Defeat the Darkness (11 page)

Which left a date. Did that even make sense, when he'd been working so hard to keep her at arm's length? But here she was, all dolled up. Hunter had on khaki pants and a sports shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his powerful forearms. Her heart did a double flip. Even with his cane, there was no mistaking the masculine strength in the way he moved—or the way her body reacted to him.

Time to go. She stepped outside and locked the door behind her. Rather than wait, she met him halfway. He tried to be subtle about checking her out, but his smile had too much heat in it for her not to notice.

“You look great.”

“Thank you.” She warmed, basking in his approval. “So do you.”

His expression said he doubted that, but he didn't comment. “Are we ready?”

“I am if you are.”
For dinner. Just dinner
.

They walked over to the passenger side of Hunter's massive pickup truck. Oh, dear. She hadn't been thinking about the logistics of climbing up into the cab when she'd decided to wear a dress. She reached for the grip and pulled herself up, all too aware of how high her skirt rode up as she did so.

When she was settled, she expected Hunter to shut the door, but he seemed mesmerized by her legs. She tugged her skirt down a bit farther and then reached
to close the door herself. When she moved, Hunter blinked and shook his head. Then he slammed the door.

O-kay, then. They'd been together less than ten minutes and already he was mad. That should make the rest of the evening interesting.

Hunter followed Tate's directions to the restaurant, doing his damnedest to keep his eyes firmly on the road. One glimpse of those tanned legs as she'd climbed into the truck and he already had a world-class woody. Hopefully she'd assumed the trouble he had walking around to his side of the truck had been due to his usual limp. A bit of black humor had him smiling: At last he had a reason to be thankful to the Others for the damage they'd caused.

He doubted anyone else would find that funny, including his companion.

“The restaurant is at the end of the block on the right.”

“I see it.”

They rode in silence while he found a parking spot. He got out of the truck and considered his options. If he let her climb down, he'd be right back where he started the trip—hard and hurting. To forestall that event, he handed her his cane and picked her up by the waist, lifting her down to the ground.

His unexpected move startled a gasp out of Tate. “Next time warn me!”

He liked crowding her a bit, so he held his ground, trapping her between himself and the truck. “What is it they say? It's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.”

“And if I don't want to forgive you?”

Her hand came up to rest on his chest as if to push him away, but he caught it in his and held it there.

“Well, then I'd have to find some way to earn it. You know, buy you some more blueberries, or”—he lifted her hand to his mouth—“I could do this.” He pressed a soft kiss to her palm, letting his breath tease her skin.

“Or maybe this.” Moving slowly, letting her make the final decision, he leaned in close to brush his lips across hers. “What do you say, Tate? Forgive me?”

When she didn't immediately answer, he kissed her again, this time a little slower, a little longer, wrapping his hand around the curve of her neck. He kept the kiss short and gentle in comparison to their earlier ones. But the effects still burned through him like fine scotch.

He rested his forehead against hers. “I probably should say I'm sorry for that, too, but I hate to lie.”

Her mouth quirked up in a half smile. “In that case, I'll settle for the truth.”

Stepping back, he took her hand. “Come on, then. Let's go find you that steak.”

H
unter could've eaten cardboard for dinner and not complained as long as he could stare across the table at Tate Justice. The soft overhead light brought out the highlights in her short blond hair and the sparkle in her pretty blue eyes. Her mouth was driving him crazy, making him wish they were somewhere far more private than a restaurant.

They kept the conversation light, managing to avoid potential mine fields like his past, her family, and politics. But it didn't take long for them to get into a good-tempered argument over books, sports, and whether men had to watch chick flicks in equal proportion to the number of beat 'em up, blow 'em up movies they dragged their dates to.

He lost that one. She even warned him that she'd be keeping score if they ever went to the movies together.

Tate laughed at the expression on his face when she described her movie collection to him. Finally, she
relented and admitted that she also had a shelf of films with explosions and great sword fights.

“How about dessert?”

“You bet.” She grinned across the table at him. “Normally I'd pretend not to want any and then eat half of yours, but their strawberry shortcake is to die for. I'll have to put in about eight hours on the treadmill at the gym tomorrow to make up for it.”

“Let's make it two,” he told the waitress. Turning back to Tate, he picked up where they'd left off. “I didn't know you belonged to a gym.”

“I don't. I sort of own one. I still haven't given you the full tour of my house, have I? My uncle wanted the place to be sort of a community center for Justice Point, so there's a mini fitness center behind the tea shop. It doesn't get much use because so many of the residents are elderly, but the equipment is top of the line. There's a treadmill, weights, an elliptical machine, and some other stuff. Feel free to use it anytime.”

“Thanks, I might just take you up on that.”

Silence settled easily between them. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed an evening out so much. It was a shame it had to end.

Hunter glanced around to check on the waitress's progress on their dessert, and spotted her over by the window.

It was dark outside.

His stomach clenched, and he grabbed onto the edge of the table for support. Shit! Where had the time gone? This time of year it stayed light in the Northwest until close to ten o'clock, so they'd been sitting in the restaurant for over three hours.

The waitress walked toward them, blocking his view of the window. She set down two enormous helpings of strawberry shortcake. The sight made him sick. Too sweet, too perfect, too much everything.

He had to get out, get home, get away before he lost control. Where the hell was the door?

“Hunter, is something wrong?”

“No!” His voice, ruined right along with everything else, grated on his own ears. “I've… no, we've got to leave. Now.”

He held onto coherency long enough to throw a pile of money on the table. Too much, probably, but the price of freedom was always high. Right now he'd sell his soul to get outside, where the stars overhead would give him enough room to breathe without screaming.

His leg was stiff from sitting so long, but he managed to lurch his way to the front door, only dimly aware of the waves of worry following him as Tate struggled to keep up.

