He felt her hesitation, her need to press. And ignored it. Saying nothing, she took the empty glass from him, set it on the nightstand. Then she drew him back, cradling his head on her breast. “It’s all right now.” Her murmur was as soft as the hand that stroked his hair. “It’s all right. Sleep awhile longer.”
And her comfort chased his demons away so he could.
IN THE MORNING, SHE EASED OUT OF BED LIKE A thief out of a second-story window. He looked exhausted, she thought, and still very pale. All she could hope was some of the sorrow she’d felt from him in the night had softened with sleep. She could find its source; he couldn’t block her now. If she knew the root, she might help him dig it out, help heal whatever hurt his heart.
And while that was true enough, it was only part of what tempted her. The rest was selfish, even petty. He’d called out her name in the grip of the nightmare, called in terror and despair. But not only hers, Layla remembered. He’d called out another’s.
Carly.
No, looking into his mind and heart while he slept, whether the motive was selfless or selfish, was a violation. The worst kind. A breach of trust and intimacy.
She’d let him sleep, and if she had to breach something, she’d breach his kitchen and find something reasonably sane to fix him for breakfast.
She slipped on his discarded shirt and out of the room.
In the kitchen, she got a quick jolt. Not from piles of dirty dishes and scattered newspaper. The room was what she thought of as man-clean. A few dishes in the sink, some unopened mail on the table, counters hastily wiped around countertop appliances.
The jolt came from the addition of a shiny new countertop coffeemaker.
Everything in her went soft toward the point of gooey. He never drank coffee, but he’d gone out and bought a coffeemaker for her-one that had a fresh bean grinder. And when she opened the cupboard overhead, she found the bag of beans.
Could he be sweeter?
She was holding the brown bag, smiling at the appliance when Fox walked in. “You bought a coffeemaker.”
“Yeah. I figured you ought to be able to get your morning fix.”
When she turned, his head was already in the fridge. “Thank you. And just for that I’m going to cook you breakfast. You must have something in here I can morph into actual food.”
She came around the refrigerator door to poke her own head in. When he straightened, stepped back, she saw his face.
“Oh, Fox.” Instinctively she lifted a hand to his cheek. “You don’t look well. You should go back to bed. You’ve got a light schedule today anyway. I can cancel-”
“I’m fine. We don’t get sick, remember?”
Not in body, she thought, but heart and mind were different matters. “You get tired. You’re tired now, and you need a day off.”
“What I need is a shower. Look, I appreciate the breakfast offer, but I don’t have much of an appetite this morning. Go ahead and make your coffee, if you can figure that thing out.”
Whose voice was that? Layla asked herself as he walked away. That cool and distant voice? With careful movements, she put the beans away, quietly closed the cupboard door. Walking back to the bedroom, she began to dress while the sound of the water striking tile in the bathroom drummed in her ears.
A woman knew when a man wanted her gone, and a woman with any pride obliged him. She’d shower at home, dress for the workday at home, have her coffee at home. The man wanted space, she’d damn well give him space.
When the phone rang, she ignored it. Then, cursing, gave in. It could be important, she thought, an emergency. Then she winced when Fox’s mother gave her a cheery good morning and addressed her by name.
In the shower, Fox let the hot water pound over him while he gulped down his cold caffeine. The combination dulled some of the sharp edges, but there were plenty more where they came from. He felt hungover, headachy, queasy. It would pass. It always passed. But a nightmare could give him a rougher morning-after than any drunken spree.
He’d probably chased Layla off, snapping at her that way. Which, he admitted, had been the purpose. He didn’t want her hovering, stroking, and soothing, watching him with that worry in her eyes. He wanted to be alone so he could wallow and brood.
As was his damn right.
He turned off the shower, whipped a towel around his waist. When he walked into the bedroom, trailing drips, there she was.
“I was just leaving,” she began in the frosty tone that told him he’d done his job very well. “But your mother called.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll get back to her.”
“Actually, I’m to tell you that since Sage and Paula have to be in D.C. on Monday, and may have to head back to Seattle from there, she’s having everyone over for dinner tomorrow.”
He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Probably no way out of that one. “Okay.”
“She expects me to come. Me-all of us. I’m supposed to help you spread the word. You probably know she’s impossible to say no to, but you can make excuses for me tomorrow.”
“Why would I do that? Why wouldn’t you go? Why should you get out of eating stuffed artichokes?” Since she didn’t smile, he shoved at his dripping hair. “Look, I’m feeling a little rugged this morning. Maybe you could cut me a very narrow break.”
“Believe me, I already have. I’m trying to cut it even wider by convincing myself you’re being moody and secretive because you’re an ass, not because you don’t trust me. But it’s tricky because while you may be an ass, you’re not a big enough one to hold back the details of a major trauma like the one you went through last night just to be stupid. So I circle right back to the matter of trust. I let you inside me, I took you inside me in that bed, but you won’t let me inside you. You won’t tell me what hurt and scared you.”
“You need to back off, Layla. This just isn’t the time.”
“You get to choose the time? Well, that’s fine. Just let me know when it’s convenient for you, and I’ll pencil me in.”
She started out, and he did nothing to stop her. Then she stopped, looked dead into his eyes. “Who’s Carly?”
When he said nothing, when his eyes went blank, she walked away and left him alone.
HE DIDN’T EXPECT HER TO COME INTO THE OFfice, actively hoped she wouldn’t. But while he was in his law library trying to concentrate on research, he heard her come in. There was no mistaking it for anyone else. Fox knew the way she moved, even her morning routine.
Open the door of the foyer closet, hang up coat, close the door. Cross to the desk, open the bottom right-hand drawer, stow purse. Boot up the computer.
He heard all the busy little sounds. They made him feel guilty, and the guilt annoyed him. They’d ignore each other for a few hours, he decided. Until she calmed down and he settled down.
Then, they’d just move past it.
Ignoring and avoidance worked well enough for most of the morning. Every time the phone rang, he braced for her voice to come snipping over the intercom. But she never buzzed him.
He told himself he didn’t sneak from the library to his office. He simply walked very, very quietly.
When he heard her go out to lunch, he strolled out to reception, took a casual scan of her desk. He noted the short stack of while-you-were-outs for him. So she wasn’t passing the calls through, he mused. No problem, that worked. He’d do the callbacks later, he decided. Because if he took the messages into his office, it would become obvious he’d been out there poking around her desk.
Now he felt stupid. Stupid, tired, beleaguered, and a little pissed off. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he started back to his office and jolted when the door opened. Relief came when he saw Shelley walk in rather than Layla.
“Hi. I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute. I just saw Layla outside, and she said you were in, probably not real busy.”
“Sure. You want to come back?”
“No.” She walked to him, and just put her arms around him. “Thanks. I just wanted to say thanks.”