Discovering You (4 page)

She briefly closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“And you haven't been with anyone since.”

Her face flushed. If he could see her cheeks in the light, he suspected they'd match her hair. “Right.”

He felt his breath seep out, hadn't even known he was holding it. “Then you
do
want to fuck me.”

When she blanched, he regretted stating it so baldly. But he didn't want to wind up at her house and have her bail on him. This night had been bad enough.

“It doesn't have to go that far,” she said.

“You just want to make out?”

“I'm...open to ideas. I guess with Cassia gone, it felt like a good opportunity to...” Finally, she glanced up—and then she seemed to lose her train of thought because she stopped talking again.

“Be with a man,” he filled in. Did
that
put it nicely enough?

She slid her bracelets up her arm, something she'd been doing the whole drive. “If...if you're interested. But you're injured and...I'm basically a stranger to you, so...I'll understand if you're not up for that kind of...
encounter
.”

“I'm trying to get this straight. You won't let me take you to dinner. But you'll let me take off your clothes?”

She would no longer look at him. “I know, that sounds crazy,” she said with an awkward laugh. “I'm not thinking straight. You can go.”

“This back and forth is confusing,” he told her. “I've been getting conflicting signals since I got in your car. So why don't you tell me exactly what you're after?”

Her eyes widened. “You liked the dress,” she said helplessly, as if she couldn't frame it any more clearly than that.

He chuckled at her lame attempt. “I like what's
in
the dress, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.”

She said nothing. Staring straight ahead, at his house, she nibbled at her bottom lip.

“Look at me,” he said and waited for her to comply. “Are you really committed to going to bed with a man you've barely met? Have you ever done that before?”

“No. I've been with some rather...unsavory characters, but I always
knew
them before...you know.”

“And that means...”

“It wouldn't be a good idea.”

“That's a no,” he said. “Okay. I'm glad I clarified. Because if I'd had to guess, I would've gone the other way.”

He started to get out, but she caught his arm again, and this time when he looked back, she gripped her forehead with her free hand and squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes. It's a yes.”

Suddenly, Rod didn't feel all the aches and pains that'd been bothering him. Opportunities like this didn't come around very often. Although there'd never been any shortage of women in his life, there'd been no one like India Sommers. She was refined, educated, classy—not the kind of girl who typically tried to pick him up.

Lowering his gaze to her lips, he leaned across the console to get a sample of what he could expect at her house. He could tell a lot about a woman by the way she kissed—and he wasn't disappointed. She wasn't too assertive or overeager, despite the fact that she was the one who'd extended the invitation. She was still struggling with her decision to do something so reckless. He could feel the tug-of-war inside her—between her idea of what was appropriate and her desire. But she was responsive in spite of that, and her mouth meshed so comfortably with his that he had no doubt he was in for a special treat.

He could use a few hours with a woman, especially a woman who kissed like this.

When her hands touched his face, and her tongue gently probed the cut on his bottom lip before she allowed him to deepen the kiss, he could sense an inherent sweetness, and that caused his excitement to skyrocket. He'd found her to be different and attractive from the start. But she'd acted so aloof when he helped her unload her Prius, Rod had decided she thought she was too good for him
and
his brothers.

He'd never expected
this
.

“That's nice,” she murmured when he kept it soft.

It
was
nice. Her kiss told him she wasn't nearly as cold and unreachable as he'd assumed.

Soon his heart was pounding almost as hard as when he'd gotten into that fight. But as she relaxed and began to sink into the kiss, he could tell she was investing a great deal of emotion, as if...as if she knew him better than she did.

He pulled back to look at her, but she didn't open her eyes. He was fairly certain she didn't want to see him. She wanted to feel what he was making her feel so she could pretend he was someone else. Someone she loved and missed. Charlie.

A strange reluctance hit him, slowing his pulse. Two minutes earlier he hadn't cared that she wanted him only for his body. He'd known she wasn't inviting him over for his personality; they weren't well enough acquainted for that. But now?

His gut told him to stop. He'd been with plenty of women, knew he could give her an orgasm. But she'd experienced what it was like to feel something deeper for the man who was making her tremble. A hit-and-run, even a successful one, would only convince her that their time together had been a mistake.

Finally, she opened her eyes. “What's wrong?”

He wasn't sure he could explain the disappointment he felt, wasn't sure he should try. Since they'd barely met, it probably wouldn't make any sense.

