Chapter Seven

While she hated the latest argument with Stephanie, Taylor relished the solitude of the drive into town. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had time by herself without expectations or responsibilities or the necessity of putting forth the right image. It was wrong to resent many of the demands Stephen’s career had placed on her. After all, it was his prominence and connections that had given her the life she enjoyed.

The life that had safely hidden all her secrets.

She sighed as she turned the car onto the town square. For the last eighteen years, she’d focused on and worked for the future. Yet here she was, back at the scene of the crime so to speak. The lawyer in her could almost be amused by the turn of phrase while the woman trembled with intensifying emotions.

While she circled the square for the second time, she again felt that strange sense of homecoming she’d experienced yesterday.

Parking, Taylor drew in a long breath and slowly released it. Shrugging off the fact that she’d failed to wear a watch, she grabbed her briefcase, exited the car, and headed down the sidewalk. It barely registered in her mind that her steps slowed, that she took appraising glances around. Her shoulders relaxed, the grip on her briefcase lessened, and the throbbing at her temples faded. At one time this place had been home, at least the closest she’d ever had to having a home.

The abrupt slam of a car door had her turning to see a man well into his fifties striding toward her. She took a step back as if to get out of the way, but he stopped in front of her. “You’re Taylor Adams, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

He waved a pink slip of paper in front of her. “Can you do something about this?

She peered at the slip. Of course she recognized what it was. It was the man waving it at her that she couldn’t place. “I’m sorry, you don’t look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Name’s Randolph, Harry Randolph. You and Lucas went to school with my youngest boy, Curtis. That Lucas turned out to be a fine man, better’n his drunk of a father. From what I hear you’re a good lawyer. So, can you fix this?” He waved the slip of paper again. “A speed trap is what it is. Sheriff’s got no right to make me pay for speeding when they were sitting there waiting for me to come by.”

“Let me take a look.” She couldn’t remember a Curtis Randolph, but accepted the man’s claim. Scanning the paper she sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Randolph, but speed trap or not, you were speeding.” The officer had clocked Harry Randolph’s speed at sixty in a thirty-five speed zone.

“It’s a speed trap, I’m telling you.”

“The police are entitled to observe traffic wherever and in whatever manner they choose. And the fact remains that you were speeding.”

“It ain’t right.”

“Well,” she said, somewhat amused. “I can’t say as I disagree with you there. You can choose to go to court and dispute the fine, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

Mr. Randolph swore under his breath and glanced past her shoulder. “You lawyers and police are all in this together. Police worry about a man trying to get to wherever he’s going when they should be catching real criminals.” His gaze zeroed back on her. “And you lawyers find every excuse to let them good-for-nothings go free while tax-paying citizens have to shell out hard-earned cash. It ain’t right, I tell you.”

Taylor didn’t bother to comment since Mr. Randolph turned and headed for the courthouse, presumably to pay his ticket.

“What Harry didn’t tell you”—Taylor turned to see the sheriff standing five feet away—“is he’s guilty of speeding through that intersection every single day of the week. My deputy finally got tired of giving him repeated warnings.” He stepped closer and offered a hand. “Sheriff Ray Morgan.”

“I remember you, Sheriff.”

“It’s good to see you again. Sorry it’s under these circumstances, but I’m glad you’re representing Micah. He had a little trouble when he went through a bad spell a year or so ago, but he’s basically a good kid.”

“Can I call you as a character witness?”

He returned her smile. “I wish you could, but since I’m out capturing criminals instead of having this conversation I’m going to act like you never asked.”

“Do you think he did it, Ray?” she asked, using his name rather than his title. “Off the record.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.” He lifted a hand in reply at someone honking a car horn as they drove by.

“Why not?”

“There’s something off with Rebecca’s story if you ask me.” His lips creased ever so slightly as his gaze scanned the town square. “Not that you did, of course.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned to respect it’s an officer’s instinct.” She recalled something Bryan had mentioned during the phone call she’d finally answered. “What do you know about Tommy Newman’s past?”

“You mean his association with a gang back in Texarkana? Yeah, I know about that. So far he hasn’t given me or any of my people reason to bring him in.”

“But you’ve been keeping an eye on him?”

“I like to think we keep an eye on everyone around here.” He looked down at her. “Even well-known visitors.” He flicked a finger off the brim of his hat. “I won’t keep you.”

