Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

She smiled, thought about picking him up and nuzzling him with a good night kiss, then reminded herself of age old wisdom: Let sleeping babies lie.

Shutting the door softly, she walked into her bedroom where the television was glowing and Santana, dark hair rumpled, head pressed into his pillow, lay on the bed.

“’Bout time,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, a tough one. I’ll tell you all about it.”

She stepped into the bathroom, stripped, and washed her face and eyed her robe, then thought better of it. Instead she walked naked across the bedroom, only pausing for a second to stare out at the snowy night. She eyed the lake and felt a chill, so she rubbed her arms.

Why did this calm vista, the powdery drifts and icy water, large snowflakes falling, make her nervous and wary. A tingle ran up the back of her arms and she squinted through the glass and into the dark as she had before. Just as in the past, she saw nothing.

“Are you going to stand there all night, or what?” Santana had levered himself on an elbow and was watching her every move.

“Or what,” she said as he clicked off the TV with the remote and she nestled into his arms. In her home. In her bed. With her husband. Where they were all safe. His lips found hers in the darkness, his tongue gently probing her lips, and she let go, shedding all the tension, grief, and worry of the recent days as she warmed beneath his touch. One of his hands slid down her spine, to cup a buttock and draw her tight against his hardness. In that moment, with her pulse pounding and desire throbbing through her brain, she gave herself into the heat and raw sexual desire that always accompanied the feel of his callused hands scraping against her skin.

As she arched against him, she wondered how she could have gotten so lucky with this man as they made love and the world drifted away.

Chapter 28

The bed was empty, the room cold, the house quiet.

Too quiet.

Without opening her eyes, Pescoli flung an arm out but, of course, Santana was already up, out with the horses....

She stretched.

The silence was blissful and so rare.

Actually it never existed.

She opened one eye and glanced at the clock.

Seven thirty-seven.

And no one but Santana was up?

Odd.

Rolling over with the faintest memories of sex still swimming through her consciousness, she peered at the baby monitor, but the image was blurry. Again. She really would have to

replace it.

She climbed to her feet and stretched, then realized she was naked. She smiled as she grabbed her robe from the bathroom and wondered why the house seemed so cold. Opening the door to the hallway, she checked the register and saw that the temperature had dropped another few degrees. She hated to think that the furnace had given up the ghost, but no, she heard it running.

Again, she noticed the quiet.

She pushed open the baby’s room and saw the reason for the coldness as the window was open, blinds raised. “What the . . . ?” A jolt of panic stabbed at her heart as she turned.

The baby’s bed was empty.

She fell against the wall in fright, then immediately stood back up, telling herself not to freak out as she walked to the crib and saw that Tucker wasn’t in it.

He’s with Santana. He has to be. Even though Santana never wakes him, this is the one time....

She flew out of the room and down the stairs, her bare feet pounding along the hallway.

Maybe the baby is sick. Santana is taking care of him. Didn’t want to wake me.