Outside, he leaned against the building. He'd reached the sanctuary of the darkness. The glare of neon and streetlights diluted the comfort, but anything was better than being shut inside four walls. Tate moved up beside him as he coasted to a stop, unable to go another step farther. Besides, where could he go to outrun himself?

“The truck is this way.” Tate motioned toward the far side of the parking lot.

Her voice was calm, soothing, but he noticed that she kept her distance. Who could blame her? Not when he'd gone from fine to fractured with no warning. He squinted, trying
to focus. What was he looking for? Oh, yeah. The truck. His truck. One step and another and another after that. Success, he was definitely making progress.

“Give me the keys, Hunter. I'll drive.”

He didn't argue. He wouldn't want to ride with him at the wheel either. When they reached the truck, she opened the passenger door for him. Turnabout was fair, he supposed. But there was one problem. He couldn't stand the thought of being shut up inside the cab. Not even with Tate. Maybe especially with Tate when his control was shot all to hell.

“I'll ride in back.” He pushed past her, heading for the tailgate to climb in.

“But it's starting to rain,” she protested, holding her hand out to catch a few drops to show him.

He shook his head, refusing to listen. “I can't, Tate.”

“Okay,” she conceded, but clearly not happy about it. At least she wasn't trying to drag him off to the ER.

He stretched out in the bed of the truck, staring straight up at the night sky. The engine rumbled on, the vibration feeling good to him as the brush of the air rushing past cooled his skin. All he needed was to focus, to touch the smooth ivory… his cane! Where was it?

Pure panic had him flailing around in the truck bed, hoping to find it and knowing he wouldn't. The last time he remembered seeing it was at the restaurant, when he'd set it down on the extra chair at the table. Son of a bitch! Darkness that had nothing to do with the night blotted out his vision. The weakness made him ashamed, but if he didn't get the cane back, he'd fly apart and never find all the pieces again.

He raised up and pounded on the back window of the cab with his fist. The truck swerved back and forth. Damn it, he'd scared her, but they had to go back. Now, before it was too late.

She eased the truck over to the shoulder and rolled down her window.

“What do you need, Hunter?”

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror as he leaned down to talk to her. Poor Tate, no wonder she looked a bit rattled. He looked like a madman, with his hair windblown and his eyes glazed over with fear.

“My cane. I left it at the restaurant.”

“They're probably closed now. We can get it back in the morning.”

He slammed his fist down on the roof of the cab hard enough to leave a dent. “No! I need it now.”

Tate jumped at his outburst, but then gave a slow nod. “Okay, then. Sit back down before I swing the truck around. Wouldn't want you bouncing out on the pavement.”

Her calm acceptance helped him gather up the tattered edges of his control and pull himself back together, enough so he could breathe and count the seconds as they sped back into town. Bless Tate's heart, she slid through stop signs and only flirted with the speed limit to get back to the restaurant. She didn't mess with the parking lot, stopping right in front of the entrance.

Hunter looked over the side of the truck. Crap, she'd been right. The front lights were off. Tate knocked on the door, and when that didn't work, she tried again
using both fists. Finally, someone inside pulled back the curtain to look out through the window next to the door.

Evidently they tried to tell her the place was closed for the night, like she wasn't smart enough to figure that out for herself. Tate started pounding again. Finally she stopped and stepped back.

“I'm sorry. I know you're closed, but my friend left his cane at our table. I would've waited until tomorrow, but it's a family heirloom and he has to leave first thing in the morning.”

Her words struck hard blows to Hunter's chest. Common sense said she was only saying that as an excuse to make them hunt for the cane. Even so, under the circumstances he wouldn't blame her for wanting him out of her apartment. If she asked him to leave come morning, he'd be packing up and looking for a new place to hide from the world. Devlin Bane wouldn't be happy, but Hunter was more concerned about Tate. If he'd scared her enough to want him to leave, he would go.

The jerk in the restaurant left Tate standing there in the rain while he ostensibly went hunting for the cane. Couldn't he have let her come inside for a couple of minutes? It made Hunter want to punch something, or better yet, someone. Before he could climb down out of truck to do just that, the guy was back. He opened the door only far enough to shove the cane out to Tate, then yanked it shut again.

Retribution would have to wait.

“Here you go, Hunter.”

As soon as his hand latched onto the cane, he focused
all his attention on it. Closing his eyes, he traced the cool, hard carving of the handle. As he stroked the ivory with his fingertips, his pulse gradually slowed, at least enough that he no longer feared his heart would burst.

The familiar touch, combined with the soft rumble of the truck's engine as they tore through the damp night, helped bring back his awareness of their surroundings. They were almost at the turnoff to Tate's place. Ordinarily he would've been relieved to be back in familiar territory, but not this time. He was in no shape for long discussions, even if he could bring himself to tell Tate the truth about himself.

But somehow he doubted she was going to simply hand him his keys and disappear into her house. Maybe by morning he would've found some way to explain what had happened, but right now he could barely string two coherent thoughts together. As the truck slowed for the final turn, he braced himself for a bumpy ride that had nothing to do with the ruts in Tate's driveway.

Tate turned off the engine, then rested her head against the steering wheel. Boy, oh, boy, she really did not want to leave the quiet sanity of the truck cab. The seat was wide enough for her to stretch out. Maybe she should just lock the doors and sleep there, safe and sound.

Not that she was in any danger from Hunter Fitzsimon, at least not physically. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to block out how he'd gone from friendly to frantic in a heartbeat with no explanation. One second
he'd been anxious for dessert and the next, he was charging toward the exit.

Then there was the whole cane thing. He'd made it all the way to the truck without it, so he didn't need it to walk. Yet clearly he couldn't make it home without it.