Someone To Believe In (41 page)

Rory eyed Bailey. “A baby.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “A brother or
sister for you.”

He scowled—it was an O’Neil expression. “You
gonna like him better?”

“No, no, honey. Why would you think
that?”

He stuck his fingers in his mouth, crawled
over Clay to cuddle in to her side. She glanced at Aidan, who stood
in the doorway.

Aidan shrugged. “He said you never do
anything with him anymore. I tried to reassure him...”

Bailey kissed Rory’s head. “I’m sorry, buddy.
I told you what happened. Somebody I cared about died.”

“Not me!” he said belligerently.

Out of the mouths of
babes...
Clay thought.

Bailey must have been on the same wavelength.
“You know what? You’re right. You’re alive and well and we need to
do some things together.” She glanced at the clock. “How about if
Mommy gives you a bath and reads you a story tonight instead of
Clay?”

“Want my Mommy.”

She slid out of bed, and tugged him with her.
“Let’s go.” She nodded to Aidan. “Stay and have dinner with
us?”

He looked to Clay who nodded. Everybody took
their cues from him. He was becoming totally entrenched with these
people.

“Sure then,” Aidan said. “The kids all had a
Happy Meal but I refrained.”

Since Clay had made spaghetti sauce, they
went to the kitchen and Aidan helped Clay finish the meal. The
drone of the little set in the corner and squeals coming from the
bathroom were punctuated with small talk between the two of them.
As Clay stirred the sauce and put on a pot to boil water, Aidan
tore lettuce and chopped vegetables for a salad.

When they were finished and settled with
drinks at the kitchen table, Aidan said, “So, how is she?”

“She seems a bit better.” He nodded to the
bedroom. “That’s a good thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Aidan fussed with a napkin on the table. “How
long you gonna be able to do this?”

Clay glanced at the calendar date on his
watch. “I have things to do Monday. I can’t stay with her all day
anymore.”

“Maybe it’s not good for her anyway. She’s
got to detach from you some.”

“I know. Especially since I have to...” He
cut off. Though they both knew what Clay had done, they never
talked about it openly.

Aidan picked up his drink and took a long
swallow. Then he stared purposefully across the table. Clay had
forgotten how his eyes were the same color as Bailey’s and his gaze
just as direct. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Excuse me?”

“Who else knows besides me?”

Clay sat back in his chair and stared down at
the amber colored liquid in his glass. “Ned Price, a cop who was on
the other end.”

“Will he keep quiet?”

Clay looked up at Bailey’s brother. “He would
if I asked him to.” He sipped his scotch. “Which I’m not about to
do.”

“Why? It would be best for Bailey.”

“To begin our life together on a lie?”

“If that’s best for her.”

“No. She could find out anytime down the
road. I won’t do it.”

“You won’t do what?” Bailey stood in the
doorway. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing.”

Crossing to the cabinet, she pulled out
dishes. “If it’s about me, I don’t want to know what you’re
discussing.”

That was so unlike her, it broke Clay’s
heart. Her brother’s brow furrowed with worry.

Clay got the meal on the table. As they
ate, he watched the woman across from him nibble at her macaroni
and push meatballs around the plate. He remembered how she devoured
food before Taz died. Now she ate enough for the baby, but didn’t
enjoy it. Just one more piece of evidence of what he’d done to her.
She was a bit pale tonight, and her eyes were always sad. Damn
it,
should
he keep this to
himself for her benefit?
Was
it best for her and for the baby?

BAILEY LAUGHED OUT loud for the first time in
a week at a TV program she was watching while Clay showered
upstairs at his town house. It was a stupid sitcom, on in the
middle of the day, but it was funny.

At the commercial, she glanced around his
living room. This was a nice place. In a good location. Maybe it
was time for her and Rory to move in here; she and Clay needed to
talk, so she was glad for the uninterrupted time today. Rory was
off again, this time with Dylan, who’d taken his son Hogan and Rory
for a pre-Thanksgiving weekend to the Catskills. She and Clay had
the whole time to themselves.

