Prince Charming Can Wait (Ever After) Page 12

  She'd trusted him, and he'd betrayed her. He could see it in every emotion on her face. The woman who had barely clawed her way back to life after a marriage from hell had put herself out there for him, believing him to be the good guy, and he'd ripped everything out from under her.

  He'd broken his promise by coming back.

  He'd taken the marriage away from her by declaring he was getting a divorce.

  He'd cast filth on her dreams that she'd married a decent guy, telling her he was worse than the man who had nearly destroyed her. He'd made her realize that she'd married the very thing she feared most.

  Why hadn't he been honest on the boat that night? Why hadn't he told her what he was really like? Why had he pretended that a midnight wedding and a quick departure would actually be a good idea?

  Digging his fingers into the hood of her car, he raised his head and looked back at the little cabin. She hadn't come after him. Of course she hadn't. He'd betrayed her. How many ways would he be like his father? More and more—

  The sound of tires crunching on the dirt road caught his attention, and he swung around, instantly alert. Who was coming back into her private area? As he waited for the approaching car to emerge from the trees, he became grimly aware of how isolated her cabin was. What if her ex decided to come after her? Who would hear her cry for help? Who would come to her aid? Even as he thought it, a ski boat cruised by. On board were seven shirtless guys, shouting too loudly, with a few beer cans visible in their hands.

  Harlan went still, watching them, his gut going cold. What if Emma was out on her dock one evening when they went by? There was nothing out here except for woods and lakefront. The lake was host to a bunch of rowdy summer residents, including testosterone junkies who might down a few too many beers and decide to cause trouble for a single woman living by herself.

  A cold sweat broke out on his arms, and he whipped around as an antique Volkswagen lumbered into sight and parked in front of Emma's house. Harlan instinctively moved between the car and her front door as the driver's side opened and a young woman emerged. Maybe in her mid-twenties, she was wearing a loose white blouse and a pair of jeans. Her hair was tucked up in a loose bun. She looked casual, but there was an air to her that made Harlan think that a bullet would bounce right off her chest if someone tried to take her down. "Can I help you?" he said smoothly, intercepting her as she stepped out of the car.

  She eyed him suspiciously. "You must be Harlan Shea."

  He almost blinked in surprise. How in the hell did she know who he was? "I am," he said, not giving away anything. "And you are?"

  "Dottie McPhee," she said. "Is your wife here?"

  "My wife?" he echoed, an unfamiliar sensation rippling through him at the phrase. It felt good, but at the same time, dangerously wrong.

  She peered at him. "You are married to Emma Larson, are you not?"

  Harlan stared at her. "I am," he said slowly. "And who exactly are you?"

  "Dottie McPhee," she repeated, her eyebrows going up when he didn't respond. "I'm here to conduct the home study. I'm a little early, but I was in the area so I thought I'd come by."

  "Home study?" he echoed. "What are you talking about?"

  Dottie's eyes narrowed. "You and your wife filed an application to become foster parents with intent to adopt, specifically of Mattie Williams." She drew her shoulders back. "Are you not aware of this petition?"

  Harlan looked toward the house as understanding dawned over him. That was why Emma had been willing to get married. Because she had needed a husband. That was what she wanted him for. A child? Jesus. He was dangerous enough to her. A child? There was no way he could get involved in this situation. "I'm sorry, Ms. McPhee, but—"

  The screen door slammed open, and Emma leapt into the doorway, her face stricken as she looked frantically back and forth between them. Her skin was ashen, so white that Harlan actually took a step toward her, reaching out to catch her if she passed out. "Dottie McPhee?" she croaked. "I thought the home study was tomorrow."

  "No, it's today." The social worker eyed Emma, her mouth thinning out. "I was just speaking with your husband. He seems to be unaware of the petition you filed."

  Emma's face paled even more, and her fingers gripped the door so tightly that her knuckles were white. Harlan had seen victims staring down death at the hands of their kidnappers, people so terrified that they could not even move, and yet never had he seen an expression of deeper, more heart-wrenching fear than the one on Emma's face. Not for her own life. For the life of some little girl named Mattie Williams, who was clearly a kid without a home or parents. "I—," she stammered. "He—"

  Son of a bitch. He could not let this happen.

