His Partner's Wife (16 page)

He was still waiting patiently in the entry, leaning against
the wall, when Natalie came downstairs with a suitcase and a cat carrier. She
looked tired and subdued. His guilt made him wonder whether she'd noticed that
her clothes had been disarranged or the contents of her medicine cabinet
inspected. Had she known he would have to search her drawers, too? Or had it
never entered her head that he might be obligated to suspect her?

He hoped the latter. He didn't want her wondering
uncomfortably what he'd thought of her choice in lingerie.

Hell, he didn't like the fact that
he
was
wondering whether the bra she wore was anything like that lacy peach-colored
one.

John waited while Natalie locked up. He loaded her suitcase
and cat paraphernalia in the trunk of her car and then followed her home, where
he carried the bag and Sasha's belongings into the guest bedroom, untouched
since Natalie had left it only a few days ago.

"I should have changed the sheets," he apologized.

"Don't be silly." Natalie sank down on the bed as
if she didn't know what else to do. She was clutching the plastic cat carrier
as if it were a lifeline.

He guessed she hadn't done much sleeping last night, even
with him downstairs on the couch. What would she do if he sat next to her and
gathered her into his arms?

The very thought had him backing toward the door. "I'll
get dinner on."

Her eyes focused some. "I should help."

Oh, yeah. Having her brushing him as they passed in the
close confines of the kitchen, smiling, teasing him with words and scent, that
was just what he needed.

"I'm good. Take a nap if you want. I'll call when it's
ready."

"I'm a mooch." She looked ready to cry.

"You're a friend in need."

"No, I'm…"

On a burst of irritation, John said, "Fine. Knit me a
new sweater tomorrow. In the meantime, for God's sake, take a nap."

She was still staring at him when he stalked out.

In the kitchen he took his irrational frustration out on the
carrots, celery and green beans he chopped for a stir-fry meal. What was it
with her, anyway? Had she spent the past year figuring he was going to want
payback for every single damned thing he'd done for her? What did she think, that
he'd demand a romp in bed in return for painting her house and putting her up
in his guest room?

Wasn't a romp in bed exactly what was on his mind?
his conscience asked.

Not that way, he answered silently. Sex had to be given
freely or it was no good.

And he hated like hell the thought that she might offer
herself instead of a sweater, because she thought she owed him. Was that what
the kiss on his cheek had been, a first tentative offering?

He swore, his voice loud in the kitchen.

To save him from his bad mood, he heard his children coming
in the back way via the brick patio. Maddie's chatter was underscored by Evan's
squelched attempts to contribute and by Connor's slow, deep-voiced comments.
The door opened, the screen slammed, and the kids raced to him.

John set the wok on the countertop and turned to hug Maddie
and then swing Evan up in the air. "You guys have a good day?"

"Uncle Connor took us hiking. My feet hurt,"
Maddie announced.

Evan slid down his dad's body. "Mine, too."

She rolled her eyes. "
He
kept
wanting Uncle C to carry him."

"He's five," John said mildly. "Short
legs."

"He's a baby."

His brother grinned at him over their heads. "They got
along great all day long."

Great. Wonderful. They'd saved their pettishness for Daddy.
He gripped his patience and said, "Natalie is here. Let's try not to
squabble too much. She didn't sleep well last night."

Wide-eyed, his son said, "Uncle Connor says a bad man
sneaked into her house. Was she really, really scared?"

"You can ask her." John plugged in the wok and
reached for the vegetable oil. "Go wash up. Dinner will be ready in about
fifteen minutes."

They thundered out, arguing about who got the bathroom
first. If Natalie was napping, she wouldn't be for long.

"You're a lifesaver," he told his brother.

"We had fun." Connor pulled up a stool.
"They're good kids."

John knew what he meant by that. Connor had confessed before
that he found Maddie and Evan to be a nostrum for the cynicism that had begun
to beset him. "They're never quiet and pinched," he'd said.
"Their eyes are never filled with terrible anxiety."

"They worry about their mother," John had said
then, his own anxiety finding voice. "She's been stolen from them."

"But they see her, talk to her. Hey, you two are
divorced. If she was healthy, they'd be experiencing the same thing, only
you're the one they wouldn't see as often. The only difference is, you're the
custodial parent instead of her."

"And Mom can't come to open house at school or watch
Maddie's dance recital or Evan's T-ball game."

"But they understand why and she does what she
can," his quiet, down-to-earth brother had said.

Now Connor studied him shrewdly. "Tomorrow's your day
to take the kids to see Debbie, isn't it?"

John dumped the chicken into the wok with the hot oil.
"Yeah. Why?"

His brother shrugged. "Just asking. You're in a foul
mood."

"So?" His tone struck even him as belligerent.

"You always are the night before," Connor
observed.

John gave a short, unhappy laugh. "If we were still
married, she could be at home. I could pay for a nurse. She'd see her kids
every day, be part of their lives. She wouldn't be in this on her own."

"She's not on her own. She has her parents. And, yeah,
if you were still married, she could be at home. But you're not. You weren't when
she got sick."

