emily to handle the burden—”

“No, of course not.”
Burden.
Lovely.

“Well, then…” He moved behind her. Strong, tanned hands reached for her chair. Tough forearms with long blue veins over ropy muscles flexed as her chair shifted.

He'd do it,
she decided. Yes, he would, because if
there was one thing she remembered quite clearly about him, it was that he never bluffed. Hadn't she learned that one night so many years ago, when she'd let her fear of intimacy overrule her, when she'd rashly told him to get out of her life, and he'd done exactly that without a backward glance? “No.”

Before she could draw in another ragged breath, her chair stopped. Once again, Ben's face filled her vision. Expecting pity, she braced herself.

Instead, she got anger.

“Are you done being a child about this? Because if you are, great. We'll stay right here. We, as in you and me. Together.”

“I'd have been better off with Attila the Hun,” she muttered.

“You probably would have,” he agreed grimly. “But I promised Emily.”

And though he would do many things, one thing he wouldn't ever do is go back on his word. “You're crazy to do this. You can't do this, we can't stay together, it would be…”

“Like old times?” he mocked.

His direct gaze was unflinching, reminding her just exactly how they had been together and how good it had been. “You have no idea what it's like,” she whispered.

“You mean being forced by circumstance to give up on everything?” He laughed harshly. “Yes, I do. I grew up that way.”

“Ben—”

“Forget it. It doesn't change anything.” He squatted in front of her chair, setting his big hands on her arm-rests, his leanly muscled body crowding into her space. “But I'm a fair man. I'll make you a deal.”

Her traitorous body actually wanted to lean closer.
Her nose wanted to wriggle and catch a better scent. Her body wanted…his. “You'll go after all?”

“Nope.”

His fingers touched hers again, making her wonder if his body was reacting in the same way as hers. “Something not quite as good, but it'll have to do.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What?”

“Soon as you can physically kick me out, I'm gone. What do you say to that?”

They both knew that even at her physical peak, she couldn't have budged his long, powerful frame, not if he didn't want to go.

He might appear lackadaisical to some, even easygoing. But that slow, lazy way he had of moving was deceptive, like a sleeping leopard. She knew exactly how tough, how resilient he was. Or at least how he'd been.

“Deal?”

Again, her past and present mingled together, leaving her blinking fiercely to keep the sudden tears of frustration to herself. She would
not
cry, not in front of this irrational, infuriating man. “Deal. But only because I'll be better very soon,” she vowed.

Damn his far too good-looking hide, he let out a sardonic laugh that seemed directed at himself. “Believe me,” he assured her, surging to his feet in one graceful movement. “I'm counting on it.”

B
EN PRETENDED
that he could actually breathe in this too big, too terrifyingly normal house that he wasn't welcome in, and managed a smile as Emily showed him around.

He couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that he was here. That he'd stepped foot inside South Village and hadn't imploded on impact. That he'd seen Rachel, and had felt…
something.
She'd felt it, too, but given the attitude and daggers she'd shot him, she hadn't liked it any more than he had.

The refurbished firehouse was interesting, if one was into huge, open, elegant spaces. The rooms had high ceilings and windows everywhere that showed off the interesting view of the city that never seemed to sleep. There was a firefighter pole right down the center of the place, and a spiral staircase of wrought iron. Braided rugs adorned the shiny hardwood floors, and artwork from around the world decorated the brick walls. So did photographs.

None of his, Ben couldn't help but notice. No skin off his nose. He'd come into this house with a mental wall twelve feet thick just to keep Rachel out of his head, and no doubt, she'd done the same for him. She was good at building walls. Hell, she was the
master
at building walls.

The furniture was new, tasteful and very Rachel. In
other words, expensive. And yet, he could see Emily racing through these rooms, sliding down the pole from one floor to another, perfectly at home.

“You're really going to stay home for a while?” she asked him.

Ben's insides knotted at the small, hopeful tone, even more so than at the word
home.
He'd spent most of his childhood here in South Village trying to get out and all of his adulthood trying to forget.

Now he was back, indefinitely.

Dropping his things on the bed in the room that was to be his for the duration, he turned to her. “Yep.” Because she was looking unsure, he opened his arms, relieved when she leaped into them, hugging him tight.

“I know you said you would.” Her head didn't come up to his shoulder. Against his chest, she smiled. “And you haven't ever broken a promise, I just wanted to hear you say it again.”

God, she was young. She was so smart that sometimes he forgot how young she was. Honest relief flooded him that he was able to give her something,
anything,
other than his usual phone call. “I'll stay as long as it takes,” he promised, thinking of Asada. He'd gone to see Agent Brewer on the way here, but there'd been no news.

