When Bruce Met Cyn (28 page)

“What is it? Are you still upset?” Bruce pulled her closer. “It's not unusual to be shaken for days, even weeks, after such a terrible ordeal.”

“No.” Cyn put her cheek on his shoulder. “It's not that.”

“Then what?”

“Jamie.”

Bruce smiled and smoothed her hair away. “It's a good thing I'm not a jealous man.”

“I love you, so you have no reason to be jealous.” She pushed up on one elbow. “But we need to do something for him. He's hurting, Bruce. The kind of hurting that he lives with day in and day out.”

“What do you suggest?”

She shook her head in frustration. “I don't know. Do you think he knows how much everyone cares for him? Do you think he knows that Joe and Bryan just like to bluster, and that Scott's only guarding his position? Does he know that he has respect and gratitude?”

Bruce stared out the window. “He knows just about everything, right? So surely, he knows that much. I think it's more that he doesn't want to be friends. He keeps a deliberate distance.”

“He warned Julie that things would be happening in her life. Julie is so pragmatic that she dismissed it, but I believe Jamie. And I believe that he'll try to protect Julie as much as he can.”

“Probably.”

Cyn's conviction grew, especially since she knew she had her husband's support. “When Jamie shows up next time,” Cyn said, “and he will, to help Julie with whatever's going on, I'm going to insist he stay and visit. I'm going to insist he accept our friendship.”

Bruce pulled her back down and kissed the mulish expression right off her mouth. “Go carefully, honey. Jamie is a grown man with deep secrets that he might need to keep buried. Let him get used to you. And in the meantime, we'll let him know how we feel.”

Cyn grinned suddenly. “You know, I've always tried to live in the present, without thinking too much about my future, much less anyone else's. Every day was a reprieve, filled with caution. Now…it's the oddest feeling, but I'm looking forward to growing old with you.”

Bruce laughed. “Luckily I married a young woman who has a lot of years to go. I'm going to cherish each and every one.”

 

Night settled onto the mountains with blackness so thick, so absolute, Jamie couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He sat there in his cabin, his back to the wall, his fireplace cold and empty, no lamps lit. And he tried to focus on the sounds of wildlife that surrounded him, the sounds that usually brought him peace.

He should have given up an hour ago.

But he was a man plagued by turmoil, wanting what he couldn't have.

And he couldn't have friends. Friends would make him weak, would ruin his abilities, and that would put others at risk.

No,
he told himself for the tenth time, I
can't
make friends. But, without even meaning to…he knew he already had.

And even the dark couldn't tell him what to do about it now.

We don't think you will want to miss
JUST A HINT—CLINT,
coming in September 2004, from Brava.

Here's a sneak peek.

A bead of sweat took a slow path down his throat and into the neckline of his dark T-shirt. Pushed by a hot, insubstantial breeze, a weed brushed his cheek.

Clint never moved.

Through the shifting shadows of the pulled blinds, he could detect activity in the small cabin. The low drone of voices filtered out the screen door, but Clint couldn't make out any of the slurred conversation.

Next to him, Red stirred. In little more than a breath of sound, he said, “Fuck, I hate waiting.”

Wary of a trap, Clint wanted the entire area checked. Mojo chose that moment to slip silently into the grass beside them. He'd done a surveillance of the cabin, the surrounding grounds, and probably gotten a good peek in the back window. Mojo could be invisible and eerily silent when he chose.

“All's clear.”

Something tightened inside Clint. “She's in there?”

“Alive but pissed off and real scared.” Mojo's obsidian eyes narrowed. “Four men. They've got her tied up.”

Clint silently worked his jaw, fighting for his famed icy control. The entire situation was bizarre. How was it Asa knew where to find the men, yet they didn't appear to expect an interruption? Had Robert deliberately fed the info to Asa to embroil him in a trap so Clint would kill him? And why would Robert want Asa dead?

Somehow, both he and Julie Rose were pawns. But for what purpose?

Clint's rage grew, clawing to be freed, making his stomach pitch with the violent need to act. “They're armed?”

Mojo nodded with evil delight. “And on their way out.”

Given that a small bonfire lit the clearing in front of the cabin, Clint wasn't surprised that they would venture outside. The hunting cabin was deep into the hills, mostly surrounded by thick woods. Obviously, the kidnappers felt confident in their seclusion.

He'd have found them eventually, Clint thought, but Asa's tip had proved invaluable. And a bit too fucking timely.

So far, nothing added up, and that made him more cautious than anything else could have.

He'd work it out as they went along. The drive had cost them two hours, with another hour crawling through the woods. But now he had them.

He had
her.

The cabin door opened and two men stumbled out under the glare of a yellow bug light. One wore jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, the other was shirtless, showing off a variety of tattoos on his skinny chest. They looked youngish and drunk and stupid. They looked cruel.

