The doors opened. He swept her into his arms and carried her down the hall. In minutes—seconds—they were in his bedroom.
Conlan placed her gently on the bed. She lay there, feeling dazed with the kind of desire she’d forgotten about. “Take off your clothes,” she said in a husky voice, propping herself onto her elbows. He knelt at the foot of the bed, between her legs. “I can’t stay away from you,” he whispered. There was both wonder and disappointment in his voice.
She knew there would be a price for this moment.
Right now, she didn’t care.
TWENTY-FIVE
Naked, Angie stood at the window of her husband’s—ex-husband’s—apartment, staring out at Elliott Bay. Rain gave the world a blurry, distant countenance. Cars rumbled north and south on the viaduct. The windowpanes rattled ever so softly from all that traffic, made a sound like the chattering of teeth.
If this were a movie moment, she’d be smoking a cigarette and frowning while a montage of images from their failed marriage and newborn reconciliation flashed across the screen. The last image, as the movie returned to the present, would be Lauren’s face.
“You look worried,” Conlan said.
How well he knew her. Even when she stood in profile, with her back slanted toward him, he could tell. Probably it was in her stance. He always said she tilted her chin up and crossed her arms when she was upset.
She didn’t turn to face him. In the window, a ghostly image of her face, blurred by rain, gazed back at her. “I wouldn’t say worried. Thoughtful, maybe.”
The bed springs creaked. He must be sitting up. “Ange?”
Finally, she went to the bed and sat down beside him. He touched her arm, kissed the swell of her breast.
“What is it?”
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
He drew back. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“There’s this girl.”
“Oh?”
“She’s a good girl. Perfect grades. Hardworking.”
“And she’s relevant to us how?”
“I hired her in September. She works at the restaurant about twenty hours a week. You know, after school, weekends. Mama hates to admit it, but she’s the best waitress they’ve ever had.”
Conlan eyed her. “What’s her tragic flaw?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Angie Malone, I know you. Now what the hell are we really talking about here? And don’t tell me it’s a girl who is a great waitress.”
“Her mother abandoned her.”
“Abandoned?”
“Just walked out one day.”
His gaze was steady. “Tell me you found her a place to live—”
“Gave her a place.”
Conlan blew out a heavy breath. “She’s living with you at the cottage?”
“Yes.”
Disappointment stamped itself on his face—in his blue eyes, in his frowning mouth. “So you have a teenager living in the house.”
“It’s not like that. Not like before, anyway. I’m just helping her out until …”
“Until what?”
Angie sighed and covered her eyes with her hand. “Until the baby is born.”
“Oh, shit,” Conlan said, throwing the covers back, getting out of bed.
“Con—”
He stormed into the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind him.
Angie felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut. She’d known this would happen. But what choice did she have? With a sigh, she bent down for her clothes and got dressed. Then she sat on the bed, waiting.
He finally came out, wearing a pair of worn old Levi’s and a pale blue T-shirt. His anger seemed to have gone; without it, he looked tired. His shoulders were rounded in defeat. “You said you’d changed.”
“I have.”
“The old Angie brought a pregnant teenager home, too.” He looked at her. “That was the beginning of the end for us. I remember, even if you don’t.”
“Come on,” she said, feeling as if something inside of her were breaking. She moved toward him. “I’ve hardly forgotten. Just give me a chance.”
“I’ve given you a lifetime of chances, Ange.” He looked around the room, then at the bed. “This was a mistake. I should have known better.”
“It’s different this time. I swear.” She reached for him. He sidestepped out of her grasp.
“How? How is it different?”
“She’s a seventeen-year-old with no one to take care of her and nowhere to go. I’m helping her, but I’m not crazy anymore with what I don’t have. I’ve made peace with not having a baby. Please,” she whispered. “Give me a chance to show you that this is different. Come meet her.”
“Meet her? After what Sarah Dekker put us through—”
“This is not Sarah. The baby is Lauren’s. Just come and meet her. Please. For me.”
He looked down at her, long and hard, then he said, “I won’t live through it all again. The highs. The lows. The obsessions.”
“Conlan, believe me, I—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” He reached for his keys off the dresser and headed for the door.
“I’m sorry,” she said.