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He knew this might be a sticking point for her because she was so devoted to the boy. But he was prepared to make concessions—limiting their liaison to one or two nights a week. They could do a lot in that time, given the right incentive.
The unbidden smile curled his lips again as he tapped on the back door. Instead of Bronte’s slender frame, though, a middle-aged woman with warm grey eyes pulled it open. She looked vaguely familiar.
‘Mr Blackstone, I’m so pleased to meet you at last,’ she said. ‘I’m Maureen Fitzgerald,’ she added, reaching for his coat. ‘Let me take your jacket. It’s miserable weather out there this morning.’ She carried on chatting about the rain—which he hadn’t even noticed—as she placed his coat on a hook next to a tiny red raincoat and the jacket he had watched Bronte shrug out of yesterday. Equally tiny boots with a pink pig-like creature on them stood next to the battered leather boots he remembered yanking off Bronte the evening before.
The evidence of the child’s existence and his attachment to Bronte gave Lukas an unpleasant jolt.
‘Where’s Bronte?’ he asked—maybe she was still in bed, waiting for him. Was that why she hadn’t greeted him?
‘She’s in the front parlour with Nico,’ the woman said cheerfully, dashing his hopes as she guided him through the kitchen towards a staircase.
‘The boy’s awake already?’ he said.
And why was the child with Bronte? Hadn’t he specifically told her he wanted some time alone with her first?
‘We’ve been up for several hours—it’s past eight o’clock,’ the woman said, leading him through the quiet house, the smell of fresh baking and lemon polish giving him a strange pang in his chest. ‘Boys of four don’t generally sleep past daybreak,’ she added with a friendly smile that didn’t quite hide the note of condescension. ‘Even if they hardly slept a wink last night,’ she added, still smiling at what had to be a private joke because he wasn’t finding any of this remotely funny. ‘Poor Bronte had to get up twice in the night to get him back into bed.’
‘Why? Is the boy ill?’ he asked, concern for the child’s welfare taking him unawares. While he had no emotional attachment to his nephew, he didn’t want the child to look as distressed and fragile as he had when Lukas had first met him.
‘Oh, no,’ Maureen chuckled. ‘He’s just over-excited.’
‘What about?’ he said as she opened a door and he heard the hum of voices—one high and childlike, the other smoky and feminine and very familiar.
‘About your visit, of course,’ the woman said as she ushered him into the room.
He located Bronte immediately. She sat cross-legged on a hearthrug, busy putting together a puzzle of what looked like a red sports car with a face. Her flaming hair and those tantalising freckles were gilded by the fire in the room’s marble hearth as she turned her head towards him.
Everything seemed to slow inside him and then smack into a brick wall. The punch of lust hit like a lightning strike. Colour suffused her cheeks, making the freckles flicker like the flames in the grate—and he had to stop himself from marching across the room and flinging her over his shoulder, to take her back to the bed she should still have been in.
Three thoughts hit him at once.
Why the heck did the spark of defiance in her eyes turn him on even more? How was he going to curb this hunger? Because he already knew no way in hell was two nights a week going to be enough. And why did it feel as if it wasn’t just the prospect of having sex with her again that was causing that deep throbbing ache in his gut?
But before he could even attempt to answer any of those questions, or demand to know why she hadn’t met him alone as he’d req
uested, a dark head popped up from behind her.
‘You came! You came! He came, Bronte. You said he would.’
High with excitement, the boy’s shouts were followed by the pounding of his feet as he leapt up and ran towards Lukas at full pelt, scattering the puzzle pieces and every one of Lukas’s thoughts, before thudding into him.
Lukas grunted, the child’s head just narrowly missing butting him right in the crotch.
The sturdy body felt warm and alive against his legs but as Lukas bent, trying to grab hold of the wriggling figure before he did any serious damage, the boy’s head lifted and he got his first good look at the child’s face.
The shock made him stiffen.
Gone was the pallor and fragility of three months ago. Thank God. But now the resemblance to Alexei—probably to himself too—was that much more startling and unnerving. A thousand memories bombarded him.
Of Alexei hooting with laughter as they raced each other, sliding down the bannisters of their father’s town house in Manhattan. Alexei’s screams echoing off the sidewalk as hard hands gripped Lukas’s arm and wrenched it so hard he passed out. Alexei crying, his fingers touching the bandages on Lukas’s face, as his brother snuggled next to him on his hospital bed.
Darker, more dangerous memories lurked at the edge of his consciousness—searing pain, the acrid smell of vomit and blood and urine, and the impenetrable terrifying darkness closing in on him.
He drew away from the boy, the fight to keep the memories back almost as huge as the gaping hole in his heart where his brother had once been.
‘Lukas, is everything okay?’ Bronte’s voice, gentle and thick with concern, beckoned him out of the darkness.
She came forward, the worry on her face reflecting his own shattered thoughts. Her hand rose, reaching out. And for one terrifying moment all he wanted was to grab hold of her fingers and have her pull him back towards the light.
