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Three
Charlotte hadn’t known what to expect of Rafe’s apartment. She’d been pretty sure it wouldn’t resemble his parents’ home on Lake Shore Drive. Grant and Emma Connelly lived in a Georgian-style manor furnished in antiques and elegance, with landscaped grounds that included an ornamental pool and a boxwood maze. It was altogether gracious and tasteful, not to mention intimidatingly rich.
But Rafe wouldn’t be interested in gracious or traditional. He was fond of the casual, the eclectic, the downright odd. So she hadn’t been surprised when they’d arrived at a converted office building in an area that was as much commercial as residential. But still…
Whatever she’d unconsciously expected, she thought as she stood in the middle of Rafe’s living space, this wasn’t it. She rubbed the back of her head, where the threatened headache had settled, and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.
Except for the kitchen, the entire downstairs was one big room. The floor was wooden, the ceiling high, the colors bold. Furniture and floor treatments rather than walls defined the spaces. A change from wood to tile marked the dining area, which was anchored by an enormous painting of a jester, complete with whimsical hat, tasseled costume and airborne balls of many colors.
A sectional sofa in glowing apricot created an L-shaped conversational area in front of a fireplace. The fireplace itself was modern and white; the wall that held it had been painted deep blue. That same wall also held bookshelves, three windows, a stereo and a huge-screen TV. Facing the TV were cushy chairs upholstered in green and yellow and purple. A hammock swung gently in front of the single big window on the right-hand wall. Next to it was an iron staircase flanked by a stunning wooden statue of a nude woman.
“You have a strange look on your face,” he said. “If you don’t like the place, blame my sister Alexandra. She picked out most of the furniture.”
She stopped looking at Rafe’s things and looked at Rafe. He stood in the middle of all that color, looking dark and dangerous and out of place in his beard stubble and shaggy hair. In this light, the color of his eyes wasn’t black, but blue—dark blue, like a stormy sky. “There’s a tie on your chandelier,” she said.
He glanced up, surprised. “So there is.”
A bubble of laughter rose in spite of her aching head. She turned away, fighting a smile. The room was classy, expensive, extravagant—and extravagantly messy. Things were everywhere they didn’t belong. Books, magazines, newspapers, clothing. A guitar. Two big, thoroughly dead plants. Computer parts were strewn across the glass-topped dining table, along with more papers, a pair of socks and a tool chest. The leather coat he’d loaned her was tossed across a low hassock. The wooden nude by the stairs wore a plastic lei and a Cubs cap.
She found the clutter oddly endearing. Rafe had always seemed like too much of a good thing—too sexy, too rich, too confident. His bright, sloppy apartment made him more human. Something warmed and softened inside her.
He sighed. “It’s a mess, isn’t it?”
“Ah…” She hunted for something tactful to say, but came up empty and settled for honesty. “Yes.”
“Messy doesn’t bother me, but you like things tidy. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.” He glanced around, frowning as if he wasn’t at all sure what that might be. “It is clean. You don’t have to worry about that. Doreen comes at least once a week when I’m in town, and the woman is a demon on dirt. She’ll clean anything that doesn’t get out of her way. Nearly vacuumed me once when I was taking a nap, but fortunately I woke up in time.”
Oh, the smile was winning, damn him. She bent to straighten a leaning pile of newspapers. “Were you napping in the hammock?”
“It’s a restful spot. You don’t need to do that.”
“I can’t help myself. What’s behind the red wall?”
“The kitchen. There’s also a half bath down here. The full bath is upstairs, along with my bedroom and office.”
“And the guest room? Where I’ll be staying—is that upstairs or down?”
“Ah…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “There isn’t exactly a guest room. I used that for my office.”
Temper made her head pound. “If you think I’m going to climb into your bed—”
“You’ll be there alone…if that’s what you want.”
She refused to dignify that bit of blatant provocation with a reply. Turning, she headed for the stairs.
The rooms upstairs were smaller than down, but still much larger than the living room of her old apartment. A glance through the first open door revealed a room that was mostly high-tech office, though piles of papers and odds and ends of workout equipment hid some of the computer paraphernalia.
A glance through the opposite doorway made her smile and step inside.
His bathroom was long and narrow, walled in cobalt-blue tile, with gleaming white fixtures and a large shower stall bricked in glass blocks. That long wash of blue ended at a square, step-up tub deep enough to drown in. “Oh, my.” She went straight for the tub. “I think I’m in love.”
Rafe stood in the doorway. “Who would have thought it? The efficient Ms. Masters is a closet sybarite.”
“Just a bathtub sybarite.” And Rafe had her dream bathroom. She sighed in pleasure and envy and glanced over her shoulder. “So why are the towels hung up instead of dumped on the floor?”
“Childhood trauma. My mother was fierce on the subject of damp towels left on the floor. You want to take a bath before we eat? It might help that headache you’ve been nursing.”
Her eyebrows twitched in surprise. “How did you know I’ve got a headache?”
“I’m psychic. And you’re rubbing your head again.”
She blinked and dropped her hand self-consciously.
His grin flashed. “Come on. I’ll get you something to change into.” He vanished into the short hall, his voice reaching her easily. “I’ll fix dinner while you soak. Steaks okay?”
“Don’t go to any trouble.” She followed, confused by his shifting moods and wondering about the condition of his kitchen, given what she’d seen of the rest of the place. “Sandwiches or takeout would be…” Speech and feet both drifted to a halt when she reached his bedroom.
At first all she saw was the bed—huge, unmade, with tousled sheets, scattered pillows, and the comforter dragging the floor at one corner. It looked much the way her bed had on one morning five months ago.
Had someone shared that bed with him recently?
He spoke, drawing her attention to his amused face. “Don’t worry. The mere sight of a bed won’t make me pounce on you.”
“Why bother?” she muttered. “Been there, done that.” As soon as the words were out, she cursed her slippery tongue. “I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did. You’re thinking of the last time we were in a bedroom together.”
“No.” Memories pressed at her, an insistent thrust of heat and haste and impulse. The flavor of his mouth. The feel of his hands, quick and demanding. And her own dizzy need rising to meet those demands. “Not at all.”
“I am. I’m remembering the way you taste when your pulse is pounding here.” He lifted a hand and touched his own throat beneath the jaw.
Her own hand lifted involuntarily, mirroring his gesture, and quickly dropped. Her pulse was pounding. Dammit. “I don’t care to wander down memory lane tonight. I’d rather wash the grime off.”
“Why do I like that cool, sarcastic mouth of yours so much?” He shook his head. “Hell if know.”
His lips were smiling. His eyes weren’t. They were dark, intent. Hot. Oh, she knew that expression, was as fascinated by it tonight as she had been five months ago. As fascinated as birds are said to be by the gaze of a snake. That’s superstition, she told herself. And couldn’t keep from falling back a step when he moved toward her.
His smile widened. “Your nightie,” he said, and held out what she only then noticed he held—an old sweat suit. “I told you I wouldn’t pounce, but if you get the urge, feel free to jump on me.”
“In your dreams.”
His mouth still curved in that infuriating, knowing smile. “Oh, you have been, Charlie. You have been.”
Her mouth went dry. Something fluttered in her chest—something too much like yearning. She snatched the clothes from him and escaped with as much dignity as possible.
The air was warm and moist, the water warmer and soothing. Her hair smelled of almonds from Rafe’s shampoo. Charlotte lathered her left leg, then drew the razor along her calf.
This bathroom might have been conjured out of one of her private fantasies. Oh, admit it, she thought. The entire apartment seemed to belong in one of her daydreams, not her real life.
Except for the mess. Her mouth curved. She’d never pictured her dream apartment with so many piles of misplaced objects. Or a hammock. But the expensive furnishings, the artful use of color and space, the curving iron staircase and fireplace and beautiful rugs—she’d dreamed of a place like this, possessions like these, for years.