Taylor stood a moment longer, considered what Sheriff Morgan said about Micah—and Rebecca’s claim. With a shake of her head, she walked into the florist shop and discovered Mrs. Brewer standing behind the counter, a big barrel of a man in front of her.

“Taylor, do you remember Mr. Halperson?”

“Of course, Lucas and I were…” She managed to hold back the groan, but did consider biting off her tongue. “Well, that is, Lucas was bringing me up to date on some of the people in town.”

Mr. Halperson chuckled at her stammering. “You always were quick with the words, missy. No wonder you done so good as a lawyer.” He chuckled again. “Here’s something you can take back and tell Lucas. I finally talked Miss Mamie into making an honest man of me.” He laughed out loud when Taylor quickly glanced at Mrs. Brewer.

Then he sobered. “Hey, seeing as you’re this all-fired good lawyer, can you draw up papers so Miss Mamie gets everything I have if something happens to me?”

“A will? That’s not really my area.”

He lifted a large meaty hand, swatting away her reservations. “Lucas trusts you with his son, that’s good enough for me. Besides, I remember you were always a good girl, smart and honest, never got into any trouble. Just give Miss Mamie everything I have. I want to make sure she’s taken care of.”

His hand lowered to cover Taylor’s. She felt the warm gentleness of his touch, saw it in the look on his face, heard it in his words as he said, “I’m sure your husband did the same for you.”

“Yes, yes he did.” Taylor swallowed down the lump in her throat. “All right, Mr. Halperson, I’ll do it for you. Why don’t you come…” She stopped. Once again, the naturalness of claiming Lucas’s house as her home nearly tumbled out.

“Just write it up,” he said, trust implicit in tone and words. “We’re getting married Sunday, four o’clock at the courthouse. I wanted to give Miss Mamie the church wedding I know she always wanted,” he added in a way that Taylor found touching. “But she says at this point we should just go to Judge Williams.” He ran a hand over his balding head. “Gonna have a big party out at Miss Mamie’s afterwards. You tell Lucas we expect to see him and his boy there. You and your pretty little girl come along. Just bring the papers then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Halperson. I’ll be happy to give Lucas your message.”

“You do that. But come Sunday, I’ll be the happy one.”

An hour later, Taylor went from congratulating a happy man to questioning a miserable, unhappy teenage girl.

Rebecca Whitfield sat at the conference room table, her head bowed to stare at the clasped hands in her lap. Her brown hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore an ankle length beige skirt with a white blouse buttoned to the collar. She wore no makeup or jewelry.

That she didn’t want to be here was apparent in every straight line of her body. Taylor noted that Rebecca avoided looking at either her father or Mr. Oates. Reverend Whitfield, on the other hand, never took his accusing gaze off his daughter.

“Rebecca, I’m Taylor Adams,” she began, striving for the balance between a woman’s soft concern and an attorney’s hard determination. “I represent Micah Black, the man you’ve accused of raping you.” Rebecca’s hands jerked in her lap.

“Is that still your claim?” The girl nodded. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to verbally answer all the questions.” Using the point of her pencil, Taylor indicated the woman sitting in a corner, recording the conversation.

“Do you still accuse Micah Black of raping you in your home three nights ago?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had sexual relations with Micah Black before that night? Or any other boy?”

“Ms. Adams,” Mr. Oates protested.

“How dare you.” Reverend Whitfield yelled as he pounded a fist on the table.

Rebecca’s head jerked up, her eyes wide. Dark brown eyes, Taylor noted that were, at this moment, filled with fear. Residual fear from the memory of the attack? Or fear of the truth being uncovered?

“No,” Rebecca softly answered over her father’s continued protest. “He.” Her gaze once again searched for the hands in her lap. “That night is the only time.”

“You were home alone, is that correct?”

“Yes. I came home from the revival service, but Father wanted to drive over to Harrison and speak with the preacher there about the new education wing he thinks the church should build.”

“I guess it’s not uncommon for you to be home alone, is it?”

“No. Father’s service to the Lord keeps him busy with Bible studies, visiting the sick and shut-ins, leading the sinful away from their wicked lives.”

It sounded so pat and uncompromising. So lonely.

Was that how Stephanie had felt, Taylor found herself wondering. True, many of the functions she and Stephen attended had been essential and necessary for his political career. But there were some she could have backed out of and stayed home with her daughter.

