Hearts Awakened (3 page)

She passed the farmer’s market and waved at old Mr. Townsend, who was taking in his signs for the evening, his ancient truck waiting in the drive. If she actually knew how to cook, she’d consider stopping for squash, Vidalia onions and other goodies from the final bounty of local summer gardens. She probably should have taken Tick up on his offer of dinner. Instead, she’d end up with takeout or a frozen dinner.

How appetizing.

Slowing for a stop sign, she eyed the gray Blazer sitting in the grass along the road on the other side of the intersection. She knew the aging SUV as well as she knew her own Miata. The Blazer’s hood was up, the lower half of a male form visible on the driver’s side. Tori sighed. Cookie’s twenty-year-old truck had finally given up the ghost.

Still stopped, she picked up her cell phone. No signal, which wasn’t unusual in this part of the county. She could turn around, run back to the farmer’s market, try to catch Mr. Townsend, or return to Tick’s, send him out to help Cookie.

Or you could help him yourself. For heaven’s sake, Tori, you live in the same building.

That meant allowing him into her car. Being alone with him. A shiver ran down her spine, although she couldn’t pinpoint fear or anticipation as the source.

It’s Cookie. He’d never hurt you.

She laughed off the thought. Like she was a judge of male character. Maybe the truck wasn’t disabled at all. Maybe it was all a ruse, designed to get someone to stop and—

No. Not Cookie. She couldn’t believe that of him. She wouldn’t.

The first step in getting past the fear is taking control of it.
How often had she offered that little nugget of wisdom in a counseling session? Maybe it was time she embraced her own advice. Dread slithered through her, and on the steering wheel her hands grew damp. She could do this. She could be normal or at least look like it.

Glancing both ways, she took her foot off the brake. Pressed the accelerator. Crossed the intersection. The lump in her stomach doubled in size. She eased her car in behind the Blazer, sucked in a deep breath and shut off her ignition. Inhaling again, she glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Her wind-ruffled hair framed her face, her eyes wide and dark against the unusual pallor of her skin. She smoothed a hand over her hair.

She could do this.

She swung out of the car and walked toward the Blazer’s front end. Dressed in athletic shorts and a T-shirt, Cookie remained bent under the hood. Dark hair covered tight, muscular calves and her stomach performed its shivery little flip. Metal banged on metal and a muffled curse filled the air.

Tori rested a hand on the sun-warmed side panel. “Having trouble?”

He glanced up at her, his eyes irritated. “The crankshaft broke.”

She had absolutely no clue what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. “Anything I can do?”

Another sidelong glance at her. He opened his mouth, closed it and shook his head. “Not much anyone can do. I’ll have to buy a new engine.”

She looked at the Blazer with its faded paint, cracked dashboard and forlorn air. Why not buy a new car? She didn’t understand the irrational attachment men formed to their vehicles. Sure, she liked her Miata, but she didn’t plan an until-death-did-them-part commitment to it.

His fingers clenched around the wrench he held and she eyed the muscles playing in his forearms. His arms were as tight and toned as his legs. Her fingertips itched with a sudden urge to explore the texture of his skin and the indentations of muscles and tendons.

Instead, she pushed them through her hair, sure it looked like a bird’s nest by now. A memory of Angel’s perfectly coiffed and perfectly huge blonde hair flashed through her mind. “How about a ride home then?”

He lifted his head and fixed her with a measuring gaze. That look made her want to squirm like a misbehaving child under a parent’s chiding expression. What was she doing, acting
normal
with Mark Cook? He’d seen her at her absolute worst, exposed, bruised, hysterical, violated. He knew everything and he had to know what the request had cost her.

“No need.” He dropped his gaze to the wrench again. “I’ll just walk back to the farmer’s market and—”

“Mr. Townsend’s already gone. He was leaving when I passed by.”

He shrugged, an easy roll of broad shoulders. “Then I’ll hike over to Tick’s and call a tow truck.”

“That’s almost five miles and it’s in the opposite direction.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “Why not let me give you a ride and you can call from home.”

