Nathan's Child (13 page)

He'd wanted her. And he'd had her with no thought as to what the consequences might be.

He'd overstepped his limits.

It went back to exactly what Mateo had been telling him when they'd gone climbing. There were some things that were, for the time being, out of his reach.

“You're not ready for that peak,” Mateo had told him.

He hadn't been ready for Carin, either.

And as soon as he'd made love with her, he'd known it was wrong. He'd felt gut-punched. Queasy. Desperate. Guilty. Every bad thing he could imagine.

If he'd never fully understood the Sunday school story about forbidden fruit, he'd had firsthand experience of it when he'd made love to Carin.

He couldn't undo what he'd done. And heaven help him, he had still wanted her—as wrong as it was. So he'd done the only thing he knew how to do at the time.

He'd run.

He'd gone as far and as fast as he possibly could. He'd turned his back on all of them, consumed with guilt, with knowing he'd overstepped. If he couldn't undo it, still he'd tried desperately, with the naiveté of youth, to put things back as best he could.

It couldn't be done.

The world had changed.

Carin had changed. At the time, of course, Nathan hadn't had any idea how much. Now he knew that by taking her
love when he'd had no right to it—when it should have been beyond his reach—he had completely altered her life.

He hadn't realized then that he'd also altered his own.

Now he did. And he was still trying to put things right, knowing even as he did so that the odds were against him. He'd had his chance with Carin all those years ago. He'd blown it. He had no right to expect her to look kindly on his efforts now.

Still he couldn't stop trying. Couldn't walk away. He'd promised Lacey he wouldn't. But this was about more than Lacey. It was about Carin and him. It was about second chances and trying again.

He was smarter now. Older. More mature. He had something to offer her—if he could only get her to see it.

Sometimes—like at lunchtime—he thought he was making a bit of progress. Sometimes she was like the old Carin, eager and interested, easy to talk to. Sometimes they could have a genial conversation.

And then, all at once, she would pull back, the way she had this afternoon. One minute they'd been talking comfortably about Mateo Villarreal, and the next minute the wall between them had slammed back down again. He was on one side, she was on the other, and she wouldn't even let him touch her.

He'd enjoyed the conversation. He'd been looking forward to touching her. Having the excuse to carry Carin from one place to another was a pleasure—and a pain.

It was wonderful to have her in his arms, to touch her soft skin and rest his chin against her silky blonde hair. He lived for those moments, for being close enough to breathe in the scent of her, to surreptitiously rub his nose against her hair, to accidentally on purpose brush his cheek against its softness, to rub the pad of his thumb along her arm, to let his fingers slide down the backs of her bare legs.

He prowled the house, irritable and unsettled, needing to work on his book, unable to focus on it at all.

Talk to me
he wanted to demand.

But he didn't think he wanted to hear anything she might have to say.

And nothing he could say apparently made the slightest difference to her.

He had to show her. Had to prove that he had changed. Had to convince her by his actions.

But first he needed a cold shower.

 

The door creaking open startled him.

It wouldn't have awakened him had he been asleep. Of course he wasn't. He'd barely slept, it seemed, since Carin had come to stay. At first he'd deliberately stayed awake to hear her if she needed him to help her, to carry her.

But she didn't need him now. Not like that.

But he stayed awake anyway. Couldn't help it. It was too easy to lie in bed and remember lying there with her. Too easy to think about her creamy smooth flesh because he'd been touching it lately.

And all the cold showers in the world didn't help if the minute you had one, you started once more thinking about the woman who had made you need the shower. So Nathan was awake and restless when the door creaked open and soft limping footsteps came down the hallway.

He stopped breathing. But his heart still thundered so loudly that he wondered if she could hear it.

Was she coming to him?

That had been one of the cold-shower fantasies—that one night she would find her way from her bed to his. Now, hearing her footsteps, Nathan wanted to sit up, to reach out to her. His aroused body ached for her.

