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“I think we’ve been dismissed,” Ben said to Leslie, an edge to his voice.
“Apparently.”
Dangerously close to crumbling, Leslie picked up her suitcase and headed across the living room, concentrating on getting through the next few minutes. She didn’t intend to unpack more than what she needed for the night.
Ben stopped her at the bedroom door, took the suitcase from her and slid it into the room. “Did Gabe know you were coming here?” he asked quietly, glancing toward the kitchen.
“Yes. Why?”
“When did you tell him?”
“I called him around six to cancel our dinner plans. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I actually decided while I was on the phone.” She let Ben’s tone of voice lead her down the same suspicious trail. “He knew you’d changed your plans, didn’t he, Ben? Gabe already knew.”
“We called him early this afternoon.” He paused. “He didn’t pass the message to you.”
“Didn’t say a word.”
“The matchmaker strikes again.”
“Damn him,” Leslie muttered. “He never gives up. And what about Erin? I’m really sorry.”
“We’ll talk after Erin goes to bed.”
Talk. She’d talked all day, it seemed. Officers, inspectors, lieutenants, captains. The Critical Incident Response Team. The head of the Employee Assistance Program. After all that, she needed silence. It was why she’d come.
“Fine,” she said, knowing her responsibilities as a mother would always take precedence over her own problems. “We’ll talk later. And, Ben?”
“What?”
Irritated at the temptation of his near nakedness—and his apparent unconcern—she eased closer to him. She was tall, but he was taller. Much taller. She knew every scar on his body, every football-induced injury, even how his shoulder ached when rain threatened. She knew the way his mouth tasted and felt, and the scent of his skin, spicy with aftershave. The way his beard felt in the morning-against her cheek, her throat, her breasts.
He didn’t move away from her. She glanced at him, but he gave away nothing in his expression. The lightning attraction that had struck her the day they’d met eighteen years ago still simmered. She wondered if he felt the same bubbling heat.
She could hear the clatter of mugs and spoons, and Erin in the kitchen singing about seeing Mommy kissing Santa Claus—the child wasn’t known for her subtlety.
Ben still hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound. He just watched her with probing eyes. Needing a reaction, Leslie trailed her fingertips down his chest to just above his navel, brushing the dark hair swirling there. His stomach clenched. Once upon a time that simple touch would have been enough. He would’ve backed her into the bedroom, stripped her impatiently, then...paradise.
She drew a slow breath at the neon flashes of recollection. Remember where you are. Who you’re with. Your daughter is close enough to see. And you couldn’t blame it on Gabe.
Cooled and embarrassed by her thoughts, she took a step back, finally remembering the request she’d set out to make. “Put a shirt on.”
“I didn’t ask for that, Les.”
“You didn’t stop me, either.”
“You caught me off guard.” Ben ran his thumb across her cheekbone, then dropped his hand when he felt her jerk back. That he’d been shocked by what had just happened would be a gross understatement. “What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything. Your being here. The way you just teased me.” How fragile you look, he thought, finally able to put a description to his impression since he’d first turned on the lights. Fragile. The word suited his mother and sisters. But not Les. Never Les.
His imagination? He didn’t think so. Her light green eyes looked bleak, her skin translucent. The short hair that flirted with her face seemed darker than normal against her unusually pale skin. He’d noticed recently that Erin’s strawberry blond hair was deepening to Les’s color, a mixture of chestnut brown, red and gold that reminded him of autumn. He could recall Les at fourteen, a feisty, self-avowed tomboy who contradicted the label by wearing her hair in a soft, silky waterfall down to her butt, not this short, no-nonsense style. Still, it looked soft—like her touch against his skin. Only Erin’s presence had prevented him from reacting, which both stunned and irritated him. He was over her. Completely over her.
He folded his arms across his chest. “What’s wrong, Les?”
“I’m just tired.”
“Hot chocolate’s ready,” Erin called. “Marshmallows for the lady, a sprinkle of cinnamon for the gentleman and extra chocolate for...me.”
Ben slipped into his bedroom to pull on a sweatshirt, then he stoked up the fire as his daughter commanded. He sat in a chair sipping his cocoa, vaguely listening to Erin tell her mother about their travel adventures.
He was going to kill Gabriel Marquez with his bare hands, something he’d wanted to do for years. How could Gabe toy with three lives? Erin was his goddaughter, and Les’s confidant. Ben could handle being thrown together like this. Normally, Les probably could, too. But not Erin. Not ever. The situation never should have come up.
He studied his daughter—the happiness on her face, her open pleasure of the moment. At least she lived a normal childhood, free of worries, her joy evident in the way she kept the dialogue running until the chocolate was consumed. After her eyes drifted shut and popped open a few times, he took the dishes into the kitchen.
Leslie took her unspoken cue and dragged her daughter up, then gently tugged her into the bedroom.