“Because.” He straightened and turned those sharp gray eyes on her again. “I’d rather not put you through the stress of having me in the car with you.”

A wave of humiliation stiffened her spine and she met his gaze full on. “For your information, I have been in a car with other men in the last seven years.”

His mouth twitched. “Your brothers don’t count.”

“I didn’t mean them. I’ve dated. You don’t think I’ve ridden in a car with those guys?”

One dark eyebrow rose and she cringed, waiting for him to bring up Jeff Schaefer and what had happened to the girls foolish enough to get in a car with him. Oh, she’d walked into that one.

Cookie folded his arms over his chest, and again she was drawn to the delineation of muscle in his forearm. “Tell me your stomach’s not all knotted up, thinking about being in that tin can of yours with me.”

It was, but not totally for the reason he believed. She tossed her hair back. “I’m fine with it.”

Her voice didn’t even tremble with the outright lie, giving her courage.

He continued to watch her. She resisted the urge to shift under that steady gaze. Finally, he nodded. “All right.”

Relief surged through her, followed by another wave of dread. “Great. Have anything you need to take with you?”

“Yeah.” He slammed the hood and moved to the back of the SUV. After tossing the wrench into an open toolbox, he lifted a handful of plastic grocery bags from the hatch. “Will these fit in your trunk?”

“Of course.” She glared at him. Her poor car suffered more potshots from him and her brothers, simply because it was small and defenseless. Her scowl shifted into a smirk. At least
her
vehicle was running.

Retrieving her backpack, she met him at the rear of the car and popped the trunk. The gilt-edged mirror she’d picked up at a little antique shop in Parrot the weekend before still lay on the gray carpet, and she caught a glimpse of the two of them reflected in the blurry surface. He wasn’t much taller, only three or four inches, but his broad shoulders and chest made her feel dainty, feminine. An ache flitted through her lower belly.

Cheeks burning, she leaned down to flip the mirror over and spread a flamingo-pink beach towel over it for protection. She set her backpack in the corner of the trunk and turned for his bags.

He was staring at her, at the strip of skin bared when she’d leaned over and her snug T-shirt rode up above her oft-washed jeans. The twinge in her stomach spread, became sharper, and he lifted his gaze to hers quickly. A flush darkened his cheekbones.

Striving to keep her voice level, she reached for the bags. “Let me have those.”

“Thanks.” Remote again, he handed over the bags without touching her fingers. The warm scent of fresh produce drifted to her nose, and she peeked in the bags—rosy tomatoes, fresh squash, Vidalia onions. Her mouth watered.
Why
hadn’t she let Mama teach her how to cook?

She arranged the bags in the trunk and closed the lid. He hadn’t moved away yet and his warmth suffused her. She shut her eyes, that weird tingle pricking her belly and between her thighs again. She remembered this. High school, Steve Wilson meeting her at her locker to walk her to class. He’d placed his arm against the locker next to hers and leaned close, his body heat and a trace of aftershave floating over her. And this same awareness quivering through her. The sweet memory of a time when she’d felt innocent, untainted, brought a lump to her throat.

The infatuation with Steve hadn’t lasted long, but she hadn’t felt the sensation since. Until now, with Cookie close to her. The lump grew. Why him? Angry because her hands shook, she snatched the key from the lock and turned to face him, her chin tilted with defiance. “Ready?”

He stepped back. “When you are.”

Why didn’t he smile? His stoic expression tautened her nerves and she took deep, even breaths, focusing as she walked to her door and slid behind the wheel. He settled beside her and the oxygen level in the car shrank to nothing. A mere breath separated their shoulders.

She swallowed. “Seatbelt, please.”

He twisted in the seat for it, his T-shirt rustling against her fabric upholstery. His knee bumped the dash. Her own belt fastened, she turned the key, the engine purring to life. He crooked his knee, keeping his leg clear of the dashboard. Glancing over her shoulder, she reached for the gearshift. Her wrist brushed his thigh. He jerked and heat flushed her face. She yanked the car into drive.

