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It had been a son. She had been carrying his son, and for some reason, some quirk of nature, it had been taken from her. Sweet God! Had been taken from them both.
The file held the facts on more than the miscarriage. It was her life for eight fucking years.
Every move she had made in the past eight years was there, as well as her living arrangements with the two men in Virginia and their sexual orientation.
They were homosexual. The two men were lovers, and Crista, from all accounts, rather than being a third to the little love nest, had been treated more as a little sister. A sister that needed protecting, to be cared for.
Neighbors had been questioned regarding Crista, as had her former boss. Everyone had given her glowing recommendations and stressed how dependable, reliable, and kind she was.
One elderly lady had told the agent, posing as a prospective employer, that Crista Jansen was a wounded little bird when she first arrived with Mark Lessing and moved into his apartment. Cranston had related that piece of information with curious satisfaction.
As he read, grief swelled in his chest with each word and the implications of what he had done to her. Agony pierced his heart, his soul, and ripped through his mind.
Crista had run from him, lost their child, then left town, barely healed from the miscarriage. She had immediately enrolled in business school. She had dated rarely, never seriously, and photos of those men were included in the file. An accountant, a banker, the vice president of a manufacturing firm. All three men were suave, sophisticated, and about as dangerous or sexual as a neutered house cat.
Crista had worked hard, played rarely. She had volunteered several weekends a month at a local hospital in the pediatrics ward, and everyone loved her.
And she had been alone. She had left Somerset after losing his baby. After he had taken her with drunken lust and committed the unbearable sin of having forgotten that night. Except in his dreams.
Dreams where she had tempted him, tormented him. Loved him.
No wonder he hadn’t forgotten about her. No wonder he had dreamed of her for eight long years and with her return had focused on her with something bordering obsession.
And it was no wonder she had refused every advance. No wonder she had avoided him every chance she had. She should have shot him. He was amazed Alex hadn’t done the job for her.
“Did you want the baby?” His baby. His child. Grief nearly ripped his guts from his body at the thought of that child that had never drawn breath.
“More than my own life. ” Her voice was harsh, thick was unshed tears as his own throat closed against the pain.
“You could have told me. ” He would have claimed her, claimed their baby. He would have held her, protected her, shared her grief.
“I was too young for you. ” Pain haunted her voice and his soul. “I didn’t run because of the miscarriage, or because of the threat of Rowdy and Natches. I could have handled informing you that wasn’t going to happen. But I couldn’t handle what you made me feel that night. ”
Dawg lifted his eyes from the folder, and he wanted to howl at the pain he saw in her eyes.
“You loved me, even then. ” He knew it, knew it in his soul, and that knowledge was killing him.
She had loved him, endured this alone, and he hadn’t even remembered the night that had created their child.
“I loved you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you, Dawg. But what happened between us…”
Her hand lifted, then dropped helplessly. “What you made me feel. I couldn’t handle it. I craved it. I cried for you for months after I left, but I couldn’t come back. ”
“Why?” His voice was stark, chilling.
“I told myself it was because of Rowdy and Natches. I told myself I couldn’t handle having my heart broken when you refused to give up that lifestyle, but when I returned last year and saw you the first time, I knew better. I couldn’t come back because I knew you would end up owning my soul. And if that happened, I wouldn’t be able to just walk away. I’d hate it. I’d end up destroying myself over it, but if you had pressed, I knew I couldn’t have refused anything you wanted. ”
Facing that fact had been the hardest part of the last few days, and Crista knew it. Knowing that in her heart she had wasted eight years of her own life running from herself hadn’t been easy.
“Were you relieved you had the miscarriage, Crista?” he asked, his voice bleak, shattered.
She hadn’t expected that question from him. She had expected recriminations, a suspicion that she had deliberately gotten pregnant, but she hadn’t expected this.
“I nearly died, Dawg,” she cried hoarsely. “I wanted to die. ”
His head lifted from the file, his expression so stark, so furiously intent, that she felt her chest tighten with pain.
“Why did you want that baby so bad, Crista?” he asked her then.
