Christine Bell - A Valentine from Harlequin: Six Degrees of Romance

She blinked slowly. “You’re saying Carl wants me dead? Me, his precious, pregnant, honorary niece?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I left the way I did, without telling you a thing about any of this, because it was the only way to keep you safe, short of killing the bastard in cold blood. An option I might have taken by now, if I could get close enough to the son of a bitch. And just so you know, the blonde at the party was one of Carl’s associates. I was hoping to get to him through her.”

“So the blonde meant nothing to you, and you only broke my heart to save my life,” she whispered. “Doesn’t that sound noble?”

“Yeah, it does. Which is why I feel compelled to ask why you’re still pointing that gun at me.”

“Because I don’t believe a word of it. Now stop the car.”

“I’ll stop the car when we get where we’re going. If you still want to shoot me, you can do it there, okay?”

She blinked, then suddenly closed her eyes and clenched her jaw.

“Charlotte?” The car swerved as he spent too much time looking at her and not enough looking at the road. “Charlotte, what is it?”

“Nothing!” She barked the word, keeping the gun on him, though her hand shook badly.

Finally, she opened her eyes again, lowered the gun to her lap, but kept it clasped tightly in her hands. “How much farther?”

“Half an hour,” he said. “It’ll be safe there. I promise. I know this has all been a terrible shock to you, Charlotte. I know you don’t want to believe anything bad about your father, and I don’t blame you. If you give me time, I can show you proof that everything I’ve said is true.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Of course it’s possible. We have all kinds of evidence.”

“Really? How do you document that you weren’t just using me all along, Michael? What physical evidence do you have that will convince me that every time we made love, you meant one thing you whispered to me? That you ever cared about me in the least? You told me you’d love me until you died, Michael.” She searched his face with eyes so probing they felt like blades. “You’re still alive.”

He drove in silence for a while, saying nothing at all. He didn’t know what he could say that would sound any more genuine to her. She was right; he had used her. Lied to her. Made promises he knew he would probably never be able to keep.

But he’d wanted to keep them.

She leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes, and after a few more miles slipped by, he thought she might have fallen asleep. It was good for her to rest. She’d been through so much tonight, God, so much in the past year. Losing him, her father, and then…

He glanced down at her belly. She was pregnant, carrying his child. He didn’t think she had it in her to lie about something like that. His baby. Due any time now, by the looks of things. The thought of his child being born to a woman who hated him was not a pleasant one.

And yet, unless he could fix things, put Carl Magenta away for good, it wouldn’t matter who bore the child. It wouldn’t be safe. None of them would be safe, ever.

He turned at last onto the spiraling dirt road that lead up the small mountain to the cabin that was his only haven. It was where he hid out in between cases. It was where he retreated when he was being hunted like a dog and needed a few days off. It was the only place he felt truly safe, and it was a place he had never shared with another living soul.

And it was miles and miles from civilization. No phone. No electricity. A hand pump for water, a cold spring for refrigeration, a fireplace for heat, and an outhouse for a bathroom. It was his sanctuary.

He hadn’t been back up here in six months. It was where he’d come to lick his wounds after leaving Charlotte. Where he had come to try to forget her.

It hadn’t worked.

He shut the car off and glanced at her. She was sleeping so soundly he would have felt mean to wake her, still clutching the damn gun. As if she might really use it on him. He knew better. He got out quietly, and left her there to rest. He unlocked the cabin and went inside. His flashlight was hanging from a hook just inside the door, as always, and he used it to find his way around until he got a few lanterns burning.

He was kneeling in front of the fireplace, touching a match to the kindling there, when he heard her footsteps crossing the porch. The door creaked open, and he rose, and turned to see her standing there.

“We’ll be safe here,” he said.

“Speak for yourself, Michael. I think I’m in labor.” 

“Labor?” Michael had faced down gangs of armed criminals and felt less fear than what jolted through him at that single word. “Are you sure?”

Charlotte walked forward, one hand at the small of her back, the other carrying the gun he had left in the car with her. “No. I’m not at all sure. I’ve had three…pains, or contractions, or something in the past —” she glanced at her watch “— hour and a half. It might be nothing.”

“Or it might be labor.”

She nodded, lowering herself onto the sofa near the crackling fire. Its light painted her face and her hair, and though she was puffy and red-eyed from crying, she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. More, maybe. Pregnancy agreed with her. He saw her tuck the gun behind the cushion, and decided to let her keep it if it made her feel more secure.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Depends. How far to the nearest hospital?”

“An hour.”

She nodded. “And how risky do you think it is for us to go back out tonight?”

He shook his head slowly. “No way to tell for sure. They wouldn’t be looking at hospitals, at any rate. It’s not like they know you’re this close.”

“Actually,” she said, making a sheepish face, “they might. I was having the first pain when that guy with the gun came up to me. The ones in the car could have seen it.”

He went to the kitchen, pumped water from the hand pump, letting most of it run right down the drain, until it ran sparkling clear. Then he rinsed a small teapot, filled it, and brought it to the fireplace. He hung it on a hinged hook, then pushed the hook into the hearth so the pot hung over the flames.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You just tell me if you feel you need to go to the hospital or not. If you have to go, I’ll make sure it’s safe. That’s my job.”

