Cold Midnight (9 page)

“You have more questions?” she asked.

Her raspy voice sent a shudder up his spine before he could squelch it. Easy there. But, damn, that voice did it to him every time. Low like that, it reminded him of nights together on a blanket on the beach. Trying to be quiet but giggling like fools while they’d grappled with each other’s clothing, stilling and shushing each other at every suspicious scuff of sand. The sound of waves caressed the beach in time with the stroke of his hand on her skin, her breath catching each time his fingers glided over a particularly sensitive spot. She’d let him know what pleased her, what drove her wild, and she hadn’t hesitated to do the same for him, that low, sexy voice laughing at his groans and pleas for her to slow down, to let him catch up. She’d been so responsive then, so open and trusting.

And it hadn’t just been when they made love. She’d been like that all the time, whether they were working out, talking over lunch or traveling to or from the next tournament. Open, so open. And now she was closed. Shut down to everyone, it seemed.

“Hello?”

Snapping his focus to her, he cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask if you’d stopped by the lab to provide a blood sample.”

“Not yet. Is tomorrow okay?”

“How about now? I can get Sylvia to take care of it right here.” Before she could shoot him down, he added, “It’s even more important now that there are two bats.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Could they both be fakes?”

“It’s possible.”

“But why would anyone do that?”

“There’s got to be a reason they’re trying to scare you. Maybe they’re trying to distract you or chase you away.”

“Because I’m building the tennis center?”

“Maybe.”

“But why? I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes.”

“The owners of this health club might disagree. Your place will be a direct competitor. Brand new and a lot more affordable. And there are the usual suspects: someone who has similar plans but was slower on the trigger with their proposal or whose same idea was shot down by the zoning board. Even environmentalists.”

“I already had an environmental study done. The site was cleared.”

“Doesn’t mean someone out there doesn’t agree.”

“So what you’re saying is that it’s possible that the bat found at the construction site might not be the one from ten years ago.”

“Once we ID the blood on the T-shirt found with it, we’ll know more. So, may I go get Sylvia?”

She nodded, and for just a flash of a moment, she looked tired again. Exhausted, really.

“Are you sleeping?” he asked before he could rethink the wisdom of asking.

Her shoulders tightened, the lines in her forehead smoothing out as completely as if she’d run a steaming iron over them. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Blue gray eyes met his, colder now, challenging. “I’m fine.”

Annoyed at how quickly she swatted down his concern, he cocked his head and let anger take the wheel. “Oh, you’re more than fine, aren’t you? You’ve got that game face honed to perfection.”

He hadn’t thought she could get any stiffer, but somehow she managed as she stood up and eased by him toward the door, careful to avoid all contact. “While you’re getting Sylvia, I’m going to—”

“Run away?”

She faltered, her hand on the doorknob. For a moment, her shoulders curved inward, as though he’d landed a blow square in the chest. Then, without a word or even a glare tossed over her shoulder, she walked out and gently closed the door behind her.

Biting back a groan of frustration, Chase shoved away from the desk.

God, she could make him act like such an ass.

14

“DAMN!” KYLIE TOSSED THE REMAINS OF A CHARRED
bagel into the sink and sucked the tip of the finger she’d burned on the toaster. Time for pizza instead. Snagging the cordless off the wall, she dialed the memorized number for Pizza Outlet and was waiting for an answer when her doorbell sounded. She shouldered the handset to check the peep-hole.

What the hell?

Her pulse speeding, she clicked off the call and pulled the door open.

Chase Manning stood on her porch, hands in his back pockets, his dark hair mussed by the wind. He wore the casual attire of a man who’d taken a long walk on the beach—khaki shorts, navy T-shirt and sand-caked Nikes that had been abused for years. He smelled fresh and salty, like gulf air and beach. A light beard shadowed his jaw, and she remembered that after a particularly passionate kiss so long ago, he’d trailed a fingertip over her stinging cheek and joked that he’d have to start shaving twice a day to spare her skin. So sweet.