So he concentrated on the here and now, how Rachel had looked downstairs, how she'd stopped his heart with just her eyes and how incredible it felt holding his kid—God,
his kid.
He wondered at the sharp ache in his heart. Why did it hurt so much to love her? “How does that sound, my staying as long as it takes?”

A grin split her face, a glorious answer, and his strange hurt faded.

Face flushed with happiness, she wriggled away. She danced and whirled to the door, all gangly arms and legs,
and for a moment, Ben was lost in time, seeing Rachel as she'd looked thirteen years prior.

She'd been all arms and legs, too, he remembered. And the pang came back, sharper than before. What a miserable time in his life that had been, struggling to survive when he'd been little more than a kid. And Rachel had been his bright spot.

His hope.

Just as Emily was now.

“I'm gonna cook tonight,” she announced proudly. “A celebration dinner. Mac and cheese.”

“Celebration?” He doubted Rachel would be up for that. Her once creamy skin had seemed nearly transparent and bruised with exhaustion. She'd barely been able to hold her head up as she'd flashed those huge, angry, hurting eyes on him. If he hadn't still been so unnerved at being here, so tensed and battle-ready, it might have broken his heart. “I don't think tonight is a good night—”

“It's a
perfect
night,” Emily assured him. “Mom's where she wants to be and I have both my parents in the same place.”

Uh-oh.
Ben might claim not to know a lot about the intricate workings of a female mind, but he knew warning signals when they blared in his brain.

And man, were they ever blaring now. “You know my being here is because you managed, God knows how, to pull a fast one on your mom.” And because a madman wants to destroy me. “Not because she and I are back together.”

Emily sobered. “Are you mad at me?”

With Asada on the loose he'd have had to come regardless. “No,” he said honestly.

“Mom's mad.”

“Good guess. Em…tell me you know this is just temporary.”

“You just wait.” She twirled again and executed some sort of ballet movement that had his eyes crossing as he tried to follow her. “You're going to love being here so much,” she said, breathless now, “that you won't want to ever leave us.”

Damn. “Emmie—”

“Gotta get the dinner started. Catch ya in a few!”

And she was gone, leaving Ben blinking in her dust.

He was doing the right thing,
he assured himself as he sank to the bed. Though he felt like he was suffocating here, he
was
doing the right thing.

He would not do as he'd been doing for years. He would not run and lose himself in some jungle. Or in some guerilla skirmish. Or in some forsaken desert somewhere. His camera and his need to capture the good photo, the story would have to wait this time.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, bringing out a copy of the second letter he'd received from Asada, which had been farther down in his stack of mail back in the South American jungle.

The authorities had the original, another fastidiously clean piece of stationary with precise folds and meticulous handwriting. In contrast to the pristine paper, the text was enough to make him feel sick: “Dear Ben, Just as you have ruined my life, I will ruin yours. Your most faithful enemy, Manuel Asada.”

The South American authorities were on Ben's side completely. Asada had escaped, and this wasn't only an embarrassment, but a huge threat. If they didn't find him, it was only a matter of time before he'd set up another charity scam or kill without conscience to protect his business.

Or come here to exact revenge…if he hadn't already. Ben felt a terrible, agonizing certainty Asada had somehow caused Rachel's accident.

It wouldn't happen again. Yes, eventually, Ben would have to explain the regular police drive-bys to Rachel and Emily, but now that he'd seen Rachel and the extent of her injuries, he was more convinced than ever she shouldn't know until she was stronger.

Besides, how did one explain to his daughter and the woman who hated him that he'd inadvertently put their lives on the line? That there was a madman out to get them? It would make Rachel all the more dependent on him, something she'd hate with every fiber of her being.

Right or wrong, he had to wait. And if in the meantime, it put more pressure on him to protect them, to be something he'd never been able to be in Rachel's eyes, then so be it. It was nothing less than he deserved for bringing them this danger in the first place.

 

B
EN FOUND
R
ACHEL
right where he'd left her, sitting in her chair in the spacious living room, facing the huge set of windows. That damn ugly cap was still in place, hiding her hair from him. Her right arm and leg were in air casts. He knew that her ribs were cracked and that sitting there for so long must be torture. But he knew also that it had to be painful to shift positions.

She should have looked ridiculous. Miserable. At the very least, pathetic.

Instead, she looked as beautiful as ever. Maybe more so. Despite the fading bruises, her face was aristocratic, her skin smooth. Her body, what little he could see of it, was still long and sleek, and still made him yearn.

He could vividly remember a long-ago night when they'd sat in a hidden-away spot in the botanical gardens
behind city hall. Rachel's long blond hair rippling over his arm, that lithe, soft body spread beneath his in the grass, her huge, melting eyes filled with heat and fear and hope as she gave herself for the first time, to him. His first time, too, and in spite of the fact their birth control had failed them—the condom broke—that night still stood unrivaled to anything he'd experienced since.

