Читать книгу: «Wrong Twin, Right Man», страница 3

Chapter Three

He had loved Beth.

He needed to remember that, Rafe knew.

He needed to hold on to whatever he could, if he was going to get through this cemetery visit.

“You don’t have to drive me,” Anne had told him early this morning, as if she might have seen some sign of the uneasiness that had haunted him all night. “I can always get a cab from the physical therapy clinic.”

But that wasn’t how Beth would want her sister cared for, he knew. And he needed to care for somebody.

Especially after how badly he’d failed his wife. Letting her think the street kids mattered more than she did, letting her leave on vacation without making the time to fix things…

“No, I’ll take you,” he’d told Anne, and now they were almost to the Fairlawn Memorial Park.

With a bouquet of yellow roses and a wildflower wreath on the seat between them.

“I really appreciate this,” she said. “I know you’ve got a lot of work backed up.”

He did, but this visit mattered more. Because Anne needed this trip.

“No problem,” Rafe assured her, pulling into a parking space. “It’s been twelve days since the funeral, and I should’ve come before now.”

But she surprised him with a quick gesture, laying her hand on his arm as if to cut off the very thought. “Not if it tears you up inside. Beth wouldn’t want that.”

No, she wouldn’t. Not Beth.

If this visit tore him up inside, though, it was no more than he deserved for letting her leave with things still uneasy between them.

And besides, he could handle it. As long as he had Anne to look after, there was no risk of breaking down.

Even so, accompanying her across the endless lawn to Beth’s grave cost him more self-control than he’d anticipated. And Anne seemed to realize that he wasn’t quite as strong as he’d hoped, because she made no attempt to engage him in conversation.

Without speaking, he placed his sheaf of yellow roses by the headstone and retreated to give her some time alone with Beth’s memory. Yet after a few minutes of what looked like silent prayer, she turned to him without even wiping away the tears on her cheeks.

“Rafe,” she said softly, “you have a right to feel bad, too.”

“I know.” But crying wasn’t an option. He swallowed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s okay.”

“I mean,” she faltered, addressing the flowers in her hands as if meeting his gaze might be too intimate, “I know you feel like you have to look out for me, but if you need a shoulder to cry on…I can look out for you, too.”

“That’s okay,” he said hastily. This trip was for Anne, not himself, but it was kind of her to make such an offer. “Thanks.”

She seemed to realize that he didn’t need comforting, because without another word she turned back to the grave and gently laid her own flowers next to his. Then she stayed still, probably saying goodbye to her sister in her own way, which Rafe hoped would take a while.

Because he needed to get himself back in control. Back to the kind of strength he’d relied on for years, the kind that kept him looking out for whoever needed protection.

Which didn’t include Rafe Montoya.

No matter what Anne thought. But since she wouldn’t be around for long, anyway, there was no point in explaining that he didn’t need a shoulder to cry on.

Never had, never would.

So get yourself together.

It helped to remember the day of the funeral, Rafe discovered, mentally reviewing all the mourners he’d seen around the closed casket. Beth’s friends from the quilt shop. The whole crew from Legalismo, because he hadn’t thought to insist on keeping the clinic open. A couple of former clients. Their old neighbors from across the street, the Harts, Roger and Linda and Marci and Jim….

“Thanks for bringing me,” Anne said, startling him with the realization that he’d completely lost track of the present. But apparently she had finished crying, leaving her wreath behind, because she was standing beside him and looking a lot more composed. As if she’d unloaded whatever grief was haunting her. “I needed to say goodbye.”

“I’m glad it helped,” he managed to answer as they started back toward the car. Back to real life, with its ongoing list of demands. Which reminded him of the guy who’d come in this morning, worried about his girlfriend taking their baby to Mexico. “Listen, if I go back to work tonight, will you be okay?”

She shot him a surprised glance. “Of course.”

Maybe he was judging all women by Beth, who’d hated it when he stayed late at the clinic. “You sure? I don’t want to leave you alone if you need—”

“A shoulder to cry on?”

He hadn’t even thought of that, but of course he’d be there for her if she needed to cry. “Well, yeah,” he said, reaching for his car keys. “Whatever I can do.”

Anne waited until he’d opened her door before fixing him with a wry gaze. “Kind of a one-way street we’ve got here, isn’t it?”