He hadn’t been sweet this afternoon when he’d asked her if she planned to run away. But, then, she supposed she deserved the dig. She
had
run away.

“Hey,” he said, and gave her a tentative smile.

“Hello.”

“May I come in?” he asked.

She considered saying no. They had nothing to talk about anyway. But maybe he was here about the afternoon’s incident. Maybe the police had caught the guy or at least had a lead.

“Please?” he said.

She stepped back and gestured him in. As he crossed her threshold, his body stirred the air in front of her. Wind and sea and . . . sunscreen. Longing speared through her, and she suppressed it. The want was about the past anyway, not him. “Did you catch a break in the case?” she asked.

The skin around his extraordinary green eyes crinkled. “You must be an
NYPD Blue
fan.”

The unexpected teasing sent her back to all the times he’d given her that grin in the past, and she automatically slipped into banter mode. “Depends on whether you’re here to squeeze my shoes,” she said, borrowing an infamous phrase from the old cop show.

He glanced, ever so briefly, at her chest, and she tried not to react as she remembered she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her body had other ideas, and while her traitorous nipples began to harden, Chase’s eyes narrowed speculatively.

“I’m not here to squeeze your shoes,” he replied, his voice rougher than before.

“What a relief.” Blood rushing in her ears now, she shut the door with a soft, uneasy laugh.

They stood there, staring at each other, and Kylie shifted when his gaze began to scan her features. She ended up staring at the dark blue cotton stretched taut over his chest. So close, so available for her to run her palm over all those yummy contours of muscle. The scent of his sunscreen, combined with the salty air, reminded her of the hours they’d spent on the beach. Watching the waves, holding hands, talking about anything and everything. Touching and kissing, tasting. God, his mouth on hers, his tongue . . .

She realized her breath had quickened and struggled to control it and the steamy images quickly taking over in her head. “I’m assuming you stopped by for a reason.”

“I . . . can we sit outside and talk?”

“Uh, sure. Do you want something to drink? I’ve got water, iced tea, beer.”

“Beer would be great.”

She swept a hand toward the sliding-glass doors that led to the deck. “I’ll meet you out there.”

In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and stood in the cool breeze, damp palms pressed to cheeks that felt feverish. She shouldn’t have let that grin disarm her, shouldn’t have brought up squeezing anything. She was a detriment to her own sense of control, which she had to get back before she went out there to talk to him.

She began to play an imaginary tennis game in her head. Forehand, backhand, go to the net, fire the ball at the feet of her opponent. Yes! Right on the line. Break point and she was back in control.

She opened two bottles of Sam Adams and set them on the counter, then retrieved a denim shirt from the back of a kitchen chair and drew it over her T-shirt and shorts. Any future nipple erections would be safely obscured.

Outside, Chase had settled into an Adirondack chair, propping his sneakered feet on the wooden table before him. His legs were hairy and tanned, calf muscles telling of long jogs on the beach, or perhaps hours on the tennis court. So very nicely shaped, just like the rest of him . . .

Throw the ball high into the air, slam it into the service court. Ace!

She handed him one of the amber beer bottles.

“Thanks,” he said, and immediately drained a large gulp.

She settled onto the chair next to him, wishing the July air weren’t quite so thick with humidity. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to concentrate so much on breathing evenly. Focusing on the horizon, where water met pale blue sky that reddened with the arrival of sunset, she tried to let the sound of the waves rolling ashore relax her.

Chase lowered his feet and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry. About this afternoon. What I said was . . . inappropriate.”

She swallowed some beer before nodding. “Okay.”

One side of his mouth lifted in an unhappy quirk. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t put on your game face.”

“I don’t have a game face anymore.”

His gaze strayed to her right knee, and she realized belatedly that it was bare, scars front and center that were usually hidden beneath the brace she wore while coaching. She itched to move her hand over them, to protect them from his gaze, but doing so would tip him off that his eyes on them bothered her. So she stayed still and drained another too-big gulp of beer, knowing she was drinking too quickly on an empty stomach but too unnerved to stop.

