What He Wanted

Damen had been careful with her for days. He had measured his distance, kept his hands occupied, and told himself that wanting a woman did not entitle him to confuse the first safe place she had found.

Then Hannah kissed him, and every sensible thought he possessed became something happening far away.

Her mouth was warm and uncertain against his. He touched her waist, intending only to steady her, but she made a small sound and moved closer. He felt it beneath his ribs with more force than the wound.

He kissed her back. Her fingers slid into his hair, and the slight pull broke the last of his restraint. He drew her between his knees, one hand spreading against her back while she leaned into him.

The pain in his side brought him back to himself.

He lifted his head, breathing harder than he wanted her to hear. "Hannah, wait."

She loosened her hold immediately. The sudden withdrawal hurt in a different way.

"Did I hurt you?"

"A little. That is not why I stopped."

Her face changed. "I see."

"I do not think you do."

She stepped back, folding her arms. "Then explain it before I spend the night inventing reasons."

He wanted to pull her close again. He wanted to take the wounded dignity out of her expression, and he knew that wanting relief was a poor reason to rush her.

"You came here because you were frightened," he said. "I do not want you wondering later whether you confused being safe with wanting me."

She looked at him for a moment, then sat beside him rather than standing where he had left her.

"I know why I came here. I also know why I kissed you. They are different things."

He turned toward her.

"I am grateful to Rebecca," she continued. "I have not spent a week wondering what she looks like without a shirt."

The laugh caught him by surprise and pulled at his stitches. She winced in sympathy, then smiled despite herself.

"That was a very unfair way to make your argument," he said.

"You were not listening to the polite version."

He touched her cheek. She leaned into his palm, and the trust in that movement silenced him.

"I want you," she said. "You are allowed to believe me."

"I believe you."

"Then kiss me again. Gently, if your side is going to be dramatic about it."

He obeyed. This time he let himself learn her, the softness of her lower lip, the way her breath caught when his thumb moved along her jaw. When she rested her forehead against his, he closed his eyes and felt something inside him surrender without resistance.

She stayed until he slept. The last thing he remembered was her hand resting beside his on the quilt, close enough that he could touch it without reaching.

Over the following days, intimacy altered the house in small, devastating ways. Her book appeared beside his chair. She kissed him in the kitchen before leaving for work, then blushed when she realized Marco had entered. Damen had no intention of becoming a better man for the entertainment of his staff, but he found himself postponing calls until she finished telling him things.

He also discovered that jealousy had survived thirty-nine years of discipline remarkably well.

At the ordinary restaurant she chose for their promised dinner, the waiter knew her name. He brought extra lemon without being asked and touched the back of her chair while recommending the soup.

Damen watched the hand until it moved.

Hannah waited until the waiter left, then leaned across the table. "He has worked here for six years. He gives extra lemon to everybody who looks tired."

"I did not say anything."

"Your face held an entire meeting."

He looked at her, and she laughed openly. The restaurant's amber lights warmed her face; she wore a cream sweater and small gold earrings, and he could barely remember what he had ordered.

"You are enjoying yourself," he said.

"Very much. You are unexpectedly easy to tease when nobody else is watching."

He took her hand beneath the table. "You have advantages they do not."

She looked down at their joined hands, her smile changing into something quieter.

When the bill came, he left it for her as promised. She counted the tip carefully. He wanted to give her everything, and discovered there was a particular pleasure in accepting something she had chosen to give him.

In the car afterward, she kissed him before Marco pulled away from the curb. Damen kept her hand in his all the way home.

Later that week, Marco arrived with information about Victor Falcone's past. Damen read the first page, then the second, feeling the room grow smaller around him.

"Lillian Brooks worked at St. Agnes," Marco said. "An old administrator remembered Sophia visiting her. There was another contact nine years ago, shortly before the accident. We are still checking what it was."

Damen stared at the name. Hannah had told him her mother had been a nurse, but he had not asked where she worked decades earlier.

"Does Victor know?"

"Cole gave somebody in his office Hannah's full name. That was after the clinic confrontation. We do not know how far it went."

Damen put the papers down. Hannah had been a stranger when he caught her. Now the past seemed to be moving toward her from a direction he should have recognized.

That evening she sat on the rug in his study, sorting through her mother's wooden box. She had been looking for her birth certificate after deciding to replace some documents Evan might have copied.

"You would think a woman who labeled every jar in her kitchen could have found a better filing system," she said.

He came to sit beside her, ignoring the complaint from his healing side.

She lifted a photograph. "I have never known who this woman is. Mum wrote that she was a friend. Look at the hair. I hope someone apologized to her for those bangs."

He took the photograph and forgot to breathe.

Sophia sat in a hospital chair, younger than he could comfortably remember her, holding a newborn wrapped in pink. Lillian stood beside her with an exhausted smile.

"Damen?"

He looked at Hannah, then back at the picture.

"That is my sister."

Her mouth opened slightly. "Sophia?"

"Yes."

"My mother knew her?"

"Apparently better than I realized."

Hannah moved closer to examine the photograph with him. Her shoulder rested against his arm, warm and trusting. He wanted to tell her about the report immediately, but he could not yet explain what the contact nine years earlier meant. He was afraid of putting an unfinished suspicion into the fragile peace they had made.

"You never mentioned that you were looking into her past," she said.

"Marco came across a connection today. I do not know enough to explain it properly."

She watched him, then nodded slowly. "Tell me when you do."

"I will."

She kissed his cheek and gathered the papers. He felt the promise settle between them, heavier than she knew.

An hour later, Marco brought a copy of an old call log supplied by the retired administrator, who had helped Lillian contact Sophia's family from a clinic extension. Beside the outgoing number was the date of the accident.

Damen recognized his own old number.

He had kept the voicemail for nine years without knowing that his sister had called him from Hannah's mother's workplace. He had thought Sophia was asking forgiveness for ignoring his warnings. Now he wondered whether she had been apologizing because she could no longer keep herself safe.

Upstairs, Hannah was waiting for him. He could hear her moving in the room across the corridor, trusting that he would tell her when he knew.

He sat at his desk until the light beneath her door went out.