What, just because he wouldn’t cry on her shoulder? “Look,” he explained, holding his hands out in case she needed assistance, “I take care of people. I don’t need people taking care of me.”

She settled into her seat without taking his hand, moving so much more easily than yesterday that he felt a jolt of admiration for the physical therapist. “Ever?”

“Well, not since I was a kid.” Not since his mother had fled the burden of caretaking. Not since he’d learned it was all his fault.

Anne reached for her seat belt, flinching a little as she stretched her arm back, and returned her gaze to his. “Tell me about when you were a kid.”

Maybe she thought it would help him let go of some old grief or something, but he couldn’t expect her to enjoy hearing about his childhood in the barrios of L.A.

“That’s a story for some other time,” Rafe said lightly, closing her door and moving to his own side of the car.

But as soon as he took his seat, Anne shifted her posture as if to get a better look at him. “All right,” she said, and in her voice he heard the same determination he used to hear from Beth, whenever she tried to nurture him. “I’ll make sure and ask some other time.”

Some other time took a few days to arrive, but she wasn’t going to let him out of talking about his life. Not when, Anne suspected, this man was carrying more grief than anyone should have to carry alone.

So when Rafe picked her up after her last therapy session of the week and apologized for having to return to the clinic as soon as he dropped her off, she told him to skip the trip home. “I’ll just go with you,” she said, and felt a shimmer of satisfaction when he turned the car around.

Maybe a visit to Legalismo would give her the chance to help Rafe Montoya.

Because there was something bothering him, she knew. And if she could encourage him to talk about it—not directly, not when he’d made it clear that he didn’t need any nurturing—she might feel more capable of honoring Beth’s wishes.

Her sister wanted the people she loved to be taken care of, and Rafe needed someone to talk to.

There wasn’t much time for talk, though, she discovered when they arrived at the clinic and he introduced her to Oscar, a threatening-looking teenager who was evidently helping him replace a window.

“Only one bullet,” Oscar told him, fingering a dent in the wall behind Rafe’s desk. “Good aim, that’s all.”

Anne swallowed a gasp. “Somebody shot at you?”

“No, we were closed,” Rafe said, rolling up his sleeves while Oscar removed a sheet of cardboard from the window frame. “This happened last night, I just never got time today.”

He sounded as matter-of-fact as if the window had been shattered by a baseball, but apparently her start of alarm raised a red flag, because he turned to her with his usual swift offer of aid.

“Why don’t I take you home and come back later? You don’t need to wait around here.”

“No, that’s okay.” If she waited, it would give her a chance to read the Legalismo flyers she’d seen on the battered coffee table. And that, in turn, might give her some clue to drawing out this man. “Really, I’m fine. You guys go ahead and fix things.”

“This won’t take long,” Rafe promised as he and Oscar turned their attention to the pane of glass in the corner, so she returned to the lobby with its green plastic sofa and dented folding chairs. And by the time she made her way through the company-history brochure, halfway listening to the dialogue in Rafe’s office, she found herself more intrigued than ever.

How did he do that? she wondered. How did a Law Review attorney, regardless of his past experience, keep up such a natural, easy conversation with a gang-tattooed boy who responded only in monosyllables?

How could Rafe do such a breathtaking job of caring for everyone around him, and refuse to accept any support for himself?

And why should she care?

But she did, Anne knew, even though she had never been much of a nurturer. That was Beth’s role, while hers was to succeed in the world. Yet maybe the loss of her sister had made a difference in her priorities…because right now this man’s welfare mattered far more than any business.

More than anything, she wanted to give him a chance to let down his guard.

“Thanks,” she heard him tell Oscar, who came back through the lobby and headed outside without even a glance at her. All right, they must be finished—which meant she could start another attempt at looking out for the man her sister had loved.

“I didn’t think lawyers could install windows,” she told Rafe when he came down the hall, buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Depends on where they practice,” he replied, then shot her a quick grin as he wiped a streak of plaster dust off his face. A simple gesture, but one which—without any warning—suddenly made her heart skip a beat. “We’re in a pretty good location for this part of town, but bulletproof glass would be nice.”

Anne caught her breath. She had no business reacting to the sight of this man—not even in the context of physical labor, which made her more aware of his powerful body—with such raw, primitive yearning.