  Harlan vaulted up the stairs and wrapped his arm around Emma, tucking her up against his side. She was shaking violently against him, and her skin was cold. "My apologies, Ms. McPhee," he said smoothly. "My job sends me into dangerous situations, and Emma was notified that I had gone missing in action. I was rescued two weeks ago, but I wasn't allowed to make contact until I was released. I was given permission last night, and I came straight home without even calling first. I knew that she needed to see me in person to believe I was still alive. I surprised her ten minutes ago, and we're both a little distracted." He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I thought I was going to die without ever seeing her again, and she was afraid I was dead," he said softly, as he turned to Emma. "I'm here, Em. I really am."

  Emma looked up at him, and he was shocked to see her eyes fill with tears. There was so much emotion in her eyes, so much fear, so much anguish, and a loneliness so deep that it seemed to reach inside him and tear open his chest. Unable to stop himself, he slid his hand behind her neck and lowered his head, brushing a soft kiss over her lips. "It's okay, sweetheart," he said softly. "It's going to be okay." He didn't know what was going to be okay, or how, but he needed to say it. He needed to make it true. He had done so little right in his life, and he needed to change that, right now, right here, with the woman who had believed in him.

  Emma's hand slid to his chest, and her fingers dug in, gripping the front of his shirt, as if trying to hang onto him and keep him from escaping. "Did you really almost die?" she whispered.

  He put his hand over hers. "Nah," he said gently, unwilling to add more torment to the burden she was already carrying. "I was fine."

  She searched his face. "You're lying," she said. "You really almost died, didn't you?"

  He couldn't lie to her. Their relationship, what little of it there was, had been based on truths. "It was closer than I've been in a long time," he admitted. He managed a small smile. "But I kind of messed up my hip. I'm not doing anything more dangerous than limping to the fridge for a while, okay? No more missions."

  Dottie cleared her throat, jerking Harlan's attention back to the present. Swearing under his breath, he tore his gaze off Emma and looked back toward the social worker, whose disapproving glare had been replaced by a misty-eyed romantic longing. "Well," she said, "I can answer one question already."

  Harlan tucked Emma closer against him, and she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder, as if she was too exhausted to stand alone anymore. He didn't know why she was holding onto him, whether it was for show or because she wanted to, but all he knew was that it felt damned good. "What's that?" he asked.

  "Whether you two actually love each other."

  Emma's cheeks turned pink and she stiffened against him, but Harlan simply tightened his grip on her shoulders, pulling her even closer. Without a word, he held out his other arm, showing his wrist to Dottie.

  She peered at his tattoo. "It's an 'E' with a rose bud."

  Emma caught her breath as she looked at it as well. She touched his wrist, her fingers sliding over his skin so gently, a touch more delicate than he'd ever felt in his life. He wanted to savor it, to brand it in his memory, so he would never forget what it felt like.

  "No matter how tough things get out in
the field," he said, not taking his gaze off Emma, "my wife is always with me. The first flower I ever gave her was a sprig of yellow rose buds. She reminds me of sunshine and hope when I feel like the world is too dark, and the tattoo holds her to me even when we're apart."

  He was aware of Emma's shocked intake of breath, and her gaze darted to his. Confusion and questions were etched on her face, but there was also a softness, as if it had somehow touched her. He hadn't meant to tell her, or anyone, about the tattoo, but somehow, it had seemed important that Dottie know. He didn't want her to doubt Emma's character, or question who she was. He might be dangerous for her in a thousand ways, but if he could protect her character and protect her dreams, then he would do it without hesitation.

  He owed her that much. She'd married him. She'd sent him emails. She'd offered him her trust.

