Explosive (18 page)

“I expect he’ll stay for a few days at least,” Sophie murmured as they began to sway gently on the porch swing.

“And am I right in calling him ‘your Thomas?’ ”

Sophie blinked and turned to face Daisy, who grinned at her knowingly. Her return smile was a little wistful.

“For a few days, at least,” Sophie repeated before her gaze returned to Thomas, who was now poking his hand in the depths of Sherman’s tackle box while Sherman enthused, undoubtedly about some fish story.

When the two men came up on the front porch later, the first words out of Sherman’s mouth were, “Thomas is going fishing with me tomorrow morning.”

Sophie’s eyebrows went up as she met Thomas’s stare. His only concession to her amused glance was a sparkle in his green eyes and a slight quirk of his lips.

They ended up spending a relaxing hour with the Dolans, sitting on the front porch and sipping sweet tea while Thomas, Sherman, and Daisy reminisced about the Morgan Park/Beverly neighborhood.

On the way home Thomas grasped her hand as they walked next to the gently swaying Queen Anne’s lace and orange tiger lilies that lined the road. She met his eyes and they shared a smile.

“You didn’t have to agree to go fishing with Sherm tomorrow morning. He gets up before dawn, you know. Just an apology would have been sufficient,” Sophie said.

He shrugged. “I wanted to do it. He’s a nice guy. Besides, I’m usually up early.”

At least lately, anyway
, Sophie thought to herself as she considered his insomnia.

“You remember a lot about Morgan Park,” she prompted softly, referring to his and the Dolans’ reminiscences about the close-knit, Southside Chicago bordering neighborhoods. Thomas had lived there until his parents’ deaths, when he was ten years old.

“Some,” Thomas murmured as he tracked a huge bumblebee with his eyes as it moved over some honeysuckle.

“And what about your parents?” His head swung around. “Do you remember them very well?” Sophie asked hesitantly.

“Yeah. I remember them.”

For a tense few seconds, Sophie thought he wasn’t going to say anything else, but then he surprised her.

“My mom grew up in Morgan Park, the only daughter of an Irish bricklayer. She met my dad during the Southside Irish parade; he was a rowdy teenager, a first generation Italian who didn’t know what to do when he stood in front of revolving doors for the first time. What he lacked in polish he made up for in street smarts. And in good looks, at least from my mother’s perspective, I’d guess.” He flashed her one of his rare grins and Sophie felt her heart leap in her chest.

“They used to listen to Elvis Presley. I remember my mom would tease my dad, saying that he looked like Elvis. I think there must have been some truth to it, too, because that’s how I remember him—dark, wavy, slicked back hair, dark complexion, a serious expression that completely vanished when he grinned—it was like the sun coming out after a storm.”

Sophie smiled.

“What?”

She shook her head. “If it weren’t for the ‘dark hair’ that would be a pretty good description of you, Thomas.”

He looked a little taken aback by her compliment, but then his grin widened. “Thanks.”

A pang of something powerful went through her when she saw how genuinely pleased he was to be compared to his biological father. Perhaps no one had ever told him that he resembled James Nicasio?

“You’re welcome. Do you have any pictures of your father?”

“I didn’t when I was growing up, but after I left the Navy and came back to Chicago, Rick and I did a little investigative work and were able to unearth a picture of him from an old Teamsters photo.” They paused on the narrow road while Thomas dug his wallet out of the cargo shorts he wore. Sophie couldn’t help thinking that it was odd that the Carlisles hadn’t supplied him with any photos of his parents; that he’d had to go searching for one as an adult.

He removed an aged newspaper clipping from his supple leather wallet and unfolded it, his long, blunt-tipped fingers moving with an agility and tenderness that belied their obvious strength.

Sophie took the piece of paper when he offered it and stared at a black-and-white photo of dozens of men. A man in the front row held a black-and-white sign that proclaimed them the Teamsters Local 126. When Thomas pointed, she drew the paper closer and examined the face of James Nicasio.

She smiled as she handed it back to him a moment later. “There’s a very strong resemblance between the two of you. He’s very handsome. So, he was a truck driver?”

