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She shook off his hand, her breathing accelerating as the nightmare gripped her. ‘Please pick up the phone Dane... Please.’
The hoarse, terrified whimpers tore at his conscience, guilt striking him unawares. Awake, she’d been strong and resilient. But asleep was another matter.
He couldn’t walk away. Not yet.
Tugging on his jeans and leaving the top button undone, he whipped back the sheets to discover a row of cushions from the couch laid out down the middle of the bed. A rueful smile tugged at his mouth.
What was the great wall of throw pillows supposed to keep in check? His libido or hers?
Digging the makeshift barrier out of the bed, he slung the cushions back on the couch. Climbing in behind her, he gathered her shaking body into his arms until her back lay snug against his chest, her bottom nestled into his crotch.
He ignored the aching pain as blood pounded into his lap, grateful for the confining denim while waiting for her laboured breathing to even out—the renewed rush of heat not nearly as disturbing as the rush of tenderness.
Holding her wrist, he laid his arm across her body, careful not to touch any part of her that would make the torment worse. But the memory of spooning with her like this, after they’d made love that final time ten years ago, came flooding back to fill the void. Except that time his hands had caressed the compact bump of her belly, his head spinning with amazement and terror at what the future would hold.
Tortured thoughts of what she’d endured without him rose to the surface.
Eventually she stilled, the rigid line of her body softening against his.
Obviously, some remnant of the misguided kid he’d once been still remained. Because a part of him wanted to stay and hold her through the night, in case she had any more nightmares. But he couldn’t go back and erase what he’d done, and she wouldn’t want him here when she woke up in the morning.
So he’d just stay for a short while—until he was sure she was okay. Then he’d leave and get Mel to send over the divorce papers in the morning. So she’d lied about the miscarriage? Did he really want to know why? Delving into her reasons now wouldn’t serve anyone’s purpose.
But as he listened to the comforting murmur of her breathing his body relaxed against hers and all his sound decisions drifted out into the night, shooting across the Hudson River, heading up towards the Vineyard and back into fitful dreams.
CHAPTER TEN
SOMETHING HEAVY BECKONED Xanthe out of sleep. Deep, drugging, wonderful sleep that made her feel secure and happy.
Her eyelids fluttered open and her gaze focused on a hand. A large tanned hand with a tattoo of a ship’s anchor on the thumb was holding hers down on the pillow, right in front of her face. The hand looked male. Very male. And very familiar.
She blinked, struggling to bring her mind into focus, and realised that a male arm, attached to the male hand, lay across her shoulders. She drew in a deep breath, the scent of clean sheets and clean man reminding her of the good dreams that had danced through her consciousness before waking. She shifted, aware of the long, muscular body wrapped around hers, and his deep breathing made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
Dane.
Thin strands of sunlight shone through the slatted blinds, illuminating the hotel room’s luxurious furnishings as the events of the evening before crowded in and her abdomen warmed, weighed down by the hot brick in her stomach.
She stole a moment to absorb the comfort of being cocooned in a man’s arms for the first time in... She frowned. For the first time in a decade.
Dane had always gravitated towards her in his sleep. She’d always woken up in his arms during the brief weeks of their marriage. It was one of the things she’d missed the most. And this time she didn’t have the stirrings of morning sickness to cut through her contentment.
She had a vague recollection of nightmares chasing her, and then his arms and his voice lulling her back to sleep.
Holding her breath, she shifted under his arm and inched her hand out from under the much larger one covering it.
The rumble of protest against her hair froze her in place.
Long fingers squeezed hers, before his thumb inched down her arm, sliding the sleeve of the T-shirt down to the elbow—the T-shirt that was supposed to be protecting her from the thoughts making her belly melt.
‘You playing possum?’ A gruff voice behind her head asked.
‘I’m trying to.’ She sighed, annoyed and at the same time stupidly aroused.
She could feel the solid bulge against her bottom, the unyielding wall of his chest that was sending delicious shivers of reaction up her spine.
‘Mmm...’ he mumbled, sounding half-asleep as his hand lifted and then settled on her thigh.
His calloused caress had goosebumps tingling to life as he trailed his hand under the hem of the T-shirt and rubbed across her hip.