  Dottie smiled and put her hand on her heart. "That is so beautiful," she said wistfully, and Harlan noticed that her left hand had no rings. No knight had ridden up to Dottie's front step. She smiled up at them. "Tell you what," she said. "It sounds like you two need a little time to adjust. Why don't I come back tomorrow? Maybe around noon?" She looked at Harlan for approval, but he turned to Emma. "Does that work for you, sweetheart?"

  Emma nodded, and cleared her throat. "Yes, that would be great. Thank you for understanding."

  "No problem." Dottie waved at them as she headed back toward her car. "I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow. Enjoy your afternoon."

  They stood together and watched her go, Harlan's arm still around Emma, who was still tucked up against his side, her hand still gripping his shirt.

  Neither of them moved as Dottie started up her car.

  Neither of them moved as she drove down the dirt road.

  Neither of them moved as she disappeared from sight.

  All alone they stood there, no longer needing to put on a show for Dottie, but neither of them made a move to pull away from the other.

  It was Harlan who finally spoke, and the words struck fear deep into his own heart. Not fear for himself. Fear for the woman standing beside him. "So, I'm guessing divorce is no longer on the table right now."

  Emma made a strangled noise and looked up at him. Her blond hair was tousled, making her look even younger and more vulnerable than usual. "We should talk."

  "Yeah, I think that would be a good idea." He thought of the tiny cabin at his back, of the bed that held far too many memories of the woman he couldn't make himself let go of. "You have chairs on the dock?" He knew she did. He'd seen them that night.

  She nodded, and finally, agonizingly, pulled herself away from him.

  He let her go, and said nothing as she led the way around the cabin toward the water, toward the lake where it had all begun.

  ***

  Emma couldn't help it. She really couldn't. She knew it was masochistic and pointless self-torture, but she couldn't stop herself from trying to get a better look at the tattoo on Harlan's wrist as he pulled two chairs together on the dock.

  He suddenly stopped. "Just ask."

  Emma straightened up, trying to put an innocent look on her face, curling her bare toes into the worn-out wooden planks. "Ask what?"

  One eyebrow quirked. "To see my tattoo."

  "Tattoo?" she echoed, with feigned blankness, not quite willing to admit the insane curiosity burning through her to see it. "Do you have one?" Of course she knew he had something on his wrist. She'd seen it, and he knew it. But the quick glance hadn't been enough. She hadn't been able to see whether it really had been what he'd claimed. How could it be? He wouldn't really have gotten a tattoo for her, would he? She needed to know.

  He studied her, then shrugged. "Fine with me if you don't want to see it." He sank down into the chair, sucking in his breath when his descent hitched, and he pressed his hand to his hip. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his lawn chair that looked too white and girly for his bulk.

  Emma cleared her throat and perched on the other seat. The late afternoon sun was casting a glow across the water, broken only by the occasional ripple of a passing boat. It was the ultimate serenity, but she felt as far from serene as it was possible to feel. She was jittery and on edge, so aware of Harlan's masculine presence in her space. He was as heavily muscled as he'd been before, but he looked more ragged and rough, like the mercenary he'd claimed to be. Had this man, this untamed crusader, actually inked her initial into his skin?

  The way he had folded his arms made it clear that he was not going to reveal his tattoo unless she asked. "You're a jerk," she said lightly, all too aware that he knew exactly how much she wanted to see it.

  He shrugged. "I think that gets me off easy, so thanks." He waited, watching her, his dark eyes so intense she felt like he was peeling away all her layers and exposing all her fears and insecurities to him.

  Emma glanced at his wrist again. Had it really been an "E" with a rose, or had he just claimed it was? Was it simply a close enough similarity that he could get away with the statement he'd made to Dottie? She needed to know what was really on his wrist. She needed to see for herself.

  "You shouldn't care," he said softly.

  She jerked her gaze to his, her pulse hammering. He was so close, only a few feet away, this man she'd married, and then thought she'd lost. She was so rattled by his presence, and at the same time, she couldn't stop thinking about how amazing it had felt to have him wrap his arm around her while they were on the steps a few minutes ago. Would it ever get old, the delicious feeling of warmth whenever he wrapped her in his arms? Even as the traitorous thoughts raced through her mind, she forced herself to lean back in her chair and look casually at the scenery behind him. "Care about what?"