Her window remained open and she released a relieved sigh. He smelled warm and male, a little sweaty, and she kept her gaze on the road, both hands on the wheel. She didn’t have to look at him to be aware of every move he made or didn’t make. For the most part, he remained still, hands on his knees. Cripes, she could feel him
breathing
.

She couldn’t think of anything to say to break the silence, and the urge to cry gripped her. Instead, she dug her fingernails into the steering wheel.

The countryside faded into the suburbs around town, low brick ranch houses mixed with a hodgepodge of Spanish and Colonial styles. The Winn-Dixie and an auto-parts store signaled the real beginnings of town. As she drove deeper into the small city, the silence hung around them. Two left turns later, she pulled into their parking lot and zipped to a stop in front of his apartment.

She pushed the door open, the silence unnerving her. When she attempted to step from the low-slung car, the seatbelt jerked her back. Oh Lord, she hadn’t just done that. Her face flaming, she fumbled with the clasp, finally released the belt and stumbled from the car. It took three tries before she got the key in the trunk lock. Thankfully, she didn’t think he saw that, since he’d taken his time unfolding himself from the car.

Popping the lid, she grabbed his bags and thrust them at him. At this point, a smile was beyond her. She couldn’t even look him in the face. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” He twisted the plastic handles around his hand. “Have you eaten?”

“What?” She jerked her head up. His face remained expressionless. Shaking her head, she ran a hand through her hair. “Uh, no. Not yet.”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner?” The words sounded harsh and strangled, and he cleared his throat. “I owe you for the ride…I mean, let me cook for you. As a thank-you.”

Dinner? With him? She cast a wistful glance toward his front window. To see what Mark Cook’s inner sanctum looked like. Temptation twisted its wicked way through her.
Say no, Tori. Don’t do this. This could hurt, really, really bad.
She took a deep breath. What could a simple dinner hurt? She’d survived being alone in a car with him. Barely, but she’d survived.

She smiled and didn’t have to force it. “I’d like that.”

“Great.” He cleared his throat again and tugged at his T-shirt. “I need a shower. An hour?”

A laugh bubbled in her and she bit her lip to keep from grinning. “I can’t wait.”

What the
hell
had he been thinking? Mark attacked the cupboards in his kitchen, searching for something, anything, to put together a decent meal. Asking Tori over here for dinner. He hadn’t been thinking. Obviously, his brain, strained by the physical effort of running five miles, had temporarily left the building.

Pasta. He grabbed the box and tossed it on the counter behind him. With fresh tomatoes, anybody could throw together a great pasta. Tick was going to kill him. Hell, he might kill himself first. Emotional suicide, that’s what this was. Inviting her over, offering to cook, building impossible fantasies in his mind. All because she’d been so damned strong about getting in that car with him. She’d been sick with nerves; he’d seen it in her face and the way her hands trembled. But she’d done it anyway. He’d been so proud of her he’d thought he’d burst, until he remembered he didn’t have the right.

He opened the fridge. Chicken. He could toss that on the grill. At least the place was clean, not that there was much to get messed up. Salad. He’d throw together a fresh vinaigrette, add more of those tomatoes, some peppers, toss in some croutons. He set a pot of water to boil, his chest tight the way it was whenever he approached a suspect. Worse. This was the way he’d felt as a rookie, walking up to his first traffic stop, sure the seventy-year-old granny in the big ol’ Caddy would pull out a massive .45 and blow him away.

With a sigh, he wiped a hand across his damp forehead. He had to get a grip. One meal. That’s all it was, and for one night he could resist the urge to kiss her, to find out if that strip of skin between her T-shirt and jeans was as soft as it looked.

While he cooked and set the bar with plates and cutlery, he kept telling himself that. He rummaged in a drawer and came up with utility candles. Holding them in one hand, he reached into a cabinet for the cheap goblets, a holdover from his days with Jenny, and stopped. What was he doing? Candles? Goblets? Like this dinner meant more than it did. Muttering a disgusted curse, he grabbed two of the plastic tumblers he used every day. The candles went back in the drawer.