The Street Where She Lives

He stared at her for a beat, then grimaced. Shoving his hands through his hair, he turned in a slow circle, then faced her again. “Rachel.” Just that, just her name, in a voice as tortured as her insides felt.

“Forget it,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Just forget it.”

“You know I had to leave back then. I had the offer of a lifetime. You know that. But I never meant to do it without you, it never occurred to me that I’d have to. That you’d send me away.”

She knew her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Knowing that her heart was in her voice, she said, “And it never occurred to you that I had to stay, every bit as much as you had to go.”

“Rach,” he whispered again and stepped closer. He slid his fingers along her jaw, beneath the straw hat she wore over her extremely short hair. His thumb gently glided along her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Me, too,” she said softly, and meant it. So sorry.

He let out a slow breath. “So.”

“So,” she repeated, and had to let out a little smile.

His returning smile stole her breath. He hitched his head toward the table. “Think we can manage?”

“We can try.”

“Good.” He slipped his arm around her bad side, gently pulling her snug against him so that as they turned toward the table and started walking, he was her cane.

“What’s cooking?” she asked, trying not to think about how hard he felt from shoulder to thigh, how warm. How positively solid. She concentrated on something else instead-the itching beneath the cast, the residual heat of the day.

“Well, now.” He tipped his head down to hers, his mouth curving into a smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

He sat her down, scooted her chair in for her then moved to his side of the table. Shrugging out of his long- sleeved shirt, he set it over the back of his chair and sat as well. “Hungry?” Before she could answer, he pulled the lid off the steaming platter. Mac and cheese.

Not that Rachel wasn’t grateful for any meal that she didn’t have to cook, but she knew Ben’s culinary skills and had to admit to surprise over the simplistic menu.

“Looks great,” he said, and smiled one of his killer smiles.

In spite of herself, she laughed. “Didn’t it look great before?”

“Before?”

“When you cooked it, Ben.”

His smile froze a little. “But I didn’t cook it.”

“But…I didn’t either.”

“Sure you did. I got your note.” He pulled it out of the pocket of the shirt on the back of his chair. The piece of paper looked suspiciously like hers.

She stared at it in disbelief, then pulled out hers and handed it to him.

After reading it, he tossed his head back and laughed.

Rachel, who didn’t think this was funny in the least, sat back. Her daughter had struck again.

Ben just laughed some more. “You have to admit, she got us.”

“Oh, she got us. And I’m going to get her.”

“How can you not find this funny?”

That was simple. Everything in her life was out of her control, including this, and she deeply resented that. With a shiver, she imagined what could have happened tonight if the truth hadn’t been discovered, if she’d continued to believe Ben had set this all up himself. She shivered again, and with a frown Ben stood up and grabbed his shirt from the back of his chair. “Here,” he said, and draped it over her shoulders.

Encompassed in his warmth, she closed her eyes when his hands lingered over her shoulders, gently squeezing and massaging the tightness of her muscles there.

“Rach…” His mouth was by her ear so that she could feel his warm breath against her sensitive skin. If she hadn’t learned the truth, she’d probably have melted back against him, let herself get lost in what he was so silently offering, lost in a way she hadn’t allowed herself since…him.

Damn it. Straightening away, she grabbed her fork.

“All right.” He pulled away with a low chuckle. “I can take a hint.”

“If I’d been hinting, I’d have picked up the knife.”

He smiled and served them both. Lifting the crystal water glass, he toasted her. “To our ingenious daughter.”

“Should we really toast her antics?”

His eyes were warm and laughing, and yet behind that was something else, something that took her breath with its heat and intensity. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “And here’s to something else, Rach. Here’s to us.”

“While you’re here.”

“While I’m here,” he agreed.

She ignored the hitch in her heart and nodded lightly. “Okay. Then here’s to us not killing each other for the duration.”

He grinned.

Suddenly starving, she leaned into the table to eat. In the breast pocket of Ben’s shirt a paper crinkled, poking her through the material. Thinking her daughter had been meddling even further, she pulled out the folded paper, opened it and read what was on it. “Dear Ben, Do you think you’ve paid? Don’t stop watching, waiting…I surely won’t.”

Ben came out of his chair the moment he saw what Rachel had, but it was too late.

She lifted her head and pierced him with horror-filled eyes. “What is this?”

Cursing himself would do no good, lying to her even less, though Ben considered both. Would have done either if he could have gotten away with it, but Rachel would have seen right through him.

Still, he might have tried if it wasn’t for one thing.

He owed her the truth, probably should have given it to her long ago. Carefully he took Asada’s letter back, folded it again and put it in the pocket of his jeans.

“Ben.” Her voice shook. “Are you in trouble?”

He scratched his jaw and considered that. “Aren’t I usually?”

“Ben.”

“Yeah. I’m, uh, thinking about how to start.”

“From the beginning,” she suggested, her voice a little thin. “Who wrote that letter? My God, is someone stalking you? Are you in danger? Could you be hurt?”

He stared at her, stunned by the realizations that she was shaking, pale, terrified…for him. She thought he was in danger…

Planting her cane, she went to rise out of her chair, but he stopped her, and went to his knees before her so that their faces were level. “I’m sorry you found out like this.”

“Just tell me,” she begged. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Yeah, okay.” He put his hand on her casted arm, imagined himself being struck by the car that had hit her. Imagined the pain, the fear, the subsequent nightmare of the long hospital stay. Imagined all she’d been through since, and tried to figure out how to tell her that the true hell could be just beginning. Oh, and that it was his fault.

“About six months ago,” he started. “I was looking for a new story.”

When she nodded, silently urging him on, clearly still worried about him, he felt sick. “I found an American retreat based in Brazil, where the so-called minister raised money there for what he called his missions of hope. He solicited unsuspecting, generous patrons from all around the world, raising millions.”

“I read that piece,” she said. “Instead of building and feeding villages with all that money, he pocketed everything, right?”

She’d read it. She’d followed his work. Probably not the smartest time for him to be both blown away and flattered by that.

“You exposed the international scam,” she continued. “And the guy went to prison.”

“Manuel Asada, and yes, once in prison, he lost everything. His people, his empire, everything. He…” Ben drew a deep breath. “He vowed revenge on me for destroying his world.”