“Are you...in pain?” she asked. “Hurting? I have ibuprofen at my house.”

“That's not it.” He had so much testosterone flowing through him that, once again, he could hardly feel his injuries. He wanted her; he was rock-hard. But she didn't want
him
, and that disconnect was something he'd never experienced before. His previous one-night stands had involved women who admired him and were anxious to be with him—or what they perceived him to be. Even if he couldn't count love as part of the equation, there'd been the hope of something more, a certain openness that wasn't present here. It was almost as if India had chosen him because she didn't feel he could ever be a threat to her heart. He was just a cheap substitute for the man she'd married.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“You're
sorry
?” she echoed. “What does that mean?”

“I didn't intend to get your hopes up and then disappoint you.” On the contrary, that was the one thing still goading him to continue. He felt he'd made a commitment, even though he'd barely touched her.

“Is that what you're doing?” she asked.

“I guess it is,” he replied.

“What'd I do? You...you don't like the way I kiss? Or my perfume reminds you of someone else? Or—”

“Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

Should he tell her that he'd figured out why she'd chosen him? That he understood she'd defined him as a “troublemaker,” thanks to what she'd witnessed tonight and what Chief Bennett had said, and saw him as the perfect guy to use?

“I'd go home with you if that'd fix anything,” he said and meant it. “But you'd be every bit as lonely and miserable in the morning. The guilt might make things worse.”

Her troubled eyes met his. “If you're stopping for
my
sake, don't. I see it as an hour or two during which I won't have to feel what I'd otherwise feel.” She pressed her lips against his, trying to engage him again. “I can take care of myself,” she said when he resisted. “I'll accept responsibility.”

Catching her hands, he leaned away from her. “But there's no way I can compete with the man in your mind.”

She looked befuddled. “You don't need to compete. I'm not asking you to.”

“That's just it. Because you've already counted me out. Why would I get involved?”

“Surely a guy like you—”

“A guy like me? You don't even know me.”

“I'm guessing you've had other casual encounters.”

“Of course. I'm not pretending to be a saint.”

“Then...how am I different?” she asked. “I won't expect anything from you afterward. I promise. I may live next door, but I'll keep to myself.”

“Maybe that's the problem.” He could feel her surprise when he got out, knew she was watching as he walked to his house and went inside. He was stunned himself. Was he crazy to refuse what she'd offered him?

He knew what Grady and Mack would say. They'd think he'd lost his ever-lovin' mind. They'd all been admiring her, and she'd just invited him into her bed!

If he were a few years younger, he would've said yes to something quick and dirty like that, he told himself. But he was thirty-one. It was time to take life more seriously, time to earn more respect. If India wanted to be with him, she'd have to give him an honest shot, not relegate him to the category of “good for a midnight ride but nothing else.”

Just because he'd had so little in life for so long didn't mean he had to accept less forever—even if he was an auto body technician and not a heart surgeon.

* * *

If she closed her eyes, India could taste Rod's kiss, could easily feel the way his lips and tongue had moved with and against hers. It wasn't often that a man could kiss with such perfect pressure tempered by control. She'd just decided that she'd picked an ideal partner, one who could actually carry her away, when he'd pulled back and brought all that positive sensation to a halt.

Why had he changed his mind?

What he'd said led her to believe he wasn't satisfied with the limitations she'd imposed on their encounter. Perhaps he didn't like that she was the one dictating the terms. Or she'd ruined the challenge by offering. The men she'd been with before Charlie had liked having something to conquer. Love, or what passed for it, was a game to them. Considering what she'd learned from those early experiences, she'd played Rod entirely wrong. But she was an adult now, no longer interested in all the pretense and posturing that so often went with the single life.

Besides, she hadn't
intended
to proposition him, hadn't intended any of what had happened tonight. It'd been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment attempt to numb the dull ache that echoed through her body with every beat of her heart.

“Congratulations, you've fallen to a whole new low,” she muttered to herself. She needed to get her little girl back home. Cassia was the only anchor she still had in her life. She wouldn't have made this mistake if Cassia was with her.

Getting her child back early wouldn't be easy. Charlie's parents wouldn't welcome the idea. They'd likely start a fight as soon as she mentioned it.

Tears burned her eyes as she entered her drive and parked. Then she sat there, staring at her new house. She needed to hang all the art waiting in the detached garage, make this place her home in the truest sense. But some of those pieces were so heavy they'd require a helper, which she didn't have, not unless she went to the trouble of hiring someone.