Charlotte had a hunger for nice things. A product of my deprived childhood, she thought with bitter humor, dipping her leg beneath the water to rinse. It wasn’t a quality she admired in herself, but she accepted it. Possessions would probably always matter a little too much to her.
She leaned against the back of the tub. Had he really dreamed of her?
It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter, she told herself fiercely. She knew better than to confuse fantasy with reality. Maybe he had dreamed of her. They’d been incredibly good together in bed. But dreams weren’t a guide for real life, and great sex wasn’t a basis for a marriage.
In dreams, she thought, her eyes drifting closed, anything could happen.
Someone rolled over inside her.
Her hand went to her stomach. It amazed her every time, this motion created by another being right inside her body. Would she grow used to the sensation in the next four months? Would she be more grouchy than awed when the baby was bigger and woke her up at night, kicking?
She smiled. She didn’t think so. Much to her surprise, she loved being pregnant. Oh, at first she’d been scared and nauseous, appalled that this could happen to her, that she could have been so irresponsible. But the first time the baby had moved…she rubbed her middle, smiling, her eyes still closed. Now she even liked the way her body was expanding, the solid shape the baby made inside her. After being alone in her body all her life, she couldn’t stop marveling at being two instead of one.
Funny. She’d never dreamed about being pregnant, yet now that she was, she loved it. Her fantasies had usually revolved around success in some form. Stock options. A well-fed 401K. Beautiful things of all sorts, from handmade quilts to designer suits to a hopeless craving she’d suffered from for months for an antique rolltop desk.
Though there had been another dream…. No, that was too important a word for her foolishness. A silly fantasy, that was all it had been. It had seemed harmless. She’d worked at the Connelly Corporation for three years and as Grant’s assistant for two, and Rafe had never asked her out. She’d been sure he never would, sure her longing would go safely unrequited…until the night five months ago when the Connellys had held a barbecue at their lakeside cottage.
She’d gone there to get Grant’s signature on a contract. And Rafe, damn his observant eyes, had realized something was bothering her. Grabbing at the first excuse that had come to mind, she’d claimed to be ill. Big mistake. Grant had refused to hear of her driving back to work. He’d refused to hear of her driving at all.
Rafe had offered to take her home. And she, foolish dreamer that she’d been, hadn’t protested nearly enough….
One night in May
“So what’s wrong?” Rafe asked as they headed back to the city on Lake Shore Drive.
“Just a bug, I guess.” Outside, the air was dreamy with dusk. To their left, the vast waters of Lake Michigan were turning gray and secretive in the fading light. There were secrets inside the car, too. They pressed on Charlotte, weighed her down, made her want to be anywhere but here, with this man.
She leaned her head against the headrest and tried to relax. The ride was smooth and quiet, the leather seats absurdly comfortable. But the tension vibrating inside her wouldn’t let go. “I’d pictured you with a sporty little two-seater.”
“If I get the urge to travel with my knees jammed up to my chest, I fly economy class. No need to buy a car that does that for me.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. Rafe had a way of making her smile, making her angry, making her feel all sorts of things she didn’t want to feel. “I’ll bet you’ve never flown economy in your life.”
“You’d lose.” He signaled and slowed the car. “I don’t think you’re sick.”
She sat up straight. “What a strange thing to say. Unless your ego is crowding out your brain, and you think I lured you away from the party to have my wicked way with you.”
He chuckled. “Don’t I wish. No, you did your best to get out of accepting a ride. You’ve got an annoyingly large independent streak, Charlie.”
“My name is Charlotte,” she corrected him automatically, looking down at her lap. Her fingers rested there calmly enough, but inside she was rattling like a poorly tuned engine. There was a giddy intimacy in riding in Rafe’s car, alone with him as darkness eased up on the city. But this pull she felt was the last thing she needed right now. It distracted her. She needed to be thinking about how to find out what that tech had done so she could undo it, not about the way Rafe’s forearms looked with his sleeves rolled up.
He glanced at her, his grin flashing. “Nervous about being alone with me?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“If Dad hadn’t been there to bully you, you’d never have gotten in this car with me.”
