Nightfire (17 page)

This was a woman who’d had violence done to her
three times
. More than any woman should have to bear. And each goddamned time she’d been left completely alone. Including right now.

Right now he was sending her to his room without even a hug. And why? Because he was a coward. The whole hurting her thing was true but was also bullshit of the highest order.

He didn’t flail around while fucking. He didn’t bite or twist limbs. He could control himself enough not to physically hurt her. That was all a line of crap.

The truth was he was scared shitless. There was nothing here he even remotely recognized as familiar, except his hard-on. And even that felt somehow different. It wasn’t a normal hard-on, the kind he had when an available woman was around. No, it was a Chloe woodie, through and through. Impossible to deal with, impossible to get rid of.

He buzzed with crazy energy.

He felt raw and unsure, like he was about to fall into some huge black hole, never to find his way back again. He was terrified this was going to change him in some unknown way, and instinctively, he was taking the coward’s way out by rejecting her. Never mind that Chloe was being hurt in the process, just as long as ol’ Mike’s butt was covered.

Those fuckers had hurt her physically but Mike, man, he was a real champ because he wasn’t hurting her body, which would heal, he was hurting her heart, which wouldn’t. At the very moment she needed him, he was turning his back on her.

And even realizing this, even knowing Chloe was heading back to his bedroom to deal with her fear and trauma on her own, as she always had, he hesitated, frozen like a statue. Unable to move forward, unable to move at all.

Because this was a huge moment for him and his life was going to divide into two, right here, right now.

She was disappearing into his room, and in a second it would be too late. He’d stay forever on this side of the divide, alone and hurting.

“Chloe,” he said quietly. “Stop.”

She stopped, back to him, head low.

And then Mike said three words he had never said to any human being before. Three words he never thought he could say, three words he’d worked his whole life not to have to say.

“Chloe.” His voice was hoarse, the words painful to get out. “I need you.”

She turned around and he winced at the sight of her face. Ice white, hurting, without hope.

If she wanted to rant at him, scream at him, she’d have every right. Mike wouldn’t have treated any woman who’d suffered violence this callously. So why was he doing this to Chloe?

Looking deep into his heart, something he was extremely uncomfortable doing and did as little as possible, he understood why. It was because he cared too much for Chloe, but how could she know that?

He sure as shit had never told her what he felt. Not in all these six months in which he’d been her shadow. He’d fixed things in her house, driven her around, carried in her groceries, kept her company when she babysat, made sure she did her weight reps right. All those good-guy things that cost him nothing but that meant he could be near her. Because getting up in the morning, knowing he was going to drive Chloe to RBK or to the shelter or spotting her in the condo gym three mornings a week, well, that made his day.

Not one word about what she meant to him. Ever. Not one fucking word.

No wonder she wasn’t expecting anything from him, not even now, when she needed him.

She was looking at him, eyes wide, mouth open. Shocked. “What did you say?”

He was shocked himself. The hand he held out to her trembled. A sniper’s hand that trembled. His hand never trembled, but it did now.

He stepped over that chasm sharply dividing
before
and
after
and took her uninjured hand, brought it to his mouth. Her skin was smooth and icy cold. The cold of shock. Well, of course.

She’d been attacked, brutally and violently. Her worst nightmare, come to life. Again.

Mike hated to see her like this, the old Chloe, the Chloe who’d showed up at RBK on a wild quest, frightened and uncertain. She was even moving like the old Chloe, slow, hesitant, shaky.

That old Chloe had all but disappeared these past six months, wrapped into the folds of a loving extended family, deeply loved by two little girls and with Mike—well, with Mike around
a lot
. If nothing else, building up her muscles.

She walked well and fast now, laughed often, was a quiet charmer. Had been pretty before and was now extraordinarily beautiful.

How it hurt him to see her back to the damaged woman who’d arrived in San Diego, hoping but not expecting to find a family.

“How do you need me? What do you mean?” she asked finally. She was so shocked it took her a couple of beats to answer him. “I don’t understand.”

Mike kept holding her hand, trying to warm it up. But also because it just felt so good in his. He reached up his other hand to touch her cheek. She flinched instinctively and his heart gave a huge thud in his chest.

Men had hurt her all her life. Though Chloe knew in her head he could never hurt her, he hadn’t given her any reason to turn to him, to think of him as a refuge. She was feeling raw and alone, hunkered down into herself, surrounded by her loneliness like a force field. He wanted to break that force field down, shatter it.

She controlled her wince and let him stroke his fingers down her cheek, run the back of his fingers down her neck. Skin so smooth, so soft, so chilled. “I need you every way there is, Chloe. I’m not good with words the way you are, so I can’t explain it, but I sure as hell can show you.”

He stepped closer still, bent slightly, lifted her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom.

M
ike carried her into his bedroom.

Chloe had never been carried as an adult woman. She’d been carried as a child, sick in the hospital. In all the thousands of romance novels she’d read, she always loved it when the man carried the woman somewhere. It just seemed to feed right into some primordial female lobe that was stubbornly resistant to modern notions of female equality.

Chloe sighed at the scenes she read, never believing in a million years that something like this would ever happen to her. And yet, here she was, in a man’s strong arms, being carried somewhere. To the bedroom, actually.

Mike carried her easily, without watching where he was going. The only thing he watched was her eyes.

He was preternaturally strong and showed no sign whatsoever of making any kind of effort. He could just as easily have been carrying a glass of water, not a full-grown woman. And she’d even packed on fifteen pounds of pure muscle these past six months. Mike had seen to that.

