Chapter Eight
After their good-byes to her family, Grant walked Liz back to her house. Of course it would’ve been hard for her to refuse his offer, since they lived next door to each other. Something was different between them tonight, something that left him as thrown off his guard as he believed she was.
The same thing that had made her tremble in his arms on the dance floor. That had taken away his sensible speech and his breath and made him stumble over his words as if he were an adolescent again. That made him want to pull her back into his arms and drag his lips over hers, stamp her indelibly as his.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. About kissing her and touching her and wanting her. Their fake date had only served to stir the currents of sexual chemistry between them until they’d reached the boiling point, and God help him, he was already too far gone, unsure if he could reel himself back in.
It was a perfect June evening, the scent of loamy earth and growing things heavy in the air. As they passed the quaint old Victorian homes, he pictured what it would be like to sit and talk on a big wraparound porch for hours, sipping tea and staring up at the Milky Way as the crickets rioted in the background. To hold someone you loved in your arms. To belong somewhere where you never did before. Dreams he hadn’t ever dared to dream for himself.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Liz said, stopping on her front porch.
He stood on the stairs leading to the porch, his hands fisted tightly in his pockets. Mostly so he wasn’t tempted to reach out and drag her into his arms on impulse. “I’ve got an early flight to DC tomorrow morning to meet with my boss.”
“Oh. I see,” she said. She might’ve sounded a bit disappointed, and that caused hope to stir within him. “You’re expecting your get out of jail free card?”
“I’m going to meet with the network’s lawyers about the Kenya situation. They’re trying to clear me so I’m allowed back in the country. Hopefully that will all be taken care of by the time I’m done with the documentary.”
“I see. What time do you have to leave for the airport?” Liz asked.
“The network’s sending a car around three a.m. I should be back Friday.” At least he hoped that was the case. There was always the possibility his boss would send him directly back overseas to cover some breaking story. But he hoped he’d be allowed to stay and finish his project.
He hoped he’d be able to stay for her. The thought popped into his head. It was true. They had unfinished business. Maybe it was time he faced it.
“Bet you’ll be glad to get back to civilization, huh?” Her face was lit by the pale wash of the streetlight that shone into her front yard
“Right, right.” He’d rather not go at all. Maybe it was better that he had to, because staying would tempt him to go against all his better judgment. He didn’t know if it was touching her tonight, rubbing her neck and her back, doing those simple things that lovers did, or if it was the warm summer evening or the way she looked or just his hormones in overdrive, but he felt himself losing ground.
He realized he’d been staring down at the steps, where bright-red flowers grew in pots. “Something new?” he asked.
“My mother said geraniums were hard to kill,” she said with a shrug. “So I thought, why not? I have to start somewhere, right?”
“The key ingredient is water,” he said. “Don’t forget.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He smiled. Drank her in with his gaze like she was a fine bottle of wine. Her skin, less pale now that she’d gotten some sun. Her wide brown eyes. Her dark arched brows and those big gold hoops she loved so much. That little mole at the side of her mouth that he suddenly ached to kiss.
His body was on fire for her. A confusing mix of lust, desperate need, and pain swirled everywhere. For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do with a woman who brought out so many disparate feelings.
“You’ve got a great family,” he said, holding his distance. “They love you a lot. They’d understand if you told them everything.”
“I’m not exactly sure they would, but I intend to tell them the truth. I didn’t think now was the time to talk about me when my sisters are so excited about their own baby news.”
“I understand how that would be hard for you.”
For a heartbeat, their gazes met. Hers was full of wariness. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she whispered.
He stepped forward and let his hands rest on her shoulders. “I don’t feel sorry for you. But I hate to see you go through this all alone.” Because I’m leaving. Not that he’d been a great support, but simply because he knew the stakes. Besides Brett, he was the only one who did. He suddenly felt very protective of her.
“I’m taking the serum pregnancy test this week. Probably on Friday. It’s the earliest I can find out if I’m pregnant or not.”
“Oh. Wow. Will you…will you let me know?”