Thomas nodded as he carefully—almost lovingly—refolded the paper. “He hauled steel and lumber.”

“Did he work for your adoptive father?”

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering about that. I was never really sure how you ended up with the Carlisles ...” Sophie let her voice trail off, hoping he’d fill in the rest.

“Joseph took me in after my parents were killed. He’s the kind of man who feels a lot of responsibility for the men who work for him and their families.”

“But what about your parents’ families? You mentioned that your mother grew up in Morgan Park?”

“Yeah, but my grandparents both died before I was eight. My mom was an only child.”

“And your father’s family?”

He shrugged. “He was an orphan. Like me. He ran away from the orphanage when he was thirteen, and he worked every day of his life after that.”

He tipped his wallet to carefully reinsert the fragile newspaper clipping. A gold object slipped out of one of the leather folds.

“What’s that?” Sophie asked, peering closer when Thomas caught it in his hand and opened his palm.

“It’s a ‘crab,’ my Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal badge,” Thomas murmured. He ran a fingertip over the wreath and the star of the insignia before he reinserted it into the fold and put away his wallet.

“You mean like . . . dismantling bombs?”

“Yeah, in part. Only if we could do it securely. If we couldn’t dismantle them, we’d detonate them safely. That was the fun part,” he told her with a sideways amused glance.

“It must have been very dangerous work,” Sophie said as they resumed walking. “Whatever made you decide to join a bomb squad?”

“I was a daredevil when I was a kid. Bit of an idiot, really.” When he noticed her wry expression he smiled. “I liked the challenge. It’s a difficult unit to get into. Besides . . . I wanted to play with all those cool disarming robots and high-tech toys.”

“But to have to disarm a
bomb
,” she said, the thought of it making her shiver.

“Disarming was only a small part of the job. We were usually searching and securing areas. It was a rarity to have to actually suit up and go down on a bomb.”

She glanced over at him sharply. His smile faded, and she knew he’d also thought of what he’d said to her earlier while he was so agitated in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry I said that. I was upset,” he said. “Foul things tend to come out of your mouth when you’re riled up and have a history of working with a bunch of guys who don’t even remember how to talk anything but dirty.”

She nodded and they continued to walk in thoughtful silence.

“Sophie?” Thomas asked after a minute.

“Yes?”

“How did you know I grew up in Morgan Park?”

His abrupt question startled her. “I . . . what do you mean?”

He nodded his head in the direction of the Dolans’ house. “Before we met up with Daisy back there, you mentioned that Daisy and Sherman had grown up in Beverly. You said it like you knew I’d grown up in Morgan Park; like you were trying to supply me with some common background to help ease things with the Dolans.”

Her mouth hung open. “I . . . I must have heard it somewhere . . . back at the office.”

“Who would be talking about where I grew up as a kid at the office? You and I didn’t even know each other that well until recently.”

Sophie met his sharp stare. For a moment, she wavered, wondering if she should tell him the truth about why she knew so much about his past. But something in his eyes—the hint of inner suffering and turmoil—made her retreat to a place of safety.

“Does it surprise you? You’re very good-looking, Thomas. You’re single. Lots of women in the building know who you are. People talk.”

“You’re saying some other woman told you about where I lived before I was ten years old?” he finally asked, his tone incredulous.

A bobwhite chirped its eternal question in the taut silence that followed.

“Actually, I think it was one of the doctors I work with who mentioned it. It was in the news back then, Thomas. People have long memories when it comes to something so tragic happening to a child.”

She turned and started to walk again, fearful he would see her pulse thrumming rapidly in her throat.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

Thankfully, Thomas didn’t pursue the line of questioning in regard to how she knew intimate details of his life. They spoke of inconsequential things as Sophie took him on her favorite long walk through the woods and they examined the ripeness of the blackberries in a tangled thicket.

On the walk back to the house, Sophie saw from her side vision Thomas place his fingers on his right temple and shut his eyes briefly.

“Headache?” she asked.

“No. I’m fine,” he replied gruffly, dropping his hand.