She didn't acknowledge him as he moved into the living room, and he wanted her to. “What happened to the person who hit you?” he asked.

“They never found him.”

He sucked in a breath. Oh yeah, Asada had done it.

Emily could be next.

Ben's stomach quivered as he mentally added this to the long list of things he'd screwed up.
Are you good for anything, Benny boy?
No. No, he wasn't.

Unaware of his personal hell, Rachel stared down at her hands, her words coming out slowly. “I'd almost rather it be a hit-and-run than someone who'd just made a terrible mistake. This…this torture of mine wouldn't be erased by destroying someone else's life as well.”

That Rachel had once nearly destroyed
his
life didn't escape him. By the time she'd finished with him, Ben had felt every bit as battered and bruised as she looked now, except his injuries had been invisible.

Did she really look at him and feel nothing? And why did he care? Did
he
feel something when he looked at her?

Yes, he could admit, he did. Mostly anger and humiliation. She'd been taught to not express herself, but somehow he'd gotten Rachel to open up to him. It'd been like watching a flower bloom, beautiful and arousing. They'd been two lost souls made into one, yet she'd thrown it away with an ease that chilled him even now.

Good,
there
was more of that anger he needed in order to keep his distance. He'd just see her comfortable, then go make some calls regarding her accident and then stay away from her until he could leave. But when he stepped closer, took in her grim expression, her pale face, the way her good hand clasped her casted one, he was filled with alarm to see her trembling with the effort to remain upright. “Hey, let's get you get into bed.”

She didn't respond, which made him feel like an unwelcome slug. Not a new feeling for him, but it bugged him nevertheless. He put himself in her line of vision and reached out for the cap that shaded her eyes from him.

“Don't.” Coming to life, she struggled to lift her arm, holding the ugly thing in place.

“I want to see your eyes.”
Liar. You wanted to see if her hair was as glorious and thick and curly as it used to be.

“Why?” She flashed those eyes up at him now, wide and furious and full of pride as she stubbornly held on to the cap.

At least the temper was a hell of an improvement over the sadness and vulnerability. Not that he really cared. She'd fixed that for him a long time ago. He was simply here to make sure he didn't bring his personal hell down on her.

“L-leave the cap.”

“I want to see the real you, what you're thinking.”

“I'm thinking I wish you could leave.”

He couldn't help it; he laughed. It was that, or lose it entirely.
Go away, Benny. Go away, Ben. Go away…
“I just remembered one of the things I used to admire most about you,” he muttered. “Stubborn as a bull.” He
rose, moved behind her and grabbed her chair. “Nothing's changed. Let's go.”

When he would have shifted her chair forward, she set her good hand on the wheel. “No.”

Afraid to hurt her fingers, Ben stilled. “I'm taking you to your room where you'll lie down and rest, damn it. You're so tired you're shaking. You have black circles under your eyes, you haven't been eating near enough and—”

“You're my nurse, not my mother.”

He looked down at the top of her head. “Well, since we both know what a peachy job your mother did, let's leave her out of this.”

“How dare you throw my past in my face! You, of all people.”

Oh, he dared, and she'd riled him good now.
Their past
was exactly what had brought them here together.
Their past
often kept him up at night with flashes of remembered heat and passion.

Their past
was one of the emotional highlights in his life, pathetic as that was to admit.

Torn between being infuriated and turned on at the same time, he let loose. “And as your nurse, I say take off the stupid hat.” Before she could react, he whisked it off her head.

And froze.

Her soft, flowing hair was…gone, leaving a short, choppy cut of maybe an inch or so. Then there was the three-inch long jagged surgery scar behind her left ear that made him want to throw up. “Rachel. My God,” he whispered, horrified at the extent of what she'd been through. Clasping the ridiculous hat to his chest, he turned the chair so he could look into her face, prepared to hate himself for reducing her to tears.

But he'd forgotten, Rachel would never allow him to do such thing to her. Crying in public would be unacceptable. Crying in front of
him
would be tantamount to a disaster.

Instead, regal as ever, she remained utterly calm, her head high. Eyes bright, she sent him a fiery look. “I h-hate you.”

Oh, yeah, he believed it. He even deserved it, more than she knew. Gently, he put the cap back on her head, his fingers brushing over the warm, smooth skin of her neck. “I'm sorry.”

“Go away.”

“Rachel—”

“No! Don't even look at me.”

Her fair skin had reddened furiously, and he realized they absolutely were not on the same plane, that she apparently thought the sight of her had sickened him. “No, wait. God. Rachel—” He dragged in a deep, ragged breath. “Look, my horror is for what you've been through, not for what you look like. You look…”