“Is it safe,” she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal, “working here?”

“Pretty much.” He evidently hadn’t noticed any flush of warmth on her skin, for which she could only be grateful, because he was moving with his usual unconscious grace. Opening the door, reversing a sign, twisting home the lock. “I won’t let the interns work alone, but I’ve never had any problems.”

She was supposed to be offering support, here, but for the moment all her carefully rehearsed openings had vanished, leaving her with a faster pulse and the desire to blurt out any question, any distraction she could think of. “Uh, do your clients carry guns?”

Rafe held up the No Drugs/No Weapons sign he’d just removed from the door and set it on the coffee table. “Not inside,” he announced, then glanced back at his office. “I just need to grab a few things, and we’re out of here.”

“Take your time,” she told him, and used the free minute to steady her breathing, pressing her hands against her thighs until she felt herself edging back into common sense. Enough so that by the time he returned with a handful of file folders, she was able to ask a casual question.

“Was this a pretty typical day?”

“Well, it’s not every day we have to replace a window.” He gave her an apologetic smile as he turned toward the ancient answering machine on the front desk. “Sorry that took so long.”

“No, I enjoyed seeing you in action.” Which wasn’t what she’d meant to say! Although she had enjoyed hearing his conversation, even before he came down the hall adjusting his shirt—and she’d better change the subject fast. “Is Oscar some kind of an assistant or something?”

Rafe picked up the machine and shook it until a red light came on. “I’m just keeping an eye on him.”

“How come?”

“He reminds me of myself, I guess.” He met her gaze with the same half confident, half defiant expression she’d noticed the other day, then set the machine back in place. “I’d like to see him get out of here.”

So her impression of Oscar as the dangerous type had been valid, Anne realized. Because according to the company brochure, Rafe himself had grown up as a gang member in Los Angeles…until his last juvenile conviction had started him down the road toward rehab, law school and the crusade to help kids like those he’d done time with.

“I saw that fund-raising story about your background,” she told him, and saw his posture stiffen as he headed down the hall.

“That was Peter’s idea,” he said, snapping off the light switch at the end of the hallway. “Guy who put up the money. He said we’d get a lot more donations if people saw a poster child make good.”

Although his face was obscured by the shadows as he came back toward the lobby, she heard the thread of uneasiness in his voice. “How do you feel,” Anne asked, “about being a poster child?”

He hesitated for a moment, then she saw his expression grow more determined, more resolute as he came into the light.

“It gets the job done.”

And getting the job done, she suspected, was worth any amount of sacrifice. If he was ashamed of his past, the way she suspected from the sound of his voice, he wouldn’t let that interfere with helping Legalismo.

“This really matters to you,” she said softly, “doesn’t it.”

“Yeah.” Rafe moved past her toward the desk, where he retrieved what looked like an appointment book from the center drawer and reached for a pencil. “I want to get some of these kids on track.”

“Who did that for you?”

“Lot of people,” he answered without looking up from the page. “I’m still paying it back.”

Which would explain his passion for the job, and why Beth had complained that he put his crusade ahead of his marriage. But paying back implied a time limit, which she couldn’t remember her sister mentioning. “For how long?”

He glanced at her then, checking off one last name on the page. “Beth always asked that, too.”

Maybe because she’d recognized that Rafe was already doing more for the world than it had done for him. “And what did you tell her?”

Shutting the appointment book, he slid it back into the drawer and straightened up. “Long as I can do somebody some good,” he said, reaching for his keys. “These kids—somebody’s gotta be there for ’em.”

It looked like he was getting ready to lock up, but she hated to leave right now. Not when a glimpse of his personality was almost within reach.

“Was anybody there for you?” she asked as he locked the desk drawer. And when he didn’t answer, she offered a prompt. “Your parents?”

“My mom took off when I was three.” He glanced around the room, as if making sure all the closing chores were complete. “My dad left me with a neighbor who left me with Aunt Nita, who left me with my grandfather, who—” Then he broke off, as if only now realizing what a narration he’d begun. “Long story. Anyway, you ready to go?”

No, although clearly his chores were finished. But they couldn’t leave with his story hanging in limbo like that, because finally she might be near his motivation to avoid needing anyone. “How many people left you?” Anne blurted.