Erin flopped onto the bed, watching as Leslie unpacked what she needed in just a couple of minutes, sliding the clothes she would wear the next day into the dresser, tucking the mostly full suitcase into a corner, then setting her toiletries bag in the bathroom vanity, next to Ben’s. When she returned she stretched out beside Erin and brushed her daughter’s hair back from her face. The brilliant color fanned the quilt.
“This is so cool, Mom. So cool.”
“Honey—”
“I know. I know. Don’t get my hopes up.”
“It’s not even that. There’s nothing to get your hopes up about. It’s just an accident that we’re together. Your father and I love you. We also care about each other—in a special way. But our marriage is over. This trip isn’t going to change that.”
“Aunt Mimi says that you still love Dad.”
Leslie groaned inwardly. Her brother’s wife had a romantic streak more than a mile wide. “I do. We share a history and a friendship and you. It’s not a husband-and-wife kind of love, though.”
“Love’s love,” Erin replied with unshakable conviction.
“No, it’s not. But we’ll save that talk for another day. Why don’t you slip into your pj’s and get under the covers.”
“Will you tell Dad to come kiss me good night?”
“Absolutely. And I’ll be in myself to sleep pretty soon, too. Don’t mind sharing a bed with your mom, do you?”
“Nope.”
She kissed her daughter good night then followed the sounds to the kitchen where Ben was wiping down the counter. This was his domain. Among numerous other accomplishments, he was a master chef, as competent in the kitchen as he’d been on the football field. Anyone who thought him any less masculine because he loved to cook was way off the mark. He was all male, potent and unyielding. Dress him in a chefs jacket and he was still a defensive lineman, with a big, muscular body and a slightly crooked nose from two different breaks. Ben O’Keefe was one of those rare, lucky people who could safely walk the streets without fear of a mugging.
“She’ll be ready for a good-night kiss in a minute,” Leslie said, watching him drape a dish towel over the oven handle. She wondered if he had someone special in his life, someone who kept his bed warm and his arms full. Erin hadn’t mentioned anyone.
She wished she could talk to him about what had happened today, but he’d made it abundantly clear that he didn’t ever want to know details about her job. If he knew there’d been a shooting, and that she—
“Dad! I’m ready!”
“I’ll be right back,” he said as he passed by Leslie. “We’ll settle this.”
The command in his voice grated on her. She wasn’t one of his employees. She wasn’t even his wife.
Dragging her hands down her face, she ordered herself to stay calm, knowing an argument wouldn’t solve anything. She wandered into the living room and curled up in a corner of the sofa, thinking about Ben as she watched the fire.
He was the most goal-oriented person she knew, a driven-to-succeed man who had accomplished staggering success at a young age. Only thirty-two years old, and he was the sole owner of three exclusive, luxurious, extended-stay hotels boasting one-hundred-percent occupancy, with leases signed well into the next century and a waiting list for each facility. How many people could make that kind of claim?
In the beginning, they’d had so much in common. Raised by single parents in lower-class and lower-middle-class neighborhoods, they were used to making do with little. But Ben always had plans. Big plans. He’d conceived the idea for his hotels at age fifteen, then let nothing get in the way of making it work.
Including his wife.
“Oh, stop,” Leslie ordered herself, wincing at the hot scrape of words along her throat. She’d made her own contributions to the failure of their marriage. And now, at the most vulnerable she’d been in a long time, she would be alone with the man she’d loved for so long, the man she’d given up in the most terrifying and heart-wrenching decision of her life.
Decisions. There was another decision she needed to make, as well, one she’d put off for too long. She had been dating Alex Jordan for a while, and he was waiting patiently for her to take their relationship to the next level. She’d promised him a decision by New Year’s Eve.
She couldn’t think about that now, though.
Erin. She’d think about her radiant sunbeam of a daughter, so unlike Ben, who was all thunder and lightning and wild storms, a man who’d tamed that side of himself so that he could fit into the world he’d chosen. She missed that unpredictable and uncivilized strength. She wondered if she’d ever told him how much she appreciated that about him. Probably not. Yet another mistake she’d made.
Ben came out of Erin’s bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him. Leslie let herself admire him for a minute, the tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man who was gentleness itself with his daughter—and so much more with Leslie.
Desire gripped her, staggered her. She tried to breathe against a flood of memories and what seemed like a lifetime of separation. This was a mistake. She couldn’t have a casual conversation with him alone. He would see how much she still wanted him. Needed him. How could he not see? She’d already abandoned her self-control once tonight.
“I’ll leave after breakfast in the morning,” she said abruptly, not looking at him, but aware when he sat in a chair beside her. “It’s your year to have her for Christmas. I won’t intrude on that precious time.”
A few beats passed. “What do we do about Erin?”
“I’ll say I was called back to work.”
“We agreed never to lie to her, Les.”