She nodded. “I’d like to rest awhile, give it some time. It could be false labor. I’ve had it once already.”

“Okay.” He nodded, watching her.

“I’m not expecting anything from you, you know. I mean, you always used protection. This baby isn’t your fault. I won’t hold you responsible.”

He lowered his head. “Do you really think that’s what I want? To be let off the hook?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, Charlotte.” He sighed. “Hell, I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to make you believe that I—” He broke off there. The fire popped and hissed in the darkness. He leaned over her, slid his arms around her, and gathered her close to him. Then he kissed her, the way he’d been dreaming of kissing her every single day since he’d broken her heart.

She let him. She even kissed him back.

When he lifted his head again, her eyes were sparkling. And she whispered, “Was that real, Michael, or just one more part of the beautiful lie you made me believe all those months ago?”

He stared into her eyes, saw her tears, felt his own throat burn and tighten. “I’m going outside,” he said at length. “I need to turn on the gas to the kitchen stove, and split up some more firewood. I’ll be within earshot, okay?”

“All right.”

* * *

Charlotte let him go, let the door close behind him, and she tried to erase the feelings his kiss had stirred to life inside her. God, she wanted to believe him. She wanted it so much.

She had thought she needed to rest, but now she felt restless, agitated, nervous. Pent up energy sizzled inside her, and she got up off the sofa, picked up a lantern, and wandered the small cabin, taking in every part of it. But even while she explored, her mind was on Michael. What if she let him convince her that he still harbored feelings for her? What if she just gave over to the maddening temptation to believe his lies? What was the worst that could happen?

Maybe he was still working the case, her mind warned. Maybe he was going to try to prove that she had been involved in her father’s crimes as well. What would happen to her baby if he managed to make a case against her?

Would he do such a thing? Once she would have said absolutely not. But once she had thought she knew him. Now, she wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

He was alive. God, that was one thing she hadn’t even fully processed yet. He was alive. She sank down onto softness, and lowered her head and wept with joy that the man she had loved and lost was alive. She had dreamed of this very thing, night after long lonely night. Even if he had lied to her, used her, betrayed her, she still couldn’t help but cherish the fact that he was alive.

When her tears stopped, she lifted her head and looked around the room into which she had wandered. A bedroom with a soft four-poster double bed, made of pine logs, and an old-fashioned quilt. There was a window in one side, and beside the bed, a bedside stand with a framed photograph, glinting in the lamplight, and a spiral notebook in front of it.

Blinking, she set the lamp down near the photo and saw that it was a picture of her. With trembling hands, she reached for the notebook and flipped it open. A pen marked the place where the last person to write in it had left off, and she recognized Michael’s scrawl across the page.

“It’s been two months since I left her, and I can’t get her out of my mind. She loved me. I know she did. It must be killing her to think I’m dead. God knows it would kill me if I thought she was. But that’s just it—she will be if I go back. If I tell her any of this, it could get her killed. I have to nail Magenta. And then I can go back for her. I can tell her the truth and hope to God she can forgive me for the hell I’ve put her through. If she won’t—no. I can’t think about that. I’ll fix this; I swear to God I will. I’ll find some way to make it right again. And I’ll spend every minute in hell until then. I love her. I ache for her. It hurts to breathe knowing I can’t be with her. It hurts to breathe.”

Hearing his footsteps crossing the threshold, she turned toward him, tears spilling over, ready to tell him that it was okay again. That she believed him. That she loved him.

But it wasn’t Michael standing in the doorway.

“What’s the matter, baby?” he asked. “Haven’t you got a warm welcome for your Uncle Carl?” 

“Carl…how did you find me here?”

He smiled. “I’ve been having you followed ever since you left Chicago, honey. I knew that cop of yours would come to you sooner or later. He was nuts about you. Anyone could see it.”

She sniffed, lifted her head. “So you used me to get to him?”

“More or less. We were having trouble keeping track of him. He’s a slippery one. Watching you was much easier.”

A painful contraction gripped her, and she clenched her teeth, doubling over, and holding her belly. “Oh, God…”

“It’s all right, hon. It won’t hurt much longer,” Carl said.

Panting, sobbing, she lifted her head when the pain eased. “I thought you loved me, Uncle Carl.”

“I am a businessman,” he said, as if it were a full-blown explanation.

“Can I at least sit down? By the fire? I’m chilled to the bone.”

He grunted, but stepped out of the doorway, keeping his gun on her as she passed. He followed her into the living room. Charlotte sat on the sofa, pulling the blanket from the back of it over her shoulders, leaning back, putting her legs up. She dug beneath the cushion with one hand, her motions covered by the blanket, searching for the gun she’d tucked there earlier.

“That’s right, get comfy. It’ll make this easier.”

“You’re really going to shoot me?” she asked, her voice trembling.

The door opened, and Michael stepped in with an armload of firewood, which he dropped to the floor as soon as he saw what was happening. His eyes met Charlotte’s, then shot to Carl.