Knowing Vera (Romantic Suspense, Family Drama) (Chance for Love) Page 4

  I wipe my eyes and puff my breath trying to dispel the tight sadness in my chest. He strokes the back of my neck, comforting, and I feel safer—at least safe enough to risk telling him. “Do you know who my father was?”

  He presses his lips to the top of my head and holds them there. “You must have loved him a lot. I can’t even imagine how hard it was for you to lose him like that.”

  My fingers clench and I swallow a lump, wishing with all my heart I could have stopped him from jumping. Zach’s waiting for an answer, but there’s nothing to say. It’s harder than hard. It’s impossible to accept.

  I do the only thing I can think of. I turn it around. “Do you miss your mother?”

  “I don’t remember her much. She died when I was five.”

  Something about the way he says it makes me wonder if he knows how she passed. “Is there anything you remember?”

  “Her soft, sweet voice, almost breathless. She sang to me all the time, lullabies, silly songs, happy songs and sad songs. I hear her when I’m falling asleep.”

  His voice breaks and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “But I can’t picture her other than from photos. She was a blonde, very delicate looking, pale blue eyes. She had a heart condition and died young.”

  So, Zach’s father had lied to him. No wonder he had no idea who I was. But his father had known. He was barely civil to me when I introduced myself in front of Zach’s hospital bed.

  My fingers find his hand and I pull him closer. “I’m so sorry. It must have been hard.”

  He attempts a smile. “My aunt raised me. If you ever meet her, you’ll love her. She’s a real firebrand.”

  He’s not letting me feel bad for bringing up his mother. It’s another thing I like about him. Focusing on the positive.

  I pat his thigh. “Let’s check your leg and put on that compression sock.”

  He slides his stump onto the sofa and rolls back the liner. “I should have padded it more. It might have cushioned the fall.”

  I help him roll off the liner sleeve, careful not to flinch at the sight of the ugly scar, the pain and suffering etched on each ridge. The end is red and chafed, but not bruised. Because I helped the nurse in the hospital tend to Zach, he’s not embarrassed about me seeing it. I fetch the moisturizing cream from his bathroom and smooth it over his skin.

  “Ah, Vera, that feels so good.” His muscles soften under my touch, and he exhales peacefully, his eyes half closed. “You said you’re leaving, do you mind telling me where?”

  “I’m going to be a traveling nurse. My first assignment will be overseas.”

  He’s trembling, or at least his leg is, as I lighten my touch and tickle his inner thigh. I shouldn’t tease him, but a part of me needs to know he’s still attracted to me. His breathing is heavier, and the outline of his cock strains against his shorts.

  I kiss his knee, a little longer than a simple peck, and pull myself onto the sofa next to him. “It’s something I’ve been wanting to do.”

  “I’m going to miss you.” His voice deepens, and he slides his palm across my cheek. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you to stay.”

  Would I stay if he asked? His touch is driving me crazy, filling me with inappropriate visions of wedding cakes and growing old together.

  He presses his nose behind my ear, his lips gently kissing the lobe. My insides are melting like warm honey, and my emotions rumble like a subterranean explosion. I shudder, every cell wanting, demanding more, but fear zaps through my arteries, radiating from my chest to my limbs.

  I need to say what I came to say, so I twist around and take a deep breath, fixing my gaze on his clear blue eyes. “It’s not you, or your leg. I can’t get close to anyone.”

  He mouths the ‘it’s not you’ line and whispers, “I know it’s not my leg. You didn’t want to get close before my accident.”

  “Neither did you. You were too busy.” Between his triathlon training, traveling and active social life, he wasn’t exactly a guy who spent much time with me.

  He tangles his fingers in my hair and brings it away from my face. “I’m no longer the same man you had an agreement with. I don’t want the same things. It’s been like a born-again experience.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t blame you for being confused.” His forehead creases. “When I lost my leg, all I thought about was what I did wrong. Whether I was being punished for all the hearts I’ve broken—the partying and messing around.”

  “No, Zach. You didn’t deserve it. I don’t know why it happened, but it wasn’t because of something you did.” Strange how I had wondered the same thing about my family earlier.

