during all that time you thought I was dead.”
He’d said it not as a question but as a statement. “Yes. I had no reason not to believe what the State Department had reported. A part of me wished I’d known more about you so I could reach out to your parents. I recall you’d mentioned they were alive but you never gave me any personal information about yourself.”
“And you never gave me any personal information about yourself, either,” he said. “Though I do remember you telling Bane you were from New York.”
No, they hadn’t exchanged any of those details. She doubted if it would have mattered anyway. It was not like he’d intended to one day pick up where they’d left off. There was no doubt in her mind that after he’d been rescued he’d gotten on with his life and hadn’t given her a second thought.
“How did you stumble across me tonight?” She was certain now that he hadn’t been looking for her.
“I came to New York on military business. After dinner I was headed back to my hotel room when I saw the sign at the gallery with your name. I figured there couldn’t be too many artists with that name.”
“So you came into the gallery on a hunch?”
“Yes, although I knew from the way I was dressed I would stand out like a sore thumb. And then I encountered your Steven Culpepper, who—”
“He’s not my Steven.”
“He tried to paint the picture that he was. Appeared pretty damn possessive, too. He’d convinced me you weren’t the Bristol I was looking for, but then I heard your laugh.”
“My laugh?”
“Yes. I was less than a foot from the door when I heard you laugh. Twice.”
She nodded. “Colin Kusac was sharing something with me about how he and my father used to get in trouble in high school.”
“Your laugh is what let me know you were the same Bristol. I remembered it.”
Those three days they’d spent together had been memorable in so many ways. And it hadn’t been all about the sex. They’d had fun sharing breakfast in bed, sharing jokes. They’d even watched movies together. She had enjoyed waking up in his arms and going to sleep the same way.
Those memories were what had held her sanity together while she carried his child and believed he’d been lost to her forever. Those memories were what she’d remembered when the labor pains had hit. She’d drawn comfort from them.
The car came to a stop and she glanced out the window. She was home. The place she’d escaped to when she needed to heal from the grief she’d endured when she thought Laramie had died. It was the place where, months later, she had brought her son. Because her baby had been so large, at the last minute she’d had to deliver by C-section. Luckily, Dionne had made plans to be with Bristol as her delivery coach and ended up being a lot more. Her best friend was a godsend during the weeks following the delivery.
The first time Bristol had seen her son she’d been filled with so much love. She’d been given a special gift. She’d immediately noticed how much he looked like his father. It was uncanny. Her son’s coloring, the shape of his eyes, the tilt of his mouth, had all come from the older Laramie. And the older her son got the more he looked like his father. Would Laramie notice? There was no way he couldn’t.
“Are you okay, Bristol?”
She looked over at him. “Yes, I’m fine.” A part of her wondered if that was true.
The driver came around and opened the door. Laramie slid out, and she couldn’t help noticing how his masculine jeans-clad thighs slid with ease across the leather. Then he stood by the door and extended his hand out to her, to help her out.
The moment she placed her hand in his, she felt it. That spark, that tingling sensation she’d felt the first time they’d touched. She glanced up at him and met the darkness of his eyes and knew he’d felt it, too. Knew he was remembering.
Then she decided she wasn’t fine after all.
Laramie considered what had passed between him and Bristol a few moments ago. He was fully aware of the strong sexual chemistry that was still between them. Even when they weren’t trying, they pushed each other’s buttons. No surprise there. But what he found surprising was the intensity of what he’d felt from her touch.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned to look at the line of brownstones, especially the one in front of them. The SEAL in him quickly surveyed his surroundings, took in every nook and cranny. It was a nice neighborhood of older well-kept homes on a tree-lined street with sufficient lighting. Even the sidewalks in front of the homes looked as if they’d been scrubbed clean. It was easy to see this was a block that took pride in their neighborhood.
He followed as Bristol walked ahead of him. Several live plants lined the steps to her front door. Had he told her how nice she looked tonight in that long, flowing black gown with a split on the side? The male in him couldn’t help but appreciate how those curves filled out the gown. She was a beautiful woman and he could understand Culpepper’s interest. What man wouldn’t be interested?
She took the key out of her purse and looked at him. Had she sensed he’d been staring at her backside? “Nice neighborhood,” he said, in case she had.
“Yes, it is.” She paused. “I will have to tell Ms. Charlotte who you are, as well. She will be shocked.”
He nodded. “She also assumes we’re married?”
“Yes. The only person who knows the truth is my best friend in Paris. Dionne.”
Laramie didn’t say anything as she unlocked the door and opened it. Then she stepped aside. “No, after you,” he told her. “I’m used to bringing up the rear.”
She nodded and entered her home. He followed, closing the door behind him. Her place had a cozy air. It felt small and intimate compared to the monstrosity of a house his parents owned, where he’d grown up as a child.
He stood in a foyer with stairs on one side and a living room on the other. The lit fireplace reminded him of how cold it was outside. The heat in here felt good. She had decorated for the holidays. A Christmas tree sat in front of the windows and he couldn’t help noticing that several of the ornaments were the ones he had bought for her in Paris. It made him feel good to know she had kept them.
“Nice place,” he said, glancing over at Bristol as he removed his Stetson and placed it on a nearby hat rack.
“Thanks.”
“I thought I heard voices. You’re home.”
An older woman came down the stairs and he figured her to be Ms. Charlotte. She smiled when she saw them. Then suddenly, the smile seemed to freeze on her face and she stopped walking to stare at him.
“Sorry I’m late, Ms. Charlotte. How was Laramie tonight?”
The older woman answered Bristol, without taking her eyes off him. “He was fine as usual.”
It was then that Bristol said, “Ms. Charlotte, I’d like to introduce—”
“I know who he is,” the older woman said, still staring at him.
The woman’s words gave Laramie pause. “How can you know?” he asked, lifting a brow.
“Your son looks just like you.”
His son looked like him? “Does he?” he heard himself asking.
“Yes, your spitting image,” the older woman said.
“That’s one of the first things I noticed after he was born,” Bristol added.
The