* * *
Carly removed the necessary breakfast ingredients from the refrigerator. She didn’t want to analyze how much she’d enjoyed waking up with Mike beside her, or how relaxing she found making breakfast and knowing he’d be there to share it. Neither one could last.
More than once she stopped to pull down the blue oxford she had pilfered from Mike’s closet. He had wrestled her for it, and of course he had won. Which was why she now wore nothing beneath the denim shirt. She yanked at the hem, but it still only reached as far as midthigh.
Once she began the pancakes, she was grateful for the activity that took her mind off last night. Not only making love but the revelations. Everything about the dark night had inadvertently served to strengthen the emotional bond between them.
She cared for him deeply. When he left her, she would be hurt in a way she hadn’t believed possible. As much as she tried to convince herself that his departure was necessary for them both, the more time they spent together, the harder it was to believe.
Mike entered the kitchen to the delicious aroma of home cooking. The places he normally frequented lacked such a treat. Not only did the kitchen smell good but it felt good, too. Too good, too comfortable. “I guess you can cook.”
“You were worried? I should be insulted. Sit.” she waved a spatula in his direction.
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned.
“Mike?”
“What?”
She glanced in his direction, a serious glint in her eyes. “You told me why you’re in the Hamptons, but how’d you end up here? At the house?”
“On a hunch, I went to see your father at the office. I asked him for motel names.”
“I see.”
“He showed me a picture of your family. Taken here, I think.”
She turned her head. Her expression was unreadable.
Mike pushed on. “He keeps it on his desk.” The sound of oil in the frying pan drew their attention to the stove, and Carly turned to work on breakfast.
“Nice of him,” she said. “I wonder if it reminds him of happier times.” Sarcasm was evident in her voice. So was the hurt. Hurt he’d also seen in her father’s eyes.
He recalled the photo and the pained look in Carly’s young eyes. Happier times? He doubted it. He wanted to broach the subject without her declaring it off-limits. And maybe help her, as she’d helped him, to at least discuss the source of her fear. “He asked about you.”
“What did you tell him?” She flipped three pancakes over and transferred them to a dish beside the stove.
“Nothing. But he was concerned.”
Her snort of laughter seemed forced. “He’ll get over it. He’s still got his top associate, even if Peter won’t be his son-in-law.”
“Unfair, Carly. He told me he wanted to dump Peter on his partner-climbing ass. You talked him out of it. He seemed genuinely concerned about you, not Pete.”
She had finished the pancakes and added bacon to the frying pan. Her jerky motions were at odds with the casual air of indifference she tried to maintain.
“Tell me about it,” he urged.
Silence reigned until finally she spoke. “Remember what it was like being a kid?” she asked. “When life was one big illusion?”
“After my parents died, reality killed any hopes of that. Do you?” he asked.
“Yes. One day we were a happy family, no major problems that I knew of. The next we’re front-page news. Scandal of the year.” She plucked the half-cooked bacon off the pan and stacked it next to the pancakes. He didn’t see any reason to point that out. “Breakfast is served.” She executed a mock curtsy and placed his dish before him.
“Thanks.”
She smiled. “No problem. And because I like you, I caved in.” Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out a large pitcher. “Freshly squeezed. Never say I don’t accommodate you.”
“Who me?” he asked. “Never.”
He waited until she had seated herself across from him before continuing his questioning. “What kind of scandal?”
Her dark eyes met his, and though they beseeched him to drop the subject, he wanted her to unburden herself, to trust him enough to share her pain. “Well?”
“You should have been a cop,” she muttered. “You never give up.”
“I’m the next best thing to a journalist. What did you expect?”
She groaned and paused to eat something before beginning. “We lived in a small town in upstate New York. Everyone knew everyone else and gossip ran rampant. So when Roger Wexler, district attorney with political aspirations, hit the news he did it in style.”
She flicked her bangs out of her eyes and looked at him. He waited for her to continue in silence. “Want to take a guess?” she asked.