Anyway, the paintings would only remind her of Charlie, she told herself. He was the one who'd bought them for her—and she already thought of him far too often. She'd
never
get over him if she didn't do what she could to move on.

She saw a light go on next door and realized it was probably coming from Rod's room. The window that glowed in the darkness was on the second floor, and it had a small deck with stairs that led to the backyard and overlooked the river. She grabbed her purse, but just as she reached for the door latch, he confirmed that it was his room by coming out onto that deck and looking down at her car.

She wished she'd hurried inside while she'd had the chance to do it without being observed. How could she be so desperate as to proposition her new neighbor?

He must've thought she was pathetic...

Blinking back the tears that'd threatened a moment before—the situation would only get worse if he believed she was crying over his rejection—she forced herself to climb out of the car. She wanted to offer him an apology for being so forward, and to promise she'd never approach him like that again. But he was too far away to hear her, and she wasn't about to walk any closer.

Better to prove it, anyway.

So she acted as though she didn't notice him standing there and said nothing.

Once she was safely inside, she breathed a sigh of relief, locked the door and went to lie on Cassia's bed, where she could hug one of her daughter's stuffed animals while she waited for morning. Although she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep for some time—she'd had trouble getting a solid eight hours ever since
that
night—she didn't bother turning on any lights. She just stared at the moonbeams filtering through the window.

3

T
he next morning Mack walked into the kitchen. “What happened last night?” he asked.

Rod glanced up from his cereal bowl. He wasn't feeling any better for having slept. As a matter of fact, he was worse. He wasn't bleeding anymore and some of the scrapes he'd sustained when he fell from his bike were starting to scab over, but every muscle was sore. He could hardly move without wincing. He was beginning to wonder if he should've listened to Chief Bennett and gone to the hospital—not for his leg but for his hand. It was almost twice its normal size and hurt whenever he tried to use it.

“Last night was freaking crazy,” he said. And Mack didn't know it, but the fight wasn't the only crazy part. Rod felt terrible about what'd taken place between him and India. He should've gone to her place. So what if she wanted to pretend he was her dead husband? It wasn't her intention to be hurtful or selfish; she was just looking for an escape from the pain. He'd had low moments like that in his life, hadn't he? When he'd needed to be with someone?

Besides, there were worse tasks than giving a woman a little pleasure and comfort...

“Grady woke me up, said you'd been in a fight with the prick who was giving Natasha so much trouble.” Mack walked over to the cupboard to grab himself a bowl. “When I opened my eyes this morning, I thought maybe it was a bad dream. But now that I see you...”

Rod used his left hand to bring the spoon to his mouth. “I wish it
were
a dream.”

“Tell me the other guy looks worse.”

“He should. He's the one who's in the hospital.”

“Good for you,” Mack said. “I don't feel the least bit sorry for him. Sounds like he's where he deserves to be.”

Rod rested his elbows on the table. “Whether he deserved it or not, I wasn't trying to hurt him
that
bad. He can't fight worth shit, but he doesn't seem to understand his own limitations. Every time I'd step back, thinking he'd had enough, he'd take another swing at me.”

“Stubborn son of a bitch,” Mack grumbled. “So how'd it end? Did someone call the police or what?”

“
I
called. The fight didn't happen outside the bar. It happened on the road when I was on my way home. And he needed an ambulance.”

Mack whistled. “Which officer came out? Hope it was Howton. Far as cops go, Howton's not too bad.”

“None other than Chief Bennett. Just my luck, right?”

“He's not a big fan of yours, not since your ex-girlfriend filed that complaint claiming you beat her.”

Rod grimaced at the reminder. “I never touched Melody.” He'd never even been
tempted
to strike a woman, but if he ever did, he wouldn't have the police to fear as much as his older brother. Dylan would beat him to within an inch of his life—and Dylan was one of the few people who could do it. “She was pissed off that I was calling it quits and was trying to get back at me.”

“I know that, and you know that. But once this kind of accusation's been launched, the dude never gets the benefit of the doubt. There'll always be people who wonder, and I think Bennett's one of your skeptics.”

Rod thought so, too. What Melody had done still enraged him. It was
so
unfair. But the more he protested, the guiltier he looked. He'd had to let it go. He could only hope that someday she'd come forward and tell the truth.