Raucous laughter echoed around the small clearing, disturbed only by a feminine voice, shrill with fear and anger, as two other men dragged Julie Rose outside.

She wasn't crying.

No sir. Julie Rose was complaining.

Her torn school dress hung off her right shoulder nearly to her waist, displaying one small pale breast. She struggled against hard hands and deliberate roughness until she was shoved, landing on her right hip in the barren area in front of the house. With her hands tied behind her back, she had no way to brace herself. She fell flat, but quickly struggled into a sitting position.

The glow of the bonfire reflected on her bruised, dirty face—and in her furious eyes. She was frightened, but she was also livid.

“I think we should finish stripping her,” one of the men said.

Julie's bare feet peddled against the uneven ground as she tried to move farther away.

The men laughed some more, and the one who'd spoken went onto his haunches in front of her. He caught her bare ankle, immobilizing her.

“Not too much longer, bitch. Morning'll be here before you know it.” He stroked her leg, up to her knee, higher. “I bet you're getting anxious, huh?”

Her chest heaved, her lips quivered.

She spit on him.

Clint was on his feet in an instant, striding into the clearing before Mojo or Red's hissed curses could register. The four men, standing in a cluster, turned to look at him with various expressions of astonishment, confusion, and horror. They were slow to react, and Clint realized they were more than a little drunk. Idiots.

One of the young fools reached behind his back.

“You.”
Clint stabbed him with a fast lethal look while keeping his long, ground-eating pace to Julie. “Touch that weapon and I'll break your leg.”

The guy blanched—and promptly dropped his hands.

Clint didn't think of anything other than his need to get between Julie and the most immediate threat. But without giving it conscious thought, he knew that Mojo and Red would back him up. If any guns were drawn, theirs would be first.

The man who'd been abusing Julie snorted in disdain at the interference. He took a step forward, saying, “Just who the hell do you think you—”

Reflexes on automatic, Clint pivoted slightly to the side and kicked out hard and fast. The force of his boot heel caught the man on the chin with sickening impact. He sprawled flat with a raw groan that dwindled into blackness. He didn't move.

Another man leaped forward. Clint stepped to the side, and like clockwork, kicked out a knee. The obscene sounds of breaking bone and cartilage and the accompanying scream of pain split the night, sending nocturnal creatures to scurry through the leaves.

Clint glanced at Julie's white face, saw she was frozen in shock, and headed toward the two remaining men. Eyes wide, they started to back up, and Clint curled his mouth into the semblance of a smile. “I don't think so.”

A gun was finally drawn, but not in time to be fired. Clint grabbed the man's wrist and twisted up and back. Still holding him, Clint pulled him forward and into a solid punch to the stomach. Without breath, the painful shouts ended real quick. The second Clint released him, the man turned to hobble into the woods. Clint didn't want to, but he let him go.

Robert Burns had said not to bring anyone in. He couldn't see committing random murder, and that's what it'd be if he started breaking heads now. But in an effort to protect Julie Rose and her apparently already tattered reputation, he wouldn't turn them over to the law either.

Just letting them go stuck in his craw, and Clint, fed up, ready to end it, turned to the fourth man. He threw a punch to the throat and jaw, then watched the guy crumble to his knees, then to his face, wheezing for breath.

Behind Clint, Red's dry tone intruded. “Well, that was efficient.”

Clint struggled with himself for only an instant before realizing there was no one left to fight. He turned, saw Julie Rose held in wide-eyed horror, and he jerked. Mojo stepped back out of the way, and Clint lurched to the bushes.

Anger turned to acid in his gut.

Typically, at least for Clint Evans and his weak-ass stomach, he puked.

 

Julie could hardly believe her eyes. One minute she'd known she would be raped and probably killed, and the fear had been all too consuming, a live clawing dread inside her.

Now…now she didn't know what had happened. Three men, looking like angelic convicts, had burst into the clearing. Well, no, that wasn't right. The first man hadn't burst anywhere. He'd strode in, casual as you please, then proceeded to make mincemeat out of her abductors.

He'd taken on four men as if they were no more than gnats.

She'd never seen that type of brawling. His blows hadn't been designed to slow down an opponent, or to bruise or hurt. One strike—and the men had dropped like dead weights. Even the sight of a gun hadn't fazed him. He moved so fast, so smoothly, the weapon hadn't mattered at all.

When he'd delivered those awesome strikes, his expression, hard and cold, hadn't changed. A kick here, a punch there, and the men who'd held her, taunted her, were no longer a threat.

He was amazing, invincible, he was…
throwing up.

Her heart pounded in slow, deep thumps that hurt her breastbone and made it difficult to draw an even breath. The relief flooding over her in a drowning force didn't feel much different than her fear had.

Her awareness of that man was almost worse.

Like spotting Superman, or a wild animal, or a combination of both, she felt awed and amazed and disbelieving.

She was safe now, but was she really?

