Secrets and Sins:Raphael(44)

And they'd fucked up.

Even him.

He'd wounded her with his disbelief and mistrust.

"I thought you were kidding with that crack about the Die Hard movies,"  he muttered even as he smoothed a palm over her hair, drawing the heavy  chocolate strands out of her face and behind her shoulders. "How can you  not love this one? Give me one good reason why you don't. Just one."

She shrugged. "It's just not as smart as the first two. And Samuel L. Jackson yells through the whole movie. It's annoying."

If he were a lesser man, he might've gasped. Okay, maybe he did … a  little. "Are you crazy, woman? What about the bait-and-switch at the  end? Pure genius. And I'll have you know Willis and Jackson are an  awesome team. They play perfectly off each other."

"Han Solo and Luke Skywalker are an awesome team. Frodo and Sam are an awesome team. Bruce and Samuel L.? Not so much."

"You are so close to getting shoved off this bed," he growled. "Solo and  Skywalker. Okay, I give you that. But you can compare two dwarves with  huge hairy feet, a ring, and a volcano to action heroes, bombs, and a  raid on the freakin' Federal Reserve for the state of New York? Really?"

She snatched a small pillow from behind his back and smacked him on the  shoulder. "They were hobbits, not dwarves. And they saved all of Middle  Earth, not just a crapload of gold." The pillow thumped him in the  chest.

Like there was a difference? Dwarves? Hobbits? They were both short and  hairy. The woman was definitely crazy. "You have no soul. No patriotism.  John McClane saves the U.S. from terrorism over and over again. Why  don't you just say you hate hot dogs, flags, and the Pats?" he scoffed.  But when she blinked and stared at him, he groaned, smacking his  forehead in horror. "Are you kidding me? You live in Boston, for God's  sake!"

She smiled, sheepish. She damn well should be sheepish. "Tom Brady's hot."

"Tom. Brady's. Hot." Wow. "I can't believe I invited you inside my  house." He tossed her feathery weapon back at her. "As soon as that baby  is born, we're putting him in a silver-and-blue jersey. Stat."

The smile bled from her face, and his words seemed to echo in the room,  growing louder and louder with each second. Even a bomb blasting on the  screen faded into the background.

"We?" she asked softly … wistfully. "Don't worry. I won't hold you to that statement. It was just said in the moment."

He stared at her for several seconds, then swearing under his breath,  swung his legs over the side of the bed. Though the opposite wall filled  his vision, he didn't see it, didn't hear the television. The regret,  the apology, the … awful resignation in her expression blinded him, the  weary acceptance in her voice deafened him. Hold me to it, damn it, he  longed to shout at her. Longed to grab her by the shoulders and demand  she promise that his heart wouldn't be broken again. Vow she wouldn't  walk, taking his child and his fucking soul with her.

Ached to drag her over his lap, press her close, and believe.

Instead he propped his elbows on his thighs and dropped his head forward.

"What do you want from me, Greer?" he asked, the question so loaded it should have had a safety.

"The impossible?" she replied on the tail of a grim chuckle. "Your  trust, your faith in me? Rafe, we've only known each other for a short  length of time-really known each other. Yet you are the most honest,  real person I've ever met. I think that's what drew me to you. Why I did  something so totally alien and had a one-night stand. You desired me,  wanted to have sex with me. No lies, no lines. No agenda. You just put  it out there. I wasn't-I'm still not-used to that kind of honesty and  courage from other people … just myself. After my father's deceit, my  mother's willing blindness, and Ethan's denial about who he was, I  promised myself I wouldn't lie to myself or others. It was the only  control I had then. I've never lied to you, Rafe. Never. Not that night  in the bar, not since seeing you again, not about Gavin. You accept  there may be a possibility that you're the father of my baby. But if you  trusted me, believed in me, you'd know there isn't a possibility. Just a  certainty."                       
       