“What, you want a head count?” He sounded amused rather than annoyed, but he made no attempt to offer a count. “It was a long time ago.”

All right, then. She wasn’t going to push for whatever lay behind that nonchalant defense…at least not now. Instead, she reached for her purse, then caught her breath. Cindy had warned her not to sit still for more than five or ten minutes without shifting her posture, but she hadn’t realized how much that warning mattered.

Because right now she couldn’t stand up without Rafe’s help.

Although helping her up probably wouldn’t affect him one bit, since he’d been touching her with such casual courtesy all along. She just needed to forget that bizarre moment of longing, which had swept through her a few minutes ago, and focus instead on—

On—

Oh, the business. Legalismo.

“Rafe,” she said hastily as he came toward her, “I should have told you this sooner, but I really admire what you’re doing here.”

“Ah. Thanks.” He leaned down, offering her his hands for as solid a grip as she needed, and as she rose from her seat she saw more warmth in his gaze than she’d ever noticed before.

“I mean,” she faltered, “you’re really making a difference in the world.”

Why that statement should affect him so strongly she wasn’t quite certain, but she saw an unmistakable glow of pleasure in his eyes as she recovered her balance.

“That means a lot,” he said, keeping hold of her hands until she felt the pulse of warmth between them swirling even higher, then quickly letting her go. “Thanks.”

It shouldn’t mean so much that somebody admired his work, Rafe told himself, handing his card to the judge’s clerk. Anne was just being polite, same as all the well-meaning donors who raved about the importance of saving kids from gangs.

But somehow her acknowledgment, coming from a woman so much like the one who’d resented his passion for Legalismo, made him smile every time he remembered it.

Like now, while he was waiting for Diego’s file, and mentally replaying this morning’s conversation with the physical therapist.

“Anne is terrific,” Cindy had told them both. “Lucky in the first place, yes, but also a really dedicated worker. And doing so well, she can start driving anytime now.”

Which was great, since he’d had to work around her schedule no matter how often she insisted she could take a cab.

But in a way, he would miss the conversations they’d shared on the way to her morning sessions and on the way home at night—

“Here you go,” the clerk told him, and he jerked his attention back to the judge’s office.

“Thanks,” Rafe muttered, and headed outside. His next mission was to check for messages, see if Anne was doing okay. See if she needed a ride home yet. She’d promised to call when she was ready to leave, but his cell phone had to stay silent in the judge’s chambers.

It rang the moment he switched it back on, and he felt a flash of pleasure before realizing that such intense happiness didn’t make sense. This might not even be Anne.

And even if it was, so what? The woman was his sister-in-law!

The caller, though, was the newest intern at Legalismo, Heidi, who had drawn front-desk duty for the day.

“I just thought you should know,” she told him, “someone called about the train crash. They’re returning Beth’s luggage, so I told them to bring it here.”

Real life couldn’t have intervened at a better time, Rafe decided. He needed a reminder of Beth right now, before he found himself edging toward fantasies that were completely out of line.

“If you want,” Heidi continued, “I can just put everything in the storage room until you’re ready. Because I remember when my dad died, it took my mom a long time to go through his things.”

That hadn’t struck him as a problem, although he’d been living with Beth’s things all along. He’d actually been seeing Beth’s face and her body and her clothes on Anne every day, so seeing the clothes she’d taken to California shouldn’t be any different.

“It’s okay,” he said, “I’ll swing by on the way home. Did they mention finding Anne’s things?”

“No, just Beth’s. I don’t think they’re very well organized.”

Anne might regret not having her own clothes back, although that would likely happen within the next few days. Meanwhile, there was no point in mentioning the find. He could go through Beth’s luggage on his own.

But it surprised him that night, handling the clothes from his wife’s severely battered suitcase, how much her scent resembled Anne’s. Maybe that was always the case with twins, but somehow he’d never noticed the similarity between his wife’s personal fragrance and her sister’s.

Which was something he needed to forget.

Because thinking that way about Anne was completely unacceptable.

Rafe picked up another shirt, caught Anne’s scent again and closed his eyes. He’d loved Beth, not her sister, so these feelings were way out of line. It would be one thing if he’d accidentally mistaken Anne for her twin—which people probably did all the time—but he knew perfectly well who was in the guest room down the hall.

