Chapter Thirty

Two days later, a powerful impulse possessed me, as if an alien entity took over my body and compelled me to act. I'd wasted countless hours chewing my nails, guzzling pop, and chowing down on chocolate — all in a futile attempt to avoid thinking about Lachlan. In Chicago. Ensconced in a luxury hotel. Waiting for me.

Sleep? No, not for me, not since the nap I took right after he threw himself at my feet begging me to forgive him. Tossing and turning, interspersed with crying jags, consumed my nighttime hours. I still didn't trust Lachlan not to toss me aside again, but I couldn't go on this way. With no other recourse than to confront my ex-lover, I gave in to the impulse.

Which was how I wound up standing inside the most opulent hotel room imaginable — the Infinity Suite at The Langham. Of course he was staying in the Infinity Suite. Presidential suite wouldn't be good enough. He just had to find something called an Infinity Suite. I'd heard The Langham was ritzy, but holy mackerel. The living room spread out around me, cavernous and yet bright with sunshine pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond which the skyscrapers of Chicago towered. Here on the twelfth floor, the view was spectacular. I scuffled past two glossy black tables, one nested under the other, and between the plush, curved sofas. A baby grand piano nestled in one corner of the room. I halted, staring up at the chandelier above the sofas and tables. It glimmered gold in the light of its own bulbs.

When I'd marched into The Langham and told the desk clerk I was here to see Lachlan MacTaggart, the young man had summoned the concierge who promptly ushered me up the elevator and straight to the twelfth floor. Taking me into the luxurious suite, the concierge had led me through the grand foyer and into the living room. Lachlan had left instructions, the concierge told me, that if I showed up someone should bring me right to his suite. Whether he was overconfident or desperately hopeful, I didn't know yet. But after his performance the other day, I leaned toward the latter.

Performance? No, it hadn't been an act. He'd begged me to give him another chance. Got down on his knees and begged. Lachlan. The man who exuded masculine confidence. My self-assured, wickedly creative lover. Oh, but he wasn't mine, not anymore. Unless I…

Bile rose in my throat and I dug out the bottle of Tums I'd stuffed in my purse, chewing up two of the tablets. I must've caught a bug, because my stomach had turned into my worst enemy for the past two weeks.

I leaned against one sofa, too weirded out to sit. The concierge swore Lachlan was here, somewhere inside this mansion-size suite. I glanced around, catching sight of the dining room, past the doorway to the foyer.

"Lachlan?" I called out, my voice echoing faintly off glass and marble. "Are you in here?"

A door shut elsewhere in the suite. Footsteps clapped, drawing nearer. I tried to straighten my blouse, but it refused to do anything except be wrinkled. At last, Lachlan emerged from the foyer, dressed in gray slacks and a crisp white shirt, long-sleeved with gold cuff links. The top button of his shirt hung open. His hair looked damp as if he'd just showered.

Oh great. My mind went straight to envisioning him in the shower, naked and wet, steam billowing around him. Of course, that image segued into a memory of our time in the shower together, a different shower, one far less luxurious than the one here must be, but no less erotic. Oh, come on. I was angry and nauseous. I should not be fantasizing. Steeling my resolve, I pushed away from the sofa. Angry. Hurt. That's what I should project. I barred my arms over my chest, lifting my chin.

He smiled. The brilliant, heart-melting smile that made everything inside me go all gooey. Why did he have to go and do that?

"Erica," he said, imbuing my name with so much emotion it set off a pang in my chest. "I'm so glad you're here."

He took a step toward me.

I stumbled backward, holding up a hand, palm out. "No. You stay over there."

And of course, his brow crinkled. The spot between his brows dimpled, making him look so adorably confused and needy, like a puppy in a rainstorm. Hugging myself, backing up another step, I swallowed against a swell of nausea in my throat. My hands were freezing, so I stuffed them under my arms.

Lachlan fastened his gaze on me, his mouth tight. "Are you ill?"

"No." Lightheaded, yes, but not ill. It must've been the altitude. Way up here on the twelfth floor? My legs quivered. "I'm f —"

He started to move toward me, but halted with one hand outstretched, suspended in midair between us. "Erica?"

Regaining my balance, I locked my knees and tried for a breezy tone as I waved at the surroundings. "Thought you had simple tastes."