Maybe when she was over him. Until then...

“Bennett's not a big fan of any of ours,” Rod said as he shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “But at least he's not as bad as the former chief.”

“You would've gone to jail if Stacy was still in charge,” Mack agreed. “He loved to yank Dylan's chain, and he knew he could do that by harassing one of us.” He poured himself some of the Wheaties Rod had on the table. “Does Natasha know you wound up fighting the guy who kept coming on to her?”

“Not unless Grady woke her, too. Why?”

“She won't be happy about it. You heard her last night. She thinks she can fight her own battles.”

“Yeah, well, it got personal when he crashed into my bike.”

“I'm sure Grady didn't wake her. He only came into my room to ask me to go with him, in case you weren't in any shape to help load the bike.”

“Then we won't mention it,” Rod said, but he knew there'd be no keeping it from her. Not only did she live with them, when she wasn't in school she also worked at the shop, doing the bookkeeping and other administrative tasks. She'd see his scrapes and bruises and know
something
was up.

“So what now?” Mack asked. “What're the chances this incident will just...go away?”

Rod dropped his spoon in his empty bowl. “Not very good. If that guy—Liam Whatever—decides to press charges, it could be a problem.”

Mack scooped up a spoonful of cereal. “He started it. But that might not matter. You've been in too many fights to get the benefit of any doubt.”

Rod didn't appreciate the candor. “You've been in as many fights as I have, little brother.”

Mack didn't argue. He grinned, completely unrepentant. “Have you heard if the jerk's going to be okay?”

“Haven't called the hospital yet.”

“He had no business trying to cop a feel off a nineteen-year-old girl.”

That was true. She'd asked him to leave her alone several times. He wouldn't, which was why they'd stepped in. But talking about Natasha always brought up something Rod didn't like. He sometimes got the impression that Mack cared a little
too
much about their stepsister's love life. Or, rather, he cared in the wrong way. Natasha was nothing like her insufferable mother. Rod was willing to look out for her as a big brother should, or he wouldn't have stood up for her last night. But Mack was the family pet. Surely there was someone else out there, someone better, as much as Rod hated to use that term, for his kid brother. Natasha was basically a decent person, but anyone who'd been raised by Anya would have issues, and to say she could be prickly was an understatement.

Fortunately, Natasha was heading off to Utah to attend college in the fall, so they only had to get through the summer. With any luck, Mack would meet another new girlfriend—he went through quite a few—while she was away, and Rod's concerns and suspicions wouldn't amount to anything. Then, if their father ever divorced the freeloading drug addict he'd married, they'd all be done with Anya.

“I need to go out and find my phone,” he said.

“I could help with that, if you want,” Mack volunteered.

Rod gave him a wry smile. “Nice try, but I think you'll be more useful at the shop. We're always busy on Saturdays. I'll get there as soon as I can.”

Mack scowled. “Why bother? You can't do anything with a broken hand.”

“It's not broken,” Rod argued and hoped to God that was true.

The creak of footsteps told them someone was coming down the hall. Rod expected it to be Grady. Unless there was some reason not to, they usually drove to the shop together.

But it wasn't their brother. It was Natasha, still sporting the X on the back of her hand that told the bartenders she was underage and couldn't be served last night. Her bleached blond hair was spiked and she wore a nose ring, but no one could deny she was attractive in spite of everything she did to hide her natural beauty. Rod could see how Mack might like her. A lot of guys did. Despite her wild hair and her piercings and tattoos, she had a certain...raw sex appeal. But that didn't change the many reasons it'd be stupid to get romantically involved with her.

“Thought I heard you.” Her gaze settled on Mack first. It had a tendency to do that—and to return to him again and again. When she finally shifted her attention to Rod, she gasped. “What the fuck happened to your face?”

He walked over to put his bowl in the sink. “Watch your language. We've talked about that before. You're a girl, not a truck driver.”

“Oh, stop with the misogynistic bullshit. I'm of age. I'm not just a girl anymore, and I'll say exactly what I want,” she told him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. So what happened?”

He rolled his eyes. “You're hopeless.”

“Does that mean you're not going to tell me?”

“Grady'll have to explain. I gotta run.”

“Why can't Mack?” she asked.

Rod took Mack's bowl and dumped it into the sink.

“Hey!” Mack cried. “I wasn't finished!”

