There was something else going on in his head that she had no line to.
Conor needed a hug.
Like that would solve anything. More likely he’d push her away. Wise man. Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her robe, she turned for the kitchen and that tea, trying to ignore the painful squeeze her heart was giving.
They’d once shared a great night together that she’d enjoyed more than she’d have thought possible. Probably because she’d wanted nothing else from him than some fun. But that was it. End of. Except there was now a baby lying between them. There was no room for her heart to have its say.
Listening to her inner voice would undo all the effort she’d made over the last two years to get back on track. It’d also take more courage than she possessed, and would mean a breakdown of all the strictures she’d placed on herself to keep safe.
‘Tamara.’ Conor leaned against the doorjamb, watching her watch the kettle. He inhaled, sighed out the breath. ‘Thanks. Again.’
‘No problem.’ Please go. Before she said something she regretted.
In a low, rolling version of that bone-melting accent Conor said, ‘Don’t be afraid to show me your true feelings or thoughts.’
Slowly turning, she stared at him, her heart now clunking heavily against her ribs. ‘I’m not,’ she muttered, and had to suffer the disbelief in his eyes. Fair cop. ‘Okay, I’ve learned that showing my feelings about anything usually has severe repercussions.’ When his mouth opened to spill words—a question?—she rushed in to cut him off. ‘Not tonight.’ Probably never. ‘We’re both in need of sleep, not long, convoluted conversations.’
Damn, but her head hurt. A steady throb pounded behind her eyes, matching her heart. There was only one cure. Bed. Alone. So she needed to drink her tea to help obtain that oblivion, and see Conor out the front door before hitting the sack. Not necessarily in that order either.
Why was the water taking for ever to boil?
* * *
Conor’s eyelids were weighed down as he tried to open his eyes. ‘Where the hell am I?’
He scoped the room, semi-lit from the hallway light, saw the cream leather armchairs and sighed. Tamara’s place. Now he could feel that leather beneath his backside where he was sprawled along the matching couch. With a blanket covering him. When had Tamara put that there? Had to be her. There’d been no thought of him staying when they’d finished their meal and dumped the plates in the sink. No, he hadn’t even done that much tidying up. She’d gone to make herself tea and he couldn’t remember another thing after that. Except the ease with which he’d shifted from the chair to the couch and laid his head on a cushion.
The ease that had settled over him almost the moment he’d walked through Tamara’s front door, despite his misgivings about coming here when they had a massive problem to deal with.
Careful. He’d be taking risks soon. Risks he’d spent the last fourteen years fighting. Risks that had had him finally fleeing Ireland and family and heart-aching despair. He couldn’t imagine falling in love and getting married, having children. Children who might inherit his cardiac problem. A wife who could find herself bringing up their children alone because the big one had got him.
Conor sat up. Threw the blanket aside. Falling in love would mean breaking the rules that ran his life, kept everyone safe. So it wasn’t happening.
A vision of Tamara looking gorgeous in her thick, faded navy-coloured robe with her dark blonde hair gone wild from her shower. Part of his brain had been functioning correctly when it had kept him from following through on the desire that had kicked up at the sight of her. It would’ve been the worst move possible, and there’d have been no thanks from Tam.
Don’t call her that. The shortened version of Tamara disturbed her, for reasons he knew nothing about. And wanted to know. No, he mustn’t. Knowing meant caring, meant sharing. But to him she was Tam. He just had to keep that to himself.
Time he was out of there. He needed to go home to his randomly put-together collection of furniture that was more practical than inviting; a home that spoke of moving on, not settling down.
Nothing like this warm and welcoming nest created with what he suspected were top-of-the-range furnishings. Not that he knew a lot about these things but this home seemed classy. That sideboard made of polished wood that he didn’t recognise was stunning in its simplicity. In fact, everything was understated in a grand way. Was this why she didn’t have a lot of spare money to go to university with? A shopaholic gone wild? If so, only when it came to her home. No money was wasted on clothes.
Who are you, Tamara Washington?
Deep down he knew he was never going to find out. His teeth ground as he leapt up to stretch the kinks from his body. He wanted to learn everything about her. Which would bring a load of problems best left well alone. It’d be easy to search on the web, but he didn’t feel comfortable with that. That’d be a shallow act, and if Tamara couldn’t find it in herself to tell him then best he left it alone.
A carved black clock with a gold face that had to be many decades old chimed once. Picking up his shoes, he made for the front door. Was Tamara all right? Sound asleep? Or was being overtired keeping her wide awake? He turned the other way.
At her bedroom door Conor stumbled. His lungs stalled and his heart slowed. Curled up on her side, her hands tucked under her chin, Tamara was sound asleep—and more beautiful than ever. Gone was that wariness with which she regarded the world, replaced with a gentleness and relief he’d not seen before. Relief because she was hiding from the world? Because she believed no one could get to her while she slept? Didn’t she know she was at her most vulnerable when comatose?
His heart hammered in his chest. Excited or afraid? Didn’t matter. He had to go home for what was left of the night. All it would take was to haul his tail down the hall and out the door to his car.
But he wasn’t that strong. ‘What’s your history, Tam?’ he whispered as he leaned down to lift an errant curl from her forehead. She approached people as though they were about to take something from her. Everyone except patients. They only needed what she was prepared to give.
As Conor reached to switch
off the bedside lamp, she stirred. He held his breath, wishing her asleep. They both needed to get some hours’ slumber before facing another day in the department.
Her eyes opened slowly. ‘Conor?’ His name slipped over her lips like melted chocolate, tantalising his taste buds and sending longing for more through his body, straight to his manhood.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ he whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
Before I can’t control myself and haul you into my arms to kiss you senseless.
Because he wouldn’t want to stop at kissing.
She snuggled her pillow around her neck. It was an innocent move and it stabbed him deeply.
And had him aiming for the front door.
Everything he’d been denying himself for many years was coming back to taunt him.
And those reasons weren’t holding up as strongly as they usually did.
Get out of here. Fast.
CHAPTER FOUR
TAMARA WOKE SLOWLY, fighting her way through a haze. That had been the best sleep she’d had in weeks. No nightmares. No tears. Just plain old sleep.
Unwinding her body from its curled-up state, she pushed a foot across the bed, seeking Conor. Came up with empty space. Like why wouldn’t she? Conor had not stayed the night.
For one, she hadn’t wanted him to.
For two, he wouldn’t have wanted to.
Three, she’d have been setting herself up for a crash.
Disappointment struck. She liked Conor Maguire. More than liked him. Charming, superb in bed, top-notch ED specialist, lots of fun at appropriate times. Hardly a résumé for the position of dad and partner in raising their child. But that shoe could fit her foot too. Her mother hadn’t exactly set her up for this role.
So, like Conor or not, she had to keep him at a distance. At least until they’d had a serious talk about the baby. Several serious talks in which baby came first every time. Which meant keeping her heart uninvolved. Trusting that particular organ had once before led to monumental trouble with huge consequences affecting more people than herself. She would never subject her child to anything close to the destruction that falling in love with Peter had yielded.