Had she gone with Stephen out of a sense of obligation? A means of repaying him for all he had given, and done for her?

Taylor Adams DeLong, the abandoned daughter, supportive wife, and concerned mother, sympathized with Rebecca, a shy young girl who, with reservation and obvious shame, related her version of the night in question. Taylor Adams, the skilled attorney, spotted holes in that story and possible opportunities to help her client.

“What time was it when you arrived home from the revival service?” Taylor asked Rebecca.

“I don’t know for sure.”

Although she knew the answer, Taylor made a show of consulting her notes. “You told the police it was around ten o’clock. Does that sound right?”

“I guess so.”

“I imagine, like most teenagers, you spend a lot of those times you were alone on your cell phone, talking with your friends.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

It took a moment for this to process with Taylor. She simply could no longer fathom a teenager without a cell phone.

“So if you didn’t call him, how did Micah know that you were home?”

“When I came into the house after Father dropped me off, the telephone was ringing. It was him.”

“Him.” Taylor jotted down some notes and questions. “Micah Black?”

“Yes.” Though she kept her head bowed, Taylor saw Rebecca press her lips together. “We talked for a long time, longer than we ever had before. I was beginning to worry that Father would come home and find me on the telephone. I think I said something about ending the call, so I wouldn’t get into trouble. Not long after, there was a knock at the door. It was him.”

“Micah Black?” Taylor asked again.

“I knew I shouldn’t let him into the house.”

“Why not? Isn’t Micah a friend of yours?”

“Father believes Micah is responsible for my brother’s death.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

The lack of hesitation in Rebecca’s answer interested Taylor. “So you let Micah come inside.”

There was a distinctive pause before she spoke. “He said he wanted to talk some more. He said that no one understood him the way I did. He said he would leave before Father came home.”

“You didn’t feel intimidated or worried?”

“No.”

“After you invited him inside, what happened?”

“We sat on the sofa and talked.” Her chest rose as she drew in a deep breath. “Then he kissed me.”

Reverend Whitfield bowed his head over his steepled fingers and began murmuring a prayer of forgiveness for his failure to keep his daughter on the Lord’s path. Rebecca lifted a hand to swipe at the tears brimming in her eyes.

“Was this the first time you’ve been kissed?” Taylor asked.

“Yes.”

“I know this is difficult for you, Rebecca. Take your time and tell us in your own words what happened.”

“He kept kissing me. It felt nice at first, but then he kissed harder. I didn’t like it as much. I told him to stop, but he just ignored me and kissed me again. Then.” She shuddered. “He touched me.”

“Where did Micah touch you, Rebecca?” Taylor asked, noting how Rebecca continued to avoid using Micah’s name.

“He touched my breasts.”

“Did you have a shirt on at the time?”

She nodded, but Taylor didn’t remind her to voice the affirmation aloud. “When I tried to stop him, when I tried to get off the sofa, he shoved me back down and ripped my shirt open. His hands hurt. He squeezed hard when I opened my mouth to scream. Then, he…he pushed up my skirt and pulled my panties off.”

Taylor waited a moment. “Is this when he penetrated you?”

“Yes.” Tears fell onto the hands still gripped tight in her lap. “It hurt, it hurt so much.”

Reverend Whitfield abruptly stopped his praying, his accusing gaze narrowing on his daughter. Taylor and Mr. Oates exchanged looks, each sorry for putting a young girl through this ordeal, each understanding the necessity. Mr. Oates slid a box of tissues in Rebecca’s direction.

“Did you try to escape or defend yourself against Micah?” Taylor asked after Rebecca blew her nose.

“He—”

“Micah?”

“He held my hands above my head with one of his.”

Taylor swallowed. “What did he do with the other hand?”

“He covered my mouth so I couldn’t scream. He kept saying over and over that he knew this was what I really wanted. This is why I let him inside. Over and over he kept saying it,” she repeated as her breath heaved in and out.

“Even when I still tried to get away, he laughed and said the way I fought excited him. I finally just closed my eyes and tried not to think about what he was doing to me.”

Taylor had an all too vivid image of Micah, big and strong, as he stood beside Stephanie. And Stephanie smiling as she flirted with him.

“What happened after the rape?” she asked.

“He—”

“Micah?”

“Why do you keep doing that?” Rebecca demanded, lifting her head so Taylor could see the girl’s tear-washed face. “Why do you keep asking me if it was Micah?”