Smiling, she thought about the bag she’d
packed. In it was a sexy nightgown. Bailey had decided it was time
to go on living, and despite her sadness, she was ready to make
love with Clay again. She wanted to. Her hormones were kicking in
and demanded attention.

She heard the shower go off, then a bump at
the front door. His mail. Rising, she walked to the foyer and
slipped outside in the crisp November day. Grateful for the warm
gray fleece sweat suit, she got the letters and magazines out of
his box and went back inside. The mail would all be personal.
Everything else went to his offices. Which he had to return to
Monday. She pushed the thought away and took the bundle to the
sideboard. Accidentally, she dropped a few pieces on the floor.
Bending over to pick them up, she saw a phone bill, a letter, and
two things from Rochester, New York. Hmm. What personal
correspondence would he get from up there? She examined it more
closely. Strong Memorial Hospital. State Sheriff’s Department.
Could they be donations, or requests to speak? Senators were in
huge demand to talk to their constituents. But why would the
requests come to his residence and not the offices?

She heard him on the stairs, then smelled his
aftershave as he came up behind her. “What are you doing?” He slid
his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“I got your mail.”

“Ah, I see.” He nuzzled her neck. “Looking
for letters from other women?”

She turned in his arms. His face was ruddy
from the shower, his hair damp. He wore jeans and a long sleeved
T-shirt. He smelled like heaven. “Are there any after you,
Senator?”

“Hordes.”

She grinned. “Well, then, I think it’s time
to tell them, and your family, that you’re off the market.”

His face blanked. “Oh, honey. I’d love to do
that. But it’s too soon.”

“I don’t understand, Clay. You’ve wanted to
go public for months. Now I’m offering to do it. As far as I’m
concerned, we can tell the world.”

He looked torn. For the life of her, she
couldn’t figure out why. “I—” He drew back. “All right, let’s tell
my family. I’ll set up a time.”

“Great.”

He hugged her, then picked up the letters and
scanned them. Stopping abruptly, he gripped one. She caught sight
of the Rochester address. “I got a glance at some of the
addresses. What did you get from Rochester?”

“I...um...I don’t know.”

“Open it and see.”

He drew in a breath. Through the material of
the T-shirt, she saw his muscles contract. He turned around and the
look on his face frightened her. “Bailey, we have to talk.”

A premonition hit her with the force of a
tidal wave. Something was wrong. Something she didn’t want to
hear. She could see it in his dark gaze, hear it in his raw voice.
“Okay, we’ll talk. After.”

“After what?”

Slipping her arms around his neck, she
smiled. “I want to make love, Clay. It’s been too long.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you sure you’re ready?”

“Don’t you want to?” She edged in closer and
felt him respond, eloquently. “Seems you do.”

He gripped her waist. “I do, of course, I’ve
missed us together. But...” He glanced to the letters.

Again, fear skittered through her. “You can
read your mail later.” She tugged his head down and kissed him
thoroughly.

“All right,” he said with what sounded like
resignation. “Let’s make love. Then we’ll talk.”

FORCEFULLY CLAY PUSHED away all the things
running around his brain—Aidan’s comments about keeping his
actions a secret, the letters from Rochester, Ned Price’s need for
answers—and led Bailey up the stairs. Once in his bedroom, she went
into the bathroom; he slatted the blinds, turned on the stereo in
the corner, then drew down the sheets. When she came out, his heart
began to beat fast. She wore a peach silky slip of a thing that
outlined every beautiful curve. His throat clogged at the thought
that this might be the last time he’d see her in something like
that.

Fiddling with the spaghetti strap, she raised
flirty brows to him. “You don’t like this outfit?”

“I love the outfit. I love
you
.”

“You look so sad,” she said, crossing to him
and soothing the lines round his mouth. “Why?”

“You mistake desire for sadness.” He drew her
to him, playfully rough, and ground his groin against her.
“Intense, primitive desire. I ache for you, love.”

She mirrored his actions. “I ache for you,
too,” she whispered. “I want to make love to my husband again.”

“Ah...” He choked back emotion. “I like the
sound of my wife saying that.”