"I do." He lowered his hand slowly, in fits and starts. "There are two conventions in town and baseball games too. This was the only room I could get."

"Poor you, stuck in this hovel."

His lips curved up at the corners and the sun glittered in his eyes. "You almost smiled. Teasing me is a good sign, I hope."

I hunched my shoulders, focusing on the buttons in his shirt instead of his face, certain I'd never get through this conversation if I kept gazing into his eyes. Change of subject. Pronto. "I saw Presley a few days ago."

He locked his thick arms over his chest and frowned at me. "Why the bloody hell would you do that? After what he did to you."

My mind traveled back to the day two months ago when he'd told me all about his ex-wife. The explanation clarified why he hated bullies and why he made the comment about bullies bending others to their will for the sake of control. But now, with the suddenness of a spark flaring into a bonfire, I grasped why he despised Presley so much.

My scalp tingled, my eyes went dry from lack of blinking. I fluttered my lids, unable to shake the certainty of my revelation. "You thought Presley was doing to me what your wife did to you. That's why you attacked him repeatedly, why you would never speak his name, and why you're so upset I went to see him."

"Aye." He gave me an exasperated look. "Wasn't it obvious months ago?"

I flapped my arms once, huffing. "No, not to me. If you wanted me to understand that, you should've told me, for heaven's sake. I'm not telepathic."

He bit into his upper lip as his shoulders flagged. "Aye, you're right. My fault."

"Good. We agree on one thing, anyway."

Shoulders bunched, he said, "I would like to know why you went to him. If you'll tell me. Please."

I swung my arms, trying to figure out what to do with them besides scratching my face or picking at my hair. I opted for stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets. "He asked to see me, and I decided I should put that demon to rest." I kicked the floor with the toe of my sneaker, pretending to study the weave of the beige carpeting. "He's out on bond and his parents have taken away all his toys. He's broke." I hauled in a long breath, releasing it slowly as I raised my gaze to Lachlan. "He apologized for framing me. Says he always loved me and he hopes I have a good life."

Lachlan's lips thinned, his body tensing. "Does he."

"Yep." I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold. "Men are apologizing to me right and left these days."

He parked his taut ass on the opposite end of the sofa from me, slouching forward to brace his elbows on his knees, but he never broke eye contact. "You must think I'm just like him. Insincere, lying, uncaring."

"Actually, I think Presley was being genuine."

"What about me?"

"I'm sure you mean everything you've said."

"But?"

I swiveled on my heels to face the wall of windows, the action setting off a tilting sensation that had me sucking in a breath until it settled down. Hands shoved in my jeans pockets, I regarded the cityscape before me. "I've never thought you were like Presley. He abused my trust and didn't see the error of his ways until he got caught. You figured out you'd screwed up without needing to be arrested. Plus, you told me from the start you couldn't give me more than a fling."

His footsteps shooshed on the carpeting as he approached behind me. I caught his ghostly reflection in the window but couldn't make out his expression. His voice sounded close behind me. "From the moment I saw you in the club, I wanted to give you more, give you everything. The second I left your house that day, I realized what a terrible mistake I'd made, but I hurt you too badly to run back inside and beg your forgiveness. Giving you time seemed like the best choice, the only choice."

The sincerity in his voice made me long to lean back into him, let his arms close around me, let his strength and kindness wash away all my fears. I couldn't do it.

"Erica, you are mo leannan."

I turned around — and came face to chest with his massive body, no more than an arm's length away. The man exuded sensuality, even while engaged in a serious conversation. He couldn't help it. My line of sight fell directly on the swathe of skin exposed by his open collar. Skin I'd touched, kissed, licked. I'd memorized every inch of him, from his firm pecs to the sinuous lines of his muscular thighs, all the way down to his long toes and back up to the lush, dark lashes framing his eyes. I'd kissed those too. Hell, I'd run my lips over most every part of him.

My cheeks heated. The fire spread out, rushing through my entire body, sensitizing my skin until the barest draft from the ventilation system excited my nerves and stiffened the tiny hairs all over me.

I coughed, backed up, smacked into the glass. Fumbling for anything to say, I laid a hand over my collarbone. "You never told me what mo leannan means."

