Egan Cassidy's Kid. BEVERLY BARTON
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asking permission, Egan slipped his arms around her waist and held her, but didn’t tug her up against him. “You haven’t changed much, Maggie. You’re still… You’re even more beautiful than you were the first time I saw you.”
She told herself to move away from him, to demand that he release her and never touch her again. But she knew that all she had to do was slip out of his hold. His grip on her was tentative, featherlight and easily escaped.
Everything that was female within her longed to lean on him, to seek comfort and support in the power of his strong arms and big body. She was so alone and had been for what seemed like a lifetime. And who better than her son’s father to give her the solace she so desperately needed at a time like this?
Don’t succumb to this momentary weakness, to the seduction of Egan’s powerful presence and manly strength, an inner voice warned. If you do, you’ll regret it.
She lifted her gaze to meet Egan’s and almost drowned in the gentle, concerned depths of his gunmetal-gray eyes. “I have changed,” she told him. “I have very little in common with that starry-eyed, twenty-three-year-old girl who rushed into your arms…and into your bed, without a second thought.”
“I was very fond of that girl.” Regret edged Egan’s voice.
Fond of. Fond of. The words rang out inside her head like a blast from a loudspeaker. Oh, yes, he had been fond of her. And she had loved him. Madly. Passionately. With every beat of her foolish, young heart.
Maggie eased out of his grasp. He let her go, making no move to detain her flight. When she turned and walked away, he followed her.
“You put on the coffee,” she said, her back to him. “And I’ll make a couple of sandwiches.”
Egan went with her into the kitchen and although the room had been redecorated since his weeklong visit years ago, the warm hominess mixed quite well with the touch of elegance, just as the decor had back then. Creamy cabinetry, curtains and chairs contrasted sharply to the earthbrown walls, the brown-and-tan checkered chair cushions and dark oak of the wooden table.
He went over to the counter at the right of the sink and there, where she had always kept it, he found the coffee grinder. “You still keep the beans in the refrigerator?”
“Yes.” She didn’t glance his way. Instead she opened the refrigerator, retrieved the coffee beans and held them out to him, without once looking at him.
He grasped the jar, accepting her avoidance without comment, and pulled out a drawer, searching for a scoop. Then he asked her a question that had been bothering him. Tormenting him actually—ever since Cullen had told him that Maggie had married and divorced the man who had been her fiancé before Egan became her first lover.
“What happened with Gil Douglas?”
Maggie almost dropped the head of lettuce she held in her hand, but managed to grab the plastic container before it hit the floor. “Gil and I married when Bent was five.” After I’d given up all hope that you’d ever return to claim your son and me. “Gil and I managed to hold things together for five years and then we divorced.”
Beginning and end of story! Egan thought. Her meaning had been so clear that she might as well have made the statement.
“Gil adopted Bent?”
“Yes.” Maggie retrieved the makings for their sandwiches and dumped the ingredients on the work island directly across from the refrigerator.
Where was Bent right now? her heart cried. Was he hungry? Was he hurt? Was he frightened? Did he know that the lunatic who had kidnapped him intended to murder him?
“Are Gil and Bent close?” Egan asked. “Do they have a good father-son relationship?” His feelings were torn between hoping Gil was such a great dad that his son didn’t need him and wishing that he would have the opportunity to be a real father to Bent.
“Is Gil here, now, waiting with me, out of his mind with worry?” she asked, not the least bit of anger in her voice, only a sad resignation. “That should tell you what sort of relationship they have.”
“I assume Bent knows Gil isn’t his father.” Egan waited for her to respond. She didn’t. “Does he know…? Have you ever told him…? What I’m trying to say is—”
“He knows his father’s name is Egan Cassidy. Like you said, your name is on his birth certificate.” She opened the cellophane-wrapped loaf and pulled out four slices of wheat bread. “I’m afraid that I mixed truth with fiction when I told him about his conception.” She unscrewed the mayonnaise jar. “I told him that you and I had loved each other, but that we had ended our affair before I knew I was pregnant.”
Egan ground the coffee beans to a fine consistency, measured the correct amount, then dumped them into the filter. “What else did you tell him about me?”
Maggie searched a drawer in the island and brought out a knife, which she used to spread the mayonnaise on the bread. “I told him that you were a soldier of fortune who worked all over the world and that we had agreed there was no way a marriage between us would ever work.”
Egan filled the coffee carafe from the jug of spring water that rested on a stand in front of one floor-to-ceiling window. “You were generous, Maggie. More generous than I deserved.”
She washed the ripe tomato, placed it on the cutting board and sliced through the delicate skin. “I didn’t lie for you, Egan. I lied for Bent’s sake.”
Bent, her precious baby boy, who was alone and afraid. And probably asking why this had happened to him. Oh, God, where was he? And why hadn’t Grant Cullen contacted Egan? What was he waiting for? But she knew, as did Egan, that the man was prolonging their torture, savoring each moment he could make Egan suffer.
“Will Bent hate me when we meet?”
“You mean if you meet, don’t you?” Her hands trembled. The knife slipped and sliced into her finger. She cried out, startled by what she’d accidentally done to herself.
Egan rushed to her side, grabbed her hand and turned on the faucets of the island sink. Holding her injured finger under the cool running water, Egan said, “Cry, dammit, Maggie. Go ahead and cry!”
She snatched her hand from his and inspected the wound. Enough to require a bandage but not stitches, she surmised. “I’ll just wrap a piece of paper towel around it to stop the blood flow. Later, I’ll put a bandage on it.”
He stood by and watched her as she doctored her own cut, all the while wishing she would allow him to do it for her.
“Bent is safe,” Egan assured her. “And he’ll remain safe until Cullen has me right where he wants me.”
“Then don’t go.” Maggie shook her head, realizing how irrational her thoughts had become. “Don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Tears glistened in Maggie’s eyes. Egan wished to hell she’d just go ahead and break down. He’d rather see her screaming and throwing things than to see her like this. Deadly calm. Numb from pain.
If only she would let him hold her. But he knew better than to try again. Every time he got too close, she shoved him away. He was the one person on earth who could even begin to understand the agony she was experiencing, and yet he was the one person she wouldn’t allow herself to turn to for comfort.
The telephone rang. Egan froze to the spot. Maggie cried out, the sound a shocked, mournful gasp.
Egan walked over to the wall-mounted, brown telephone that hung between two glass-globed, brass sconces. With his stomach tied in knots and his hand unsteady, he lifted the receiver. Maggie hurried to his side.
“Cassidy here.”
Maggie grabbed his arm.
“Hello, buddy boy,” Grant Cullen said. “I’ve got somebody here who wants to talk to his mama.”