One of her saviors approached her. He was fair, having blond hair and light eyes, though she couldn't see the exact color in the dark night with only the fire for illumination. Trying to make himself look less like a convict, he gave her a slight smile.

A wasted effort.

He moved real slow, watchful, and gentle. “Don't pay any mind to Clint.” He spoke in a low, melodic croon. “He always pukes afterward.”

Her savior's name was Clint.

Julie blinked several times, trying to gather her wits and calm the spinning in her head. “He does?”

Another man approached, equally cautious, just as gentle. But he had black hair and blacker eyes. He didn't say anything, just stood next to the other man and surveyed her bruised face with an awful frown that should have been alarming, but wasn't.

The blonde nodded. “Yeah. Hurtin' people—even people who deserve it—always upsets Clint's stomach. He'll be all right in a minute.”

Julie ached, her body, her heart, her mind. She'd long ago lost feeling in her arms but every place else pulsed with relentless pain. She looked over at Clint. He had his hands on his knees, his head hanging. The poor man. “He was saving me, wasn't he?”

“Oh, yes, ma'am. We're here to take you home. Everything will be okay now.” His glance darted to her chest and quickly away.

Julie realized she wasn't decently covered, but with her hands tied tightly behind her back, she couldn't do anything about it. She felt conspicuous and vulnerable and ready to cry, so she did her best to straighten her aching shoulders and looked back at Clint.

Just the sight of him, big, powerful, brave, gave her a measure of reassurance. He straightened slowly, drew several deep breaths.

He was an enormous man, layered in sleek muscle with wide shoulders and a tapered waist and long thick thighs. His biceps were as large as her legs, his hands twice as big as her own.

Eyes closed, he tipped his head back and swallowed several times, drinking in the humid night air. At that moment, he looked very weak.

He hadn't looked weak while pulverizing those men. Julie licked her dry lips and fought off another wave of the strange dizziness.

Clint flicked a glance toward her, and their gazes locked together with a sharp snap, shocking Julie down to the soles of her feet.

He looked annoyed by the near tactile contact.

Julie felt electrified. Her pains faded away into oblivion.

It took a few moments, but his forced smile, meant to be reassuring, was a tad sickly. Still watching her, he reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small silver flask. He tipped it up, swished his mouth out, and spit.

All the while, he held her with that implacable burning gaze.

When he replaced the flask in his pocket and started toward her, every nerve ending in Julie's body came alive with expectation. Fear, alarm, relief—she wasn't at all certain what she felt, she just knew she felt it in spades. Her breath rose to choke her, her body quaked, and strangely enough, tears clouded her eyes.

She would not cry, she would not cry…

She rubbed one eye on her shoulder and spoke to the two men, just to help pull herself together. “Should he be drinking?”

Blondie said, “Oh, no. It's mouthwash.” And with a smile, “He always carries it with him, cuz of his stomach and the way he usually—”

The dark man nudged the blonde, and they both fell silent.

Mouthwash. She hadn't figured on that.

She wanted to ignore him, but her gaze was drawn to him like a lodestone. Fascinated, she watched as Clint drew nearer. During his approach, he peeled his shirt off over his head then stopped in front of her, blocking her from the others. They took the hint and gave her their backs.

Julie stared at that broad, dark, hairy chest. He was more man than any man she'd ever seen, and the dizziness assailed her again.

With a surprisingly gentle touch, Clint went to one knee and laid the shirt over her chest. It was warm and damp from his body. His voice was low, a little rough when he spoke. “I'm going to cut your hands free. Just hold still a second, okay?”

Julie didn't answer. She
couldn't
answer. She'd been scared for so long now, what seemed like weeks but had only been a little more than a day. And now she was rescued.

She was safe.

A large lethal blade appeared in Clint's capable hands, but Julie felt no fear. Not now. Not with him so close.

He didn't go behind her to free her hands, but rather reached around her while looking over her shoulder and blocked her body with his own. Absurdly, she became aware of his hot scent, rich with the odor of sweat and anger and man. After smelling her own fear for hours on end, it was a delicious treat for her senses. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the smell of him, on his warmth and obvious strength and stunning ability.

He enveloped her with his size, and with the promise of safety.

She felt a small tug and the ropes fell away. But as Julie tried to move, red-hot fire rushed through her arms, into her shoulders and wrists, forcing a groan of pure agony from her tight lips.

“Shhhh, easy now.” As if he'd known exactly what she'd feel, Clint sat in front of her. His long legs opened around her, and he braced her against his bare upper body. His flesh was hot, smooth beneath her cheek.

Slowly, carefully, he brought her arms around, and allowed her to muffle her moans against his shoulder. He massaged her, kneading and rubbing from her upper back, her shoulders to her elbows, to her wrists and still crooning to her in that low gravely voice. His hard fingers dug deep into her soft flesh, working out the cramps with merciless determination and loosening her stiff joints that seemed frozen in place.