He reached out, his fingers hovering near my cheek, but withdrew his hand, curling his fingers into his palm. "It means my sweetheart."

A tingling swept through me, part chill from the cold glass at my back, part thrill from the realization of what he'd just confessed. My gaze swung up to his instinctively. The raw emotion there, his rapt attention glued to me, it had my heart pounding and my body softening. My voice came out higher pitched than usual. "All this time you've been calling me your sweetheart? Why wouldn't you tell me?"

He lifted a hand to my face, trailing his fingertips down the line of my jaw. "Didn't intend to call you mo leannan, or gràidh. Those words came out before I realized what I'd said. By then it was too late, and I couldn't keep from saying them over and over." His fingertips feathered over my lips for a heartbeat before he pulled them away. "I want to give you more than sweet words, though. I want to give you everything."

My ears had begun to ring, and I realized I'd stopped breathing. Still, I couldn't catch my breath. "I just… not sure…"

The room whirled around me. My knees buckled.

Lachlan caught me in his brawny arms before I hit the floor. My purse tumbled off my shoulder to plop onto the carpeting. Blackness spotted my vision as I spun down, down, down. He swept me up in his arms, carrying me out of the living room. I let my eyes drift shut, since they insisted on doing it anyway, and the gentle swaying of his movements lulled me into a trance. Warm, he was so warm and strong and soft in the right places, like where my head rested against his shoulder. The scent of his cologne wafted over me, redolent with musk and spice and a hint of the outdoors.

When he laid me down on a plush surface, I was too far gone to care. Sleep, yes, that's what I needed. Dimly, I heard him walk away, then return a moment later. The bed — oh yeah, this was a bed — jostled as he settled onto the mattress. I sensed him leaning over me, his scent all around me, and he placed a hand on my forehead as if checking for a fever. Apparently satisfied, he replaced his hand with a cool cloth. The chill of it roused my mind. Peeling my eyelids apart, I gazed up at eyes as pale and incandescent as blue topaz. Concern tempered their brilliance, though, and strained his features.

Lachlan brushed the back of his hand across my cheek. "Erica, sweet, how do you feel? I should call for a doctor."

"Uh-uh." I pulled in a long, cleansing breath. "I'm fine. Besides, doctors don't come running when you call."

"If I pay enough, one will."

"Please don't. I didn't eat enough breakfast, that's all."

He adjusted the cloth on my forehead, then combed his fingers through my hair. "Passing out is not the sign of a well woman."

"I must have the flu."

"Hmm." He frowned at me, his hip pressed against my thigh, and braced himself with one arm on the opposite side of me. "You don't have a fever."

"Stop fussing, I'm perfectly fine." Pleasure threaded through me at his fussing, at the way he was tending to me, caring for me. I wouldn't tell him that, though.

"Fine?" He shook his head, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "Is that why you're flat on your back in bed?"

In his bed. I glanced around at the huge mattress and the four-poster bed that housed it. The sheets were crumpled, the pillows indented with the shape of Lachlan's head. A hot shiver coursed through me. I lay in Lachlan's bed, where he'd slept all night. His skin had touched the same fabric mine touched now. The sheets were slick, like silk.

"How much does a suite like this go for?" I asked, just for something to say, to avoid considering the storm of emotions his tenderness provoked in me.

"Six a night," he said, averting his gaze, screwing up his lips.

I blinked slowly. "Six hundred?"

He gave a curt shake of his head, his features pinched.

My forehead stretched as my eyebrows shot up. "Six thousand? Dollars?"

"Ah… yes."

This suite cost more than I'd ever made in a month, or two months, or six. "You said you had enough money to be comfortable, but you neglected to mention you're filthy rich."

He rubbed the back of his neck, watching me. "Does it matter?"

"No. I'm surprised, that's all." The first stab of a headache pierced my eyes. My muscles longed to give out, to flop me back onto the bed. The luxuriant bed that felt like a cloud under me. Yeah, if I had six thousand dollars a night to spend on a hotel room, I might stay here too. Through a yawn, I said, "Money doesn't impress me."

"You told me that before."

"Did I?"

"Aye, but never mind." He leveled his gaze on me, his expression turning inscrutable. "Not that I'm complaining, but why are you here? I thought you wanted me gone."

