Her Little Secret

Without thinking, she turned toward the car. He took her arm as if to stop her from running. She looked down at his broad hand, his splayed, capable fingers.

Her body seemed to grow heavier, but she wasn’t confused about her real feelings. She looked up at him and prayed Hope wouldn’t wake, the way children did when a car stopped too long.

“I thought I’d be out of here before you arrived.” Stress tensed his face. His dark green eyes watched her as if she were a stranger.

“You dreaded seeing me, too.” She pulled away from him. How could he bother her so much after five years? After the revulsion he hadn’t been able to hide before she’d left?

She started over.

“I came straight from the airport,” she said. “What are you doing here?” She forbade herself another glance toward Hope. Sometime he’d have to know but, please God, not now. Not yet.

“The house was a—we have to talk, Cass.”

“Don’t call me that.” Her old nickname tugged her toward him as if he were her true north. Everyone had used it, but from Van it meant familiarity and whispers in the cocoon of their bed. Secrets only they knew.

He nodded, his eyes so intense she wanted to scream. He shut the door behind him. “Parts of the house were in bad shape. Are in bad shape.”

“What are you talking about?” She reached past him. Just then, the back door of her rental car opened, and a small voice shouted, “Mommy?”

She turned. “Hope.” Cassie ran across the grass and snatched her daughter into her arms, holding on so tight Hope tried to wriggle free.

“You’re squishing me.”

“Sorry.” Tears choked her, but she never cried. “Sorry, baby.” She turned, her daughter in her arms.

Van had followed, shock draining his face of color. She wished the sunset would just finish up and fade and make them all invisible.

Cassie shook her head, begging him not to say anything that might hurt Hope. Naturally, he wondered if she belonged to him. Despite five years and the certainty he hadn’t wanted her or their marriage, she feared his unspoken question.

At last, he dragged his gaze away from Hope, moving his head as if his muscles were locked. Pain pulsed from his body.

Cassie relented. She’d assumed a lot of bad things about Van’s inability to be human, but he obviously had feelings.

“No,” she said. “Not yours.”

He grimaced, looking confused. Then he put his hand over his mouth. She was close enough to see sweat bead on his upper lip.

As it had the last time he’d tried to make love to her.

She’d been right to leave Honesty. She was the only one who could love the whimsical, curious girl who danced through her life in joy.

Only Cassie could love the daughter born of her rape.

CHAPTER THREE

“MOMMY, WHOZZAT MAN?”

Van’s eyes darkened. His mouth froze in a sharp, thin line. He clenched his fists at his side.

Cassie pressed her face to her daughter’s head and breathed in Hope’s warm, still-babyish scent. Cassie swore silently. He could still make her tremble, but she and Hope were a family.

“Van, this is Hope, the love of my life.” Be careful, she warned him in her head. Don’t say anything to hurt my daughter. “Baby, this is Mr. Van. He’s a—” She stopped. If explaining Hope’s long-lost Grampa had been hard… “a friend of my father’s.”

“Hello, Mr. Van.” Hope stuck out her tiny hand. As always, Cassie marveled at her long slender fingers. She’d know her daughter decades from now, if only by her hands. God had been kind. They were Victoria Warne’s hands, too. “Mr. Van?” her little girl said.

He literally shook himself, staring at her.

“Is he okay?” Hope stage-whispered.

He forced a false smile, but Cassie was grateful. Finally, he dwarfed her hand in his and shook it.

Giggling, Hope dropped her head against Cassie’s chest and didn’t see Van press his palm to his jeans.

Watching him, Cassie felt more than the cold of the Virginia winter. Not even the coat she’d draped over the backseat would have warmed her. Why had she expected anything more compassionate from him?

“Sorry.” He shook his head. His disgust this time was clearly for himself, but it came too late.

Cassie swept past him. “I’m taking her inside for dinner and bed.”

“There’s no food,” he said, “and a couple of the rooms…”

She waited. He didn’t go on. She didn’t look back. “What about the rooms?”

“Your dad.” He came after them. The kitchen steps dipped beneath his weight. “He had some collections.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Paper towels,” he said. “And those dishwashing sponges. Hundreds of them.”

“What?” She stared at him underneath the porch light.

“In the guest rooms. I’ve cleaned your room and his and your old playroom, and I cleaned off and remade the daybed in there. But the others—I called the women’s shelter in town to see if they could use anything.”

He actually blushed, but for no valid reason. Obviously, his mind had gone to the women’s shelter because of what had happened to her. They’d be well sponged and paper-towel clean, because she’d forgotten she’d left her bathroom window open one night five years ago.

“Get over it, Van. I have.”

“Have you?”

His simple question rattled all her doubts. “I had to.” She glanced down at Hope’s head.

He wiped his mouth again. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”

“Fortunately,” she said, trying to be kind because she didn’t want grudges between them, “we don’t need to talk. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done. We’ll both have beds to sleep in, and I can go by the grocery store.”

“Let me.”

“We’re not your problem. Good night.”