“I want to make sure I know exactly who you’re talking about.”

Rebecca once again looked down at her lap. “When he got off me, I ran to my room.”

“Did Micah follow you?”

“When Micah came into my room…”

Taylor leaned forward in her chair. Rebecca’s voice seemed different somehow, softer, more subdued and less anxious.

“Micah tried to hold me. He kept saying he wanted to help me. His voice was gentle and nice, just like…before. I guess it got mixed up in my mind so, I fought him. I scratched him, but he kept trying to hold me. That’s when Father walked in.”

“And you accused Micah Black of rape.”

“Yes.”

“Rebecca Whitfield, is it your sworn declaration today that you still name Micah Black as the man who raped you?”

“Ye—yes.”

Taylor sat back, her gaze straying to Mr. Oates and Reverend Whitfield.

“Are you aware, Rebecca, that should a jury find him guilty, Micah Black will go to prison?”

“Ms. Adams,” Mr. Oates protested. “That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”

“I’m simply pointing out the facts.”

Rebecca’s lips quivered before she pressed them together. “Yes, I know.”

Ten minutes later, after Rebecca and Reverend Whitfield left, Taylor wished for the luxury of some time alone. It was times like this that she hated being a defense attorney—when she had to ruthlessly go after someone who, in many respects, was as much a victim as her client. Her heart ached for the girl. The raw misery on Rebecca’s face and her slumped position in the chair told Taylor as much as the words used to describe the agony and pain of the brutal attack.

When she walked outside into the sunshine, she stood on the steps for a minute and let the heat chase away the chill in her soul. She watched as two women, obviously young mothers, as they pushed their strollers and chatted on the sidewalk in front of the drug store. Two elderly men sat on a park bench beneath the shade of an oak tree in front of the county library. A trio of young boys rode their skateboards down the sidewalk, nearly running over a man in a suit talking on a cell phone.

Others went in and out of stores, some speaking or at least nodding a greeting. The sense of community was hard to escape. These were not casual acquaintances, political contacts, or business associates. These were people who cared about what happened to someone they considered one of their own, who knew a hundred and one small details about your life and respected your character. Taylor felt a whisper of longing crawl up her throat as she left for her next interview.

Everyone she questioned spoke of Micah as an outstanding young man and regarded Lucas with the utmost respect. All were surprised by the turn of events and openly questioned Rebecca’s motive. A few went so far as to bluntly call her a liar, while two speculated whether or not the girl was hiding a consensual relationship from her father.

None of which Taylor could use in court.

Arriving home, she had to come to an abrupt stop when she drove up the driveway too fast. Otherwise she would have plowed over Lucas and Micah. They, however, never broke stride as they faced one another, each gauging and trying to predict movement. She cut the engine, and the basketball sang as Lucas dribbled it on the concrete slab.

“C’mon, son,” he challenged. “Can’t you keep up with an old man?” Something about his tone of voice led her to believe the description is what had prompted this battle.

Micah wore a white T-shirt, the tank style popular in the fifties. His arm and chest muscles looked rock hard. Taylor paused, remembering Rebecca’s comments about being held in place with one hand while being raped.

Lucas, on the other hand, wore no shirt. A thin layer of dark hair matted his chest and arrowed down to his stomach. His jeans hung low on his hips, revealing a tantalizing strip of untanned skin. If she’d had any doubts about the boy she’d known having become a man, she had evidence in front of her.

Getting out of the car she spotted Stephanie sitting on the deck, watching the contest. Taylor walked over and set down her briefcase and the bottle of wine she’d picked up at the grocery. Unsure if Stephanie was still giving her the cold shoulder she balanced a hand on the chair and asked, “Who’s winning?”

Stephanie shifted away slightly—a move Taylor pretended she didn’t notice. At least she answered the question without malice. “Lucas is kicking butt.”

Taylor turned back in time to watch Lucas feign to his left, pivot to his right, and shoot the basket. The ball slipped through the net without a swish.

“He shoots, he scores. He wins,” Lucas cheered.

He pumped his fist up and down, did a little victory dance, and Taylor couldn’t help but smile. Then in a move natural and easy, Lucas wrapped a proud arm around Micah’s broad shoulders as they walked toward the deck. Envy hammered at her so violently that she had to tighten her grip on the chair.

“Good game, Son.”

