Heart of a Hero. Anne Marie Winston

to thank me.” The smile faded. “I should have gotten in touch with you as soon as I found out I was pregnant.”

      Unspoken between them was the knowledge that his mother had never known she had a grandchild on the way, or a granddaughter.

      “You should have,” he agreed.

      Even from the driver’s side, not looking right at her, he could tell that Phoebe’s body went stiff. The temperature in the car dropped about ten degrees. If he’d been looking to pick a fight, he’d have been satisfied with the first volley. But…

      “But I understand why you didn’t. And maybe it wouldn’t have mattered,” he said, and with the words, the hard knot of anger that had hidden deep inside him finally uncoiled. “My mother’s body was giving out. After she had the first stroke, I learned a lot more about strokes, what causes them, what kind of progress stroke patients make, what therapies are used…. It’s probably a blessing for both her and my dad that she didn’t live for years with minimal function.”

      “How can you say that? Don’t you think your dad would rather have had her alive in any condition—”

      “I’m sure he thinks he would have. But while I was recuperating I saw a lot of victims of head injury and soldiers who’d had strokes after other catastrophic injuries. And I know my mother never would have wanted to live like that.” He paused. “There’s no dignity in some kinds of living. I wouldn’t have liked that for either of them.”

      She nodded and her silky hair slid over the back of his hand. It felt like cool silk and his one-track mind instantly shot ahead to the night looming before them. The night when they would put Bridget to bed and then it would just be the two of them. Alone.

      The next few hours crawled by. They arrived back at Phoebe’s house and unpacked the car, then had a late dinner. They’d lost three hours on the trip east but it was still only eight o’clock when Bridget went down for the night.

      Wade followed Phoebe into the room as she laid the baby in her crib, and they looked down at her together.

      “She’s incredible,” he said softly.

      Phoebe smiled. “She is, isn’t she?”

      He put his arm around her shoulders and led her from the room. Phoebe tugged the door nearly shut as they entered the hallway. When she turned back to him, she met his eyes with a wry smile and blew out a breath. “I’m nervous,” she said with a laugh.

      He smiled. “You don’t have to be.” He took her hand and led her into the bedroom and across to the big bed in which she slept. Setting his hands on her shoulders, he drew her to him and slid his arms around her, simply holding her, absorbing the amazing sensation of having Phoebe in his arms. She slipped her arms around his waist and snuggled close.

      It was a sweet, sweet moment. Wade felt his heart swell with emotion. I love you.

      He nearly said it aloud. Might have, except that he was a coward. Plain and simple, a coward.

      The night they’d danced, he thought Phoebe had indicated she could care for him. But was it long-term? Sure, she’d made love with him—after her sister’s funeral when no one in their right mind could say her judgment was sound. And she’d clearly been overwhelmed to see him again after she’d thought he was dead. But he was the father of her child. And they’d been friends since their own childhood. She didn’t have to love him to be thrilled that he was alive.

      She got so quiet every time Melanie’s name came up that he could barely stand it. Did she blame him? God knew, she wouldn’t be wrong. He should never have let Mel leave alone that night.

      So he didn’t speak aloud. Her very silence suggested that her heart wasn’t entirely in this relationship and that made him nervous as hell. She might never forgive him for Melanie’s death but there was no way he was going to let her shove him out of her life. He loved her, even if he could never tell her.

      Tonight, he would show her.

      He stopped beside the bed and took her into his arms. After a moment, she lifted her face to him and his heart leaped as he lowered his mouth to hers. Whatever else was between them, there was no arguing with the chemistry they created together. He kissed her for a long, long time, using his lips and tongue to show her how he felt, simply made love to her mouth until they both were breathing hard and his blood was pounding through his veins.

      When he lifted the hem of her T-shirt, she raised her arms and let him pull it over her head. She shook her head as he tossed the shirt aside and her hair fell around her shoulders, emphasizing the lacy white bra she wore.

      “You’re beautiful.” He reached around her and dispensed with the bra, and wanted to howl at the moon when the full, firm mounds of her breasts, capped by rosy nipples, were revealed. He cupped them in his hands and smoothed his thumbs over the taut tips as she lifted her hands to the buttons of his shirt.

      She managed to get about half the buttons undone before she threw her head back with a half laugh and said, “I can’t concentrate.”

      He smiled, lowering his head to the slope of her breast and tasting the tender flesh. “Can I help?”

      He quickly tore the shirt open and shrugged it off, then unfastened his pants as well and pushed them off along with his boxers. Turning his attention to her pants, he unzipped them and put his thumbs at the sides, pushing until she, too, had kicked the last of her clothing away.

      Then he urged her onto the mattress.

      As he followed her down, he said, “Do you have any idea how many times I dreamed about this?” He cupped her breast again, pulling her close with one arm beneath her head. “You kept me warm on a lot of damn cold nights halfway around the world.”

      To his shock, her eyes filled with tears. “I was so mad at you for leaving,” she said. “For not coming to say goodbye. And then—and then—”

      And then she’d thought he was dead. Gone forever. He read the anguish in her eyes.

      “Shh,” he said. “I’m here, and I’m never leaving again.” He smoothed a hand down over the silky skin of her belly as he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. Suckling strongly, his own body pulsed in response as her back arched off the bed and her hands threaded through his hair to hold him to her.

      He eased his weight over her, settling himself into the heated cove between her thighs, feeling the damp curls and the soft, soft flesh below. He couldn’t wait.

      Slowly, he pushed into her, groaning at the tight, slick feel of her body clasping his. Too tight, he realized belatedly.

      “Relax, baby, you’re okay.” He stopped moving and held every muscle still, though his body was screaming at him to move. Guilt ate at him. He should have been thinking of her, and instead all he’d been able to do was think about how badly he wanted to be inside her. It wasn’t even completely sexual, but something more, instinct urging him to stamp every inch of her with his scent and feel, to make her his again in the most basic way there was.

      “I’m sorry,” she whispered, squirming with discomfort. “I had a couple of stitches after Bridget was born and—”

      “Shh,” he said, kissing away a tear that trailed from the corner of her eye. “It’ll be okay. We’re in no hurry here.”

      She was taking deep, fast breaths, her breasts heaving as she fought to cooperate, and he knew he needed to help her. He didn’t want her first time after Bridget’s birth to be something she just wanted to forget.

      He lifted himself a little away from her and stroked one hand between them, down her belly to the spot where they were joined. His fingers found the tiny, tender button hidden in her curls. Lightly, hoping that she would enjoy his touch, he rubbed a finger over her. And nearly had a heart attack when her body jolted involuntarily beneath his, driving him even deeper into her tight sheath.

      She sucked in a sharp breath and he said, “Did you like that?”