She shook her head and stared up at the ceiling. Old, smoke-stained beams divided the cream-colored plaster. “That week we were together, you told me that you and your twin once set fire to your aunt’s kitchen when you were trying to make French toast.”
He frowned to himself. He didn’t remember telling her that, and knowing that he obviously had told her confused the hell out of him. Colt didn’t usually share much of himself with women—hell, with anyone. He didn’t want the closeness and didn’t crave what women always seemed to enjoy—the baring of souls. Who the hell wanted a naked soul?
He gave her a tight smile. “Been a long time since the fire in the kitchen. I’m not bad with chicken or pasta, though I’m the first to admit I’m not a chef. But I make great phone calls for takeout.”
She laughed a little, then winced, and Colt felt a twinge in response. But when she spoke, all sympathy for her drained away.
“Look, Colt, I know we have to talk but I’m just too tired to deal with you tonight.” She sighed a little. “Why don’t you go home and we’ll talk in a day or two?”
“Go home?” He repeated it because he couldn’t believe she would even suggest it. He was here now and he wasn’t leaving. Not yet, anyway. “And who takes care of the twins while you sit here on the couch and chew at your lip?”
She stopped that instantly and fired a look at him. “I can manage. I always do.”
“No,” he corrected. “You always have in the past. Now that’s not an option.”
“You’re not in charge here, Colt.”
“Check again.” He walked closer to her and gave her a glare designed to intimidate. From what he could tell, it didn’t work. “Damn it, Penny, as mad as I am at you right now, I’d almost be willing to do just what you said and leave you here on your own just so you could see what a stupid decision that would be—”
“Bye then.”
“I said almost.” Sinking to his heels beside the couch, he met her eyes and said, “As much as you hate the idea, you need me. Damn it, I had to carry you into the house.”
“I could have walked.”
“What is bothering you the most?” he asked. “Needing help? Or needing me?”
“You’re wrong, Colt,” she said. “I don’t need you. Okay, maybe I need some help, but I don’t need you.”
“Tough.” He straightened up again, looming over her and forcing her to keep her head tipped back just to meet his eyes.
“’Cause you’ve got me. Until we get this whole mess straightened out, I’m not going anywhere.”
She huffed out an impatient breath. “Don’t you have a mountain to climb? A building to jump off of?”
For one split second, thoughts of Mount Etna and his Sicilian trip floated through his mind. Then he let it go. “There’s plenty of time for that. Right now, you’re the only adventure in my future.”
“Swell.” She leaned forward, braced one hand on the arm of the couch and hissed in a breath.
“What’re you doing?”
She flashed him a look of pure irritation. “I’m going to check on the twins. Then change clothes. Put on something a little less constricting than my jeans.”
Frankly, he preferred her in something more constricting. Like a suit of armor with a chastity belt. That would be good. But since that wasn’t going to happen, he took a breath and got a grip on his rampaging thoughts. What he had to do here was focus on his anger, he told himself firmly. Just remember that she’d lied to him. Hidden his children from him. That should take care of the raging need clawing at him.
“All right, let’s go.”
She paused and looked up at him. “I can do it myself.”
“Sure you can. You’re a superhero.” He drew her to her feet. “So do me a favor. Stop fighting this so hard. Pretend to need my help. Make me feel manly.”
She snorted a laugh. “Like you need help with that.”
“I think that was a compliment,” he said, following her toward the hall and presumably, her bedroom.
“You don’t need a compliment, either.”
“Harsh,” he said, amused in spite of the conversation. Walking behind her, his gaze dropped to the curve of her behind, defined by the worn, faded denim that clung to her body like a second skin. His body stirred again and he gritted his teeth.
She walked slowly and he could sense the pain that accompanied every movement. Didn’t seem to stop the sexual thoughts dancing through his mind. But a part of him admired her steely determination to keep going in spite of whatever pain was gnawing on her. She refused to surrender to it. Refused to give in to what had to be an urge to curl up somewhere and whimper.
Hell, she was stronger than him. When he broke his leg off the coast of Monaco in a car wreck during a race, Colt had bitched about the pain to anyone who would listen.
Even Connor had lost all patience with him by the time his leg had finally healed. But in his defense, Colt thought, he wasn’t the kind of guy to be content sitting in a damn chair and watching TV. He needed to be moving. Doing. Chasing risk and searching for that next shot of adrenaline. Life was too short to not try to wring every last drop of pleasure out of it.
Too damn short. Those three words rippled through his mind, dragging up the past from the shadows where he’d hidden it. Smothering a tight groan, Colt shoved that past back down again, refusing to acknowledge it. Refusing to even look at it.
The past was done. What counted was now.
Of course, the past was what had brought him here, to this house, today.
He watched her quietly approach a closed door off the hallway and carefully turn the knob, making no sound as she stepped inside. Colt hesitated, knowing that his children were in there. Emotions choked him as she turned to look at him, a quizzical look on her face.
Colt knew she was expecting him to follow her in and see the twins as they slept. But he wasn’t interested in seeing his kids for the first time while in front of an audience. He could wait a bit longer to see the babies who had brought him here. And he’d do it in his own time.
Hell, he realized with a start, he was actually nervous. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt the skitter of nerves racking his body. Colt had faced down volcanoes, killer surf, parachutes that didn’t open and broken skis on the steep face of a so-called un-skiable mountain. Yet the thought of meeting his children for the first time had him backing away from an open doorway as if it were a gateway to some black, dangerous pit.
So he waited while she fiddled with blankets and murmured soft sounds of comfort and love. He was finding it hard to breathe past a knot of sensation that he recognized as it grew inside him. This wasn’t nerves. This was a familiar, buzzing feeling settling into the pit of his stomach. He felt it every time he stood at the tip of a mountain, jumped off a cliff, rode forty-foot
