Fox said soberly, “Yeah. I do know.”
Phoebe glanced at him with suddenly sharp eyes. She opened her mouth—he knew she was going to start asking questions—so he swiveled around quickly and headed back to work.
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A half hour later he heard the baby start wailing again—followed by Phoebe’s slow, ever-patient, soothing voice and her ghastly off-key humming. A few minutes after that she showed up in the doorway.
“Are we going to be in your way if I give him a bath here, Fox?”
“No sweat.” He was nowhere ready for power-tool noise yet. He was still interpreting the plumbing instructions, laying out the fittings. And he kept at it, although he watched her from the corner of his eye and became more and more confused at what she was doing. She filled up the big claw-footed bathtub in the middle of the room. The location of the tub didn’t surprise him; he’d just figured she used it for physical therapy, but it was huge, hardly baby-size. He’d have thought the sink would be a lot easier way to bathe a baby that little. But he’d stopped talking by then, didn’t want to interfere, and truth to tell, he’d sunk into a skunky mood. Her comment had done it, the one about how the baby hadn’t found a reason for living.
His mind kept jolting back to the little dark-haired boy—the one in his nightmare, the one he’d tried to approach. The one he’d tried to show that there were people in this life who could be trusted, who wanted to help, who’d reach out. Everyone in his family and circle of friends had fought him about going into the military. They said it was a crazy choice for a man who hated guns, but they didn’t get it. That was the point. That he hated guns. That he loved children. If people didn’t stand up for kids, didn’t take a risk and reach out, how was anything going to change?
Aw, hell. Whenever his mind crept down those dark alleys, he always seemed to sink like a stone. He could feel the ugliness creeping inside him, the darkness he’d been trying to swim out of for weeks now.
Or at least he’d been trying to—since Phoebe.
And there she was, suddenly. When the tub was full, she stripped the baby of clothes and diaper—no surprise—but the surprise when she scooped the baby into her arms again and stepped into the tub.
His jaw dropped.
She wasn’t naked herself. She had on a little T-shirt and boxers. But he’d just never expected her to climb in the bath with the baby. The little one almost immediately stopped crying—possibly from shock, possibly because it liked the warm water. Who could guess?
But she laughed with delight, praising him softly, gently. “So is water going to be your Achilles’ heel, Manuel? Because if we’ve finally found out what turns you on, little one, we’re going to be wet a lot.…”
Finally he understood what she was doing. She’d already told him that her intent was to stay physically in touch with the baby 24/7 if possible; he just hadn’t realized that meantreally 24/7—that even in activities like a bath, the baby would have her to hold on to, like now. Naked as a newborn, he was lying on her tummy, feeling her security, her hands, the warmth of her heartbeat.
Fox’s pulse suddenly drummed, drummed. She was really a damned extraordinary woman. Her confidence with the baby, her endless patience, the love she gave so freely, so generously…God. It was no wonder he couldn’t help loving her. What human being couldnot love her?
But it still ripped through his mind that there’d been a time he’d had confidence and patience. A time he’d believed he even had a gift with kids. Kids had always been his calling. He’d really believed it.
But that sure as hell wasn’t true anymore.
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“Fox?”
He turned around at the doorway, carrying his jacket and tool box. “I didn’t want to interrupt the two of you. But I have to go.”
“Right this second? You weren’t going to say anything?”
“When the kid wasn’t crying?” He motioned toward the work corner. “I know I left it a complete mess, but I’ll be back later. I figured I’d just cover it up for now.” Both theoretically and symbolically, he thought.
“You’re due over tomorrow night for your session.”
“Yeah, I know.” But right then he felt the worst hell-hot headache coming on that he’d suffered in a while. He knew it was bad. The kind that would make him sick as a dog. He just wanted to get out of there and get home.
And right then he was unsure whether he was coming back. Ever.
Eight
Phoebe lit the melon-scented candle and blew out the match. She stepped back with her hands on her hips and surveyed the table worriedly. Mop and Duster both yipped, just in case she’d forgotten they were there. They certainly couldn’t forget the fabulous smells drifting from the stovetop, and for some God unknown reason, no one was giving them tidbits.
Phoebe had given the beggars plenty of treats, but right now she was too concerned about Fergus to concentrate on anything else.
The rap on the front door inspired the dogs to race, barking the whole time, to great the visitor. Phoebe had barely opened the door before they leaped on Fergus, but when he looked up from the petting frenzy, his eyes were definitely only on her.
“Iam due here tonight, right?”
“Right.” Sheknew how he could make her feel, yet still had to fight the rush and her zooming pulse rate.
Naturally he was surprised to find her dressed differently, because he never saw her in anything but loose-fitting clothes. Form-fitting attire would hardly work for a masseuse. Her soft black sweater and slacks were hardly sexy—she didn’t do sexy—but yeah, she’d made a different kind of effort tonight.
She still hadn’t put on shoes because she never wore