“You can eat later,” Rod said, messing up Mack's hair just to piss him off. “Let's go.”

Mack knocked his hand away, then halfheartedly tried to comb his hair back into place with his fingers. “Go where?”

“You told me you'd help me find my phone, remember?”

Rod thought Mack might give away the fact that they'd already decided he should go to the shop and
not
help find the phone, but he didn't. He didn't speak until he'd passed Rod's smashed bike, which Donald and Sam had set to one side of the driveway, and climbed into Rod's truck. “First you don't want me to go. Now you do. What's up?” he asked once Rod had started the engine.

Should he try to explain? Probably not. If he brought it up, his brother would only deny feeling any attraction to their stepsister. To Mack's credit, he did his best to avoid her. Rod had noticed the effort he put into that. But...as hard as his brother was fighting whatever he felt, there was still a kind of tangible energy whenever he and Natasha were in the same room. “You've never touched Natasha, have you?” he asked.

Mack's eyebrows slammed together. “What the hell are you talking about? Touched her in what way?”

“You know what way.”

“Unless you're looking for a better fight than you got last night, don't ever ask me that again,” he snapped, instantly furious. “That's too screwed up for words.”

“I know she's attractive, but...she's off-limits.” They weren't related by blood, and they hadn't grown up together, so Rod could see where the confusion might come in. Two people from different families meeting after adolescence because their parents had married through some prison website could cloud the “related” issue. But Rod couldn't stand the thought of his brother being tied to someone who'd make Anya a permanent part of their lives. There were too many other women out there who didn't have an addict for a mother, didn't bear the stigma of ever having been called their
sister
—and didn't have the emotional problems Natasha did.

“You think I'd ever be able to forget that?” Mack said.

Rod felt like shit for even asking. He should've gone with his first instinct and kept his mouth shut. “No, of course not,” he replied and peeled out of the drive.

* * *

When India heard the sound of an engine, she peered through her plantation shutters. She knew it had to be one or more of the Amos brothers. Other than a handful of houses half a mile down the road, they were her only neighbors. She liked the countryside, with its wide-open spaces. That was why she'd chosen this location.

Sure enough, someone was leaving in a big blue truck.

She recognized Rod immediately. He was in the driver's seat, which was closest to her as the vehicle rolled by. She was fairly certain he had Mack or Grady with him, but it was difficult to see. The passenger didn't matter, anyway. Knowing that Rod wouldn't be around for a while eased her anxiety. She hadn't
begun
to get over her embarrassment about what she'd done last night. The fact that they could bump into each other if she so much as went out to weed the front flower bed made her reluctant to leave the house.

God, what had she been thinking?

Rod had to be scratching his head, too, wondering what kind of woman had moved in next door. The further she got from that moment, the more horrified she became. It bothered her so much that, when she couldn't sleep last night, she'd gotten up and baked him some cookies. She had a special snickerdoodle recipe that had been her mother's. Besides a few pieces of jewelry, some photo albums and a handmade sweater, that recipe was about all her mother had left behind. Charlie would often take platefuls of her snickerdoodles to the other doctors and nurses at the hospital, so she thought Rod might like them, too.

In any case, they were her peace offering. She'd just relocated, planned on starting over. She didn't want the first person she'd met in Whiskey Creek to hold a terrible opinion of her. She and Rod could be neighborly even if they weren't exactly friends, couldn't they?

As she watched his taillights disappear around the bend, she breathed a sigh of relief. Now she had the chance to make her delivery when he wasn't home, which was the opportunity she'd been looking for—if only she could figure out what to say on the accompanying note and get it over there before he got back. She didn't want to write anything that might make him think this was another invitation. That was why she'd driven to the Gas-N-Go early this morning, before the closest supermarket was open, to buy a package of paper plates—so she wouldn't have to put the cookies on a dish he'd feel obliged to return. She was merely acknowledging that she'd screwed up and was promising it wouldn't happen again. She preferred to leave it at that.

She imagined seeing him in the future, out in the yard or on the road, and giving him a polite wave. She wasn't sure they could get to a polite wave from “Will you take me to bed?” Especially with just a plateful of cookies. But she'd already made them. She figured it was worth a try.

Dear Rod
, she wrote. Then she made a face at the words. “Dear” sounded both too familiar and old-fashioned. Unfortunately, “Rod” without the “Dear” didn't seem right, either.

After throwing that note away, she started over and skipped the salutation completely: