Marriage, Interrupted

But the epiphany had said family. Not son. Family. As in Cass.

Forget it, Blake mentally yelled at whoever was in charge of these things.

Uh…no, Whoever calmly replied. Which is when Blake came to the mildly depressing realization that there’s apparently an iron-clad No Return policy on epiphanies. Who knew?

All well and good. Except how the hell was he supposed to heal a breach with someone who regarded him as though he were carrying a contagious disease, hadn’t even buried her second husband yet, and—oh, yeah—was pregnant with said dead husband’s child? The timing wasn’t exactly ideal here.

Tough. Deal with it.

Yeah, well, there was also the minor detail of his still, to this day, having no idea how to fix something that had at one time seemed so right and yet had gone so horribly wrong.

Then maybe it’s high time you get off your lazy butt and figure it out.

Right about now, Blake thought as they reached the kitchen, a lobotomy wasn’t sounding half-bad.

“Well now…” The generously bosomed black woman in the monochrome kitchen, her prodigious figure encased in a geometric-pattern shirt and polyester pants with permanently stitched-down creases, rose from a stool behind the granite island and walked over to Blake, clapping a firm hand on his arm. The dark eyes that met his were warm and fearless and unapologetically judgmental. “I take it you’re this boy’s daddy.”

Blake met her confident grin with a slightly less certain one of his own. “Last time I checked.”

“Well, I’m Towanda, and the rule around here is don’t give me any guff and we’ll get along just fine.” With that she returned to whatever she’d been doing, her crepe-soled oxfords making no sound on the gray-tiled floor. “Coffee’s over there,” she said with a twitch of her head, her dark blond waves remaining suspiciously rigid. “Help yourself.”

In business, Blake mused as he filled a mug, he’d gloried in a succession of triumphs. In life, he’d bombed, big-time. After the divorce he’d dated, some, when he could fit it in, but none of the budding relationships ever caught fire. Nor had he cared overmuch that they hadn’t. No other woman had ever gotten to him the way Cass had, and he suspected no other woman ever would. And if that sounded sappy and overly sentimental and improbable, so be it. He hadn’t purposefully closed himself off to loving again, but since it hadn’t happened, or even come close, in all this time…

Blake took a sip of the best coffee he’d ever tasted, mulling this over.

For way too long, he realized, he’d dwelled on what had gone wrong with his marriage, an exercise which had done little more than leave him with a nagging, burning sensation not unlike chronic heartburn that he’d somehow let the ball drop. That he’d given up too easily. Well, now…maybe, just maybe, it was time to remember what had been right. And with time—lots of time, considering the woman’s husband had just died—with patience, and with a lot of prayer, maybe Cass would remember, too.

Of course, there was also the definite possibility that he was on the brink of making a total ass of himself.

He took another sip of coffee, then grunted.

Which would make this not exactly a venture into new territory.

By midafternoon, the crowd had begun to thin, as more and more people slipped out the front door and back into the stream of their normal lives. The funeral, the burial, 1001 nameless condolence givers had all—mercifully, Cass decided—become an indistinct blur.

Except for Blake.

She sat on one of the sofas in the living room, Lucille next to her, close enough for the older woman to occasionally squeeze Cass’s hand. That is, when she wasn’t talking off the ear of whoever came over to offer his or her sympathy. Cass didn’t know ninety percent of these people, a fact that made it much easier to keep her emotional cool.

Except about Blake.

His nearness, both through the services and now, back at the house, tormented her no less than the too-hot-for-March noonday sun that had seared her skin through her black silk maternity dress. Had she been deluding herself these past dozen years? Cass really had believed she’d broken Blake’s almost mesmeric hold on her heart, her mind. Her soul. But the truth was, she now realized with a mixture of embarrassment and horror, the attachment had never truly been severed. Like stretching a rubber band thin enough to give the illusion of separation, if you increase the tension even a little too far—twannnng! Right back where you started.

Like now. Her mental and emotional resources stretched to the max, all it took was Blake Carter’s reappearance in her life, and…twannnng!

And, boy oh boy, did it smart.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” said yet another pleasant-looking middle-aged stranger, grasping Cass’s hand. Cass gave the woman a brave little smile and murmured her thanks, wondering which one of them was more relieved at having gotten through the requisite contact. That done, now whoever-she-was could scarf down the catered hors d’oeuvres with a clear conscience, while Cass could return to obsessing about her ex with anything but.

All she knew was this absurd attraction was inappropriate at best and sheer, stark-raving, just-lock-me-up-now-and-throw-away-the-key idiocy at worst. All she knew was, whatever was going on in her head had to stay there, where no one could see, or know how seriously flawed she was. All she knew was, she was a brand-new widow, almost seven months pregnant with her second husband’s child, but she would have spilled state secrets to feel her first husband’s arms around her. So damn Blake Carter for reappearing in her life to remind her of what she’d lost, of what she’d missed, of what she would never have again. Not with him, at least. And judging from her abysmal track record thus far, not with anybody else, either.

Speak of the devil. Cass glanced up to catch Blake approaching her, his brows dipped in an undecided expression somewhere between pity and confusion. His nearly black hair was still too long, she noticed, the threads of silver at his temples the only thing making him look any older than when they’d been married. She knotted her hands together at the memory of gliding her fingers through those thick waves when they—

The tiny moan just sort of slipped out. Yet someone else she didn’t know gave her a funny look. “The baby kicked,” she said with a shaky smile.

The woman smiled back and returned to her conversation while Cass went back to studying the only man who’d ever rocked her world. In rapid, profound and heart-stopping succession.

Okay, she really had to stop this.

Mercedes Zamora, one of her business partners, had snagged him with a tray of something or other. Blake politely took one, obviously trying to extricate himself from Mercy’s rapid-fire monologue. Thank God for small favors, Cass thought, trying to shift her weight on the sofa. Maybe by the time he made it over here, her heart rate would be back to normal.

Right. Now she noticed the fine webbing at the corners of his eyes, which made him look more distinguished, as did the creases bracketing a mouth she remembered with a clarity vivid enough to make her squirm in her seat. And not because of the baby, either.

Having escaped Mercy’s clutches, Blake was back on course toward Cass…and the fantasies vaporized in the heat of those hound-dog eyes, eyes that seemed to plead with her to explain what had happened between them. On the surface, the answer seemed simple enough—that he’d broken one too many promises for her to ever be able to trust him again. But in truth, the answer was anything but simple. God knows, she would have given anything to untangle the myriad reasons why their marriage had sizzled, then fizzled, at least enough to lay them out in order of importance. But the more she tried to sort out the jumble of disappointment and heartache left in the wake of their divorce, the less she understood. Two things, however, she was absolutely sure of: She could never forgive him for virtually abandoning their child, and she could never forgive herself for still, after all this time, wanting him so much.

Even now, as he lowered himself onto the sofa beside her—since, after loudly announcing she had to pee like a racehorse, Lucille had abandoned her—where she sat staring at a plate full of food she couldn’t get past her throat if she tried, she still yearned to feel his touch, to hear his soothing voice when he’d kid her out of a bad mood or comfort her when she was legitimately upset. For so long, he’d been her best—and often, her only—friend. That their marriage had destroyed their friendship hurt almost more than anything else.

“How’re you holding up?” she heard at her elbow.

She shrugged, shook her head. Refused to look at him, to react to that soft, Oklahoma-tinged voice that had always turned her insides to warmed honey.

There had to be a logical reason for this. Hormones. Exhaustion. Misdirected grief.

Insanity.

Yes, let’s go with that, shall we?

Blake seemed to hesitate, then cautiously took her hand in his, sending trickles of warmth to places she’d just as soon forget existed. Yep, she was seriously messed up, all right. As if to compensate, a shiver slalomed down her spine.

“You’re freezing,” he said, his brows taking a dive. “Here…” He pulled an ivory wool throw off the back of the sofa, tried to spread it over her lap. But she pushed it away, as if accepting his ministrations somehow indicted her.

“It’s just my hands,” she insisted. “I’m not cold. Really.”

“But you have been under a helluva lot of stress, ho—” She watched as he swallowed back the endearment. “Maybe you should go lie down.”

“I will. Soon,” she promised before he launched into his Poppa Hen routine, before she remembered far more than she wanted to. Before she forgot the one thing she most needed to remember. Finally she met his gaze, only to immediately wish she hadn’t. “I’ll rest in a bit. I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

His expression was unreadable. “I understand.”

But he didn’t, of course, since she barely understood herself. She didn’t want to be alone, to think about her situation, to worry about how she was going to get through this mess, to wonder why Blake’s presence was so thoroughly discombobulating her, especially after all this time. Especially today.

She hadn’t noticed when he’d risen. He now stood in front of her, his hands slouched in his pockets as usual, although the navy jacket and tie were anything but. However, unlike her son, who looked about as natural in his get-up as he might have wearing chicken feathers, Blake seemed right at home. But then, she supposed these days he wore suits, even formalwear, pretty regularly. After all, Blake Carter was a millionaire now, an entrepreneur who’d beaten the odds and rocketed to the top of his industry. Idly, Cass wondered if money and success had changed him.

“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll get back to the hotel—”

“Like hell you will,” Lucille squawked right behind Cass, making her jolt. The woman had a habit of popping up, prairie-dog fashion, at remarkably inconvenient moments. She sidestepped the arm of the sofa to snag Blake’s forearm in red talons. “With six bedrooms, you should stay at some hotel?” She vigorously shook her head, the rhinestone earrings flashing like a blitz of paparazzi flashbulbs. “Forget it.”

“Cille, really, I don’t think that’s such a good idea—” Cass put in, but Lucille had pressed her crimson lips together in her you-can-talk-but-I-won’t-hear expression.

“The man should be with his son. And the son should be with his mother. So maybe this isn’t the most ideal situation in the world, but since when does life play along? Besides, sweetheart…” She nailed Cass with her green gaze. “I know you wouldn’t push my buttons at a time like this.” Tarantula lashes swallowed up her eyes as she squinted. “Would you?”

“I believe this is called emotional blackmail, Cille.”

“Whatever works. Besides, Blake would be happy to stay.” The tarantulas veered in his direction. “Right?”

After a moment—a very long moment—Blake replied, “If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“Listen to him. Like it would be trouble to put up my stepgrandson’s father. Besides, have you looked in the kitchen recently? There’s enough food to feed Yonkers in there. All these people on these weird diets…nobody eats real food anymore. Towanda’s been kvetching for the last half hour about how the hell is she going to stuff it all in the Fridgedaire. We won’t have to cook for a week.”

“This has got to be a bad dream,” Cass muttered, but Lucille pretended not to hear her.

“This is no time for Cassie and me to be sitting around, depressing each other. So, for a few days, you’ll stay. Be a father to your son. Regale us with stories about the ice cream business. Keep our spirits out of the toilet.”

Apparently convinced the matter was settled, Lucille left to see out the last of the guests, except for one set of distant cousins, who seemed to have bonded with the buffet. And Mercy was still here, too, having a set-to with Towanda, if the raised voices coming from the kitchen were any indication. Suddenly, the argument stopped—which led Cass to wonder whether the two women had come to terms or killed each other—leaving the house ominously quiet.

Blake hesitated before asking, “Is this okay with you?”

“Oh, right. As if I have any say in the matter.”

His mouth tilted. “I’m not afraid of an old lady.”

“Yeah, well, I am. And if you had any sense, you would be, too.”

“Nope, sorry. Although Towanda’s another story entirely.”

Cass glanced away before she was tempted to smile. “In any case, please don’t feel obligated to stay if you don’t want to.”

“Actually…I wouldn’t mind hanging out more with Shaun. While I’m here.”

“I’m…sure he’d like that.”

They could have hung laundry on the tension strung between them.

“Well, then,” he said, jangling his car keys, “I suppose I’ll go back to the hotel, get my things. If that’s okay.”

Propping her elbow on the arm of the sofa, Cass let her head drop into her palm, her eyes drifting closed. “Blake, please. Don’t make me think. Or make decisions. Or even react. Just do whatever you need to do, okay?”

“Only if you’re sure…”

Now her eyes popped open. “Blake!”

The ambivalence in the gentle brown eyes that met hers tied her insides into a million little knots. And she knew, at that moment, that he hadn’t changed. Not really. Not enough to matter, at least.

Why, God? Why are you doing this to me?

She straightened, folding her hands primly in what was left of her lap. “I’m going to be miserable, no matter what you do. So if it makes Lucille a little happier right now…” Her breath gripped her throat, and she realized how perilously close she was to falling apart. “And I’m sure Shaun really would appreciate your being here,” she got out. “He’s got some activities planned I’m not going to be up for. If you could stick around and take him, I’d be very grateful.”

At that, she saw some of the tension ease from her former husband’s shoulders. “I’d be happy to help,” he said with that smile that used to…

Never mind what that smile used to do. She couldn’t let it do it now. Or ever again. And that’s all she needed to remember, she thought as she watched Blake leave the room, recalling how she used to cuddle up to those broad shoulders on chilly mornings.…

N’uh, uh-uh…

All she needed to remember was that remembering was not an option.

Chapter Two

Blake found Shaun doing a bad impression of a skateboarder in the cul-de-sac in front of the house. The kid had changed into a pair of droopy jeans with shredded hems, topped by three layers of shirts in varying degrees of grunge. For a split second, Blake considered whether he even wanted to be seen with the kid.

“I’m going back to the hotel to get my stuff,” he called over. “Wanna come?”

The skateboard went flying in one direction, Shaun in another, as he came to a halt. Panting, he took off his hat—its original color anybody’s guess—shook out his now-unconfined hair, then pushed the hat back on his head. Backward. “You staying here?” he asked as he snatched the skateboard up off the pavement, then ambled toward Blake, board dangling from his knuckles.

“Appears so.” Blake waited until the boy reached him before continuing. “Lucille’s idea.”

Shaun nodded, a half grin tugging at his lips as he hissed out a breath. “What’d Mom say?”

“Not much,” Blake said cautiously. “Although she did mention that you had some plans for the next few days and maybe I could play shuttle service.”

Another nod. “Yeah, that’d be cool. I s’pose.” Now he gave Blake’s Range Rover the once-over. “Not bad,” he pronounced, skimming one hand over the hood. “New?”

“The Bronco gave up the ghost last winter.” For some reason, Shaun’s nonchalance was making Blake antsy. “So. You want to come with me or not?”

“Yeah. Sure. C’n I put the board in back?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Blake echoed, opening the door.

The skateboard duly deposited, they both climbed into the car. Shaun immediately asked if he could turn on the radio; Blake, assuming the kid wasn’t thinking along the lines of an easy listening or classical station, not so immediately agreed. Two button clicks later, the glove-leather interior of his car pulsed with mind-numbing, quadrophonically enhanced hip-hop. Blake glanced over at his son, who was drumming the dash in time to the…music. He sucked in a deep, deep breath, then let it out very, very slowly.

It was a start.

Cass blew a puff of air through her bangs and considered the plate of food in her hands, still uneaten, still unwanted. Right on cue, reminding her she wasn’t the only one who needed to eat, the baby delivered a swift kick to her right kidney. With a sigh, she lifted something unrecognizable to her mouth and began to nibble, only to quickly dispose of it in her napkin. Whoever had put the chicken liver on her plate had an obvious death wish. Liver, in whatever form, from whatever animal, was still something’s innards, and Cass did not eat innards. Ever.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Hey, honey…you okay?”

Cass immediately reined everything in as Mercy plopped herself down beside her, wiping her sapphire-blue-tipped fingers on a napkin. The nails were a perfect match to the petite woman’s fitted suit. Her lips, thankfully, were not.

“Sure,” Cass answered. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So if you’d already made up your mind how I was, why’d you ask?”

“Because that’s what friends do.”

“Ask? Or predetermine the answers?”

“Whatever works.”

Cass settled farther into the sofa, the plate precariously balanced on top of the mound that contained her unborn child. “Well, consider this. If I was okay, they probably really would come take me away.”

“Good point,” Mercy said. “But with the baby coming and everything? Dana and I are just worried about you, you know?”

Dana Malone, the third partner in their business venture, was—thank God—not in evidence at the moment. “Don’t be. Please. You know hovering makes me crazy.”

“Tough. If we didn’t bug you, you’d probably starve to death.” Yards of ebony corkscrew curls, only minimally tamed by a narrow, blue velvet headband, tangled with the collar of her suit as she shook her head. “For someone so savvy about running a business, you’re pathetic when it comes to taking care of yourself.” Teak eyes settled on Cass’s plate. “Why didn’t you eat the liver?”

“Because I’d rather cut out my own. So live up to your name, Mercy, and show me some.”

“Liver’s a good source of iron, which you need for the baby—”

“So bring me a bowl of Total. Get off my case.”

Mercy humphed, then scanned the room and the dwindled-to-almost-nothing crowd. “Your ex left?” she asked, making Cass jump.

“Only temporarily,” she said, trying to sound blasé. “Lucille got her claws in him and invited him to stay over.”

“Stay over? As in, here?” One sapphire nail jabbed downward. “In this house?”

The soft leather cushioned Cass’s aching neck muscles as she leaned back against the sofa and faced her partner. “Does that mean I’m not the only one who thinks this is a little strange?”

Her brows now dipped, Mercy leaned over and snitched a taquito off Cass’s plate. Crossing her legs, she propped her elbow on her knee as she munched, waving the truncated taquito around for emphasis. “I think…I think I don’t know what I think. Except… Dios mio, he’s a hunk and a half. Oh, God—” Five long fingers clamped around Cass’s wrist. “That was really stupid.”

“Forget it. Besides, you’re right.”

Up went the brows again.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Merce. Look. If someone lets you borrow something—like, I don’t know, a beautiful piece of jewelry or something—it’s no less beautiful when you have to give it back, right?”

Mercedes considered that for a moment, then said, “Well, all I have to say is, what you gave back is serious Harry Winston material.” She shook her head, then picked a cheesy something or other off Cass’s plate and popped it into her mouth. Mercedes Zamora, Cass had decided a long time ago, epitomized the word spitfire. Petite, pretty, vivacious, adorable figure, just quirky enough to keep you on your toes. “So what happened? Why’d you two break up?”

And deadly.

“Geez, lady. Anybody ever tell you your timing stinks?”

Mercy pinned her with a look that could intimidate a Mafia goon. “Maybe. But you have this nasty habit of holding things in, and that’s not good, you know? Very bad for the blood pressure.”

Cass closed her eyes, hoping against hope the woman would go away. “I’d rather think of it as keeping my personal life, well…personal.”

But going away was clearly not on Mercy’s to-do list. From two feet away, Cass could hear her chewing. “The guy’s history, right?”

The mantel clock chimed during the several seconds that passed before Cass replied, her eyes still closed. “Ancient, even.”

“So?”

“So…” So she would toss her friend a scrap and maybe then she’d go away. “We got married too early. We couldn’t handle it. End of story.” The baby squirmed again; Cass absently rubbed the little elbow or knee or whatever it was. And through the anger and the confusion and all the dreck that threatened to turn her into a raving nutso, floated the love she felt for the little guy who knew nothing of any of this.

“And…you’re not going to say anything more.”

Tired as she was, Cass opened her eyes, looked her friend straight in hers and lied. “There’s nothing else to say. Really.” She shrugged. “Just one of those things.”

Mercy rolled her eyes and stuffed another taquito into her cute little mouth.

* * *

Blake’s head was still softly buzzing, like overhead power lines, from his far-too-close encounter with current pop culture. More than his humming head, however, he’d regretted that the noise had precluded conversation. Now, as he tossed his overnight bag into the car before returning to the house, he decided to get the conversation going before his son made any musical requests.

“So…how’s school?”

The sardonic smile seemed far too old on a fifteen-year-old’s face. “Dude—” he buckled up, adjusted his shoulder strap “—you sound like every lame father in every lame movie, you know, when the father is, like, trying to ‘relate’ to his estranged kid.”

Blake tried not to tense. Or get defensive. Or ask if Shaun wanted the music back on. “I see. Well, unfortunately I really am interested in how you’re doing in school. Lame though that may be.”

“’S’okay,” the kid allowed, and Blake felt a muscle or two relax. “I made Honor Roll last nine weeks.” He leaned forward, index finger poised to send Blake over the edge. Blake caught his wrist.