Sophie doubted that, but she was learning quickly enough that Thomas didn’t want the spotlight of attention turned on him when it came to the topic of his health—physical or mental.

“I’m going to make a marinade for the chicken breasts I’m grilling tonight. Why don’t you go down to the hammock and rest awhile. It’s very relaxing in the shade,” she said lightly. He didn’t reply, so she wasn’t sure if he thought she was patronizing him—treating him like a sick child—or not.

After returning to the house, she pulled out the ingredients she needed for the marinade and set them on the counter. While she was bending over to retrieve a container from a lower cabinet, Thomas came up behind her, his hard thighs brushing against her ass. When she straightened, his arms looped around her waist and he brought her against him. He leaned over her, his chin nuzzling her cheek. Something about Thomas’s embraces overwhelmed her a little, Sophie realized dazedly. He was so tall, so male. She felt enveloped in his arms.

He placed his lips on her neck, making her shiver in pleasure.

She turned her head and they shared a slow, hot kiss. Sophie felt his cock stir against her bottom.

He lifted his head and examined her in the dim light.

“What?” she whispered, sensing his indecision.

“I want to make love to you again,” he rasped.

“Oh,” Sophie mumbled. She set the plastic container on the cabinet clumsily, all too willing to put aside her cooking preparations if it meant quenching the sudden flame in Thomas’s dark green eyes as well as easing the growing ache between her thighs.

All that, just from one of his kisses.

Disappointment trickled into her awareness when he stepped away from her.

“But I have to admit, I’m a little tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he added, his voice thick with regret.

“I understand. Take a nap. It’ll do you good.”

He hesitated, his gaze fixed on her mouth. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” Sophie asked, confused.

“Why I want you so much. Constantly. It’s not normal.”

Sophie laughed. “The way you put it, I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

She’d been trying to lighten the moment, but it didn’t work. He just continued to study her soberly for a moment, as though he truly was trying to find the answer for the puzzle in her eyes . . . trying to discern her secrets. He finally shook his head slightly in frustration.

“Will you wake me up in a half hour or so?” he asked.

“Of course, if you like,” Sophie assured him.

He seemed to waver on his feet a moment before he leaned down and treated her to another bone-liquefying kiss. Sophie just stared at his retreating back as he walked away a moment later, her brain temporarily wiped clean of everything but the taste of Thomas.

She watched him through the picture window in the living room as she prepared the marinade. He kicked out of his newly bought tennis shoes, peeled off his socks, and then straddled the hammock with long legs before lifting his feet and swaying for a moment. He leaned back and brought up his feet, settling into the mesh rope cradle.

Sophie smiled to herself. She knew perfectly well what it was like to be suspended between the thick canopy of the two supporting maple trees, the lulling effect of staring up at patches of blue sky and puffy clouds while the summer breeze rocked you gently.

Thomas would be fast asleep in minutes.

She let him rest for more than an hour. She would have let him sleep longer, but he already was having difficulty getting a full night’s rest. He might suffer more acutely from his insomnia if he slept too long during the day. On the way back from setting out more food and some water for Guy she approached the hammock.

She studied his face for a moment before she caressed his cheek. The shade where he slept was relatively cool, but the day itself was warm. A light coat of perspiration dampened the hair at his temple. He didn’t stir when she brushed his hair off his forehead, attempting to cool him. She could tell by the movement of his eyes beneath the closed lids that he was dreaming.

“Thomas,” she called softly, beckoning him back to the realm of the waking world.

She squeaked in surprise when his hand jerked up, quick as a snake at the strike, gripping the forearm of her stroking hand in an ironlike hold. Her gaze shot to his face. His eyes were open, but she got the strange sensation that he wasn’t seeing her at all.

“Thomas. It’s just me,” she assured, recognizing a nightmare in the depths of his eyes. His vicelike grip on her didn’t lessen. “It’s
Sophie
, Thomas. Everything’s okay.”

She twisted her forearm, willing him to release his tight hold. At first, he didn’t relent. But then he glanced out at the golden lake and back to Sophie’s face.