Читать книгу Intimate Exposure - Simona Taylor - Страница 11

Shani’s heart did a happy little two-step when he returned with a cardboard box lid and two hot cups of coffee balanced inside. He handed her a cup. It was sweet and milky, as promised. Comforting. He settled next to her with a grin, pointing to his bare chest. “Scared a few people out there.”

“Uh-huh.” More likely set their salivary glands going, she thought. “You cold?”

“Nah.” He tilted the tray so she could see its contents. “Hot dogs. And pudding. They were out of chocolate—only butterscotch and banana left. Figured you’d like the butterscotch better.”

“You figured right.”

He handed her a hot dog, heavy on the ketchup and mustard, light on the relish, no onions. “They’ve been rolling around on that little carousel since the Jurassic, but I’m too hungry to complain.”

She bit in. “If we get food poisoning, at least we’re in the right place.”

He smiled. “First joke I’ve heard you make all night.”

She shrugged, concentrating on her hot dog. “Haven’t got much to joke about.”

She was disappointed when he didn’t contradict her. He finished his hot dog without saying anything more. Then there was no sound but the scraping of his plastic spoon in the pudding cup. When she was done with hers, too, he whisked away the debris.

He snagged a blanket and wrapped it around his bare chest Indian-style, to deflect any more disapproving glances, and sat again. Together they listened to the sounds of the night. Outside, an ambulance wailed. Inside, a child moaned in his sleep. All underscored by the incessant chorus of instruments, like the mournful chirping of crickets. Eerie. Disturbing. Sad.

Elliot was so quiet, she was sure he’d dozed off. She was afraid to look at him, in case her anxiety, her need for him to stay awake, and stay with her, showed. It was embarrassing. Had she sunk so low that the moral support of a kindhearted stranger was all she had?

She directed her frustration and anger away from herself and onto Christophe. Jerk. He was an ocean away, not knowing, not caring that his daughter had loops of wires curling into and out of her, making her one with a huge, ugly machine. With just the glow of a monitor and the glimmer of a night-light staving off the darkness poised above her like a stilled wave.

How could he leave her alone to face this? When had he stopped loving her? She snorted derisively. To hear him tell it, he did still love her. Sleeping around throughout their marriage hadn’t meant he didn’t; it just meant he was French. As far as he was concerned, she’d blown the whole thing out of proportion.

She exhaled, thinking of the envelope that lay on the floor in her apartment, waiting to be opened. She wondered if she’d ever have the strength. She’d certainly have the time, what with no longer being employed and all. She thought of how, not long ago, her dream job was hers, and money and status came with ease. She’d gone and made such a mess of things.

“It’ll get better, you know.” Elliot’s mouth was close to her ear.

She jumped. Wasn’t he asleep? She turned her startled eyes to him. “What?”

His voice was still soft, warm and gentle. “You sighed like something was breaking inside you. It hurt just to hear it. But it’ll get better.”

“How, Elliot? I lost my job—”

“—you’ll get a better one.”

“—my husband—”

“—if he deserved you, he’d be here instead of me—”

“And here alone, in this godawful place—”

“You’re not alone,” he pointed out.

She was too frustrated to acknowledge he was right. “—listening to my daughter breathe, depending on someone I’ve known four hours to be my savior!” Savior. His gaze was steady on hers, taking the appellation in stride, as though it belonged to him. She paused, panting. “Not that I’m ungrateful.”

“I know—”

“You’ve gone out of your way—” “Shani, stop—”

“No. You don’t know anything about my life. But you sit there with this light in your eyes and tell me it’s gonna get better? I’m sorry, Elliot. Forgive me if I don’t believe—”

His kiss cut her tirade short. Both hands came up around her face, pulling her forward. The arms of their heavy chairs, jammed up against each other, made the gesture awkward, so without breaking the kiss he shifted around to kneel before her again, slipping one hand around her shoulders so she had no choice but to slide down off her chair and find herself knee to knee with him. Her short black waitressing skirt rode up on her thighs.

The blanket around his shoulders fell open, and his bare chest was warm against hers. She discovered the softness of his rumpled hair under her fingers. It was an aching, urgent kiss. Coffee-sweet. Banana pudding-sweet.