“Sure. I’ll text you.”
He wished he could be with her when she found out, because what if she got an answer she didn’t want to hear? She’d said there was up to a 20 percent chance of getting pregnant on the first try in the best case scenario. But what if it didn’t work? “Maybe you can ask one of your sisters to go with you while you wait for the test?”
She laughed. “You worry more than my parents.”
“This is a big deal. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I try to put it in perspective. I’m blessed to have this opportunity to try and get pregnant. I have so many patients dealing with things a lot more stressful. This is nothing compared to those.”
It wasn’t nothing. She acted so independent, so tough. He wanted to pull her close and hold her and tell her she didn’t have to carry all those burdens by herself.
Regret burned through him. She deserved someone who was going to be there for her, not just tomorrow, but in the days and months and years afterward. Someone who wouldn’t leave her waiting at a train station all night because he was too fucking afraid to show up.
“Who takes care of you?”
“I’m a big girl, Grant. I take care of myself.” But she turned away, walking over to her porch railing and looking out over the tiny front yard.
“Sounds like you’ve practiced saying that a few times.” He came up behind her, stifling the urge to hold her, to tug her back so she’d lean against him.
“When you depend on yourself, you have no expectations of anyone else. You don’t get disappointed.”
He ran his hands up and down her arms, and she didn’t resist. Her skin was soft as the summer night, and he knew just how she’d feel next to him, over him, underneath him. Finally, he broke the silence. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”
She whirled around. Anger flared in her eyes, and the naked honesty there threw him.
“No, Grant. You don’t get to apologize and leave. Just like last time, except this time you say you’re sorry first.”
Her words slapped him in the face. He grasped her by the shoulders. “I don’t know how to be the man you need. I’ve never…I’ve never been constant and steady and in one place.”
“So instead you go and go and go…so you can say you don’t have time to love anyone.”
“Let’s not throw stones, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ve built so many walls around yourself you can’t even let your own family in to tell them what you’re going through.”
“At least I’m not full of excuses.”
“Your silence says it so much better, doesn’t it? You’ll wait until you’re pregnant to tell your family so no one will ever think that you’re hurting. Because you’re not allowed to hurt, are you? You’ve got to be strong and successful and above problems, unlike everyone else.”
She pushed against his chest. Her eyes misted up and he saw his words had stung. Oh, hell. He could never do the right thing with her. “Move out of my way,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m going inside.”
So this was how it was going to end, with them no closer to the truth than before. His own cowardice shamed him, twisted a knife in his gut. Suddenly, a perverse thought overcame him. He stepped directly back in front of her. “No,” he said.
Her eyes flew open wide. “What did you say?”
He folded his arms. “You heard me. I’m not moving.”
“Grant, for God’s sake—move!” She poked him a little stronger in the chest but she could’ve been a flea attacking an elephant. No threat on that account.
He grabbed her wrists. Stared into her lovely eyes that reminded him of strong, rich coffee. Even now, at the height of anger, her simple, understated beauty floored him. “I came here to see you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we parted last year. I’d hoped coming here would prove that I was merely obsessing over you, that I didn’t somehow believe with any degree of sanity that you were different from any other woman I’ve known.” He sounded out of breath, desperate. Crazed. Her lush mouth dropped open in shock, but still he continued.
“Unfortunately, spending time with you has only proven to me that I cannot flush you out of my system. I want you, Elizabeth. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”
Oh hell. In one fluid motion, he cupped his hand around her neck and dragged her to him. Sealed his lips over her sweet full ones and kissed her like they had seconds left to live. Armageddon kisses, deep and wet, his tongue tangling with hers over and over until the sweet little murmurs that burst from her throat inflamed him with desire.
He kissed her to tell her he understood her pain. Saw exactly how lonely she must be, when everyone else seemed so happy. But mostly he kissed her because he was a selfish bastard who could not keep his hands off.
Lust drove him onward. He angled her jaw with his hands and sealed his mouth over hers, urgent and desperate. God, she tasted good, sweet and untainted and honest, and he could not get enough. Their tongues slid together, sliding, playing, mimicking over and over what his body wanted to do to hers.