“Good, because I’ll be saying it for
decades.”

No, you won’t.
Again he banished the thought. Slowly, he eased down the
straps, and the oh-so-feminine garment fell to the floor. He
brushed his lips over her shoulder, traced the delicateness of her
rib cage with shaky fingertips, then his palm curled into the curve
of her body. “You are so lovely.”

“Soon, I’ll be fat.” The words came out
breathless, and she clung to his arms.

His hand found its way to her belly.
“Beautiful. You’ll be so beautiful, I’ll want to look at you all
the time.”
If I’m
around
.

He tunneled his fingers through her
hair—thick glorious locks that he might never feel again. Gently,
he slid his hands down, threaded through the curls at the juncture
of her legs.

He eased a finger inside her and she
startled, gasped, moaned; they were sounds he wondered if he could
live without. Emotion welled in his throat as he coaxed the
moisture from her, then withdrew his finger, cupped her, and rocked
her against him.

She came, not like the brisk wind outside,
but with the gentleness of summer rain, flooding him with her
warmth. Her words were petal soft and as sweet. “Clay, God, yes,
Clay.”

He held her while she calmed, then he knelt
before her. Oh, Lord, would he never taste her again? He devoured
her, but still with utmost tenderness, with a reverence he didn’t
know a man could feel making love. When she climaxed a second time,
he felt her go weak and braced her hips with his hands. Then he
stood. “You are so lovely.”

She nuzzled into his neck. “I’m yours.”

For now
, he
thought miserably.

Clay went to pick her up to put her on the
bed, but Bailey stayed his hands. “No, it’s my turn.” She knew,
since it had been a while, he wouldn’t last, but he’d kill himself
trying to satisfy her again. She also wanted the closeness to his
body that this would give her. She slipped off his shirt and ran
her hands over his chest, searching the hollows, claiming each and
every muscle with a feather-light touch. Then she grazed his
nipples with her tongue and he jerked into her. “Bailey, love.”

She flirted with the waistband of his jeans
before she unsnapped them. She tantalized the zipper before
rasping it down. When she knelt, and oh-so-slowly drew the denims
and briefs off, he swore. “Bai-ley...”

He was violently aroused. She kissed his
penis, licked it, and he fell onto the bed. “Ah, good,” she
murmured, “now I can have my fill.”

“Jesus, I’m going to go off...arrgh...”

It didn’t take very long. He came in a rush
of feeling, calling her name, holding her head, arching into her
mouth.

When his breathing evened out, he drew her up
and fell back onto the bed with her. She sprawled over his chest.
He stared up at her and she was shocked to find his face was a mask
of...pain. “Clay, what—what’s wrong?”

The expression fled. He brushed her hair back
and kissed her. “What could be wrong after that? Do you have any
idea how much I love you?” he asked.

“Yes. As much as I love you.” She tried to
lighten the mood by nibbling on his ear. “I’m not done, you
know.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Well
then, we’ll have to attend to that.” He flipped her over.

This time it was very fast and a little
rough. Actually, his lovemaking had a desperate quality to it, she
thought after it was over and they laid together in a tangle of
limbs, sheets, and sweat.

She was running her hand through the dark
blond hair on his chest, when he said, “I want you to know that,
other than having Jon, this is—has been—the most precious thing
that’s ever happened to me.”

“Making love?”

“Hmm. With you. Nothing will ever come
close.”

She tugged playfully on a tuft of hair.
“Well, no woman will come close, I’ll tell you that.”

He grabbed her hand and fisted his around it.
“I hope not. After what I have to tell you.”

“Clay, I—”

“No, Bailey, we have to talk. Now. It can’t
wait any longer.”

She tried to pull away. “I don’t want to do
this.”

“You don’t have any choice. But let’s get
dressed first; it’ll be easier then.”

She grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her
chest. “No, I don’t want to get dressed. I’m staying here, like
this.”

“All right.”

Since she was lying flat on her back, her
head on the pillow, he braced his arms on either side of her and
stared down at her with grim eyes. “You’re not responsible for
Taz’s death, sweetheart.”