Redemption (34 page)

The consultation with Dr. Greenfield was no longer about the character Dylan McAllister; it was about Claire. The signs had been there all along. He remembered the way she flinched when he touched her, the guarded way she kept her feelings under wraps.

Tripper’s words came back to him: “Mom even keeps a gun in the closet,” and his assumption that his mother was afraid of his dad coming back.

He felt a chill chase down his spine. It wasn’t Tripper’s dad she was afraid of. Was the thought of her own father so frightening that she had once kept a gun, in case he ever showed up?

But then he remembered the flat sound of her voice when she had told him her parents were dead. Was that the truth or a convenient lie to explain why they weren’t a part of her and Tripper’s lives?

He would ask her, as soon as he saw her, remembering his last question for the doctor. “How do you go about getting them to open up—if you’re the one having the relationship with them?”

“That’s a good question,” Dr. Greenfield had said, thoughtfully stroking his beard. “Patience is the key. Patience and understanding. They need to know they won’t be abandoned emotionally. The physical scars will have healed, but emotionally, they’re very fragile. It may take years to build a trusting relationship.”

Years.
Jesus
. They had already wasted too much time.

Matt slammed on his brakes as a BMW cut in front of him.

In real life, the job of hero was not as straightforward as it was in front of a camera.

Somehow, he vowed, he would make Claire open up, make her realize that shedding light on the past would chase off the shadows and dissolve her nightmares.

Though it had been a nightmare that had sent her into his arms that night at the ranch, he didn’t want to simply play the role of ghostbuster. He wanted her to come to him without fear. More than anything, he wanted her to trust him—not just to keep her safe, but with her heart.

Because he had already entrusted his heart to her.

Claire took off the day Tripper was expected home. She cleaned with a frenzy, some part of her mind thinking her son would appreciate her housecleaning savvy and forgive her for every time she had lied to him.

Matt was dropping him off on his way to Louisiana, where he was expected to start serving his prison “sentence.” Claire had given up objecting to his method of research. After all, she had no right to care if he risked his life, as she herself had made perfectly clear in Montana.

When she heard them at the door, she pasted a smile on her face, hoping the trepidation in her heart was well hidden.

But her smile faltered when she opened the door. Matt handed her flowers, and for an instant she felt like crying. She suspected he had done it, however, to take the focus off Tripper’s lukewarm greeting. He barely glanced her way, and Claire hid her disappointment. She had known it would take more than a spotless house to redeem herself in her son’s eyes.

Matt tried hard to gloss over the tension, but they were both relieved when Tripper excused himself and went to his room.

Claire watched him disappear up the stairs, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Give him time.”

“I lied to him, Matt. He’s not going to forgive me for that.”

“How do you know?”

“I know my son—” she started to explain, but he cut her short.

“Tell me…Did you ever forgive your parents? For that lousy childhood they gave you?”

She looked away. “It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not. You were trying to protect him. What your parents did to you—”

“We’re not talking about what my parents did to me,” she said with what she hoped was a note of finality, laying the flowers on the table near the door.

“And why is that?”

In the mirror above the table, Claire could see a dogged expression on his face. She braced herself for another verbal skirmish.

“Because it’s not relevant. It’s Tripper who—”

“Tripper’s behaving like a spoiled brat.”

Spinning around, Claire gaped at him, shocked into silence.

“Face it, Claire, for years he’s been the focus of your life. Suddenly he finds out he could have had two parents, instead of one, doting on him all these years, and he’s a little angry. Who wouldn’t be? But that’s not a good reason to punish the one parent who cared enough to keep him safe the only way she knew how.”

Claire wanted to laugh. “Listen to yourself. You’re the one who wanted to sue me for everything I had only a few weeks ago!”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He crossed his arms across his chest.

“What’s the matter? Now that your son turns out to be ‘spoiled goods,’ have you decided fatherhood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” She glared at him. How dare he imply Tripper was spoiled!

“No, not at all. In fact, it’s turning out to be a hell of a lot better than I ever could have imagined. I love that kid, no question about it.” Her anger dissipated. She had to believe him, especially when he added, “And he isn’t spoiled; he’s just acting like he is. Momentarily. With encouragement from you.”

“Me!” She stared at him in disbelief.

“He’ll get over it as soon you quit acting like you deserve to be a finalist for worst parent of the year.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Claire. You might as well shave your head—like you did before, when you blamed yourself for Hayley’s death.”

“I didn’t blame myself for her death.”

“Then why the hell did you run off so fast? Just like you did two weeks ago. Rather than deal with your son—and deal with me—you left the scene of the crime. Convenient, isn’t it? Running away from those pesky little emotions. Guilt, love, anger—just push it all under the rug and forget about it.” He leaned in, his gaze too knowing.

She laughed bitterly. “I see you’ve picked up a degree in psychology. Congratulations.”

“As a matter of fact, I
have
talked to a psychologist. About adults who were abused as children, for the role I’m playing—”

“And now you’ve decided you can use your ‘expertise’ on me? How dare you—how
dare
you?” she repeated, wanting to aim daggers at him.

“Listen.” His voice calmed. “I know it’s a serious subject, one you don’t like talking about.”

“You’re exactly right.” She kept her voice hard, propelled by carefully contained fury. “I don’t talk about it. I don’t even think about it. And if you think I’m going to open up to you, just so you can understand your character better, you’re seriously mistaken.”

