“You were outside the house while I was crying my eyes out? Grieving for you? So hard I thought my heart would stop?” She straightened suddenly in his lap and he winced. “You came into the house, didn’t you? You were here. It was real.”

Charity wrenched herself out of his lap and stood, trembling. He’d opened his arms to let her go. Her movements were so violent he’d hurt her if he tried to keep his hold on her.

She was shaking, arms wound tightly around her midriff, gemstone eyes bright in her white face. “I thought I was losing my mind. I felt your presence all the time. I smelled you. I’d walk into a room and expect to find you. I thought I was going crazy.” She glared at him narrow-eyed. “Is this some kind of game for you? Pre—pretending to be dead, letting me think I b—buried you, then coming around later? Is this your idea of a joke? Because if it is, I’m not laughing.”

Nick stood. He moved slowly because she looked like she would bolt—or shatter—at any untoward movement.

“No joke,” he said softly. “No game. And if I could have avoided this, I would have, believe me. It’s just that—”

Charity went even whiter. “Avoided this?” She brought a shaking hand to her mouth. “You wanted to avoid me? You wanted to just leave me hanging, thinking my husband was dead?” She swallowed heavily. “You’re not Nick,” she whispered, shaking. “You can’t be. He would never do this to me. He’d never leave me mourning him. Who are you?”

“No!” God, this was going badly. “I didn’t mean I was avoiding you, it’s just that—”

But Nick was talking to empty air. With a moan muffled by the hand she clapped to her mouth, Charity bolted for the bathroom, making it barely in time. She slid to the porcelain bowl, slammed both hands on the tiled wall behind the toilet and bowed her head. Nothing came out but tea and vodka. She coughed and retched alcohol-scented brown liquid, eyes streaming.

Nick was right behind her. He ran a small hand towel under the sink faucet and wrung it out. He wrapped one arm around her from behind and gently wiped her face. She was gasping, shaking, sweating, coughing. Her stomach muscles clenched hard under his hand as another bout of retching seized her.

They were dry heaves now, but no less wrenching for the fact that there was nothing left in her stomach to come up. She made little moves to dislodge Nick’s arm, but he wasn’t having it. She needed his support. She was running on fumes and he was sure she’d fall to the ground without his arm around her.

When a few minutes went by with no more spasms, she finally stepped away, trying to escape his arm. Nick didn’t budge. He rinsed the towel out again, turned her toward him, and wiped her face and neck.

Charity stood meekly, head bowed, eyes closed. He’d seen ice with more color than her face.

She looked so miserable his heart squeezed in his chest.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “You belong in bed. We can talk about things later, but right now you need to be lying down.” Frowning, he lifted the back of his hand to her brow. She was cool. Still—“You’re probably coming down with something, you’re so run down. We’ll be lucky if it’s just the flu. This is bronchitis or pneumonia weather. I think I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

Good idea. The hell with opsec. He’d drive Charity to the hospital in the next town over, stay in the background. Make sure she checked in, make sure she was all right while Di Stefano and Alexei kept watch over Worontzoff.

“No.” She made an effort and stood up straight, moving away from him. “I’m not sick. I’m grieving.” She glared at him.

“I didn’t know grieving made you throw up a thousand times a day. That’s a new one.”

“I haven’t been throwing up a thousand times a day! That’s ridiculous. Just in the mor—”

She stopped suddenly, eyes wide. Nick froze, too. They looked at each other. There was utter silence in the pretty little bathroom as Nick searched her eyes for the truth he suddenly felt in every cell in his body.

“Go ahead, finish that sentence. You only throw up in the mornings. You know what that means, don’t you? It means you’re pregnant.”

“No,” Charity whispered. Her hand went immediately to her belly, as if trying to feel what was there through muscle and skin. Nick knew what was there. A baby. His baby. He would bet his new million dollars on it. “No. No way. I can’t be pregnant.” She looked appalled at the thought.

Nick frowned. “You certainly can be pregnant. God knows we fucked enough, and once without a rubber is all it takes. Ask any teenaged girl.”

Charity flinched. “This is—this is ridiculous. I can’t possibly know anything for sure. Not now, not yet. I’d need tests, blood tests, urine tests, whatever, it takes weeks to be sure…” Her voice tapered off as she stared wide-eyed at Nick. Both of them were absolutely certain, he knew it, but Charity was having problems coping with it.

Nick was a soldier, Charity wasn’t. All his life he’d never flinched from reality. He saw what was, not what he wanted, always, and he saw it immediately. He never needed time to adapt. Christ, if you need time to adapt to new situations, stay away from battlefields.

Taking time to process things is a very good way to get killed.

Charity came from a gentler background, where bad news came rarely and there was time to acclimate. She was still processing the idea while Nick was already planning ahead.

A baby. A baby! Jesus. He’d never wanted marriage and he’d always rejected even the thought of kids. What the fuck did he know about families, about raising kids? He’d grown up in an orphanage and brutal foster homes, not exactly role models of domesticity.

Of course, Jake had grown up the same way and he was the best husband and father on earth. But that was Jake. Nick was Nick. All it took was a hint from the woman du jour of wedding bells or even jewelry and Nick was in the next state. It wasn’t anything he wanted, or anything he ever expected to want.

Which is why the jolt of desire he felt nearly knocked him to his knees. Desire for Charity, but also desire for their child. It was a totally new emotion, but he processed it instantly as it settled inside him. There was no doubt it was real. He recognized it instantly, as if it had been there all along, patiently waiting for him to acknowledge it.

That angry buzzing that had filled his head and clouded his mind was gone. His mind was completely clear, and he knew exactly what he wanted.

He wanted Charity and this child he’d made with her. He wanted it ferociously, more than he’d wanted to become a Delta operator all those years ago.

In a flash, his life turned around 180 degrees.

He wanted it all. A real marriage and fatherhood. He wanted to live with this beautiful woman in this beautiful house in this beautiful little town. He wanted to raise their son or daughter in a loving home, protected and cared for. And he wanted more kids. Why the hell not? Why stop at one?

Of course, between now and that future there were a few hurdles to overcome and one of them was staring at him right now, white-faced and shell-shocked.

Nick took her hands in his. They were ice-cold. He brought them to his lips and kissed them. Charity drew in a deep breath and snatched her hands away from his. He let her do it. Right now was not the time to force her in any way.

Like a child, Charity hid her hands behind her back. She looked up at him, searching his eyes, trying to read him.

Nick knew exactly how to deflect curiosity and hide whatever he wanted to hide. It was one of his gifts, together with stillness and emotional detachment. It was what made him such a good undercover cop. He knew how to keep people out. But now he needed to switch gears, fast.

He deliberately drew down the shield he’d had all his life around his mind and heart and let her in.