  “How can you be sure?” He leans away from me, his shoulders stooped. “There has to be a reason for everything that happens. I’ve lost everything—my hopes, my dreams, my future.”

  I press my face against the side of his head, hugging him. “You have me.” The words slip out so I keep going. “You’re brave and caring. And you’re still sexy. A man any woman would want.”

  He squeezes me tight, and then releases me. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m okay with it. When I was a famous athlete, people would mob me just to touch me, get my autograph, have me smile at them. I ate it up. Loved it. But now I’m only a guy to feel sorry for.”

  “That is so not true.” I stroke the side of his face, unable to keep the lump from blocking my throat. We stare at each other, almost unblinking. Who was Zach Spencer? And who is he now?

  Finally he whispers, “What is the truth?”

  “You’re a hero and a good friend. Lucas says he’ll always remember the moment you said, ‘I’m coming with you.’ That’s when he knew you were his friend, not just a training partner.”

  “Fat bit of good I did. I had to be rescued while Lucas pulled Maryanne out of the water.”

  I place a finger over his lips. No use talking. I’ll comfort him the only way I know. Unbuttoning his shirt, I kiss a trail up and down his chest, savoring his scent, a mixture of soap and a sporty musk that is uniquely Zach.

  He relaxes into my embrace, lightly stroking my back. It’s all I can do not to undress and straddle him. His touch sends currents around my waist, and his smile, definitely panty incinerating. But he doesn’t wiggle his eyebrows and he doesn’t pull me in to crush my lips. Nor does he probe my nipples and squeeze my ass.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  A bevy of flip remarks spin through my mind. What did we usually do while together? Or at least, we did, before his injury. Now, he’s suddenly shy, and it emboldens me.

  Jumping off the sofa, I pull him up with both hands. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  Chapter 5

  Zach’s mattress is stiff, hardly comfortable, but it’ll do. I shimmy out of my clothes and slide under the crisp sheets, waiting for him to climb in and embrace me.

  I recall the first time we touched. Zach and I had been swimming in a sparkling infinity pool, close to the edge where a cascade of water dropped to the level below. His golden, tan body glistened as he lifted me onto an overflowing ledge and stepped between my thighs. His eyes were as blue as the Aegean sea, and his muscles were corded and firm.

  I untied the string holding up his trunks, while he slipped my bikini bottom to the side. Raw animal lust ignited when he pressed into me. He was aggressive, knew what he wanted, and took without abandon.

  The bed dips, and Zach’s hand is on my shoulder. “Vera, you don’t have to.”

  “I want you. Don’t you want me, too?” I move his hand onto my breast, and he immediately fondles it. A melting sensation cascades through my body, causing me to moan and twist as I pull him over me.

  He feathers kisses over my neck “I do want you. I dream about you all the time, but—”

  “No talking.” I turn into his kiss and cradle his face. His mouth is relaxed, and his eyes are half-closed. Flicking my tongue across the seam of his lips, I wait for that familiar hum in the back o
f his throat. His mouth opens, and our tongues wrap lovingly in a slow tango.

  He strokes the side of my neck and presses the kiss deeper. My body softens like warm taffy, conforming to his. I slide my hands under his shirt, my palms tingling over his smooth back. His kisses grow rougher and heavier as he sets my every nerve ablaze. When his thumb rolls over my taut nipple, I almost jolt upright as sizzles of desire pulse at the junction between my legs.

  I throw my neck back, needing more, his skin pressed on mine, and him buried deep inside, as close as two people can possibly be, yet still not enough.

  He lifts his arms as I yank his t-shirt over his head. There’s his gorgeous chest with its light sprinkling of hair, and his dark, delicious scent reminding me of a mossy forest after a thunderstorm.

  Ready to be covered by that prime body, I trace the sexy trail between his solid abdominal muscles, lower his shorts and unveil his beautiful cock. Yep, he’s pumped, ready and bulging.

  Zach groans and grabs my hand. “Let’s not … not yet.”