“Your father doesn’t bully. He’s been very good to me.” And in return, she’d betrayed him. But what else could she have done? Oh, Brad, she thought, miserable in her love and guilt. Somehow she would make things right again. If she had to go to the office every weekend, she’d make things right.
For everyone else, a little voice inside whispered. She might be able to put things right for others, but her own dreams were forever spoiled. There never had been any chance of a future for her and Rafe, she reminded that whispery voice. They were too different. Besides, he liked to tease, he liked to flirt, but he’d had three years to fall for her, if he was going to.
Obviously he wasn’t.
She kept her eyes closed, faking the sleep her unquiet mind wouldn’t allow. Rafe either believed she’d dozed off or was willing to let the conversation drift to an end. Neither of them had spoken for perhaps fifteen minutes when he broke the silence. “Here we are.”
She straightened, frowning as he pulled to a stop. “Where are we?”
“A couple blocks from a great Italian restaurant.” He turned off the engine, got out and came around to her side. She remained where she was, flustered and angry. When he opened her door she said, “I’m not in the mood for a kidnapping.”
“This isn’t a kidnapping. I’m taking you to dinner.”
“I don’t recall being asked.”
“If I’d asked, you’d have said no. Look, Charlie, you’re not sick. You just said that because you didn’t want to talk about whatever has you upset. Man problems, probably. But I’m not a bad listener. You might try not holding everything in, see if it helps.”
Oh, yes, he was just the person for her to confide in. You see, gangsters forced me to let them do something to the computers at your family’s corporation….
“No,” she said firmly. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine.”
He nodded. “That’s what I thought. You look like a woman in need of a good cry, but you aren’t about to let your hair down and take advantage of my broad, manly shoulders, are you? So I decided to feed you instead. Tony makes great lasagna.”
To her alarm, the quivering inside threatened to spill outside. She bit her lip to keep it steady. “I’m sure you know a lot about women, but I don’t think you know much about the therapeutic effects of a good cry.”
“I’ve got sisters.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Lord, do I have sisters.”
“Three sisters might make you seem like a poor, outnumbered male if you didn’t also have five brothers.”
“Seven brothers now.”
Of course. She felt like a fool for forgetting. Rafe had grown up with five brothers, including a half brother, but last month the family had learned of two more Connelly men—twins, the product of a youthful affair of Grant’s that had taken place before he married Emma.
A discovery like that might have torn another family apart. Not the Connellys. Oh, there had been some turmoil. She’d heard raised voices in Grant’s office a couple of times, but that sort of thing happened from time to time anyway, and meant little. The Connellys were stubborn, strong-minded people, every one of them. Sometimes they were angry and loud. But the storms came and went, leaving the family still solid. United.
What would it be like to have such a family? So many, and so close. There would always be someone to listen, to help if you needed it…. The squeeze of something horribly close to self-pity made her voice sharper than she intended. “You prove my point. Testosterone seven, estrogen three. The testosterone count wins.”
“Come on. You’ve met my sisters. Can you really believe any of us poor males ever wins?”
She chuckled in spite of herself.
“That’s better.” He reached in and took her hand. “Come on, Charlie. Eat. You’ll feel better. If you’re good, I’ll even spring for tiramisu.”
Charlotte lay in the cooling water, remembering the crowded little restaurant, the wobbly table covered by a cheap vinyl tablecloth and the incredible lasagna. They’d shared a bottle of wine while they talked, teased and argued. And she’d forgotten to worry. Or maybe she’d willfully shoved worry aside, seizing the chance to feel good with both hands, like a greedy child.
Rafe had taken her home. He’d insisted on walking her up to her apartment. At her door he’d kissed her…and all those dreams, all those foolish, impractical dreams had blazed to life along with her body.
She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d lifted his head. The way she’d felt when his hand sifted through her hair. His hand hadn’t been entirely steady, and she’d let herself hope. For a moment hope had bloomed in her, bright and mute as sunrise.