He backed her up against her door. Kissed the sweet spot between her neck and shoulder, nipped at the delicate flesh until she arched against him, her soft breasts pressing into him. Her scent filled him, sweet and flowery, intoxicating. His hands roamed over her, touching her breasts, her hips, cupping and squeezing her ass and grinding his hips against hers until she whimpered softly.
“Y-you came here to see me?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Well,” she said, panting. “It took you long enough.”
“I don’t want to hurt you again. But God help me, I can’t stay away.”
“I want you, too,” she said, her voice cracking.
Relief burst through him at her words, and he kissed her again. She clung to him, wrapped herself around him, ran her hands frantically up and down his back. He feared they were going to make love right on the porch, in plain sight of Mrs. Patterson across the street.
As if in response, her porch light flicked on and her dog barked as she let him out into the yard for his last nighttime prowl.
“Come in,” Liz said, dragging her lips away from his. She dug in her purse for the key, fumbling, until she found it.
“Let me,” he said, taking the key from her and fitting it in the door, sneaking one more quick kiss.
The door opened. They stood in the shadows in the little entryway between her kitchen and living room. Moonlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the room in whitish-blue light.
Gizmo uncurled himself from his bed next to the La-Z-Boy, his tags clinking as he shook himself awake and stumbled out into the kitchen.
Liz petted her dog, who basked unashamedly in the pleasure of her touch. Lucky bastard, to have the assurance of all that every bloody day of his life.
“Does he need to go out?” Grant asked. “I can—”
“He’ll be fine for a little while,” she said as she reached up and tugged him closer by the shirt. “No thinking, no more talking,” She planted her soft lips on his, slid her tongue against his, and started undoing his buttons.
He had to have her. Nothing else mattered, not the fact that he’d soon be gone, or the fact that she might be carrying his child. Nothing short of the house being on damn fire could stop him from worshiping every inch of her amazing body.
He unzipped her pretty sundress until it fell away, the sweet curves of her breasts hidden behind the lacy cups of her bra. He ran his hands along them until her nipples tightened through the lace and she let out a soft sigh that drove him wild.
Her hands roved under his shirt, over the hills and valleys of his chest. With great difficulty, he struggled out of his shirt and tossed it to the floor. It felt so damn good to have her touch him, feel her hands all over him.
She stood there, the creamy skin of her cleavage spilling over the lace of her bra, her hair wild around her face, the moonlight streaming in through the old windows, lighting her in otherworldly light. She stepped out of her dress and tossed it on top of his shirt.
“Dear God, you’re gorgeous,” he said, unable to stop staring at her.
“Grant, I’m dying here. It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
“It—it’s different this time.” And he didn’t want to screw it up.
He took a step forward and in one smooth motion, scooped her up, over his shoulder.
“Oh my God, what are you doing?” she said, her voice a little muffled from hanging upside down. She beat on his back with her fists.
“Taking you to bed,” he said. “Like I should have from day one.”
Just as he took a step toward the bedroom, her beeper went off in vibrate mode against the wooden floor, buzzing loudly from somewhere among their clothes and shoes.
“Just wanted you to know,” he said, “I’ve every intention of ignoring that.”
“I—I can’t. On call.”
“But you said you’re off all weekend.”
“I’m covering tonight for Paula.”
Cursing, he reluctantly set her down. She riffled through the clothes looking for the phone while he admired her gorgeous ass covered only by a slip of lacy panty. He ground his teeth to stop himself from sliding his hands underneath the bra and gathering her soft, lush breasts in his hands.
“How many centimeters is she?” Liz said into the phone, and his stomach fell. Someone was in labor. But labor took a long time, didn’t it? Maybe it was early, and there would still be plenty of time…
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said. “Call anesthesia for the epidural.”
Oh hell. Grant struggled to bring his breathing back to normal, not to mention his uncomfortably hard dick.
“I have to go,” she said as she disconnected the call. “I probably won’t be back before three.”