And he couldn’t let himself think about her.

He had to focus on his wife.

Finding Beth’s silver earrings in the pouch made it easier, because he immediately flashed back to the first time they’d exchanged Christmas gifts. She had loved the earrings, put them on immediately, and insisted he open his instant camera right away so he could take a picture of her wearing “the best present ever.”

They’d taken the camera with them on a picnic that afternoon, enjoying the winter sunshine that turned Sabino Canyon into a haven for hikers, and found a secluded clearing where their picnic had turned into a memorable celebration.

It would’ve been memorable even without the mesquite fiasco, but that had provided a note of drama when they wound up rolling off their blanket and into a low-branched tree…which left scrapes that neither of them noticed until much later. Rafe had used the last of their water to clean the gouge on her thigh, which left a faint scar that she called her “picnic souvenir,” and it became one of his favorite places to kiss.

Because it always made her laugh. And then she’d pretend to tickle him, and he’d pretend to fight her off, and—

God, he missed her!

Beth was the woman he had loved, no question, and they’d shared some wonderful times. For nearly three years, he’d been closer to her than anyone he’d ever known, building a life together which exceeded his oldest dreams. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, not with all the hours he worked, but even so their marriage had been the best relationship he’d ever shared.

The best of his life…

With a sigh he set her silver earrings on the dresser, then her bag of cosmetics, then rummaged in the side pocket of the suitcase and found only a few items left. A hotel postcard. A golf pencil. A crumpled flyer from the train dining car, where he knew she’d planned to share an end-of-vacation breakfast with Anne.

And on the back of the flyer, he saw Beth’s writing.

It would be sweet if she’d started a letter to him and forgotten to mail it. Like finding an unexpected gift from his wife. Rafe smoothed out the paper and gazed at her handwriting, which formed an uneven headline on the page.

Pros & Cons of Staying Married/Getting Divorced.

What?

He squinted at it again, trying to come up with some reason this was okay—like if she was helping a friend with a troubled marriage, or taking notes while watching a talk show. But already his eyes were betraying him, racing down the list of pros and cons, and he felt a hollow ache creeping through his bones.

Beth’s life lay before him, and it looked like she hadn’t wanted him there. Because…

Lonely.

The word was a condemnation, appearing at the top of each column. She might be lonely without him if they got divorced—but apparently she was just as lonely being married.

Rafe crumpled the paper in his fists, then jerked it open again. He’d failed her worse than he realized by insisting they could wait for a baby, failed her right here in black and white, and the least he could do was to read what he’d done. So he gritted his teeth and stared at the list.

Doesn’t want a family.

Never home.

Never talk.

Doesn’t care.

God, was that what she thought? She must have, because balanced against the considerations of “keep marriage vows” and “not sell the house,” the reasons for divorce stood out far more clearly.

No baby.

No sharing.

No time.

But he had tried, damn it! He’d spent time with her, making a special point of it whenever things got too busy at the clinic. He’d set aside evenings for dinner with Beth, worked at keeping the conversation entertaining—none of the grim details that polluted his days—and he would’ve sworn that she’d enjoyed those nights as much as he did.

So how could she say there was no sharing? No intimacy? He’d given Beth more of his heart and soul than he’d ever given anyone, and it still—

It still wasn’t enough.

And now it would never be enough.

Rafe threw the paper into the suitcase, then slammed the lid shut. Yanked it off the bed and hurled it onto the floor. Swore without even hearing himself, kicked the suitcase under the bed, but it wouldn’t fit—damn it, nothing fit, nothing worked!—so he jerked it up, cursing again—but now there was something burning his throat, his lungs, not even his voice was working right—and then he saw Anne hesitating at the door.

“Rafe,” she asked, “are you all right?”

That was a stupid question, Anne realized as soon as she asked it. Nobody swearing with such harsh ferocity could possibly be all right. And he looked awful, balanced on some sizzling edge between anger and pain.

“No,” he muttered, lifting a hand as if to warn her from coming any closer. “Just—”

If he thought she would leave him this way, the man didn’t know her very well. Anne took a few steps toward him, knowing she was safe in spite of his rage, and wished she’d moved faster when she first heard him slamming things.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

To her relief, he didn’t even attempt a pretense that everything was fine. Instead he set down the suitcase he’d been kicking a moment ago, and she saw in his posture the raw anguish of defeat.