The footsteps slowed, then paused at the archway into the living room. He swallowed. He could see her silhouetted in the moonlight as she looked toward him.

Should he move? Shouldn't he?

Still she stood there, one hand braced on the doorjamb. Nathan took a slow, careful even breath.

Come to me.
As she'd come to him all those years ago.

He shifted, made a sound, wanted her to know he was awake.

She jerked and stepped back from the doorway.

“Carin?” He couldn't
not
speak. His voice was ragged. “You okay? You, um, warm enough?”

On that long-ago day she'd been cold after the storm and he'd warmed her. God, he wanted to warm her again, wanted to take her into his arms and—

“I'm fine,” she said quickly, her voice sounding raspy. “I…I was just on my way to the bathroom. Sort of using the wall for balance. Sorry if I bothered you.” And she hobbled quickly away.

He stayed where he was, cursed his foolishness. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, maybe she would have come closer, maybe…

The water ran in the bathroom, then the door opened and she limped back, quickly this time, and went straight past the archway to the living room. She didn't pause or look his way.

The door to her room shut with a decided click.

Nathan let out a harsh breath. He flung himself over onto his side. Hell! He tried to put her out of his mind; he tried to forget.

He needed another cold shower, but he'd be damned if he would advertise his distress. He glanced at his watch, sighed, shifted against the sheets, twisted, turned and finally hauled himself up off the sofa.

His body was taut with arousal. He stared toward Carin's room, willing her to open her door again, willing her to stand there in her shift in the moonlight, willing her to want him the way he wanted her.

But the door stayed shut.

And finally there was no help for it. Nathan eased open
the sliding door, grabbed a towel off the railing and went swiftly down the steps, headed toward the beach.

The cool night air did little to assuage his hunger, the colder ocean water into which he flung himself helped only a bit.

He got through the night. But first thing in the morning he took himself off early to spend the morning working on a new project, a sort of architectural history of the island's houses. It was a far cry from the work he usually did, but he was enjoying it—or he would have been if he hadn't wanted to enjoy something else—making love to Carin!—more.

If he were smart he would stay away all day, but as lunchtime approached he picked up some conch fritters from Perry at the fish shop and headed home. With a salad and a cold beer, they'd be an unexpected treat. He knew Carin liked them as much as he did and he was looking forward to seeing her grin of delight.

“Hey,” he called as he bounded in the door. “Guess what I've got!”

She wasn't in the kitchen, so he headed for the deck. Most days lately she had been setting the table for the two of them out there. But the table was bare and she wasn't on the deck, either.

“Carin?” He went back in and headed for her room. “Carin? Are you okay?”

The door was ajar. He pushed it open—and stood stock-still and stared.

The bed had been stripped, the quilt haphazardly folded at the bottom. The desktop was bare. The closet doors were open. Her clothes were gone.

“What the—!” Nathan whirled around and sprinted out of the room and up the stairs to Lacey's room.

It was just as bare.

“Carin!” It was a bellow now.

He banged Lacey's closet doors open, kicked the corner of the bedstead, cursed and charged back downstairs.

And then he spotted it—on the kitchen counter. A note.

A
note,
for God's sake! A
thank-you
note!

“‘Dear Nathan,'” he read through clenched teeth. “‘I want you to know how much I've appreciated your hospitality. It has been a great help. I'm doing so much better that I don't want to impose any further, so Lacey and I are going home. We really appreciate…'” Blah, blah, blah.

He crumpled the note. Slammed his fist on the counter! Flung the bag of conch fritters clear across the room!

Then he jumped in his car, whipped it around and drove straight back to town. He slammed on the brakes in front of her place, practically knocked Zeno over as he pushed through the gate, took the steps two at a time and banged open the door without even knocking.

Carin was sitting on the sofa eating a piece of toast. She looked startled, then resolute, then damned guilty.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“
Me
? What am I doing? You're the one who picked up and stole out without a word to anyone! Just what the hell do you think
you're
doing?”

