“We’ll talk later.”
Willis didn’t ask questions, which was part of the reason he was paid so well. Willis knew when to push. He also knew when to back off.
Laura hunched and hugged herself, snuggling into her robe. It might be spring but up here the mornings still got mighty chilly.
“Must have been something urgent to be calling at this time?” she asked.
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
But a line had formed between her brows and her gaze had gone from his face to his chest and lower. She shook her head slowly and Bishop braced himself. Something had clicked. Perhaps the fact she hadn’t seen him on this porch in over a year. Or something he’d said, or his tone, had set off a memory. If it all came flooding back, he could be gone in two minutes. He’d simply find his shoes and be on his way. He had no desire to hang around and argue, which seemed to be all he and Laura had done those last few months.
Her head slanted to one side. “Why are you wearing yesterday’s shirt?” Her frown eased into a reproving grin. “Anyone would think you don’t have a change of clothes.”
What could he say? He didn’t live here anymore. He wouldn’t find any clothes in what had once been his wardrobe. If he’d gotten to the shops in time and had bought a couple of shirts …
But this kind of thing was bound to happen. He wouldn’t try to explain. He’d simply show her his empty wardrobe and let her memory take it from there.
So they walked back inside the house, down the hall, back into the bedroom, and while she pulled up the sheets to make the bed, he stood before his former wardrobe doors. Holding himself firm, he eased out a long breath.
Do it. Just do it.
His fingers curled around the knob. And pulled.
What he found inside left his legs feeling like rubber. His jaw dropped, and he stepped closer.
Clothes hung from the rails. But not just anyone’s clothes. His clothes. Suits and shirts, trousers and jeans. He held his brow. This didn’t make sense. Yes, he’d left everything behind. He’d had clothes enough back at the Darling Harbor apartment. He didn’t need anything here. Didn’t need anything to remind him.
But he’d assumed that once he’d gone Laura would have bundled up his clothes and shipped them off to charity. Or burned them. Why hadn’t she gotten rid of all this like she’d gotten rid of him?
“Need some help?”
Her voice, coming from directly behind, found a way through the fog. A moment later, her palms were sculpting over his shoulders and arms. As the contact lit fires all through his body, instinctively he leaned back into her touch. She pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades and as her grip hardened on his upper arms, he closed his eyes and tried to stay lucid.
“Of course, we don’t have to wear anything at all,” she purred, and her hands filed down his arms, arrowing over his hips, finally finding and wrapping around the weight confined beneath his trousers.
A whirlwind of darkest desire spiraled through him. His hand covered hers and pressed in as his mind went deliciously blank but for the need to have her again. To drown in her kisses and fill her with his—
Coming to with a jolt, Bishop pried her hand away. Clamping down on the frenzied heat racing through his veins, he turned to her and forced his mouth to curve into a breezy smile.
“You’re certainly persuasive.”
“And you are dying to say yes.” Her gaze heavy with want, she reached up on tiptoe and tugged his bottom lip with her teeth.
A fireball shot to the top of his inner thighs and ignited a very short fuse. When she drew a line around his unshaven jaw and her mouth opened over his, Bishop shuddered and leaned into her kiss. With lava flooding his veins, every cell in his body cried out for more. Then her mouth opened wider, inviting him in deeper. Wanting to possess her, his hands found her shoulders and drew them in.
She tasted the same. Felt the same. And now he knew he was the same hungry man who craved to be with his wife.
She hummed in her throat and the vibration released bright-tipped sparks in his belly that unleashed an inferno a few inches below that. Instinctively, one hand left her shoulder and searched out her breast. As his touch grazed the soft, pert mound, his tongue dipped deeper, running over hers, and any sense of right or wrong vanished beneath the blistering force of mutual need.
Her hands were fanning beneath his shirt, but when he rolled her nipple between finger and thumb, she found his other hand and set it low on her belly. His fingers speared down. She wore no panties. He felt her damp and ready beneath the satin of her negligee. Pushed to his limits, he groaned against her lips.
“This always felt so right.”
“Make love to me, Bishop,” she murmured back.
“You don’t know how much I want to.”
“Oh, but I do.”
He felt her grin against his lips as her palm slid down his side and the pressure built to flashpoint.
He was ready to forget that this wasn’t real … was ready to drop her back onto the bed and enjoy what she offered in a very real way. And yet …
Still holding her, he sucked down a breath and, struggling, got his thoughts together.
“I … think we should stop.”
Her tongue ran along his bottom lip. “Don’t think.”
Good God, but someone had to.
Gritting his teeth, he pried her a little away. “The doctor said—”
“I don’t care what the doctor said.”
“Listen to me,” he growled. “We aren’t doing this.”
Her head came back and she probed his eyes for a long searching moment. “Is it because you think I’ll ask you not to use protection? That I want us to make a baby now?”
Well, that was as good an excuse as any. Rolling back his shoulders, he lifted his chin. “Let’s cool down, have a shower—”
Her eyes flashed. “Fabulous idea!”
“—alone. We’ll have something to eat. You must be hungry. And later …” Later? He promised, “We’ll discuss it.”
And they would. If any conversation could bring her around—bring them both around—it’d be one highlighting the risks associated with her falling pregnant.
Four
Thirty minutes later, Laura’s high-pitched cry, coming from the bedroom, sent the hairs on Bishop’s scalp standing on end and his feet hurling him out of his chair. His heart belting against his ribs, he tore through the open glass sliders, slammed through the main sitting room and bolted down the hall.
What