“She was leaving me,” he blurted, yanking open the scorched lid and reaching inside for a crumpled piece of paper. “Beth. She didn’t want to be married.”

“Oh, no.” She felt a sinking sensation in her chest, a mixture of sorrow and disbelief. It didn’t seem possible Beth would leave him, not when it was obvious how much he’d loved her. Besides, anyone married to a man like Rafe Montoya— “No.”

“I thought,” he began, then faltered. “We had some problems, yeah. But I never thought—” He gestured with the letter, gripping it so tightly his hands looked white. “She wrote it all down.”

What, a letter instead of a goodbye? “That doesn’t sound like Beth,” Anne protested as he returned the page to the suitcase with abrupt, almost jerky movements. “I can’t believe she would’ve left you with just a note.”

“No,” he agreed with an edge of bitterness in his voice, “she would’ve told me in person. She wouldn’t just…walk off.” Then, as if the phrase had triggered some unbearable memory, he covered his face with his hands. “God.”

Nobody should have to endure this kind of heartbreak, and yet she couldn’t even think of how to comfort him. “Oh, Rafe.”

“I never—” He drew a shuddering breath and looked up again, his eyes stark with devastation. “She never knew I loved her.”

But that didn’t seem possible, either. Anyone loved by this man would surely feel the passion in him. “She must have.”

“Not well enough,” he said bleakly. “I couldn’t do it.” Which didn’t make sense—anyone could see he loved his wife, but already he was turning up his hands in an expression of futility. “I’ve never been any good at…at…”

She couldn’t let him start running himself down, Anne thought. Not when he was already hurting so badly, and not when it was patently wrong. “You’re good at a lot of things!”

“Not this.” He sounded so certain that she caught her breath. And he must have seen her getting ready to protest, because he interrupted with a ragged explanation. “Not loving. She wanted more than I could give her, and I never even saw it.”

“Rafe…”

“I can’t do it!” he cried, and for a moment she heard his soul straining against its usual barrier. “I don’t have the…the heart, the love, the—” Then he broke off, as if only now realizing how much he’d revealed to a virtual stranger, and closed his eyes for a moment. “God, I’m sorry. Don’t let me dump all this on you.”

He was ready to retreat behind his defiant self-confidence again, and Anne took a step closer to him. “I wish you would,” she said gently.

“I just…” He drew a shaky breath, then stopped. Hesitated. Tried another breath, and she reached to draw him toward her.

“Rafe, you need to let yourself grieve.”

With a shuddering gasp, he stumbled into her arms, and she held him as close as she could. If he would just let go, just let himself cry….

“I can’t,” he choked.

“It’s okay,” she murmured in an effort at reassurance. For a man this strong to break down, he would have to feel incredibly desperate—and incredibly safe. But if only she could give him that safety…. “It’s okay to hurt,” Anne said softly. “It’s okay to cry.”

He buried his face against her shoulder, but she could still feel the resistance in him. “No—”

“It’s okay,” she repeated, and felt a searing compassion rising inside her. “Oh, Rafe…”

And then, as if something inside him had snapped, he let go a harsh breath—took another—held it for a brief, unsteady moment—and started to cry. Choking back sobs, struggling for breath, while she held him and whispered a litany of comfort. Of consolation, of tenderness, of all the reassurance and warmth and care she could offer. “Rafe, it’s okay. Oh, Rafe…”

“I can’t,” he repeated, and she cradled him against her, stroking his hair, feeling his arms encircling her shoulders as if he needed all the support he could get. She would give it, gladly—and he must have sensed that here was the security he needed to let go, because finally he was abandoning any attempt at regaining control and letting himself give way to grief.

Raw, harsh grief. From a man who lived behind such solid strength that he’d probably never allowed it, never permitted the wall around his heart to crack. But now he was clinging to her with the same ferocity she’d glimpsed whenever he faced a challenge, holding her as desperately as a lifeline, and she held him with all her heart, anchoring his body, rubbing his back, smoothing his shoulders, bolstering his soul. Promising safety, promising warmth, promising whatever he needed to get through this torrent of grief and betrayal and loss.