Twisted in Tulips (6 page)

Tabatha grabbed her elbow and backed her into the office. “You’ve had sex with him? When? You only met him yesterday, didn’t you?”

Damn it.
If Jace hadn’t stirred her up she’d have known better than to mention sex. Now Leigh, and in short order all the other designers, would want details. Any retelling would mean reliving, which would mean not forgetting how he made her feel.

Damn the stubborn man.

Chapter Seven

“I can’t believe her.”

Sam wiped the glasses, inspecting them for spots and lipstick smudges before shelving them. When the place filled up more she’d only have time for a cursory swipe. “Why can’t you?”

“You saw her in here the other night.” Jace frowned at the memory of Misty sitting where he sat now. “Flirting with that armpit of a man.”

“Watching you watch her in the mirror.”

“Shifting so her skirt rose higher and higher.”

“Making you antsier and antsier.”

“Laughing as if the day had been like any other.”

“Allowing herself to leave her worries behind for a while.”

“Opening herself for bigger ones.”

“From you?”

“Damn it, Sam.” Jace pounded his fist on the bar. “Whose side are you on?”

“No sides.”

“Bullshit.” Women stuck up for each other even when they barely knew each other.

“If you’re calling bullshit, call it on yourself.” Sam shelved a glass and braced her hands on the bar opposite Jace. Her long ponytail flopped over her shoulder. Her green eyes locked with his. “You’ve been coming in here for months. You sit in the corner booth nursing the same beer all night. You never pay attention to the waitresses or other women who try to get your attention aside from flashing that scary look of yours.”

“So?” He heard the belligerence in his voice but didn’t care.

“So… Ask yourself what’s really eating you. Is it how Misty dresses or is it that she doesn’t chase you or back down from your Captain Hook villainous mood? Because if you ask me…” Sam went on as if she’d been asked. It was something else women did a lot of. “I think you’re afraid she’s different enough to be special. Special enough to accept you.”

Ha. Special.
No modern career woman was special enough to understand, let alone accept him. She wouldn’t want to be saddled with the darkness that plagued his mind or the issues his arm caused. She’d prefer a whole man.

Misty was most assuredly a modern career woman. She’d made it clear she appreciated his help. Her mention of him to Masters had been enough to land him the job he’d needed for the sake of his sanity. She’d also made it clear that though he aroused her she wouldn’t spend time around him until he respected her.

“How’s a man supposed to prove he respects a woman if she won’t speak to him?” He’d tried for a week to catch her but only managed when she was with clients—when she couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be interrupted.

“My great grandpa would tell you that mystery is older than the dirt under God’s toenails.”

“Which is no answer.”

“I would tell you to pay attention, figure out what makes her tick, what she’s overcome, if anything, and how she’s handled it. Learn who she is instead of worrying about how she dresses.” Sam put the dishwasher rack, now empty of the clean glasses, below the bar. “You say people judge you by your arm. You’re doing the same to her.”

Jace stared into the amber depth of his beer that had long ago gone warm. Sam’s disapproval bounced around, slamming into his conscience with unavoidable truth. He’d seen Misty free of guards and reservations. She
was
more conservative with her clothes on. Her fire when he confronted her, the unwillingness to surrender that she’d stuck to in the face of an attack, and the way her short skirts glided along her lean legs appealed to him. She teased and intrigued him. She ignored him. Challenged him.

Few women ignored him. Fewer still challenged him.

Heated chills skated across his skin and deployed prickles of a desire-driven awakening. His grip on the glass went from relaxed to colorless tension.

Misty.

“Are you going to drink that beer, or are you expecting it to reveal a hidden secret?”

Swallowing once, he turned his head and studied the woman who’d been marching the frontline of his mind. Holding a large box, with her hair pulled into a loose ponytail with wisps of bangs falling to frame her forehead, she looked sweet. Her snug suit jacket had been replaced by a flowing blouse with the top three buttons undone, and that just made her look sexy. Her curves were minimized by the loose shirt, but her legs, those legs that tortured him, still drew his eyes.

From the slope of her neck to her fragile looking ankles she appeared regal. If he didn’t recall with vivid clarity the way that neck arched in invitation, or the strength in those ankles as she locked them behind his head to keep him near, he’d be more successful at blocking thoughts of her.

The woman had driven him to the edge of stalking by avoiding him and here she stood as if they’d never battled barbs.

“Misty, hey.” Sam nodded toward the box Misty set on the bar. “How’d they work out?”

“Beautifully.” Her smile kissed her eyes, but they lacked the vibrancy Jace would have expected. “His unit helped him off the plane and they were married there on the tarmac. Perfection in stained-glass lighting.”

“Even though he’d broken it off?”

Womanly deviousness marched into Misty’s gaze. “I don’t care how tough he is, or how wounded, no soldier can reject the woman he loves when she meets him on the runway with a minister. Besides, everyone knew it was his fear of rejection that compelled him to pull away.”

A wounded military man had been given his woman and his dignity. Misty had helped a woman prove her devotion and loyalty in an unavoidable assault. That wasn’t the mark of a superficial or materialistic woman, like he’d viewed her to be. Pressure, similar to tears building to bursting point, built in Jace’s chest. His heart swelled. He knew the agony of coming home wounded. His homecoming had been unattended. Misty had helped deter that for another man. She’d helped heal an invisible wound.

“I’m glad it worked out,” Sam said.

“You’ll likely get to see the results. I suggested this was a great place for an intimate celebration.”

“Thank you.”

“Least I could do.” Misty patted the bar and stifled a yawn. “Now, I’m heading to bed where I can contemplate the backs of my eyelids.”

As quick as she changed topics her demeanor changed. The vibrant Misty who’d been charged with the success of a surprise gave way to the exhaustion of what had clearly been a long day. Her shoulders drooped. Darkness circled her bloodshot eyes. Even her hair sagged more than when she’d entered. She’d never looked more stunning.

“Sleep well.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Misty faced Jace, gave him a backward nod. Her head froze in the back tilt. Her eyes stared through him—glazed—for four beats before she blinked. “’Night, Jace.”

She swayed. Her lids lowered. Her knees bent as she slowly lowered toward the nearest stool. Her exhaustion was going to take her down before she could sit.

Jace leapt to his feet and caught her as she collapsed. “Talk about asleep on your feet.”

Mumbling to himself, he scooped her sleepful weight into his arms. She was going to bed all right. His.

And she wouldn’t be avoiding him come morning.

Light blasted Misty’s eyelids. She rolled for the pillow. Unscented cleanliness engulfed her. An instant later, with her heartbeat hammering hard in her head, she shot upright.

The light shone from the hallway, and the space was too sparse to be a hotel room. “Hello?”
Where am I?

No answer came.

Clean. Unremarkable. Impersonal. The naked white walls, simple pine dresser and white-sheeted pine bed offered no insights other than the suggestion that whoever the place belonged to cared nothing about personal touches.

Or has none to add
.

But who could live life without collecting stuff?
Criminals.

Her hammering heart grew louder and louder. Louder until thought shrank behind fear making remembering impossible. Scrambling from the bed, relieved to realize she was still dressed with only her shoes gone, she looked around.

Her shoes sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Perfectly aligned with the toes pointing out as if she may need to shove her feet into them and run.

Where am I? Who took me?

The shoes weren’t the only things precisely placed. The sheet corners were sharp and, aside from the creases where she’d laid, the bed was perfectly smooth. No dust coated the dresser surface. Whoever the place belonged to they were one of two things—severely obsessive compulsive or hardcore military.

Jace.

His name snapped into place and forgotten details followed with a sudden calm that settled her hammering heart.

The surprise. The bar. Exhaustion. Jace. Darkness wrapped warmth. She’d fallen into his arms asleep on her feet.

A fired flush flooded her neck and cheeks. She’d wanted him to respect her, to see her as a strong equal. Yet, the first time she saw him after sending him away she’d been coming off a run of back-to-back weddings and a week of twenty-hour days.

Any chance of respect he might have had for her no doubt died the moment she collapsed. He would only see the way she dressed and that she made herself vulnerable to victimization.

Misty slipped into her shoes, straightened her shirt and then headed toward the hall. She passed an alcove with a large, uncovered window that would be perfect for a reading chair, but it sat empty. The place bordered on barren and had little personality between the basic dining set and large sofa. The main hint into the person inhabiting the space was the couch. The rich brown leather looked butter smooth while the vast size invited gloomy-day snuggles or naps.

Another hint came from the banker box sitting in the far corner. It was labeled UNIT, and while the rest of the apartment was spotless, a layer of dust turned the white lid brown. Painful sentimentality?

The real insight came from the man on the sofa with a coffee mug balanced on a broad knee and the newspaper in hand. Jace sat at erect attention in jeans and a long-sleeve button-down. Even in his home he didn’t relax or let down his guard. He didn’t allow himself attachments to things. It stood to reason people were viewed the same.

“Sleep well?” he asked without looking up from his paper.

“Somewhere close to the sleep of the dead.” She moved closer, not wanting to stay long enough to argue but neither wanting to miss an opportunity to better figure him out. “Thank you for the loan of the bed. I needed it more than I realized after the last few days.”

He folded the paper more neatly than it had likely been to begin with and placed it on the floor with the mug atop it. He straightened and turned his head only.

Watched her with his mesmerizing stare.

Her heart leapt with a renewed hammering that had nothing to do with fear of the unknown. She took a step and stopped. She suddenly wanted to bait him into an argument that would lead to more sex, though something about his mood said that wouldn’t happen again in quite the same way. He hadn’t softened, but neither was he quite as domineering.

“You’ve been working long hours.”

“Yes.”

Still he didn’t move or blink. Like waiting for a coiled snake to decide if it would strike or retreat, the hammering in her chest grew and spread throughout until each pulse point throbbed in anticipation.

“You shouldn’t push so hard.”

“Too bad.”

Seconds ticked off by the no-longer-quiet sweep of her watch that blurred into an immeasurable buzz of time. Her eyes began to dry from holding his locked gaze. She took another step toward the door.

“You’re a stubborn woman.”

“You’re a grumpy man.”

He stood, looming less than an inch away. Misty didn’t remember closing the full distance between them, but they stood close enough to touch.

They didn’t touch. They didn’t reach for one another.

“You spoke harshly last time we met.”

“You spoke like an overbearing, archaic-thinking ass.”

Hazel eyes sparkling with mysteriousness studied her, skimming her to her bare feet and back up as if they actually touched her. “You bring it out in me.”

Aggression reared, pawing and thrashing wildly for freedom. Misty battled it back along with a claim he brought it out in her. Lori’s advice from a few days earlier when she’d forced Misty to take a lunch break played in her mind.
You’re not a mind reader. Stop thinking you know what’s in his head
.

Maybe Lori was right, but psychic abilities weren’t necessary when Jace’s words made his thoughts transparent.

He reached out and slipped the edge of her blouse between his fingers. His skin didn’t brush hers, but she felt it anyway. Felt it and found herself leaning in with the hope of actually touching him rumbling in her belly.

“You always dress this way.” The judgment he’d always spoken with shattered beneath…awe? Whatever it was, he sounded as if he liked what he saw. Or he could be putting on an act to get her into bed again. It was a ploy she’d grown accustomed to.