To keep her balance, Chloe had to put her arms around his neck, loving the play of Mike’s shoulder muscles along the inside of her arms. Sheer, unadulterated male power.

He walked slowly and directly into his bedroom, which she’d never seen. Her heart thumped painfully as they crossed the threshold.

Moonlight shining outside the big picture windows cast a soft glow over an enormous bed with a curved wood headboard, a big chest of drawers, a light-colored rug and an armchair.

He walked right by the bed to a door set in the left-hand wall. Dipping slightly with her in his arms, he opened the door and flipped the switch to the bathroom. Chloe narrowed her eyes at the flare of light.

“Wow.” He put her down carefully, not letting her go until he was sure she was steady on her feet. He shook his arms as if he’d carried an almost unbearable weight and huffed dramatically. A man who’d just finished a hard, daunting task. He whooshed out a last breath, putting fervor and drama behind it. “Man. You really packed on those pounds, Chloe. I barely made it here.”

She looked, startled, into his bright blue eyes, like looking into blue searchlights. His lips pursed, fighting a grin.

He was flirting with her!

She’d been underweight all her life. Once, when she was twelve, after three operations in four months, she’d lost so much weight her kidney had slipped.

Now she weighed something close to normal, and a lot of that weight was muscle. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Watch your step, Keillor. Or I’ll clean your clock.”

The grin broke loose. She smiled back, so glad of the light moment, switching off the darkness for a second. Then the darkness and the memories returned.

She shivered involuntarily and Mike stilled. His eyes searched hers, face grim. “I can’t guarantee that nothing bad will ever happen to you again, honey. I can’t. No one can. I can’t guarantee that a shingle won’t fall off a roof and bean you. I can’t swear some drunk asshole won’t plow into your car. But look at me, Chloe.” He took her chin in his strong hand. “One thing I can guarantee? Those two or anyone else they send will never touch you again, not while I live. I hope that makes you feel better.”

Mike’s face was set, slightly pale. Light-years away from the good-time guy face he presented to the world. Good old Mike. Good for a beer and a laugh.

This wasn’t that Mike. He wasn’t even in the same universe as that Mike. This Mike was a force of nature, strength and will in every line of his body.

She nodded as a heavy pall lifted. No, no one could guarantee her nothing bad would ever happen again. That wasn’t possible for anyone. But she was absolutely certain that right now she was utterly safe, and if the hot glow in Mike’s eyes was any indication, something very good might happen very soon.

The bathroom had a huge tub and a big glass-enclosed shower cabin.

“I imagine you want to clean up,” Mike said. “Or do you want something to eat first?” His arm was still around her. He was very close, so close she could see the line of demarcation between his heavy five o’clock shadow and the clear, tanned skin of his neck. Blue eyes stared into hers.

“Clean! Oh yes, please!” The idea of washing off the horrible experience, of washing away the violence and horror, trumped food or sleep.

Mike smiled a little. “Thought so. Bath or shower?”

Normally, bath. Soaking in warm water was nature’s way of healing many things, including bruises. But she wanted water washing over her, washing away the violence, sluicing down her body and gurgling down the drain, together with the memory of the two men attacking her.

“Shower.”

He nodded, his blue eyes never leaving hers. He watched her carefully as he walked her in and reached behind her, keeping his hand flat against the upper part of her back, his huge hand nearly covering it. The hand was warm and heavy and he kept it there, at the top of the zipper, awaiting permission.

She nodded jerkily.

He pulled at the tab, a slow long glide down her back, opening the two panels. Cooler air washed over her bare back. She was watching him carefully and noted the exact instant he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Her breasts weren’t large or heavy. She didn’t really need a bra. In the winter she wore silk camisoles and in the summer nothing, liking the feel of silk or cotton or linen against her bare skin.

His skin tightened over his high cheekbones as the back of his fingers ran down her without encountering anything but skin. His hand rested on the bare skin of the small of her back, a hot, exciting weight.

Heat radiated from his hand throughout her body, banishing cold and even the thought of cold. Chloe was essentially in his embrace. She stood quietly, relishing every single sensation, simply soaking it up. The expectant hush, the soft sound of his breath, the heat of his hand, the aura of strength and sex that pulsed around his person.

Mike had studiously refrained from touching her these past six months, so this massive sense of power and heat was new. Welcome, disconcerting, exciting.

They were standing chest to chest, Mike’s hand on her lower back in the quiet bathroom He reached out without looking and turned a tap. A rush of water broke the silence. He kept his hand under the stream, never breaking his gaze.

“How hot do you want it?”

“Hot, but not boiling.”

Both his hands were on her now. He gently brought the panels forward, sliding them off her arms, being particularly careful with her bandaged arm. Holding her gaze, he swiped at the dress and it fell to her feet.

She was dressed in panties and sandals.

Face tight, Mike stepped back a little and looked her over. Everywhere he looked her skin heated, as if he’d touched her with his hands.

Bringing his gaze back up, he whispered, “You’re so beautiful, Chloe.”

The way he was looking at her, she could have been Grace Kelly and Angelina Jolie and even Nicole Kidman all rolled into one, only shorter.

“Thank you.” She lowered her voice as he did, as if they were exchanging confidences.

He stepped even closer. Then, without warning, dropped to one knee, as a knight would to his queen.

Startled, Chloe looked down at the top of his head. He had beautiful, glossy, thick chestnut hair that he kept short. But from here she could see that it would be unruly if it weren’t cropped.

The bathroom light picked up a few blond highlights and some white hairs along the temple.