  “Wh-what?” I’m afraid to look at his face. The old Zach would have had me impaled and screaming by now. He’s obviously aroused, but something bothers him.

  “Sorry.” I gaze regretfully at his raging erection. “Am I moving too fast?”

  “N-no, you’re fine.” His breathing is rough as he turns onto his back and pulls up his shorts. “I don’t want to use you.”

  “How? I don’t get it.” The lack of oxygen in my brain has me blabbering.

  “You know, to feel like I’m a man again, like I have something to prove. I want more.”

  “More?” My tongue thickens as the atmosphere gets awkward.

  “I don’t want a purely physical relationship. Don’t you feel empty when you do this with someone you’re not connected to?”

  Actually I do, but I’m not letting him in on it. Sex is a temporary escape, a Band-Aid for the heart. I always knew I wouldn’t be marrying. Not with my crazy family history.

  But to feel loved and appreciated, even temporarily, beats being lonely.

  “And you,” he keeps talking, “you never spend the entire night. It’s always wham-bam-thank-you-dude, I gotta go ’cause my mother’s waiting up.”

  I clench my jaw and bury my face in the pillow. I’m not ready for all this touchy-feely stuff. Zach’s changed, all right. I only meant to comfort him. Maybe I am pitying him.

  “Vera?” He shakes my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure, no problem. Let me … ah … collect my clothes and …” I untangle the sheets and search for my bra.

  He averts his eyes. “I understand if you want to leave.”

  I’m not going to admit defeat even though he rejected me because, apparently, we’re not connected enough. I finish dressing and push my hair from my face. “Actually, I came to cook dinner and hang out with you.”

  Zach raises an eyebrow. “You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you? Did Maryanne talk you into this? What did she say?”

  “She’s the one wallowing in guilt, not me!”

  He laughs for the first time, and it’s a deep, belly-rumbling laugh. “She feels so bad about my accident. She thinks I deserve a happy ending and that you’re the one to give it to me.”

  “You think this is funny?” I slap the rock-hard bed with both hands and lift off it.

  “No, no, sorry. I’ll take the home-cooked dinner and the hanging out. But I don’t want pity sex.” He pulls on his shirt and grabs a crutch to heft himself off the bed.

  “You weren’t going to get any.” I avoid his eyes and busy myself, tucking his sheets back in place. “I have to get groceries. Do you want chicken, beef or seafood?”

  “Nice change of subject, missy. I need a shower and a shave. It’s a date?”

  I can’t help but smile. The Zach charm is back. I cross to his side and tiptoe to kiss his jaw. “Yes, a date. Be right back.”

  He returns a kiss on the side of my head. “And Vera, I appreciate what you tried to do. Very much.”

  ***

  The grocery store is crowded. Serious food shoppers don’t come in the evening, so I understand why the customers behind me glare at my loaded shopping cart. Zach is a man after all. And all men need the two four-letter F’s taken care of. Since he turned me down on the first one, I can make up for it here.

  I load the food onto the belt: chicken, beef strips, shrimp, rice noodles, soy sauce, scallions, garlic, vegetables, banana ketchup, and calamansi juice, for flavoring and a few bottles for drinking. I love the light citrus taste, not as in your face as lemonade.

  Honestly, I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe it’s guilt and pity, or something more. I used to resent Zach’s attitude, like he just expected things to go right for him, for people to be courteous to him and respect him. Being rich and white automatically put him on the top of the totem pole.

  Then there were the women, scads of women vying for his attention. He was charming with that roguish Aussie accent and those electric blue eyes. What woman wouldn’t want to gaze into them? Back then, I wished he knew what it was like to be looked down on, discriminated against, like my Filipino parents were when they came to America, like I was when growing up.

  I pay for the food, bag it in reusable cloth bags and drag everything to my car. If I believed in karma, I would think my bad thoughts caused his accident. The weeks right after his amputation were the hardest. He was on serious pain meds, morphine, and antidepressants. He wouldn’t speak to anyone, stared at the ceiling, refusing to move. Everyone thought I was his girlfriend, that I should visit and encourage him. So I held his hand during my breaks and sang while he slept. I’ll never forget the day he looked into my eyes and said, “I’ve decided to live.”