“I thought you would come back,” he said softly.

She cocked her head. Come back? Huh? “I did. Three months ago.”

“Sooner,” he said, and sat back, rolling his shoulders as though tense. “I thought you’d come back sooner. When you were done with school.”

Ah. That’s what he wants to talk about. The past. Always the ever-loving, godforsaken
past
. Shrugging, she locked her gaze on his. “What would I have come back for?”

His head jerked back as though she’d struck him. “Are you serious?”

Why did he look so damn shocked? “I hadn’t even made it through one semester when I learned from Trisha that you were engaged. That pretty much told me all I needed to know about where we stood.”

“Rhonda was pregnant. What was I supposed to do?”

“Exactly what you did, of course.”

“It was a mistake. We made a mistake.”

“When you got her pregnant, you mean. How long after I left?”

“
You
left
me
.” He dared her to look away.

Game on, she thought, and returned his stare without blinking. “And how many days later did you knock someone up? Couldn’t have been too many. Your little girl’s birth notice showed up in the paper nine months after I was gone.”

“Maybe that should tell you something then. I was pissed off and hurt. I sought solace.”

“Unprotected solace, apparently.”

He broke their locked gazes, and if she hadn’t felt so hollow, she might have smiled. She’d always been the victor when they’d played chicken. Nerves of steel, he’d said. But instead of celebrating the win, she closed her eyes and clamped down on the building, squeezing pressure in the center of her chest. It shouldn’t hurt so much. Why did it still hurt so much? He was right.
She
left
him
. She had no right to be irked about what he did after she bailed. She just hadn’t expected him to turn around and . . . do what he did so soon.

He sighed. “Fuck.”

Yeah, fuck. Fuck you for fucking some other fucking woman. But she kept the angry words to herself. God, they couldn’t even yell at each other. He’d been raised in a house filled with furious shouts and decided long ago that he wouldn’t fight that way. She’d been trained to direct her anger at a little yellow ball. No shouting here.

“You know I loved you, Ky,” he said, sounding more tired than he had a right to. “You know I did.”

She tightened her grip on the cold beer bottle in her lap. She wanted to throw it. Just chuck it as hard and as far as she could. Even better if it shattered against a wall into thousands of satisfying pieces. But, no, that wouldn’t solve anything, except make her look foolish. She’d already taken care of that quite well.

She realized he was waiting for her to respond. She didn’t want to. Didn’t want to do anything except take all the anger and hurt and heave them into the gulf. Instead, she pushed herself out of the low-slung chair and set aside the bottle before she could fling it at his head. When she spoke, she chose her words carefully.

“I’m sorry I hurt you the way I did by running away. What happened wasn’t your fault, and you shouldn’t have gotten caught in the aftermath. But you didn’t have any trouble replacing me, so I don’t see why we should have a problem now.”

“You ran away. That’s the problem.”

“
Ten years ago
. We were barely adults. And I think it’s pretty clear that we’ve both moved on.”

He rolled to his feet, the sudden move driven by frustration, but when she took a step back from him, he crossed instead to the railing, where he took a long drink of beer before setting the bottle on the railing and facing her, his face in shadow. “So did you find what you were looking for out there?”

Calm again. He was fighting for control as fiercely as she was.

“I got an education, yes. And then, as you know, I got a job coaching the UCLA women’s tennis team. We’ve done well the past few years. NCAA champs two years running.”

He picked up his beer and took a generous swallow, his throat working jerkily, then set the bottle down with a hollow clunk. “See, when you left, and wouldn’t let me come with you, you told me you had to find out who you were apart from tennis. Two NCAA tennis championships doesn’t sound like a tennis-free identity to me.”

“I didn’t know where I would end up.”

“No, you just knew you’d end up somewhere without me.”