And in her mind, a jumble of words. My God, I’m kissing this man. Someone warm under my hands after so long. Stubble under my fingers. He needs a shave … and a haircut. What’s wrong with me? Tired. Hungry. Aching. Feel like I could fall into him and go to sleep, and know I’d be safe.

She touched his face again. It was as warm as his chest, but wet. Wet? When he broke their kiss she heard and felt the air escape his lips, and then the sear of tears replaced the gentle pressure of his mouth. She put her hand up in shock, to rub off the smear on his face, knowing the tears were hers, not his. He was smiling. “I’ve had lots of reactions to a kiss, but I don’t think crying was ever one of them.”

“Oh, I.” She tried to wipe away the evidence with the back of her hand, but there was more where that came from. “Elliot, I’m so—”

“If I have to hear you say you’re sorry one more time …!” He found a crumpled paper napkin and tried to mop up her face, but she took it from him.

“I can do it.”

He didn’t fight her. Instead, he stayed kneeling before her, watching her soberly. When she was finished, he took the paper away, balled it up and sent it arcing into the wastepaper bin. “Better now?” “I don’t know.”

“Come here.” He pulled her head down against his chest. She complied without resistance. She could hear his heartbeat. She closed her eyes, listening to him breathe, and discovered to her surprise that his chest was rising and falling in tandem with the barely audible ins and outs of her daughter’s breaths. She knelt in the arms of her personal angel, taking all the solace and comfort he offered. Wondering when he’d pull away and tell her to get up again.

He didn’t. After a while, the silence was too much to bear. The holding, the warmth, were wonderful, but there was more she wanted. “Elliot?”

“Yes?” His voice was sonorous, muffled in her hair. Like a sound coming from far away.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“I was born on a Sunday. My mother said it was raining.”

“That’s not what I meant!” She looked up at him, seeing warmth and humor and awakening desire.

“How far back you want me to go?”

“Not that far. I just want to know something about you. This,” she indicated their proximity, the intimacy of their positions facing each other. “This is so unlike me. I feel—”

“What do you feel?” He looked as though the answer was important to him.

She answered carefully, not willing to reveal too much. “I feel that … that it’d be less … weird.”

Another rumble of laughter, deep in his chest. “This feels weird to you?”

She was hesitant, not wanting to goad him to anger. “Well, a little. It’s … unexpected.”

“But sweet. Nice. The most natural thing …”

“I guess.” She was a little doubtful. “But I feel. I think. It’d be a little less, you know …”

“Weird,” he supplied indulgently.

“Yeah. That. If I knew more about you. I just met you. And now, this …”

“This is good.”

Maybe. But it had been such a freaky night. She searched for a way to explain herself better.

She didn’t have to. “But I get where you’re coming from. What would you like to know?”

Now that the invitation was open, she pondered. What would she want to know? Ah, a question arose. The obvious question. “What’s this thing between you and your father?”

He moved back an inch, but to her it was a chasm. “Anything but that.”

So much for honesty. His reaction only piqued her curiosity more. What could be so bad that Elliot wouldn’t even talk about it? Reluctantly, she conceded.

“What do you do when you’re not rescuing sick little kids? And their mothers?” She glanced up at his windblown hair. “And riding a Triumph without a helmet?”

“Tech stuff. I’m an electronics engineer. My company designs information security systems.” Now that Stack was no longer at the center of the conversation, he relaxed again, inching closer. “It’s boring.”

Boring was the last word she’d use to describe him. “Tell me something else.”

“I can recite the alphabet backward. Want to hear it?”

She knew he was trying to make her smile. “Soon,” she promised.

He wrapped her in the circle of his arms without seeking further permission. “I have the uncanny ability to sense when someone’s hurting. When they need to be held.”

Her eyelids lowered. Maybe that was all she needed to know right now.

He settled her down with her head in his lap, letting her curl up on the hard, cold hospital floor. “It’ll be dawn in an hour or two. Get some rest. You’ll need it when your daughter gets up.”

She wasn’t aware of anything more.