  It’s dark by the time I arrive at his apartment. Zach insists on bringing the groceries in even though he isn’t wearing his prosthesis. He hops with a crutch and hooks his fingers through the bag handles. His hair is still wet from the shower and his cologne is fresh, but not overpowering. He seems happy to see me, thanking me profusely, his eyes and smile following me around the kitchen. The old Zach wouldn’t have been so transparent. He would have been too busy checking his smartphone to unpack groceries. And he definitely would have preferred sex over companionship.

  I direct him to boil water while I stir-fry the sliced meat and chopped vegetables with the shrimp. Today I’m making pancit bihon, a quick and easy dish with long, thin rice noodles. I like mine spicy-sweet and a little sour, so I flavor it with soy sauce, fish sauce, and calamansi juice along with a teaspoon of Tabasco sauce. Right before serving, I brown minced garlic in hot oil, sprinkle it on top of the plate, and garnish with chopped peanuts and cilantro on the side. Maybe I’m not that traditional, but Zach likes everything I dish up for him.

  We share the meal and chat like old friends and, just for a moment, I think about the little blond boy who played with me among his mother’s orchids.

  How different things might have been had my father not plunged a knife into his mother’s throat.

  Chapter 6

  “Papa, can you hear me? What should I do about Zach?” I light a candle and look out my bedroom window. In the clear night sky, the stars twinkle above the tree line. “I can’t get closer to him only to have him turn around and hate me, but I can’t stand the thought of never seeing him again.”

  The flame of the candle glows brighter. I sit at the foot of my bed and close my eyes. Papa used to tuck me in. He’d say, “Hun-Hun, no matter what, we’ll always be together. We’re family. Everything will work out at the end.”

  “No, Papa,” I address the flickering candle. “Mama doesn’t believe in happy endings. You promised we’d be together, but you left. You stole Mama’s heart, her one shot at love, and all your promises were lies.”

  A voice echoes from the past. “Take care of Rey, Rod, and Mama. I love you, Hun-Hun.”

  “I love you, too,” I mumble and blow out the candle.

  Lying in bed, I sing P
apa’s favorite songs. Usually, I drift off immediately, but tonight my heartbeat accelerates instead of calming.

  “Papa? Why does everything hurt when I think of Zach?”

  I hug my pillow and sing myself a lullaby, pretending Zach is in my arms. Not big Zach, but the little blond boy with the sad blue eyes. I stroke his silky hair and wipe tears from his sun-kissed cheeks. I tell him his mother loves him, and that he’ll be with her one day.

  The prepaid cell phone jingles, waking me. A text message says, “I’m listening to you sing.”

  What? I duck beneath the window-sill and pull the curtains shut. The neighbor’s dogs are quiet. Could someone be out there?

  “Who are you?” I text back.

  “Anak, I miss you.” He calls me daughter, and my hands start shaking. An old Sunday school teacher once told me angels carry messages to people in Heaven. Maybe this is Papa’s way of answering back.

  Another text rolls in. “Tell your mother I love her.”

  Yeah, right. The thing with men is that sweet words too often mean nothing.

  I text. “Why did you kill Mrs. Spencer?”

  “I didn’t kill Lilli. Her husband did.”

  Zach’s father killed his mother? Should I believe this? I run through the theories Owen suggested. If the messenger is Zach’s ex-girlfriend, why would she want me to believe my father was innocent and let me off the hook? If it were the real killer, why reopen the investigation when everyone had pegged my father guilty?

  My thumbs tap the screen. “Why would he kill her?”

  “He was jealous.”

  A chill runs down my spine. Usually the husband is guilty, if … if his wife were cheating.

  I text back. “Of you?”

  Oh, God. Please don’t let my father be her lover.

  “No, not me. I was innocent.”

  My heart is palpitating and sweat dots my forehead. If Zach’s father framed my father … Oh, what will I do about Zach?

  There’s a question I’ve been dying to ask. “Why did you jump?”