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His strange fascination with her when he saw her carrying Max into their room at Maude’s Cozy Comfort Bungalows made sense now. So did everything else. No wonder he couldn’t stand the sight of Max. No wonder he was bitter.
She pressed her palms to her eyes as she remembered telling him she’d never met anyone who hated children as much as he did. He’d looked at her as if she’d slapped him. But she hadn’t known, could never have guessed, and the thought that she might soon be in a similar situation deepened her resolve. She didn’t care if she had to sleep with Preston Holman. She wouldn’t be robbed of her son. She’d do whatever she had to.
“I don’t care what Bob thinks,” he was saying. “What about Billy Duran? And Melanie Deets?” Preston was nearly shouting now. “How many heroes do you know, Christy? When was the last time you read a newspaper article about some doctor in town miraculously saving a child’s life?”
What was he talking about?
“It’s more than that.”
There was a long pause. When Preston spoke again, he sounded deflated. “I have to do what I have to do…. Okay, wait…No, don’t cry. Come on, Christy. Please? I’m sorry.”
There was another remark Emma missed, then silence. He’d hung up.
Emma waited to see what would happen next, but nothing did. Preston didn’t make a sound, and Max kept sleeping. The minutes began to stretch until she felt like a complete coward for hiding out in the bathroom. Preston was suffering, in a way she could imagine all too easily. Yet he’d agreed to help them.
She suspected that had less to do with her offer at the pool than she’d originally assumed. She wasn’t even sure Preston remembered she was there. But a deal was a deal. She owed it to him to at least ask what he wanted from her in return.
If he said she had to climb into bed with him tonight, she’d divorce her mind from her body. She’d had plenty of practice doing that. Sleeping with him couldn’t be any worse than lying beneath Manuel.
Resigned, she borrowed his toothbrush, then pulled on his clothes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PRESTON SAT in the dark, next to the small round table in front of the room’s only window, trying to block out the echo of his conversation with Christy. He’d been stupid to call her. He wouldn’t have done it, except something about Emma made him miss what they’d had—that sense of family, the togetherness. Since Dallas’s death, they couldn’t speak without arguing. But after two months of silence, he’d called anyway—and he’d upset her. Again.
Fool. She’d been through enough. Regardless of what he’d said, he didn’t really begrudge her the happiness she’d managed to find during the past six months with her new husband. He wasn’t even sure what he’d hoped to accomplish by telling her about Vince. She’d already dealt with their son’s death. He was the one who couldn’t get past it.
Vaguely he wondered if the compulsion to call his ex-wife meant he was still in love with her. But it didn’t take him long to figure out that everything he’d once felt for her was gone. The events beginning the day Dallas fell ill had swept all positive emotion away.
Twirling his closed pocketknife between his fingers, Preston remembered the panic and worry over Dallas’s unexpected illness, the moment their son’s weakened body had lost the fight, the friends and family who’d clogged the cemetery the day of his funeral, Christy weeping over his grave. And later, Christy defending Vince and refusing to believe what Preston knew in his gut to be true.
The images parading through his mind made his stomach churn, made him realize that the anger consuming him left no room for love as he used to know it. Maybe he’d always care deeply for Christy, but what he felt, more than anything, was a terrible regret—regret for the loss of their innocence, their marriage and the child they’d both adored.
Light spilled into the room as the bathroom door opened and Emma stepped out. He didn’t want her as a witness to the emptiness that surrounded him, didn’t want to feel responsible for anyone or anything except the task he’d set for himself. He’d planned to ignore her as much as possible, but he knew immediately that it wasn’t going to be that easy. Not now. It was late, and they were alone in a hotel room. He’d let his imagination carry him too damn far in that Jacuzzi.
His eyes fell to the shapely bare legs that extended beneath the boxers he’d lent her, and he couldn’t look away. It was two years now since he’d been with Christy. Suddenly those two years seemed like a lifetime.
Maybe a temporary distraction wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe a distraction was exactly what he needed to give his mind and body the rest it craved.
Standing there, she hesitated.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“A little.”
He almost told her to go ahead and get some sleep. He knew she probably wasn’t feeling the same rush of sexual excitement he was. But another part of his brain—a part run strictly by hormones, if he had his guess—cautioned him not to be too hasty. Maybe he was walking into an emotional mess, but he was pretty much stuck with Emma and Max anyway, at least until Salt Lake. If he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit he’d probably wind up taking them to Iowa. So how could a little positive sensation make things any worse? She was the one who’d made the offer.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m trying to talk myself into letting you sleep.”
Her gaze darted to the bed, then returned to his face. “Or…”
“I think you know my other option.”
Her eyes widened slightly. She clasped her hands in front of her, but she didn’t step back or shake her head or indicate in any other way that she’d refuse. “After that phone call with your ex-wife, I wasn’t sure you’d still be interested.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m interested.”
“Would you care to explain that?”
It had to do with reaching out to someone. It also had something to do with interrupting the endless reel of memories playing in his head. But those were his problems. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” She waited for several seconds before breaking the silence again, and he wondered if she was scared.
“Does your decision hinge on any one thing?” she finally asked.
“Definitely.”
“What?”
“You.”