In the turmoil he'd never managed to calm, John swore when
he stirred carelessly and oil splattered his hand. "She could still be
here. Maddie and Evan would have their mother."

Connor had heard it all before, said it all before, but he was
patient enough to repeat himself. "She's an adult. You cannot take
responsibility for her forever because you were once married."

"She's the mother of my children."

"What kind of life would you have if she lived here?
And would it really be best for the kids to live with the reality of oxygen
tanks and midnight crises and a nurse ruling their mother's life?"

The truth was, he didn't have a clue, never mind answers
that satisfied him.

"Here come the kids," his brother warned quietly.

Natalie was right behind them. Dark circles under her eyes
gave him a renewed pang of guilt. She might have gotten some sleep if he hadn't
been a jackass.

Dinner table conversation was carried by Connor and the
kids. Natalie tried but would lapse into silences from which she roused with an
obvious effort. Grateful for his brother's even-tempered presence, John figured
it was just as well if he kept his mouth shut. Guilt in its many-layered forms
was best not laid on others like a too-heavy quilt on a hot summer night that
made you sweat and itch.

Connor left right after dinner, saying a few low-voiced
words to Natalie on his way out. Maddie and Evan raced off to watch a rerun of
Full House.
Natalie
began automatically clearing the table.

"You don't have to…" John began.

She marched past him with dirty plates in her hands.
"Don't be silly."

Leave me in peace, he wanted to say, without knowing why she
disturbed his peace. Oh, hell, he thought irritably, he knew why she unsettled
him. Wanting a woman you couldn't have was never comfortable. What he didn't
get was why her, and why now.

And he didn't like the fact that the wanting wasn't as
simple as imagining her in his bed upstairs. Earlier, when he'd been talking to
Connor about all the reasons he should move Debbie out of that damned nursing
home into the spare bedroom, he'd faced a new dimension of guilt: he was
starting to picture Natalie here for good. No room for an invalid ex.

Out with the old, in with the new.

Irrational, of course, since he and Debbie had been divorced
for three years now. She hadn't begun to develop symptoms until later. Connor
was right. A man couldn't spend his life caring for his ex-wife, a woman he
often didn't even like.

Which didn't mean he couldn't feel guilty as hell over the
cards she'd been dealt. Here he was, lucky enough to have a job he loved, their
kids and his health. Dreams. She had a future in which remission was the best
she could hope for. Multiple sclerosis was not a kind disease.

"Connor accused me of being in a bad mood," he
said, following Natalie to the kitchen with dirty silverware and glasses.
"You've gotten the brunt of it. I'm sorry."

"No." She lowered the plates to the tiled
counter-top beside the sink and faced him. "You were right. What you said
earlier, I mean. I do hate being in debt to anyone."

He set down his load. "I don't like thinking we aren't
good enough friends for you to accept anything from me."

Her tongue touched her lips. "I've always known that
you were … well, taking care of me because of Stuart."

"Not true."

She studied him in perplexity. "Not?"

John opted for honesty. "At first, sure—Stuart was my
partner. If it had been me, he would have done what he could for my kids."

Her makeup was smudged, he saw, her tiredness giving her
fine-boned face a look of vulnerability. But her tone was steady. "That
makes you a good man."

He ignored that. "Within a few months, I did what I did
because you'd become a friend. Stuart and I were buddies because we were
partners. We never would have been otherwise. You, I can talk to. I thought you
felt the same."

"I did," she said softly. "I do."

He found his teeth gritting. "Then why the hell…"

"…can't I gracefully accept a helping hand?"
Natalie gave a twisted smile. "That's what I wanted to tell you. It
doesn't have anything to do with you. It was my stepfather."

She'd mentioned a mother and a sister. "I didn't know
you had one."

"He died a few years back. Lung cancer. He was a
smoker."

John absorbed that. "Is this a long story? Do you want
a cup of coffee?"

Her smile was a ghost of its usual, more vibrant self, but
it was something. "I should protest that coffee would keep me awake, but
the truth is, I don't think anything will keep my eyes open once I lay my head
down."

He mightily resisted the need to touch her, instead pouring
them both cups from the dregs in the pot. "You have circles under your
eyes."

"Even knowing you were there last night, I couldn't
stop listening. I almost came downstairs, but I thought maybe you were
asleep."

On a thrill of regret as well as alarm, John wondered, What
if she had? As close as he'd come to kissing her earlier, upstairs, what if he
had opened his eyes to find her standing in front of him in the darkness,
saying softly, "I can't sleep?" He'd have had to pull her down beside
him on the couch, hold her and comfort her as he would have Maddie after a
nightmare. Only, she wasn't Maddie and his body was still aroused. What
snatches of sleep he'd gotten had involved confused, erotic dreams. If Natalie
had suddenly been cuddled up to him, head on his shoulder, sweet scent in his
nostrils, his hands finding yielding flesh, would he have been able to be
nothing but a friend?

He was intensely grateful that he didn't have to find out.

"You could have come," he said anyway.

"I thought…" She blushed. "Never mind."

"You'd be bothering me?" Was this more of the
same? She couldn't ask for anything from him, even simple comfort?