"I came here to —" Smell you, touch you, kiss you. "Talk."

"Let's talk, then."

Did he have to hover so close? The heat of him penetrated my clothes, warming my skin, warming parts of me I didn't want warmed up right now.

He arched one brow. "What did you want to discuss?"

"Uh…" I had no idea. My head still felt a bit swimmy, my mind was unfocused, my stomach was still unsettled. I groaned, pressing a hand to the cloth on my forehead. "Can't think."

"Rest here for a bit." He dragged the blanket over me, his hand lingering on my arm, fingers caressing my flesh in slow circles. My eyelids grew heavy again, and this time I didn't know if I could keep from falling asleep.

He moved to stand.

"Wait," I said, pushing up as he sat back down and angled toward me. The washcloth slid off my forehead onto the bed. My face bumped into his chest. The wonderful scent and heat of him flooded over me, surrounded me, triggering an ache in my chest. A yearning I'd fought for so long. I felt too awful now to care about being strong. Tilting my head back, I met his questioning gaze. "Stay with me. Please."

His lips curved up in a shaky smile, and he let out the breath I hadn't realized he was holding. "Of course I will."

Without another word, he climbed over my body to lie down beside me. He didn't try to put his arm around me or nuzzle against me. He just lay there, a couple inches away, and folded his hands over his six-pack abs, concealed beneath his dress shirt. I was grateful beyond words, and besides, I had no clue what to say to him. Talk? Sure, I'd thought I wanted to do that. But once I got here, I couldn't remember any of the things I'd planned to tell him. Cutting things. Definitive things. Unimportant things.

I tossed the washcloth onto the sleek, modern bedside table — surely it was waterproof, right? — and settled into the cushy mattress, underneath the silky-soft blanket. Sleep seduced me, luring me down into its shadowy, weightless depths. No dreams haunted my slumber, no thoughts, no worries, just a deep and peaceful sleep the likes of which I hadn't known in months, maybe years. I woke bleary-eyed and fuzzy-brained, rising out of a fog into the bright sunshine, squinting until my eyes adjusted.

Where was I? Huge windows, view of the city, and… My heart did a little hop-skip. Right next to me, turned on his side to face me, slept Lachlan. Everything rushed back to me with a heady abruptness. The Infinity Suite. Almost passing out. Lachlan catching me. Caring for me. Lying with me.

Raising up on one arm, I took in the sight of him there, eyes closed, a slight smile on his lips as if sleeping beside me gave him all the pleasure in the world. As if he belonged with me. As if he loved me. But he'd never said the words, which left too much room for doubt. And yet, I yearned to curl up against him, to feel his strong arms encircle me, drawing me tight against him. To hear him call me gràidh and mo leannan. I stretched a hand out to touch his face, then pulled it back, fisting it over my belly. He'd vowed he wouldn't leave town without me, but he hadn't asked me to go with him to Scotland — or anywhere. Though I understood why he hesitated, why he'd walked out on me two months ago, my heart and soul were tapped out, sapped of the strength to argue or watch him break down again. If he woke up and started murmuring sweet words to me again, I'd melt. Problem was, I couldn't shake the bone-deep fear he'd lose his nerve and run back home to Scotland like before.

You are my home, he'd vowed.

Pain cramped the back of my throat. Despite the fear, despite everything, I needed to speak the truth, even if he couldn't hear it. Maybe it was best he never hear the words. I whispered them into the air, so hushed I scarcely heard it.

"I forgive you."

Sliding out of the bed, I tiptoed into the living room, found a paper and pen, and left him a note so he wouldn't wonder what became of me. I hurried out of the suite and down the elevator, but the concierge intercepted me on my way through the lobby. He insisted on hailing a taxi for me and I didn't argue. By the time I got home, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed, huddle under the covers, and sleep more.

But when I walked through the front door, my parents were waiting in the living room. They leaped off the sofa with a spryness even Casey couldn't match. The dog bounded up to me but refrained from accosting me, instead choosing to lick my hands. Mom and Dad lingered near the sofa, though they came around the backside to scrutinize me with parental concern.

"Where have you been?" Dad asked.

"I went to see Lachlan."

