Once Pregnant, Twice Shy. Red Garnier

weapon Garrett knew he carried inside his jacket. But Garrett could hear his father sputtering, struggling to breathe, and he had been paralyzed for a stunned moment. The world could have been crashing over him. As far as he’d known, it had been. But all he had been conscious of was his father. In the middle of the street, clutching his chest, where blood spurted through his open fingers like a fountain.

      Instead of running away, Garrett had run back to him. He hadn’t known what he planned to do. He’d only known his father was covered in blood, choking on his own breath, and that his eyes—dark as coal like Garrett’s—looked wild and frightened. As wild and frightened as Garrett felt.

      He’d dived back for the figure on the ground and gripped him by one arm, trying to drag him aside, when he’d heard Devaney’s “No, boy! Dammit, no!” A half dozen more gunshots had exploded, and in that instant, the weight of a man had crushed him to the ground.

      Garrett had cursed in front of his father for the first time in his life and squirmed between both men. Something hot and sticky had oozed across both his chest and back as he’d tried to push free, which had proved immensely difficult being he was only ten, and Dave Devaney had been a big man. His father had sputtered one last time beneath him, and when Garrett swung his head around, Jonathan Gage’s eyes had been lifeless.

      Garrett had gone cold, listening to sirens in the distance, footsteps, chaos around them.

      Suddenly he’d heard Dave’s voice, saying, “Garrett,” as he rolled to the side to spare Garrett his weight. He’d blinked up at the man, shocked, mute when he realized the man had stepped into the line of fire to save him. Him. Who hadn’t run when he’d been told to.

      The man had reached out to pat his jaw, and Garrett had grabbed the man’s hand and attempted a reassuring squeeze. He’d shaken uncontrollably, felt sticky and startlingly cold. “My daughters... They have no one but me. No one but me. Do you understand me, boy?”

      He’d nodded wildly.

      The man had seemed to struggle to swallow. To speak and breathe. But his eyes had had that wild desperation Garrett’s father had worn, except his gaze had also been pleading. Pleading with Garrett. “Help me.... Be there...for them...”

      He’d nodded wildly again.

      “So that they are not alone...taken care of...safe. Tell ’em...I l-love...”

      Garrett had nodded, his face wet and his eyes scalding hot as he tried to reassure the dying man. His chest had hurt so much he’d thought he’d been shot, as well. “Yes, sir,” he’d said low, with the conviction of a ten-year-old who’d suddenly aged to eighty. “I’ll take care of them both.”

      But how could he take care of Kate now, if they would be miles and states apart?

      * * *

      Kate was jolted from her thoughts when the door of her bedroom crashed open. She sat upright on the bed, her heart hammering in her chest. A huge shadow loomed at the threshold.

      Garrett.

      “I don’t want you to leave,” he said gruffly.

      Shock widened her eyes. His voice was slurred, and she wondered how many more drinks he’d had after they’d last seen each other.

      From the light of the hall, she could see he was still partly dressed in his black slacks and button-up shirt. His tie was loose around his collar. His hair rumpled. His sleeves rolled up. Oh, God, he looked adorable.

      “I’ve made up my mind,” she told him.

      “Then unmake it.”

      He shut the door behind him and strode into the darkness, and her heart beat faster in response.

      “I can’t unmake it,” she said, her voice raspy. Her throat was aching and she thought that the night of no sleep yesterday and the marathon to get everything set up today had just set her up to fall ill. “Look, I made up my mind. I can’t stay here.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I’m unhappy, Garrett. I’ve got everything I ever wanted, and yet don’t. I make money for myself, I’ve got great friends, and Molly, and I’ve got you and your family...and I’m so unhappy.”

      The mattress squeaked as he sat down, and suddenly she felt his hand patting the bed as though to find her. “Why are you unhappy?” he asked. He found her thigh over the covers, and when he squeezed, her stomach tightened, too.

      She couldn’t remember ever being in a dark room with him, or maybe she could, decades ago, when he had been sick and she would help Eleanor nurse him and feed him soup. But now she was no longer a girl. Her body was a woman’s, and her responses to this man were purely feminine and decidedly discomforting. Her blood raced hot through her veins as her body turned the same consistency of her pillow behind her. Soft. Feathery. Weightless.

      “Why are you unhappy?” he murmured. She felt the mattress squeak again when he edged closer. He seemed to be palpating the air until he felt her shoulder; then he slid his hand up her face. The touch of his fingers melted her, and she closed her eyes as he cupped her jaw and bent to her ear. “Tell me what makes you unhappy and I’ll fix it for you.”

      He smelled of alcohol. And his unique scent.

      She shook her head at his impossible proposition, almost amused, but not quite. More like unsettled. By his nearness, his touch.

      She had promised herself, when she’d decided she had to move away, that she would forget this man. And now all she could think of was reaching up to touch his hair and draw his lips to hers. She couldn’t see him in the darkness, but she knew his face by memory. The sleek line of his dark eyebrows. The beautiful tips of his sooty eyelashes. The strikingly beautiful espresso shade of his eyes, dark brown from up close and coal-black from afar.

      She knew his strong face, with that strong, proud forehead, as strong as his cheekbones and jaw, and she knew the perfect shape of his mouth. She might not have touched his face with her fingers in her life, but her eyes had run over those features more than they had touched any other thing on this earth.

      “You can’t fix it. You’re not God,” she sadly whispered. Her throat now ached with emotion, too.

      “You’re right. I’m a devil.” He cupped her face in both hands and stroked his thumb across the flesh of her lips, triggering a strange reaction in her body. “Why did you wear lipstick tonight? You look prettier bare.”

      Her breath caught as she realized he was stroking her lips with his thumb like he wanted to kiss her. He’d called her pretty. When had he ever called her pretty? Decades ago, maybe by accident, he’d blurted it out. But it had been years since he’d ever complimented her. Or touched her.

      He’d just done both.

      And suddenly the only thing moving in the room was her heaving chest, and his thumb as it moved side to side, caressing her lips, filling her body with an ocean of longing. She swallowed back a moan.

      “You’re right to want to leave here, Kate.” His voice thickened as he bent his head, and he smelled so good and exuded such body warmth and strength, she went light-headed. “You should run from here.”

      It took every ounce of willpower for her to push at his hard shoulders. “You’re drunk, Garrett. Go away and get out of my bed.”

      His hands tightened on her face as he nuzzled her nose with his, the timbre of his voice rough with torment. “Kate, there’s not a day I don’t remember what I took from you—”

      “Garrett, we can talk about all this tomorrow.”

      “There’s nothing to discuss. You’re staying here. Here, Kate. Where I can take care of you and I know you’re safe. All right, Freckles?”

      “Even if I’m miserable?”

      He dropped his hands to her shoulders and squeezed. “Tell me what makes you miserable, Kate. I’ll take care