“God, is that what you think?” He shot her a look of disbelief. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t that how all this got started anyway? We took our roles just a little too seriously and ended up in bed.”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do. The truth is, we both want each other so much we melt cement. You push me away because you’re terrified of what I make you feel.”

“I don’t feel anything for you.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

She kept her face a porcelain mask. A challenge, she realized too late.

“Prove it to me, Claire. Convince me you can’t stand the sight of me.” His eyes lit with the confidence of someone who knew he could elicit passion from a lump of concrete.

Claire braced herself, like a sailor standing firm against the waves that crashed at the sides of the ship. This time she wouldn’t bend. He pulled her into his arms, and she didn’t move a millimeter as his mouth roamed over her lips. His hands, tracking hungrily over her waist, her stomach, and her breast, failed to stir so much as a shiver. But when he groaned against her throat, her breath caught.

“Damn you, Claire, don’t shut me out!”

She heard the pain in his voice and could feel herself weaken. She pushed against his chest, but he didn’t budge. Panicked now, she struggled harder, some primeval force rearing up and giving her a strength she didn’t know she possessed.

She wrenched her face away, pushing at his shoulders, and cried out, “Matt! Let me go!”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Tripper, at the bottom of the stairs, staring in the scene in the hall with alarm on his face.

Then with the force of a speeding basketball he hurled himself at his father. “Don’t you hurt her! You creep! She didn’t do anything to you!” he yelled, pulling at Matt’s arm. “Leave her alone!”

Tears streamed down his face, his fists merciless pistons against Matt’s broad chest. “You leave my mom alone! Don’t hurt her, you big jerk!”

Claire wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him back. “Oh, no, Tripper! Stop! Matt wasn’t hurting me! Oh, honey!”

He let her pull him off, finally, though he continued to glare at Matt. Claire wanted to erase the confusion and tears from his face, but she had lied to him about a father he barely knew. He turned and buried his head in her shoulder.

“I thought he was hurting you!” he cried, anguish ripping through his voice.

Claire fought back her own tears. “Oh, honey, your father didn’t hurt me,” she said. “He would never do that.” As she stroked his head, her gaze met Matt’s. His eyes were filled with remorse, his face ashen under his tan.

“God, Claire, I didn’t mean to come on like that.”

“You didn’t,” she said firmly. “I panicked. It’s okay,” she said to both of them. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

And as she smoothed Tripper’s hair back from his damp face, she knew it would be.

Matt was right. She had allowed Tripper to harbor his resentment toward her, inadvertently furthering the impression that he had every reason to hate her.

But deep down, the bonds between mother and son were stronger than she had imagined. Tripper would still take on a lion if he thought his mother was in danger—and, maybe, could even understand why she had gone to such lengths to protect him.

Another, more startling notion made its way to the surface. If her son was capable of forgiving her, was it even possible she could forgive herself?

Matt wasn’t able to stay long, he told them regretfully. He was due in Louisiana to begin his “incarceration.” More importantly, he knew Claire and Tripper needed some time alone, to reestablish the bonds that had been so strong before they were severed by the sharp edge of truth.

He was glad Tripper had come to his senses. Not only was he talking to his mother again, but after he realized he had misinterpreted what he had seen, he had apologized to Matt for trying to punch his lights out.

“No problem, son,” Matt replied easily. “The bruises will make me look tough in prison.”

Claire had turned away, but not before Matt had seen the look of worry on her face.

He tried to reassure her, but she simply smiled brightly and wished him a good trip.

Matt sighed. One day she would be ready to face her feelings, but for now, the last thing she needed was him breathing down her neck.

Chapter Twenty-Five

M
ATT
S
UCKED
I
N
H
IS
F
IRST
C
LEAN
B
REATH
in two days and blinked, his eyes still sensitive to the bright morning sunshine. The humidity of Louisiana in the spring was suffocating, but not nearly as stifling as the atmosphere inside Angola, where he had just spent the last twenty-four hours in solitary confinement. Though the prison officials had at first tried to give him the star treatment, Matt had made it clear that for the duration, he was to be subjected to the same conditions of a hardened criminal—though security guards had continued to watch at a distance.

Still, Matt knew Claire would have been horrified if she had known how exposed he had been as he mingled with the other prisoners.

He paused to wipe the moisture that clung to his brow. She cared about him, he was sure, more than she was willing to admit.

And now that he had an idea—or thought he did—of what Claire’s childhood had been like, he could understand why she didn’t want to risk having her heart torn to pieces.

Meanwhile, his own heart was getting used to running on empty. Since leaving her house, he had felt as if his left ventricle had been torn off. Although he was glad she and Tripper were on speaking terms again, he hated the thought that she didn’t trust him enough to open up.

But he’d done a lot of thinking while locked in a cell without so much as a pet cockroach for company. He was a patient guy—he’d wait her out. Sooner or later, she’d come to realize they deserved a shot at happiness.

Matt’s bodyguard opened the door of the car that would take him to New Orleans, where he had a meeting with the author of
Outrage
. He had chosen not to meet the real Dylan McAllister, knowing he would give a better performance if he imagined Dylan wearing his own skin.

The film would open with Dylan fighting for his life in a prison brawl. This time, the scar on his arm that makeup techs often attempted to hide would be appropriate for the part.