“Eating lunch,” she said deliberately misunderstanding. “Would you like some?”

“Damn it, no, I wouldn't like some! I brought you lunch at home! Conch fritters! Come on, we're going back.”

“No, we're not. I'm not. We imposed on you long enough. I'm fine now.”

“Oh, yes, I can see how fine you are.” Her arm was still in the cast and in the sling. She was still wearing a T-shirt—his T-shirt!—because she couldn't fasten buttons well.

“I need to get by on my own. It was time.”

“So you snuck out,” he accused her.

Her lips tightened into a firm line. “I did not sneak out!
I just didn't want to argue. You told me we shouldn't argue in front of Lacey,” she reminded him.

“How do you know we would have argued?” He was prowling around her living room. It was barely big enough to swing a cat in. He nearly tripped over the rocking chair as he swung around and glowered at her.

“Educated guess,” Carin said dryly. “If I'd said I wanted to go home today, would you have said, oh sure, I'll drive you right over?”

Nathan scowled and scuffed his toes on the braid rug. “I would have tried to make you see reason. That's
not
arguing.”

“Right. If
I
do it, it's arguing. If you do it, it's making me see reason.” Carin shrugged equably. “I didn't want to see reason,” she said reasonably. “So I called Maurice and asked him to come get me.”

“Just like last time,” Nathan said bitterly.

Carin stiffened. “It is not at all like last time. I wasn't running away today. I was coming home. Besides, you and I were not getting married.”

Nathan stared at her in stony silence. He felt betrayed, as if she'd pulled the rug right out from under him.

“Why?” he demanded. “Was it so hard living with me?”

She hesitated. “You were very kind. I—”

“Kind!” He spat the word. “I didn't do it to be kind, damn it!”

“I know that,” Carin said, an edge to her voice.

“Then—”

The front gate banged. “Here comes Lacey. We are not arguing in front of Lacey.”

Nathan opened his mouth.

“Your rule,” she reminded him.

Nathan swallowed a retort as Lacey burst through the door. “Hi, Dad! How come we're back here, Mom?” She
gave Nathan a brilliant grin, which faded a bit as she looked at her mother.

Good, Nathan thought. Let her explain.

“This is where we live, Lacey,” Carin said evenly. “We were only staying at Nathan's while I was recovering.”

“You're not recovered yet.” Lacey apparently had no rule about not arguing.

“I'm recovered enough. Aren't I, Nathan?” Carin's gaze went straight to Nathan, challenging him to back her up.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his canvas shorts. “If you say so.”

“I say so,” Carin said. “And that is that.”

 

She'd known she was living dangerously all the time she'd been at Nathan's. But it was true, what he'd said—she hadn't had any choice. Not a viable choice, anyway.

She couldn't make Lacey take care of her. She couldn't impose on Estelle or Fiona or Hugh. And until she'd been able to hobble around, staying in her own place—even with help—would have been difficult in the extreme.

So she'd stayed at Nathan's. And she'd steeled herself against him as best she could. It had been hard once she'd begun to feel better, once her mind had become less preoccupied with pain and more with the persistent presence of Nathan Wolfe.

As soon as she could put weight on her leg, she'd refused to let him carry her—even though she nearly went stir crazy staying in the house. He'd offered several times to carry her down to the beach.

“You can sit on a towel on the sand and watch Lacey swim,” he'd said.

And it had been very tempting. It would have got her out of the house. It would have permitted her some time on the beach. It would have been lovely to sit in the sun and watch Lacey swim.

But she would have been in Nathan's arms all the way
there and all the way back.
And
she would have had to watch Nathan swim.

It was bad enough seeing Nathan in shorts and T-shirts every day. With the heat, there was rarely any reason for him to wear more than that. But if she'd taken him up on his offer to go to the beach with them, she would have seen him in less.