“Damn right I did!”
Preston almost let the subject go, but even then, Vince’s strange response had made him curious. “How’d the boy’s parents take the news?”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Vince snapped.
A bump in the other room jolted Preston out of the memory. Rolling onto his side, he glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Light peeked through the cracks in the blinds, but he’d only been sleeping for three-and-a-half hours.
Three and a half crummy hours. Where was he, anyway? He traveled so much these days that all hotel rooms were beginning to look alike.
Rubbing his face, he leaned up so he could see the other bed. He wasn’t alone, and that brought it all back to him. He was in Salt Lake. With a woman he couldn’t seem to lose. And a diabetic boy who’d nearly died in his arms. Both of whom were being chased by an unstable man named Manuel who liked to burn others with his cigarettes.
He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. And he’d thought his life was bad before.
The sound of a television reached his ears, coming from the living room. He scrutinized the opposite bed more carefully. Emma had to be in the living room because Max was still asleep.
Why wasn’t she getting what rest she could? Was she okay?
Sliding out of bed, Preston walked toward the adjoining door. Yesterday had been pretty stressful. Maybe she was having a tough time dealing with the residual effects.
He remembered what she’d said to him that first night. What if the fact that you’ve considered suicide doesn’t scare me? Maybe I understand how you’re feeling. Maybe I’ve been there.
God, all he needed was for her to crack up.
As he quietly opened and closed the door, Emma sat up on the couch. “You’re awake? Already?”
It was a lot brighter out here, bright enough that Preston had to squint against the light streaming through the windows. When he could see, he noticed that Emma’s eyes still had purple smudges beneath them. Her hair was mussed, too, as though she’d spent a sleepless night. He could tell she was tired, stressed, but he didn’t think she’d been crying.
Maybe life wasn’t so bad. Even when she was wiped out, he enjoyed looking at her.
“I’m sorry if the TV woke you,” she said. “I had no idea that whoever watched it last had turned it up high enough to shake the building. I turned it down as soon as I could.”
“It’s fine.” Still a little groggy, Preston took in the way the soft cotton of his shirt molded to the naked body beneath, noticed the gentle sway of her br**sts when she shifted position—and suddenly felt a great deal more alert.
Her expression told him she’d read his reaction, so he put some space between them by walking over to the kitchen for a drink. He didn’t want her to think he expected anything from her. He was helping her for one reason and one reason only: to appease his conscience.
So where was his conscience when his imagination was painting vivid pictures of stripping away that T-shirt?
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t have napped so long in the van.”
He searched for another topic to occupy his mind. He didn’t want to start thinking about sex. He’d spent a miserable night after Max had interrupted them in Ely, and he refused to ask for a second helping of the same kind of frustration.
Fortunately, they had plenty to discuss that should go far toward making him want to keep his pants on. “Tell me about Manuel.”
Preston hadn’t wanted to know anything about Emma’s life, hadn’t wanted to be drawn into the middle of whatever crises she faced. But that was pretty much a moot point now. He was in the middle of it. He figured it might be wise to learn a little more about the man who was causing all this trouble.
Emma turned the volume even lower and set the remote aside. “What do you want to know?”
“You said the two of you never married.”
“We didn’t.”
“Why does he claim otherwise?”
Cocking her head slightly, she studied him for a moment. “You’ve talked to him?”
“We met, briefly.”
She looked as though she didn’t know whether to believe him. “Where?”
“In Ely. He was walking around flashing pictures of you and Max, telling everyone you were his wife and kid.”
“Oh.” She took a few seconds to absorb this information. “So you think I’m lying about being married?”
“No.” Preston checked the refrigerator and found it stocked with wine, beer, soda and juice. He selected a bottle of sparkling apple cider. “He just made me curious about the dynamics of your relationship, that’s all.”
“It’s complicated,” she said, rubbing her forehead.
“Obsession usually is. A normal man would show more interest in reclaiming his son. Manuel seems completely consumed by you.”
She pulled her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “He doesn’t relate to small children. And he isn’t pleased that Max is…less than perfect.”
His juice made a hissing sound when he twisted off the cap. “How’s Max less than perfect?”
She glanced up at him again. “He has diabetes.”
“So? Max is—” Preston caught himself. He’d been about to say “great,” but that somehow committed him to an opinion he really didn’t want to know he held. “A good boy,” he finished. “How could anyone be disappointed in a son like him?”
“To Manuel, he’s damaged goods. And yet Manuel loves him fiercely, so fiercely that he drives Max to be the best at everything.”
“That sounds like an issue of pride—or possession. Far more selfish than love,” Preston said.
“You’re probably right. Manuel cares a great deal about appearances, about making sure others perceive him as handsome, intelligent, successful…perfect. He wanted me to be perfect, and Max, too.”
Preston couldn’t see how Manuel could find any fault with either of them. “Then why didn’t he marry you? Make Max legitimate?”
“I told you. His family wouldn’t accept me.”
“There’s got to be more to it than that.”
“It was mainly his mother. She’s got some serious jealousy issues with her sons, especially Manuel. She’s still married to Manuel’s father, but she completely runs his life, and she doesn’t respect him because of it. Manuel is stronger, more driven, like her. She admires that, sees him as everything she’s ever wanted in a man.”