ravel hers arms over her waist and ease up her chin.
“No.”
He frowned. “What do you mean, no?”
Her arms unwound and, her expression imploring now, she reached for him.
Bishop froze. He should pull back. Crush any possibility of physical contact. He’d never been able to resist her whenever they’d touched.
But the last time they’d been anything close to intimate was well over a year ago. Perhaps that part of him—that primal, perpetually hungry part—was largely buried, along with the love they’d once known.
And so, to curb her suspicions—to keep her calm—he reached out, too, and allowed her delicate fingers to lace through his. Instantly his blood began to stir, and when her sparkling eyes looked into his, the awareness he saw there delivered a pleasure-pain jolt that pierced his ribs and stole his breath.
“Darling,” she murmured, “I’ve spent enough of my life in hospital rooms. I know you mean well, but I don’t need to be wrapped in cotton wool. I’m not a child. I have my own mind and I know I’m okay.”
Swallowing the dry brick lodged in his throat, Bishop eased his hand from hers, slid a foot back and, determined, injected a take-no-prisoners tone into his voice.
“I’m afraid you’re not in a position to object.”
Her eyes darkened and her lovely mouth turned slowly down. “I didn’t give up my rights when I married you—”
Stopping mid-sentence, her head went back and she flinched, as if someone had slapped her. Gradually her dazed expression faded and her face filled with all shades of remorse.
“Bishop … oh, God. I’m sorry.” Confusion swam in her glistening eyes. “I didn’t mean that. Not a word.”
Bishop let go of the breath he’d been holding. Apparently, a lack of memory couldn’t suppress her true, less than charitable feelings toward him. The person who’d challenged him a second ago had sounded like the Laura who’d glared at him when she’d told him to get out. The Laura who had mailed divorce papers a year to the day after that.
Laura was the one who’d ended their marriage. Of course he’d been upset. Hell, he’d been wounded to his core. But he’d never hated her. He didn’t hate her now. Nor did her love her. Which should make this situation easier than it was.
He nodded to the bed. “You need to lie down.”
“I need to talk to you.”
He held the cover back again. “Lie down.”
When she stood up, refusing, he fought the urge to force her to act in her own best interests and do as she was told. But that was out of the question, for more reasons than one. She was still a beautiful woman … more beautiful than he even remembered. As much as his brain knew they couldn’t live together, his physiology understood only that she was uniquely, tormentingly desirable.
How easy it would be even now to sweep her up, whisk her away and take shameful advantage of this situation. So easy … And more destructive than any act that had ever come before.
He loosened the knot at his throat. He’d try to reason with her one more time.
“You might think you’re all right, but—”
“I thought we were pregnant.”
The back of his knees caved in. Tipping sideways, Bishop propped his shoulder against the wall then, mind spinning, slid to sit on the bed. His ears were ringing. He felt as if a bomb had exploded inches from his face. Holding his brow, he waited for the stars to fade then finally found the wherewithal to question his ex-wife.
His voice was a croak.
“You thought … what?”
She folded down beside him and held his hand as she beseeched him with her eyes. “I was so happy. And worried. Worried about what you would say.”
His chest squeezed around a deep ache at the same time a horrible emptiness welled up inside of him. He felt ransacked. As if his insides had been ripped out and thrown on the floor. He couldn’t go through this again, not for anything. Not even that trusting, desperate look on Laura’s face.
He turned more toward her, willed the truth to show in his eyes. “Listen to me … you couldn’t be.”
“I know we use protection,” she countered, “but nothing’s a hundred percent.”
The breath Bishop held burned in his chest. This was worse than he’d thought. Was now the time to serve it to her cold? If he were in her shoes, he’d prefer it that way. He wouldn’t want to feel like a fool later on. Laura wouldn’t, either. They weren’t married anymore, much less pregnant.
Her green eyes glistened over at him and as her fingers kneaded his, unbidden brush fires began to heat and lick familiar pathways through his veins. Closing his eyes, he worked to kill the desire to take her in his arms and comfort her as a devoted husband would. So vivid, so hauntingly clear … it all might have happened yesterday. Their meeting, the wedding, the honeymoon, that fall from the northern footbridge, then the slow agonizing death of “them.”
“You are not pregnant.” His words were strained, controlled. Or, if you are, I’m not the father.
Her slim nostrils flared with quiet courage and she nodded. “The doctor told me. I was mistaken.” That hope-filled light came back up in her eyes. “But when I thought I had a baby growing inside of me, a tiny new life that we’d created, it made me realize …”
Her gaze grew strangely distant and yet somehow stronger. Then her shoulders rolled back and a fire lit her cheeks.
“My illness won’t make a difference to how I feel,” she told him. “I know there’s a risk, but I want a baby, Bishop. Our baby.” She held his hand tighter, angled her head and brought his fingers to her hot cheek. “We just need to have faith.”
Bishop closed his eyes as a scolding, prickling sensation crawled up his spine. They’d already had this conversation.
Going on two years ago. It had been the beginning of the end … a long, drawn out, bitter affair.
Laura’s broken voice cut through the haze.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”
Again Bishop tugged the Windsor knot at his throat and, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, lengthened his neck. Other than Laura’s light floral scent, the air in here seemed stale. He needed some space to try and work out how to diffuse this crazy situation before it got any worse.
Winding his hand out of hers, he found his feet and an impassive voice.
“Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?” Three fingers of scotch sat at the top of his wish list.
“There is one thing.” She stood, too, leaned closer and placed a warm palm on his chest. Unbidden flames ignited in his sternum as her slightly parted mouth came