He blew out a breath, raked his hands through his already mussed hair. Then, because he didn’t want her to think he was angry, tossed her a grin.
“Duty calls,” he said. He understood that. How many times had he left for an assignment on a few minutes’ notice?
“I’m sorry,” she said.
In response, he pulled her into his arms. She rested her cheek against his chest and wrapped her arms around him. For a long moment, they stood like that, the only noise the rustling of the dog in his bed.
“Maybe this is fate telling us to come to our senses,” she said after a while, trying to pull back.
He held her close. “No,” he said. All he could think was how right this felt, having her here, in his arms. How he’d missed holding her. And how this time he was not going to let her get away.
…
In Washington, Grant had been awaiting the summons to meet with his network boss, Pierce Leonard, all week. The man had kept him on the edge of his seat waiting.
He hoped he was going to hear good news about the end of his exile, that the network had worked it out with the Kenyan government and he’d be allowed back in the country to continue reporting.
He’d tried numerous times to get the answer out of Pierce about when he was to be sent back overseas, but Pierce would only say he was working on things and would have a definitive answer on Friday. So Grant endured endless meetings, strategy sessions, and debriefings and met with the network’s international lawyers about the Kenya situation.
Pierce Leonard was a powerful man. He could move mountains, Grant had no doubt. Plus, he understood Grant’s burning desire to win a Pulitzer, because he wanted to win one just as much, if not more.
He’d been Grant’s father’s boss, too. Arthur Wilbanks had been Pierce’s great protégé and like a son to him. Arthur’s death in the line of duty had been a shock to the network and to Pierce. Pierce had understood Grant’s desire to follow in his father’s footsteps, understood his desire to win the elusive prize that his father never did. In fact, he’d vowed to do anything in his power to help Grant make that happen. Hence, Pierce usually pulled every string to get Grant into places where the news was happening, no matter how dangerous those places were.
Funny, though, as Grant walked down the treelined DC streets, he didn’t feel the familiar anticipation in his blood. Didn’t feel his usual craving for the action, the danger. Rather, he kept thinking of the little neighborhood he’d just left, the projects he’d started at Dottie’s house, and, above all, the woman who dominated all his thoughts from the moment he’d arrived there just a few weeks ago.
He’d vowed never to let anything distract his quest to bring his father the honor he deserved. To capture the elusive prize, as if that would somehow prove to himself that he was worthy of being his father’s son. He understood only too well the sacrifices he’d had to make to do his job. It required all his focus and dedication, and that meant maintaining relationships with women was damn near impossible.
Not only had he accepted that, but before now it had been a relief. After his parents had died, he’d come to understand that love hurt more than anything. In his book, that had never been worth the risk.
Until now.
When Grant finally reached his boss’s elegant wood-paneled office on Connecticut Avenue, the sense of foreboding in his stomach had grown from raisin- to cantaloupe-sized. Pierce had probably made all the arrangements to send him back to Kenya. He’d promised Grant he would expedite the opportunity as fast as he could, as the situation there had the makings of a huge story: government instability, violence, drought, and the threatened closure of an enormous refugee camp the size of a city.
Then what was his problem?
He took out his phone. No texts from Liz, and today was the day. It was already three o’clock. Why wasn’t she texting him?
“It’s about time you got here, Wilbanks,” the older man said through his open door as soon as Grant reached his outer office and said hello to his longtime secretary, a gray-haired woman named Louise, who still made the mistake of calling him by his father’s name.
As Grant reached Pierce’s inner sanctum, he was reminded yet again why he was secretly called The Lion. From his hard, boxy face and thick, gray hair he wore combed back from a strong widow’s peak, to his sturdy, athletic build, he was physically intimidating as well as one of the most powerful men in the business.
He’d always pushed Grant hard. Somehow, Grant never felt Pierce liked him quite as much as he’d liked his father. The only thing he appreciated was Grant’s fearlessness. He smelled Pulitzer in that fearlessness.