“You’re just saying that ’cause now I have to mow the lawn.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Double or nothing,” Micah proposed and then grinned. “I figure I have a better chance at beating you now that you’re not only old, but tired.”

“In your dreams.” Lucas looked up, caught and held Taylor’s gaze. She shook her head in answer to his silent question—she didn’t want to discuss the case right now. “At least not without help. How about if you and Taylor take on me and Stephanie?”

Stephanie snorted. “Please. Adams do something physical?”

Micah jeered at her. “I’d rather have her for a partner than someone as skinny as you.”

Without a word Taylor slipped out of her shoes as she shook off her suit jacket. The silk blouse she wore underneath already stuck to her damp back. After pulling it free of her waistband, she leaned down to roll up the cuffs of her slacks to mid-calf. Aware of everyone watching her, she searched through her briefcase for the slippers she always kept for those nights when she worked late at the office. Of course they weren’t designed to withstand the beating of a concrete slab, but they would do for the time being. It would be worth the replacement price to wipe that smirk off both Lucas and Stephanie’s faces.

She looked at Micah. “The two of us?” she repeated. “Losers do dinner dishes.”

He grinned. “Works for me.”

“What if I don’t want to play?” Stephanie complained. “Oh, that’s right, I don’t have a say about anything in my life.”

Taylor stared at her, challenging her daughter in much the way Lucas had challenged her and Micah. “Afraid I’ll beat the pants off you?”

Stephanie’s chin instinctively lifted. “What if I’m on the winning team?”

“You get your cell phone back. For two hours after dinner.”

“Deal.”

There was immense satisfaction in seeing the shock on Stephanie’s face—and the delight on Micah’s—when Taylor took the first toss and made a lay-up basket.

“I don’t,” she told her daughter as they set up for the next throw in, “spend every minute of every day sitting behind a desk. And I don’t like to lose.”

“I don’t either.”

No answer could have delighted Taylor more. She eyed the way her daughter handled the ball. “One of us is going to be disappointed.”

The game was hard fought. While the exertion had her skin shimmering with perspiration, there was also the physical contact with Lucas. Her shoulders rubbed against his bare chest as she tried to maneuver around his guard. His arms circled her as he tried to break her dribbling—much as they’d done years earlier when he guided her hands in his workshop. The smell of him—more than simply the sweat of effort—filled her mind with images of another type of physical activity. Once when they collided, his hands balanced her to keep her from falling, trapping her against his chest. For a long moment she froze, staring into his dark eyes. If not for Stephanie’s whoop of delight at sinking the stolen ball, Taylor might have followed instinct and risen onto her toes and taken the hard line of his mouth.

In the end, it came down to the two of them. With the score tied Lucas dribbled the ball. Taylor waited, keeping just enough distance between them. When he feigned to his left, she moved to the right, anticipating him. She blocked his shot, caught the rebound, and sank the ball.

Micah whooped and then lifted Taylor by the waist to run a victory lap around the makeshift court. Her pleasure and laughter died when Lucas slung an arm around Stephanie’s shoulders.

“Wash or dry?” he asked.

“Dry.”

He grinned. “Great, then you also have to put them away.”

“I can’t win for losing.” But she had a smile on her lips and in her eyes.

Taylor patted Micah’s shoulders as a sign for him to put her down. “Tell you what, Stephanie.” She had to drag in a breath—more from the image in front of her than the exercise. “Since you’re being such a good sport, I’ll let you have your phone for an hour.”

Stephanie stared at her—until Lucas nudged her and said in a stage whisper, “Say ‘thank you, Mom.’ ”

Taylor took comfort in the fact that Stephanie didn’t hesitate and there was no disdain in her voice, even if she didn’t use the more affectionate name.

“Thanks, Adams.”

****

Lucas slowly eased a wide plank of dark walnut through the jointer. The dust collection system roared as it sucked up the shaved wood chips while the overhead fan competed with the hum of machinery. Padded ear protection deadened the sounds, and safety glasses protected his eyes.

Still, he knew the exact moment Taylor stepped inside the workshop.

He leaned down to shut off the jointer. Slowly he lifted his safety glasses to the top of his head and lowered the ear protection to loop around his neck. “What’s up?”

Taylor looked at him with a mixture of hesitation and nervousness. He hated she felt that way. He would always hate the reason why she’d come back into his life, but he also couldn’t deny he’d had thoughts about her staying. Two days ago, at practically every point of the impromptu basketball game, it had been all he could do to resist lifting her into his arms and carrying her upstairs. Then there’d been the laughter and companionship during dinner. An empty spot inside him had filled at the image of the four of them sitting around the table he’d made, teasing and talking.