  "Whether some bastard like me actually got a tattoo honoring you," he said, his low voice rolling through her like a sensual caress. "You're more than that, Em. You shouldn't care what anyone else thinks or does."

  Emma shifted in her seat, unable to keep her gaze off him. He was so intense, so sensual, so…there. "I know that." She did know that. But she wasn't a machine, and she couldn't turn off her emotions. "I want to see," she said. "I have to see it."

  With a small grimace, Harlan unfolded his arms and leaned forward, holding out his wrist to her. She grabbed his hand to steady it. The feel of his hand in hers was electric, and for a brief moment, she froze, riveted by the sensation. He met her gaze, and neither of them moved. For a heartbeat, for two, for three, tension hung between them, a thousand unspoken words and emotions.

  Oh, God, what was she doing? Embarrassed, she tore her gaze from him and peered at his arm. Her heart jumped when she saw the "E" inked on his skin, beautifully intertwined with a vine that had three yellow rose buds on it, exactly like the one he'd left on her bed. She looked up at him, but his face was stoic. "This is really for me?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

  "When…when did you get it?"

  "The day I left." He looked at her. "The day I walked out on you. I couldn't get you out of my mind, the way you looked that morning. You were asleep on your back, with one arm above your head. Your hair was spread over the pillow, and there was a ray of sunshine across your cheek and one lock of your hair. The roses were next to your fingers, as if you knew they were there, even in your sleep." His voice became lower, a deep melody that seemed to vibrate in her belly. "I'd never experienced anything so perfect in my life. I didn't want to ever forget that moment."

  "Oh. Wow. Um…" What did a woman say in response to that? This was the man who claimed he was so dangerous that he should never be near his own wife? "That's…beautiful. No one has ever said anything like that to me before."

  "Then everyone you've met had his head up his ass."

  A shocked laugh burst out of her, and she quickly released him. Too agitated to sit in the chair, she got up and paced the dock. Tied up next to it was Harlan's boat. For some reason, the tattoo and his reason for doing it were overwhelming for her. It was a permanent link to bind them, tha
t he had designed to take into battle with him. A link that he couldn't lose, no matter what. They could get divorced a thousand times, and he would still have her initial and the roses on his arm. "I don't understand," she said finally, turning toward him, trying desperately to reconcile the heartfelt words he'd just spoken with the man he'd claimed to be just a short while ago. "Who are you?"

  "I told you." His forearms were draped loosely over his quads, his shoulders hunched, and his head low as he watched her through hooded eyes. She could easily see him as a predator in that position, and she shivered.

  "Tell me about Mattie Williams," he said, changing the subject.

  "Mattie?" This was a subject she felt comfortable with. Relieved at the new topic, Emma took a deep breath and walked to the edge of the dock, facing the mountains on the other side. "She's five. Her father left when she was a baby. Her mom died a few months ago. Her fourteen-year-old brother ran away three weeks ago and hasn't been found yet. Her aunt and uncle have been declared unfit, so the judge wants to send her to live with her grandparents in South Carolina, but she doesn't like them and doesn't want to move there." Her voice became tight with emotion, and she paused, trying to hold herself together. Too many emotional shocks were overwhelming her. Maybe Mattie wasn't the best topic right now. Maybe she should talk about the best way to skin a fish or something. Not that she knew it, but discussing fish dissection would be a good distraction, right?

  Harlan swore under his breath. "How do you know her?"

  "I teach her." Emma turned back to him, her mind filled with the memories his question had elicited. "I remember the first day she walked into my class. She had pink bows at the ends of her braids, and she was wearing a bright fuchsia shirt with sparkles. She looked like the sweetest, happiest little kid when she bounded in." Tears burned in her eyes as she recalled that first moment. "It was the first class, and I told them to draw whatever was in their heart. I believe that art comes from the soul, and I try to create that atmosphere for the kids."