           



       

Trust? Only a few people had earned his unconditional trust. He studied  his hands as if they held the answers. As if text would suddenly appear  on his palms, instructing him how to find the damn balls to leap in  faith. He wanted to. Fuck, he wanted to! The need ripped at him, had him  dangling on a rope, one hand stretched out, but the other still  desperately clutching it, scared to fall …

"Seven years ago, I fell in love with a woman. We were from completely  different worlds-she was wealthy, from a prestigious family, a  socialite. Still we fell in love-or I fell in love. And she became  pregnant." He caught her soft gasp, but didn't turn around. He had to  force this out now. "I was so happy. The woman I planned on spending the  rest of my life with was having our baby. I enjoyed every minute of the  pregnancy, loved seeing her body change, watching the baby grow. And  when he was born … " He stopped, rubbed a knuckle over his eyebrow. So  many years ago and yet the faint echoes of that immense love for the  child he'd thought was his son continued to pulse within him. So did the  pain and grief of what followed. He inhaled a deep breath, released it.  "I … "

Slim thighs encased his. Soft breasts pressed against his back, and  strong, slender arms wrapped around him, fingers linking over his  abdomen. He stiffened; he hadn't detected movement behind him, hadn't  heard her shift across the bed. But when her embrace tightened, as if  telling him she refused to let go, the tension seeped from his body.  Since he'd turned fifteen had anyone just held him? Had he allowed  anyone to pull him close in comfort? Let himself be vulnerable enough to  be held? No. The answer bounced against his skull, loud and immediate.  Not even in sex. He'd convinced himself he didn't want it, didn't need  it.

But as she laid her cheek against his shoulder, he ached for it.

"The baby wasn't mine. The entire time she'd been seeing me, she'd also  been with another man. A man she ended up engaged to. For ten months,  I'd believed I was a father-could be the father I didn't have-to a son.  And after a paternity test, I had nothing except a pain I couldn't  outrun and believed I wouldn't survive."

"I'm so sorry, Raphael," she murmured, her voice vibrating over his  skin. "I'm sorry she lied and hurt you. I'm sorry I remind you of her  and that time in your life."

"No, baby." He grasped her hand, pressed a kiss to the center of the  palm. "You are nothing like her. Faced with everything you've endured  these months, she would've crumbled. But not you. You're stronger,  fearless even when scared. I loved her, but I don't think I can say I  admired her. You, though? I want to be you when I grow up."

She laughed, but it ended on a sigh that tore at his heart. Flipping the hand he held, she enclosed his in hers. And squeezed.

Several quiet moments later, her mouth brushed the top of his spine through his T-shirt. "Raphael?"

"Yeah?"

"You would've made a good father-you will make a good father." She  looped her free arm under his and cupped his shoulder. Pressed another  kiss there. "I don't know much about your childhood, about your father.  But you're not him. You're a protector, honorable. I feel sorry for any  person-man, woman, or child-who would dare hurt your son or daughter."  She softly snorted. "There'd be hell to pay."

He closed his eyes and tried to swallow past the constriction in his  throat. How had she known about the tiny kernel of doubt, of fear, that  he would be a complete fuck-up as a dad? If there was a time when his  dad had been loving and kind, Rafe had been too young to recall it. He  remembered the monster-and a part of him worried about becoming the  terror he despised.

"Damn straight," he rasped, opening his eyes, staring at their clasped hands. "I'd kick ass."

She disentangled her fingers and released his shoulder. With a soft  murmur, she stroked up his back, then retraced the path to his waist  where she slipped under his shirt. He hissed at the skin-on-skin  contact, loving her hands on him. Anywhere she wanted to touch. Along  his spine, over his abs, his chest. Her palms skimmed his nipples, and  he groaned as the caress arrowed straight to his cock, which leaped in  an ecstatic hell, yeah. When she eased her hands from under his shirt to  grab the hem and tug the black cotton over his head, he laughed. And if  it sounded a bit hoarse to his ears, well, fuck it. Her fingers circled  his nipples while her lips traced his spine. He was grateful he could  breathe, damn it.