Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(95)

I had never heard him so utterly humble, never imagined it was possible. I guided his face to mine until our noses almost touched. "I need you for a lot of things, Hardy. A lifetime's worth of things."

He kissed me with surprising strength, his mouth warm and demanding.

"I love you," I whispered. And it was a testament to the man's considerable vigor that in spite of blood loss, drugs, and a distinctly unromantic hospital setting, he put some serious moves on me.

"Don't," I said with a shaky laugh as his free hand wandered boldly over my front. "We'll set off the cardiac monitor. And they'll kick me out for compromising your recovery."

But Hardy paid no attention, of course, doing exactly as he pleased.

"You know," I said, arching a little as he kissed my neck, "I told the hospital staff I was your fiancée, so they'd let me stay in here with you."

"I'd hate to make a liar out of you." Hardy smoothed my hair back. "But after what happened last night, you're feeling grateful, and I don't want to take advantage. So tomorrow, when the gratitude's worn off . . . I'll probably ask you to marry me."

"I'll probably say yes," I told him.

Hardy brought my forehead to his, and I was lost in the brilliant blue depths of his eyes.

"Soon?" he whispered against my lips. "As soon as you want."

It occurred to me in retrospect that I probably should have been nervous about getting married again, in light of my past experiences. But everything was different with Hardy. His love came with no strings attached, which I thought was the greatest gift one human being could give to another.

"You know," I told him on our wedding night, "I'm just as much me when I'm with you, as I am without you."

And because Hardy understood what I meant, he pulled me into his arms, against his heart.

EPILOGUE

"He's on the phone, Mrs. Cates," Hardy's secretary says. "But he said to send you in as soon as you got here."

I'm at Hardy's high-rise office on Fannin, an aluminum and glass building that looks like two puzzle pieces put together. "Thanks," I tell the secretary, and I go to my husband's door and let myself in.

Hardy is at his desk, his suit jacket tossed carelessly over a chair. His tie is loose and his shirt sleeves are rolled up over heavy-muscled forearms, as if he's tried to make himself more comfortable in the confining business attire. Roughneck, I think, with a pang of possessive pleasure.

We've been married for nearly a year, and I still can't get used to the fact that he's mine. It's nothing like the marriage I had with Nick in any way, shape, or form. Nick is no longer a threat to me or anyone, having been convicted of two counts of aggravated assault and sent to Texarkana. And Vanessa Flint ended up leaving Houston. The last I heard, she was the assistant manager at a fertilizer company in Marfa.

I don't spend much time dwelling on the past. One of the blessings human beings take for granted is the ability to remember pain without re-feeling it. The pain of physical wounds is long gone for both Hardy and me. And the other kind of hurt, the damage done to our spirits, has been healed. We are careful with those scarred places in each other. And we delight in a marriage that the two of us are creating, deepening, every day.

" . . . want you to pin 'em down on exactly what kind of fluid they're planning to pump into that crack," Hardy says.

I bite back a grin, thinking by now I should be used to the filthy-sounding oil business lingo.

" . . . I'm less concerned with the flow rate than the additives they use." Hardy pauses to listen. "Yeah, well, I don't give a damn about stimulation technology secrets. It's my ass the EPA will come after if there's ground water contamination, and — "

He breaks off as he sees me, and a slow, dazzling smile crosses his face, the one that never fails to make me a little light-headed. "Let's finish this later," he says into the phone. "Something's come up. Okay."

Setting the phone aside, Hardy walks around the desk. He half sits, half leans on the edge, and reaches to pull me between his thighs. "Brown-eyed girl," he murmurs, kissing me.

"Stimulation technology?" I ask, looping my arms around his neck.

"Ways of getting hard-to-reach oil out of low permeability reservoirs," he explains. "You inject fluids into the wellbore hole until they widen underground cracks enough to let the oil out." His hands coast over my sides and hips. "We're working with a new hydraulic fracturing group."

"You could have finished your conversation," I tell him.

"I wouldn't want you to be bored."

"Not at all. I love hearing you talk about business, it always sounds so risqué."

"I don't know exactly what risqué means," Hardy returns, his hand wandering down to my bottom, "but I think I've done it a few times."

I mold myself against him. "Suggestive of sexual impropriety," I explain. "You've been risqué your entire adult life."

His blue eyes sparkle. "But now only with you." He kisses me slowly, as if the point needs demonstrating. "Haven, sweetheart . . . how did the appointment go?"

We've been talking lately about the possibility of having a baby. Hardy seems willing but cautious, while I've been feeling what must be a biological imperative. I want a baby with him. I want our own family. And whatever life has in store for us, I know we'll deal with it together.