Secrets and Sins:Raphael(26)

"Why do you throw out verbal bombs like that?" she murmured. "Like the zip code crack and now I'm calling you a rapist?"

"Just keeping us honest."

"I've never given you any indication that I cared about what side of  town you come from. Or that I believe you're anything but honorable. I  wouldn't be in your home if I didn't."

He didn't reply, and the silence seemed to expand until it filled the  room almost beyond capacity. Even in the shadowed room his eyes burned  into hers. She wanted to glance away from the intensity in the scrutiny  that was at complete odds with his closed expression. Just as she was  ready to … what? Retract what she said? Explain it? God, she didn't know.  But as she parted her lips, he bounded from the bed and left the room  with a "Be right back" tossed over his shoulder. Another flash of those  sexy tattoos, wide back, slim hips bared by the low-riding sweats, and  tight ass, and then he was gone.

She exhaled a deep breath-one she hadn't been aware she'd been holding.  God, the man didn't only endanger her heart but her lungs, too …

Whoa. Wait. Endanger her heart. Where the hell had that thought come  from? No, her heart wasn't in jeopardy. Not at all. After this was over,  she would walk away-she and her baby-and Raphael wouldn't so much as  stretch out one of those wide, long-fingered hands to stop her. She'd  interrupted his life with her announcement of an unplanned pregnancy and  crazy stalker. Yes, they'd had sex-the hottest, wildest sex of her  life-but he didn't want her. Not where it counted.                       
       
           



       

In spite of the stern lecture she'd administered herself, her belly executed a slow, sinuous somersault.

"Here."

She started, blinked before focusing on the mug of steaming liquid in  front of her face. Hell, she hadn't even heard him reenter the room. She  accepted the cup with a subdued "thanks," unwilling to meet his  all-seeing-all-knowing gaze in case he detected the thoughts tumbling  around in her skull.

"You didn't mention feeling sick, so I figured we'd head it off."  Raphael reclaimed his spot on her bed and wedged his shoulders up  against the headboard. He nodded toward the drink. "More ginger tea."

She'd swallowed her first sip of the tea she was fast becoming addicted  to when he crossed his arms and leveled one of his cut-the-bullshit  stares on her.

"What did you mean the headache was because of the murder?"

Did I say that? She rewound the time before she'd fallen asleep in her  head but couldn't pinpoint the memory of her revealing that bit of  information.

"I have no memory of what happened the night Gavin was killed. The last thing I remember is you dropping me off."

He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. "I know. We covered that."

"Lately I've been having nightmares. I can never remember them clearly  but … " She shivered, clutched the mug tighter. "In them I'm scared.  Terrified. And the headaches usually follow. The doctors said my memory  might come back in trickles or all of a sudden or even not at all. I  think the dreams are my memories returning."

Raphael swore softly. "Did a dream trigger the migraine that landed you in the hospital the other night?"

"Yes."

He frowned, his eyes narrowed as he rubbed a knuckle over his unpierced eyebrow. "Who knows about this?"

"The dreams and possible return of my memory?" He nodded. "Just Ethan and Noah. And now you. Why?"

"Nothing. Just thinking," he replied, but his frown remained in place, and he continued stroking his eyebrow.

"Why do you do that?"

He glanced at her, pausing mid-stroke. "Do what?"

"This." She mimicked the gesture. "I noticed you tend to do it when  you're thinking." Heat surged up her chest and flooded her face. She  wouldn't be surprised if her cheeks resembled a tomato. Awesome. Now he  knows I pay waaaay too much attention to his habits. She lifted the tea  and sipped long and deep, hoping the large mug hid her face.

She waited, expecting a mocking smirk or raised eyebrow right before a  heavy, telling silence. He did none of them. Instead he studied her, the  scrutiny hooded, long, and intense. She fought not to squirm, not to  dodge the weight of it. Even when he lowered his arm and cupped her  chin. Go figure. Her chin had never been an erogenous zone. But that was  BR: Before Raphael.

"Habit. It's a scar. A souvenir from dodging a beer bottle my father  threw at my head when he was drunk." He swept the pad of his thumb over  the small sickle-shaped scar on her chin. "How'd you get this?"

Shock slammed into her. He uttered the nonchalant confession as if  conveying the time of day. Oh my God. Without conscious permission, her  arm lifted, and her fingers brushed the dark arch over his eye. They  detected the small, hard ridge bisecting his brow. She firmed her lips  into a straight line. Either that or surrender to the impulse to kiss  the old wound that had to be a reminder of a painful, terrifying moment  in his life-no matter how dispassionate he seemed about it now.

"Princess?" He grazed another caress across her chin. "What about this?"

"Old playground injury," she whispered, then grasped his hand, slowly  tugged it away from her face. "What about these?" she asked, brushing  her thumb over the faded, thin pale lines marring his knuckles.

A ghost of a smile played with his lips. "Let's just say I wasn't always  the upstanding citizen you see before you now." When she snorted, he  shrugged. "I had my fair share of fights in high school. What happened  here?" He didn't remove his hand from her hold, but raised the other and  pressed it to her collarbone over a scar she'd long forgotten about.

"Scratch from the one and only dog I was allowed to have. A cute  midnight-black poodle I named Georgey." She huffed out a humorless  chuckle. "Georgey didn't last long in the Addison house though. Too loud  and messy."

God, she hadn't thought of the puppy in a long time. The three months  she'd owned him had been some of the happiest in her childhood.  Energetic, enthusiastic, and cheerful, he'd always been glad to see her  when she came home from school. Until the day she'd arrived and silence  had welcomed her. Without telling her, her mother had given the dog  away; his incessant yaps had worn on her nerves. And besides, Celeste  had added with a dismissive wave of her hand, at thirteen, Greer was too  old for a dog. She'd never asked for one-or anything else-from her  parents again.                       
       
           



       

She shook her head as if she could toss the somber recollection out of her head.

"What happened here?" She pointed to a two-inch thin line right above his abdomen.

"Knife wound."

"Are you kid-" Worry rushed through her. Jesus, what kind of life had he  led? The pain …  She rubbed the flat, shiny patch of skin, almost as if  she could soothe away the hurt it must've once caused.

"Actually it was a tragic accident involving my sister's Barbie, my  Matchbox car, and a small fire." He shrugged. "But the knife wound  sounded way cooler."

She gaped at him, trapped somewhere between laughing and kicking him off the bed. Hard.

"I know, I know"-he patted her thigh-"I'm an asshole. Where'd this one  come from?" He skimmed a finger over the flat, nearly imperceptible mark  above her knee. The injury was a very old one, but she remembered it as  if it'd happened seventeen minutes ago instead of years. She stroked  the scar. "Hey." He covered her hand with his, stilling her movement.  "Give."

If he'd tried to cajole her, or offer pretty words of assurance, she  would've resisted and kept the truth locked up inside. She didn't want  pity or sympathy; she wasn't broken or damaged. But the simple, low  demand to "give" contained a promise of safety for whatever she  revealed. No judgment, no condemnation. Just acceptance.

"When I was nine, I ran away from home. I didn't make it far, just to  the end of the block before the housekeeper-the housekeeper"-she emitted  a brittle laugh-"came after me. But by the time she found me, I had  tripped and cut my knee on a piece of glass. I had to go to the  emergency room for stitches, and she was fired."

"Why were you running away?"

She paused, removed her hand from under his, and clasped her fingers  together in her lap. "Because that afternoon my mother had come from a  meeting with my fourth-grade teacher who'd told her I was dyslexic. I  was afraid of my father's reaction, so I decided to run away rather than  face it."