Fallen Angels. Lori Foster
her face up to his. “Now or later, Angel, what difference does it make? I want to meet him. I promise, I’ll bring him to you.”
She bit her lip and her eyes were dark with wariness, but she apparently realized there would be no contest if they tried to match strength or wills. At least, not at the moment. He had the feeling, on a better day, her strength would amaze him.
Dane stared a second more, wishing there was a simpler way to reassure her, then went to fetch the baby. He followed the sounds of the cries to where Grayson was making his discontent known. When Dane entered the room he was assailed by the scent of powder and baby lotion, soft soothing scents. Grayson’s pudgy arms and legs churned ferociously, and with incredible care, Dane lifted him to his shoulder. The baby was soaking wet.
Cloth diapers and plastic pants were on top of a dresser, along with a few folded gowns. Dane scooped up what he thought he might need and went back to the main room and the worried mother. Angel immediately reached her arms out.
“No, he’s soaked, which means I’m soaked. No reason for both of us to become soggy. I think if you talk me through it, I can get him changed.”
Angel’s mouth fell open and she stared at him as if he’d grown an extra nose. He smiled at her reaction.
She looked dumbfounded and utterly speechless.
“I know,” he said, grinning, “changing diapers isn’t part of my established repertoire, either. But I’m efficient at adapting.”
In the short time he’d known her, she’d thrown him off balance more times than he cared to think about; it was only fair that he get a little retaliation when and where he could.
He didn’t know a hell of a lot about babies, but he figured now was as good a time as any to learn. “Where should I put him to clean him up?”
Finally managing to close her mouth, Angel fretted, then pointed to a table. “There’s a plastic changing pad there. You can put him on that and change him.”
“Good enough.” Dane shook out the padded plastic sheet with one hand, spread it out on the table, and carefully laid Grayson down. The baby wasn’t pleased with delayed gratification, so Dane hurried. With Angel’s instructions, he got the baby diapered and dried and redressed, all in under five minutes which he considered a major accomplishment. Grayson had stopped squalling, but he still fussed, one fist flailing the air, occasionally getting caught in his mouth for a slurpy suck or two.
This time when Angel held out her arms, Dane handed the baby to her. The entire right side of his shirt was wet and clinging to his chest.
She looked away, pressing her face against the baby. “He’s hungry.”
“Do you want me to get him a bottle?”
“No.” Angel cleared her throat, then said, “He’s…breast-fed. I just…need a little privacy.”
“Oh. Oh.” Dane looked at her breasts, imagined the process, and didn’t want to take so much as a single step from the room. He also couldn’t bear to hear the baby whimpering. “I’ll, uh, just go in the kitchen and try to rinse out my shirt.”
“You do that. And stay in there while it dries.”
He leaned down and caught her chin. Her eyes opened wide on his and she drew in a deep startled breath. “All right. But don’t always expect me to follow orders, honey. You’re going to have to get used to me being here.” Knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself, he leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to her mouth. It felt damn good. He walked out while she sputtered.
He wanted to kiss her again, as a starting point, knowing where they’d finish. He wanted to show her he was no sloth in bed, contrary to her damn misconception. He wanted to find out the truth about his brother’s death and her involvement with him, and he wanted to protect her and take care of her and Grayson. There were a lot of wants piling up on him too quickly and contradicting each other.
Christ, what had his brother gotten into?
He pulled off his shirt and rinsed the damp spot under running water, then wrung it out and hung it over a chair to dry. The apartment, thankfully, wasn’t cold. He scratched his bare chest and looked around.
Her tiny kitchen was all but empty. The cabinets held the essentials, but not much else. With further inspection, he found the refrigerator was in similar shape. Dane frowned, then began snooping. Hell, maybe he should call her Mother Hubbard.
The conclusion he came to was not a happy one. Damn the little idiot, she should have contacted him sooner, before she got in such miserable shape. He immediately snatched that thought back because if she’d tried, she would have encountered his family, and the mere thought made him queasy. She was right to fear them.
He had wondered what she was after, why she’d come to him if indeed marriage wasn’t her goal. Now he assumed sheer desperation had been her motive. She needed financial help, and as the baby’s father, he could give it. She was proud, and she claimed to have already suffered several rejections from Derek, a possibility that made Dane so angry he wanted to howl. But pride was no replacement for desperation, especially with a baby to think about. But if that’s all it had been, then why hadn’t she simply said so? Why come on to him, pretend she still cared?
He sat in a kitchen chair, stewing, listening to her murmur to the baby, hearing the sweet huskiness of her voice. Goose bumps rose on the back of his neck. He called out, “Angel, why don’t you use disposable diapers? Aren’t they easier?”
There was a hesitation before she said, “I don’t like them.”
Which he translated to mean they cost too much. His fingertips tapped on the tabletop, followed by his fist. “Where did you take therapy for your leg?” He hoped it was someplace close, so she hadn’t had to travel too far.
There was mumbling that he couldn’t decipher, then she said, “I didn’t take therapy. And what do you know about it anyway?”
He stiffened. No therapy? With a lot of effort, he curbed his temper. “I’ve seen similar breaks. I recognize the incisions on your ankle and knee where they inserted the titanium rod. It was a hell of a break, so I know damn well therapy was suggested.”
Silence. He almost growled. He did stand to pace. “How long ago were you hurt, Angel, and don’t you dare tell me it isn’t any of my damn business!”
Another pause, and a very small voice. “A couple of months ago.”
It took him a second, and then he was out of the kitchen, stalking back to the couch to loom over her. She took one fascinated look at his naked chest, squeaked, and pulled her flannel shirt over her exposed breast as much as possible. Grayson’s small fist pushed the shirt aside again. But Dane was keeping his gaze resolutely on Angel’s face anyway. In a soft, menacing tone, he asked, “A couple of months ago, as in when the baby was born?”
She gave a small nod. “Grayson was early, by a little more than six weeks. The accident started my labor.”
His insides twisted and he could barely force the words out. “Who took care of you?” He drew a breath and felt his nostrils flare. “Who helped you when you were in the hospital? When you first came home?”
Her gaze shifted away and she smoothed her hand over the baby’s head, ruffling his few glossy curls. The sound of the baby’s sucking was loud and voracious. “There was no one, Derek, you know that. No family, no close friends. Grayson and I helped each other.”
Without meaning to, without even wanting to, he looked at the baby. Grayson’s small mouth eagerly drew on her nipple while a tiny fist pressed to her pale breast. His eyes were closed, his small body cradled comfortably to Angel’s. Dane felt a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit and had to turn away.
So he’d seen her breast? So what. He’d seen plenty in his day, just never any with a baby attached. He didn’t feel what he should have felt at the sight of her pale flesh, which was