Pursued(30)

And then she was on her knees in front of him, kissing and licking and  stroking as he called out her name. The sound burrowed inside her,  filled her up, filled her to bursting and her heart was so wide-open  that she felt it break in two even as he fell apart around her.





Fifteen

Nic woke alone.

Again.

At first he couldn't believe that she was really gone-how could he  after the night they'd had? She'd made love to him as if he was her  everything, as if he was the only thing, and he'd tried to make love to  her the same way. Tried to tell her with his actions what she wouldn't  yet believe if he told her in words-that he was in love with her. That  he wanted to spend the rest of his life making her, and the baby, as  happy as she made him.                       
       
           



       

Telling himself that she was up before the alarm only so she could  pack, he pulled on a pair of sweats and headed toward the kitchen to see  if maybe she was making a cup of tea for herself. Or breakfast. Or-

Except the kitchen was empty. As was the rest of the house-he knew  because, like an idiot, he checked every single room. She was in none of  them. And he didn't know why.

She hadn't seemed angry at Marc last night. He'd been furious at his  brother-was still furious-but she'd seemed strangely understanding. Had  even urged Nic to get over his anger and talk to Marc about what he'd  said, even though it was the last thing Nic wanted to do.

So why was she gone? Had he upset her somehow? Had he been too rough  with his lovemaking? Had he hurt her? Just the thought made him sick to  his stomach, and he headed back to his room to grab his phone and call  her.

But when he picked it up, he saw that she had beaten him to the punch.  There was a series of text messages from her that told him everything he  needed to know.

I'm sorry, Nic. This isn't working. I thought I could do this, but I  can't. I still plan to have the baby, and of course, you can have as  large or small a part in his life as you would like. But the whole  being-in-a-relationship, living-together thing … it just isn't for me.  I'll have your stuff delivered to your office this week. My only request  is that you don't contact me until I contact you. And I will, I  promise. Just not for a little while. Thank you for everything.

Don't contact me.

Thank you for everything.

Don't contact me.

Thank you for everything.

He read the message over a dozen times. Two dozen times. Until he had  it memorized so well that he didn't even need to look at it anymore and  still it played in his head.

This isn't working.

Don't contact me.

Thank you for everything.

Shocked and devastated-more devastated than he had any right to be  considering how little time he'd known her-he sank down onto the edge of  the bed with his head in his hands. And tried to figure out what the  hell had happened. What he'd done wrong. How he'd spooked her.

He was a savvy businessman and an even savvier student of human  nature-he had to be to do the job he did. And yet, this time, he had  nothing. Yes, Marc had attacked her at the gala, but she was the one who  had stopped Nic from defending her. She was the one who had defended  Marc, for God's sake. And even after that, she hadn't seemed to hold it  against Nic. Instead, she'd come home with him. She'd made love to him,  had let him make love to her. And it had been everything their first  night together had been, only more. Because this time they'd known it  meant something.

Or at least, he'd thought it had meant something. Now, sitting here in  an empty bed that still smelled of her, he wasn't sure it had meant  anything at all.

Suddenly, he wasn't sure of anything when it came to Desi and him and  the relationship he'd been trying so hard to build with her. For the  baby's sake … and for his.

Because he loved this woman, loved her more than he'd ever loved  anyone. And though a lot of people would say it was ridiculous to fall  in love with someone so quickly, he knew that wasn't the case. Because  he hadn't fallen in love with Desi over the past few days as they'd  tried to figure out what to do with the baby.

He'd fallen in love with her that night, nineteen weeks ago, when he'd  brought her home and made love to her as if his life depended on it.  Because, it turned out, it did. It really did. The life he wanted, the  life he was so desperate for-with her and him and their baby-did depend  on it.

And he would have sworn she felt it, too. If not that first night, then  certainly last night, when they'd made love again and again and again.  When he'd whispered in her ear and kissed her rounded stomach and nearly  cried with how right it had all felt. When he'd held her in his arms  and talked about anything and everything, including their baby and the  future that they shared.

Damn it, he couldn't have been that wrong. He couldn't have imagined  the look on her face or the love in her voice or the aching tenderness  of her touch. He couldn't have imagined all of that.

Which meant she hadn't answered all of his questions after all. Because  the one thing she was missing, the one answer she hadn't given him, was  why.

And as he sat there, smartphone clutched in his hand and his heart on the floor, he knew it was the only answer that mattered.



He got to her apartment-to their apartment-before she did.

As he bounded down the stairs from the roof, he prayed he wasn't too  late. That she would talk to him, listen to him and give him a chance to  somehow fix whatever had gone so terribly wrong.                       
       
           



       

He hit the apartment at a dead run, spent a good five minutes knocking  on the door-and listening for sounds within-as he pleaded with her to  let him in before it occurred to him that a helicopter was a lot faster  than a car and that Desi hadn't even made it home yet.

Once that realization dawned, he'd stood there for long seconds trying  to decide between respecting her wishes and waiting outside or going in  and having the element of surprise on his side. It wasn't much of a  debate-he needed every bit of help he could get.

He let himself into the apartment they'd managed to share successfully  for only a short while. Because he couldn't just sit-especially not on  Desi's hideously ugly and uncomfortable couch-he paced the apartment  while he waited, going over the arguments he'd formulated in his head on  the helicopter ride up. As he stood in her apartment, watching the sun  rise over the City of Angels, he couldn't help thinking that none of the  arguments were good enough.

He was desperately afraid that nothing was, that there would be no way  to convince her that he wanted her, that he needed her. That he loved  her.

He was still angsting over it, still trying to decide the best way to  make his case, when the front door opened. And then she was there, in  the foyer, staring at him with wide and exhausted eyes.

He stared back. He could do nothing else.

They stood like that for long seconds, staring at each other, a million  unspoken words and thoughts and feelings arcing between them like a  live wire.

And then she moved, breaking the connection between them as she dropped  her overnight bag on the floor at her feet. "What are you doing here?"  she asked.

"I came for you." It wasn't what he'd practiced, wasn't what he'd  planned to say at all. But it was real and it was honest, which was all  he had to give since she'd refused everything else.

She breathed out then, a long, slow thing that seemed to take more than  air. It took her bones, her muscles, her very will, too, because the  next thing he knew, she was slumped on the floor, sobbing into her  knees.

He was across the apartment in a moment, dropping beside her and  murmuring, "No, Desi, no. Baby, please don't cry. I'm sorry. Whatever it  is I did, I'm so, so sorry."

That only made her cry harder. He didn't know if it was emotional or  hormonal or a little bit of both, but it broke his heart to see her in  so much pain. Nearly killed him to think that he had somehow been the  cause of it. When he could take it no more, he ignored her hands pushing  him away and pulled her into his lap.

"Don't-"

"Shh," he told her, one hand cupping her head while the other stroked her back. "Just relax and let me take care of you."

"I don't need you to take care of me," she said even as her hands came up to curl in his shirt.

"Believe me, I am well aware of that fact." He continued to rock her  anyway. "But I need to hold you right now. Please, let me hold you."

She kept crying, but she didn't protest again. She just curled into a  ball on his lap and sobbed into his chest. And sobbed. And sobbed. And  sobbed.

When he could take it no more, when his heart was in danger of breaking  wide open under the force of her sorrow, he bent his head. Brushed soft  kisses over her temples and down her cheek. And pleaded, "Desi, please,  tell me what's wrong. Let me help. Please, sweetheart-"