They glanced at each other, Dad smirked, and Mom dug a ten-dollar bill out of her pocket, handing it to Dad.

I frowned. "What are you betting on now?"

"You," Mom said, as if betting on their daughter was a common parental pastime. "Your father said you must've gone to talk to Lachlan, but I said no, you're much too stubborn to go to him until at least tomorrow."

Dad pocketed the money, still smirking.

My frown deepened into a scowl that I felt cinching my face tight. "I'm agonizing over a very personal decision and you guys are making wagers about it?"

"What else have we got to do?" Dad said. "Retirement's kinda boring, and we got used to all the activity at the village."

The village meaning the retirement community they'd moved to after he quit working. I was beginning to think life in swampy Florida had saturated their brains and turned them into loons. But, I supposed, betting on my love life was their way of showing they cared about the outcome. Cared about me. And, in a weird way, cared about Lachlan too. I still couldn't decide how I felt about their strange camaraderie with him.

Of course, they were better judges of character than I was. After meeting Presley once, they couldn't disguise their dislike of him, though they never told me they didn't like him. Completely taken in by his act, I'd ignored their attitude toward him, dismissing it as a sign of overprotective parents. With Lachlan, in spite of knowing he'd dumped me and hurt me badly, they still liked him. I withheld the gory details of our breakup, but they'd seen me weeping over him. For them to like him anyway… I wasn't sure what to make of it.

My mother marched up to me and planted her palm on my forehead.

I swatted her hand away, probably making a petulant face. "I don't have a fever."

"No, but you are pale."

A phone warbled. Mom excavated it out of her purse and answered, a smile lightening her expression. "Hello, Lachlan. How are you?"

I jerked my hand to reach for her phone but reeled it back an instant later. Talk to him, don't talk to him. Yell at him, kiss him. My heart and mind couldn't agree on what I should do about Lachlan.

"Yes, she's here," Mom told Lachlan. She paused between each phrase she spoke, listening to his responses. "No, she didn't mention it. We'll take care of her, don't worry. I'll tell her."

She hung up, dumped the phone in her purse, and shook her head at me. "Lachlan says you passed out earlier."

I gazed heavenward but found no answers there. "He's overreacting. I almost passed out, that's all."

"Hmm." She watched me for a moment, then said, "Lachlan wants you to know he heard what you said this morning right before you left. I don't know what that means, but he thought you would."

Right before I left? He'd been asleep — or so I thought. No, he couldn't have heard me when I told him I forgave him. But what else could he have meant?

"Erica was bound to get sick," Dad said, "after all the stress she went through the past few months."

Mom tsked. "That's not why she's sick, Frank."

"Really. Then what's your diagnosis, Dr. Deb?"

She surveyed me with a neutral expression, but her gaze hesitated over my belly before she looked at my face again. "You're going to a doctor, even if we have to hogtie you and drag you there on our backs. I already called and made you an appointment for three o'clock."

"You what?" I sputtered, executing an honest-to-goodness double take.

My mother sighed. "I knew you wouldn't go on your own."

"Should've heard her," Dad said. "She pretended to be you and whined real good until they squeezed you in this afternoon."

Well, I supposed I couldn't really blame them. I'd been nauseous and exhausted for two weeks, hadn't eaten much lately, and had resorted to napping in the daytime to make up for lost sleep. Maybe I did need to see a doctor. Resigned to my fate, I rubbed my forehead and let my shoulders sag. "Okay. I'll go."

Mom clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Good girl."

Dad glanced at me, then Mom. "Should we call Lachlan and let him know?"

"No!" The syllable exploded out of me, harsher than I'd intended. I flung a hand up to cover my mouth. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong. But please don't call him. I'll deal with him later."

An odd expression flickered over my mother's face. "I have a feeling you'll need to see him sooner rather than later."

A prickling started on my scalp and rushed over my whole body, not quite cold, not exactly warm. It was more an awareness just below the surface of my mind. I couldn't grab onto it, and I had a sinking feeling I'd regret it if I did latch onto the knowledge.

I seized a lock of my hair, twining it around my finger. My lip curled at the grimy feel of my hair. I dropped the lock. "Need a nap and a shower before my appointment."

But in the back of my mind that slippery little fragment of knowing taunted me.