And she’d done so willingly. In the beginning, she’d begged him to let her help make a difference in this dirty, evil world.
And then she’d conceived a pure white child and he’d had to have her twice a day sometimes. When he looked at his woman pregnant with another of God’s pure souls, his cock wouldn’t be still.
He’d insisted on delivering Luke himself. Nothing would ever compare to the power and love he’d felt as he’d reached up and pulled out their perfect boy. He’d bawled like a baby.
In the months that had followed, he’d been there as his beautiful and loyal woman had suckled their infant, nourishing Luke through the miracle of her body. He’d held her breast while their son fed, and fed himself on the leftovers.
And he’d cried then, too, giving thanks for his changed life: from drinking tainted water to supping on God’s nectar.
The blinking cursor brought Bobby back to the air-conditioned room. The house was far too quiet. Too dark and foreboding. This was no longer the house of love he’d built.
And he was no longer just lonely, worried and angry. He was also uncomfortably turned on. Bobby knew what he had to do.
The same thing he’d been doing since Amanda’s defection two years before. He couldn’t bed another woman. He couldn’t be untrue to her memory.
God had made that clear to him when He’d told Bobby he’d have to give up Amanda. That He needed Bobby to make the supreme sacrifice.
He’d made Bobby promise that he’d never tarnish the memory of the love he and Amanda had shared by coupling with another woman.
And bedding a man would be a sin. God was very plain about that one.
With a couple of clicks, Bobby was in a private live chat, his Web camera aimed and ready.
And a minute later his screen revealed the naked body of an attractive woman named Jane, her glorious red hair and welcoming smile familiar as her voice filled the cold room with a warmth he was eager to enjoy.
He used the camera to show her that he was following her orders, while he watched her pleasure herself. The illusion they were creating washed over him, soothing him, giving him a few minutes of escape.
And hopefully enough of a release to be able to sleep.
6
Brian looked at his watch. Almost two in the morning. Once again, he’d had no concept of the time. “It’s late.”
“I know.”
“I told Cynthia not to worry if I didn’t make it home.”
Hannah sat up and wrapped her arms around her middle. She’d never changed out of the navy skirt and jacket she’d worn to court that day. Suits were pretty much all he saw her in anymore. “No, Brian, go,” she said. “I really appreciate you staying this long, but I’m a big girl who’s been living alone for years. Most of my life, really. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he said, but still didn’t intend to leave. “Just as I don’t doubt that if the situation were reversed, there’s no way you’d let me stay by myself.”
“I…”
“My folks and Cara’s were around after Cara died, but if they hadn’t been, you’d have stayed, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course, but…”
“And last year, with Carlos…” He’d avoided the name, mostly because he knew that her emotional reaction to Callie’s death was worsened by the grief she’d already been fighting. “I never would have left that night if Joan, Maggie and Donna hadn’t been here.”
Joan had been a sorority sister from ASU, as well, though a year behind Hannah and Cara. Maggie and Donna were fellow judges Hannah had known for several years, though he’d only met them at Carlos’s funeral.
“Cara and Carlos were people, Brian. Callie’s a cat. People lose pets every day. You expect to lose them. Their lives are much shorter than ours.”
“Hers shouldn’t have ended yet. And expecting to lose them doesn’t make it any easier when it happens, does it?” He threw her own words back at her.
He wasn’t leaving. No matter what she said. Ever since her drug-addicted mother had lost her to the foster system sometime in Hannah’s early youth, Hannah had been alone. He knew the story.
She’d taken care of herself. Survived.
But tonight, Hannah’s eyes were communicating something else.
Tonight, Hannah Montgomery was afraid to be alone.
“Can I ask you something?” Hannah had no idea how late it was. A long time after their two o’clock check, but there was no hint of dawn through the window blinds. She’d taken off her sandals and jacket.
“Of course.” Brian had stripped down, too. Sort of. He’d lost the tie. And taken off his shoes when he’d put his feet up on the couch. Though they sat close together, their legs weren’t touching.
She and Brian rarely touched—except for the occasional supportive hug or hand squeeze.
“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” It was a leading question. She’d known that before she asked.
Even so, his answer mattered.
“What kind of wrong? Like do I think you should take a sleeping pill and get some rest—that kind of wrong? Or do you look like you’re getting the flu kind of wrong?”
He knew what she meant. She could tell from the way he wasn’t meeting her eyes.
She should just let it go. Soul searching wasn’t a common practice with either of them. They both had too much baggage. To look was to hurt. Period.
But it was almost morning and she hadn’t been to bed. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, both physical and emotional, she wasn’t herself.
She studied him through eyes that burned with fatigue. Brian’s features were strong, confident. But it was his mouth that drew her. It turned up just a hint at the corners, with full lips that smiled easily. They seemed to promise comfort. To promise that everything would be okay.
Must be what his patients’ parents saw every day.
“I’ve been caregiver only three times in my entire life…” She broke off when she heard how far back into her thoughts she’d gone; she’d intended to leave most of the hell unvisited.
“Jason and Carlos. And Callie?”
“Right.” God, how she hurt. How she’d always hurt. “And all three of them died younger than they should have.”
Brian sat up on the couch. “If you think—”
Raising one hand, Hannah shook her head. She didn’t need him to tell her the deaths weren’t her fault. She’d already been over the facts a thousand times.
“I know they didn’t die because of me.” She wanted to make that quite clear. “I mean, I could hardly be responsible for Jason’s cancer when he was diagnosed before we even met. But he was in remission when I met him. His prognosis was the best it had ever been. There was honest-to-goodness hope.”
Brian stared at her. “And?”
For a second, she’d forgotten she was talking to a doctor. A pragmatist. When she’d first known Brian, he’d been an undergrad at Arizona State University slightly full of himself, and a little fonder of partying than she was.
“I wore him out,” she said. “He wanted to make love all the time and I knew it wasn’t good for him, that the doctor said he had to take it easy, give his body a chance to build the antibodies it needed…”
“I