Grant approached Pierce’s intricately carved antique desk with ivory handles that Grant’s father had brought back from Africa. Pierce had wanted Grant to bring him elephant tusks and rhino horns, too, but he’d refused. Now Pierce sat behind the gaudy desk, vigorously typing on his computer.
“Nice to see you, too,” Grant said. The man kept typing, the only sign of acknowledgement one thick, raised brow.
“Tell me how your exile’s coming,” Pierce said, drawing a cigar out of his drawer and finally looking up. “Want a Cuban?”
“I thought those were illegal.”
“Not anymore.”
“Scotch?”
“It’s ten thirty in the morning.”
“And your point is?”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” Grant said, not bothering to sit. “The assignment’s coming along.” Not as well as he would’ve liked, but he’d been under deadline pressure before. He would pull this off, as he always did. He couldn’t help glancing yet again at his phone. Surely Liz would’ve found out by now. Why wasn’t she texting him?
“Hope you’re finding lots of fodder for a story,” Pierce said. “Economic depression, jobs migrating overseas, mom-and-pop businesses going under, Walmartization. Pay your penance so I can get you back in the hot zone as soon as possible.”
“Right, right.” He tried not to sound less than enthused.
“By the way, I have good news for you.”
Oh, here it came. His summons back to action, back to his old life. He braced himself. The dull burn in his belly grew to three-alarm-chili size.
“The Kenyan government is still angry about your little ‘incident.’ And because of that, their next-door neighbor Somalia is, too. But I have a friend who’s agreed to accompany you.” He passed over a document containing a passport-size photo. “His name is Hector. He’ll protect you.”
“A mercenary? You’ve hired a mercenary to get me into Somalia? But I know Kenya like the back of my hand. We couldn’t resolve the dispute? For God’s sake, Pierce, all I did was get a kid to a doctor.”
“You transported a family illegally across the border and the government doesn’t forget stuff like that. Trust me, there’s better stuff going on in Somalia.”
That’s for sure. It was a known haven for terrorist groups. Journalists weren’t treated well there. In fact, a group had been “detained indefinitely” just last month. In other words, put in prison. Oh, and there was a civil war raging. The three-alarm warning bumped up to four.
“The perfect storm is brewing, and our network plans to get the story before anyone else. That’s why we need you to do what you do best. Your famous face in front of the cameras, telling the world about humanitarian crisis, political upheaval, and impending drought.”
Grant was always up for a challenge. Danger usually didn’t faze him, if the risks were taken for good reason. He’d reported on earthquakes, mudslides, tsunamis. But the work he’d done in Kenya—bringing awareness to government corruption and the plight of the people—that’s what he needed to continue. He didn’t want to go into the middle of a damn bloodbath for thrills. To beat out the other networks for a story.
“Don’t worry,” Pierce said, studying his face. “That’s why we have Hector. Just stay away from the border. If the Kenyans find you, they won’t be happy.”
“When do I leave?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for the story—and we’ll be the first ones to get it, because so many networks are refusing to send their people in there. Once the crisis intensifies, we’re sending you. Write a hell of a story, take some great photos. For now, go back to Podunkville, finish your documentary, and be ready to run at a moment’s notice. That’s it. You can go.”
“It sounds like you’re posing for a story.” For a prize.
“You know as well as I do that you have to play the game to get anywhere in life. We’ve come so far and we’re this close.” He held up his fingers to demonstrate. “All we have to do is play along a little more. This is the chance of a lifetime. Your father would jump at this chance.”
Grant stared into Pierce’s cool, level blue eyes. His heart wasn’t leaping for joy. Why did he get the feeling Pierce would stop at nothing to get a story? Not a story, the story?
“How long do I have—to finish up what I’m doing?” Grant asked.
“I’d guess a month. Just be ready.”
As he left the office, he checked his phone again. No text from Liz. God, at this point he’d take a nasty one.
One month. A reprieve. Better than he’d expected. He brought up Liz’s number to call her. As if on cue, his phone buzzed with a text. One final glance down confirmed the worst: I’m not pregnant.