Seeing Red(99)

“I fantasized about that,” Trapper said in a drowsy voice.

He had already told her that her hair felt as silky against his belly as he’d imagined it would. Now he was sifting his fingers through it although it wasn’t completely dry. They had pulled back the covers and had gotten into bed. They were half lying, half propped against the headboard, legs braided together under the sheet, her head on his chest.

Idly she explored its contours. “You seem to have an extraordinary number of fantasies.”

“Guilty.”

“All of them erotic.”

“Got me again. But my fantasy women never had a face before.”

She stopped her play and tilted her head back to look at him.

“Recently,” he said, sweeping his thumb over her cheek, “the rock star of my fantasies has this bewitching beauty mark.”

She swallowed. “Does she?”

“Hmm. Eyes the color of a Hershey bar. And lips …” He rubbed the lower one. His voice dropped in pitch. “Two minutes after you knocked on the door of my office, I was fantasizing your mouth taking me.” He pressed her lower lip with his thumb. “I thought it was sexy then. Now … Damn.” He continued staring at her lips, gliding his thumb back and forth across the lower one.

Eventually, though, he withdrew his hand. His forehead furrowed. He cleared his throat. “Kerra—”

“You won’t respect me in the morning.”

He smiled, but his eyes remained serious. Realizing that he was done teasing, she moved off his chest and onto her own pillow.

“It’s about Marianne.”

“That’s none of my business, Trapper. I should have kept my observations to myself. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“But I want to explain, without losing my temper the way I did before.”

“Bad timing on my part. You were already mad at me.”

He acknowledged that with a nod, but she could tell that he wished to stay on track. He’d given thought to what he wanted to say, and he wanted, perhaps needed, to say it.

“Usually I don’t give a shit what anybody thinks about me, or what I do, or how I conduct myself. But since you’ve met Marianne, seen the kind of person she is, I want you to know how much I hate that she got hurt. No,” he said sternly. “That’s too lenient. I hate that I hurt her.”

He paused as though waiting for her to comment, but, when she didn’t, he continued. “But the way it turned out really was for the best. If she hadn’t miscarried, and we’d gotten married, it wouldn’t have changed the outcome, except that there would be another kid in the world growing up without a live-in daddy. Because eventually Marianne would have gotten sick of me and run me off, or I’d have left.

“Hank accused me of not caring about anything except myself and what’s eating me. I know that’s how it looks. To him. To everybody. But he’s wrong. I cared enough about Marianne to leave her. I knew if I didn’t, I’d make her miserable, and she deserved better.”

He inhaled deeply. “Sometimes I think about the baby we lost. Wonder if it was a boy or girl, if it would’ve looked like me. It haunts me some. But I believe it worked out the way it was supposed to. I’m not glad it happened. God, no, nothing like that. And I’m not rationalizing, I swear. I’m—”

“I know,” Kerra said, interrupting him. “I know you regret the temporary unhappiness you caused her. But you were right to leave. Marianne knew it was right, too.”

“How do you figure?”

“If she had believed you belonged together, she wouldn’t have let you leave. Did she go after you, ever reach out, try to contact you?”

He shook his head.

“If she’d really wanted you, you, warts and all, she would have fought like hell to keep you.”

She could tell by his expression that he’d never thought of it that way before. Relief flickered in his eyes. Then, in typical Trapper fashion, he dodged the seriousness of the subject with a quip. “I don’t have any warts.”

Kerra didn’t let him get away with it this time. “Come here.” She clasped his head between her hands and pulled it to her chest, then wrapped her arms around it. His arm closed around her waist and hugged tightly. Though his cheek rested on her breast, it was with intimacy of a different sort.

She studied the growth pattern of his hair on the crown of his head and kissed it. “Did The Major ever know about the miscarriage?”

“No.” He worked free of her embrace, making her wish she hadn’t asked. Back on his own pillow, he said, “My ‘skipping out on Marianne,’ as he put it, was one of the hot spots of our quarrel. The miscarriage would have confirmed his belief that I was throwing my life away on a fantasy. And not the erotic kind.”

“Have you checked on him today?”

“He’s been moved to a private room. I stopped by the hospital after I went to the house.”

She shook her head in confusion. “The Major’s house? Catch me up. Is that where you went after dumping me at the café?”

“I didn’t dump you. And, anyway, it was for your own good.”

“Well, I decided against it.”

“Yeah, and look where it landed you.”