“Is something wrong?” he asked when she remained silent.

She lifted a hand to brush at her bangs, a sure sign something was bothering her. “I was just talking with Stephanie.”

“Did the two of you have another fight?”

“No, surprisingly enough. She talked, and was actually excited. I haven’t seen her like that in quite some time.” Taylor blew out a breath and lowered her hand. “She was taking pictures.”

“Okay,” he answered, not sure why she sounded so perplexed by the statement. “Then why aren’t you happy?”

“Stephanie doesn’t like photographers. She never has. Even as a child she never liked them taking her picture.” Taylor grimaced. “Sometimes, during a campaign, it created problems for Stephen.” Her gaze shifted, colliding with his. “She said you let her use your camera.”

“She asked.” He shrugged. “I never use the thing. I wanted a simple use camera to catalog photos of my work. But Jimmy is a friend of Micah’s, and he was just opening his photography shop, so I bought that one to help him out. I got a digital a few months back that I like much better.”

“Lucas.” Taylor took a step closer. “Stephanie has no experience using this kind of professional camera.”

“So?”

She growled at him, actually growled low in her throat. He tucked the tip of his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He much preferred these flashes of emotion to that cool, aloof front she ducked behind from time to time.

“It’s expensive,” she stated as if he wasn’t aware of how much he’d paid for the thing. “You can’t let someone like her play around with expensive equipment simply because she asked.”

“What do you mean ‘someone like her’?”

“A bored teenager.”

“Well.” Now he took several steps closer. God, she smelled wonderful, clean and fresh. “If she’s so bored, then this’ll give her something to do.”

“What if she breaks the camera?”

“Then I’ll put her to work out here until she pays it off.”

“This is crazy.” Taylor moved around the room, annoyance and impatience evident in every step she took. He let her rant a little, enjoying the way she moved, before he finally snagged her arm. He pulled her as close as he dared. Her mouth shut mid-sentence as she stared at him.

“Do you have any idea how many projects I mangled when I first started woodworking? Or still do more often than I like to admit for that matter?” She slowly shook her head no. “Not everyone is as brilliant and capable as you, Taylor. Some of us have to learn by our mistakes.” She blinked, as if absolutely stunned by his words. “I bet you won the first case you tried.” She nodded.

“Then why can’t you believe Stephanie might succeed if she gets this chance? Why do you assume she’ll screw up and do something wrong?”

Taylor paled. “You’re right. It’s a bad habit of mine.” She smiled, but there was no humor in the curve of her lips. It was the equivalent of an emotional shrug, and an acceptance of the way things had been at one time in her world. “Another by-product of Stephen’s career—always expect the worst so you’re better prepared to deal with it.”

“What did he do to you?” Lucas asked, keeping his voice softer than the roar in his mind. “Never mind,” he went on rather than risk hearing her defend her husband. “I can see for myself. He damn near killed your spirit, Taylor. How the hell could he have loved you enough to marry you and then spend all those years molding you into his image of the proper wife?”

He cupped her face in his hands and stared deep into her green eyes. “How could he not see what a treasure he had in you?” Compelled, he lowered his mouth to hers with a gentleness he never would have managed all those years ago.

He savored her, the taste and texture. She responded in kind, with a sweet, near-innocent manner that tugged hard at his heart. This was more than physical release or need. There was no rush to completion, and no thought of ending or avoidance.

“Lucas.”

“No.” He silenced her with another long kiss. “I can handle anything but regret.”

“How can I regret this?” she asked when he finally released her mouth. “How can I wish away something that’s made me feel more alive than I have in months? Years?” She touched her lips to his. “Yes, I have regrets. You have them too,” she added before he could protest. “But being with you has never been one of them.”

“I want to be with you again, Taylor.”

“I can’t deny that I want to be with you,” she admitted. Her hand moved to rub massaging circles at her right temple. “Life is so much more complicated now than it was before.”

She paused, biting down on her bottom lip. “I need a little more time.”

Once again here was a different Taylor from the impatient young woman he’d known. Still, he’d already lost so many years that he wouldn’t risk losing yet more by pushing her too hard.

“When you’re ready, I’ll be right here,” he said.