She finally looked at him. “Give me another option.”
After a minute, he shook his head. “This is Gabe’s fault. He’s the one who put us in this bind.”
“We both know we’re never going to change Gabe, so we just have to deal with it.”
“You’ve already forgiven him?”
“I’m focusing on damage control. We can’t tell Erin that we couldn’t get along well enough to share the same space for a few days, Ben. We’ve always gone out of our way to be civil with each other. And it’s your turn. Your Christmas.”
“It’s not easy having The Perfect Divorce, is it?”
“It’s paid off well with Erin.” Leslie waited. He didn’t ask her to stay. Her throat ached, but she stood and forced herself to speak. “It’s settled, then.”
After a few seconds he nodded.
And that tiny flicker of hope that still burned in her heart died.
He dreamed of a woman crying. Trying to soothe, he reached for her, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her close, his lips brushing her soft and fragrant hair until she quieted. Her hands flattened against his back, then dragged down his body. She was naked. So was he. He angled his head to kiss her and she moaned, her tongue meeting his, her body moving silkily against him. Heat pooled low in his abdomen, throbbing, aching. She whispered his name—
His eyes opened with a start. He struggled to catch his breath against the erotic images. Drenched in sweat, he tossed the bed covers aside and rubbed his face with his hands. So real. It had seemed so real.
There was no doubt who he’d held in his dream. She lay sleeping in the next room. oblivious. He glanced at the clock—2:00 a.m.
Needing a drink of water, he pulled on his sweatpants and headed for the kitchen, slowing as he reached the living room. Cocking his head, he listened, then he moved to the window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out.
He hadn’t dreamed it. Les was there, on the porch. Crying. And crying was a mild word for the sounds coming from her as she curled in a ball, an afghan wrapped around her, her face buried against her knees.
Letting the curtain drop, Ben leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the window. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her cry. Not even the night they separated, when they’d parted with angry words.
What could be this devastating? Certainly not a problem at work. In the almost decade she’d been with the department, she’d proven herself again and again, even to her father, third-generation S.F.P.D. Hugh Sullivan didn’t believe in women becoming police officers, much less detectives, a promotion Les had earned almost six months ago—Inspector Leslie O’Keefe, Domestic Violence Response Unit.
Ben had never gotten used to her being a cop, especially when she was in full uniform, which was when the reality of her work hit him the hardest. But she was good at her job, that much he knew.
So, what possibilities were left? A man? What else could cause tears to this extreme? Ben knew she’d been dating someone. He’d seen them sharing a candlelit dinner a couple of months back, the image popping into his head at odd moments since then. Now it flashed brilliantly.
Another man had held her. Kissed her. Made love to her.
Had he broken it off?
Pushing aside the curtain again, he looked at her. She’d stopped crying and was just staring at the night, her shoulders hitching every few seconds, like Erin when her tears were spent. The difference was that Les wouldn’t want his comforting, his protection.
Helpless, he returned to his bedroom, closing the door quietly, leaving her to her private misery.
Two
Ben heard the distant sound of humming and the sizzle of something frying. And he could smell—he sniffed the air—sautéing onions. Was there a more-mouth watering fragrance on earth? Erin must be anxious to get to the slopes.
Shutting the bedroom door behind him, he followed the scents and sounds to the kitchen. It wasn’t his junior-chef daughter, however, who stood at the stove humming “Jingle Bells.” It was his ex-wife.
He leaned against the door frame and watched her. She looked competent as she sliced mushrooms with a large chef’s knife, the rocking motion she used an indicator that this wasn’t the first time she’d handled such a utensil efficiently. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes...
“You’re cooking,” he said finally, unable to hide his amazement.
“Jingle Bells” faded away. She turned around, knife in hand, a smile on her face. “Good morning.”
Lord, she looked good. She wore a long, loose, red cotton shirt over black leggings. He could see the ridges of her undershirt, scooping low. No bra. She hated bras, believing they were designed by a torturer bent on sadistic pleasure. Her breasts weren’t small, but not large, either. Perfectly formed, easily aroused. His gaze lingered, traveling down her long legs, stopping at her bare feet.
He’d almost forgotten her other aversion—shoes were the second most torturous of man’s inventions. He hadn’t forgotten nibbling on her toes in a shared bath. The picture branded itself in his mind as clearly as if they were neck deep in bubbles right then, teasing each other. Who would’ve thought that toes could be erogenous zones?
“Still not talkative in the morning, I see,” she said, her cheeks flushing.
“When did you learn to cook?”
“Erin’s been teaching me what you teach her,” she said, the pink in her cheeks deepening. “And then, of course, there was the matter of survival. How could any decent mother raise her child on a consistent diet of cereal and fast food? The amazing thing is, I kind of like to cook.”
She seemed to retreat a little then. Embarrassed? Uncomfortable? He didn’t know.
