When Bruce Met Cyn (3 page)

“Well enough.” And with tons of innuendo:

“Being a preacher doesn't make me blind.”

He led her over the bushes, and then she could see his car on the road, the headlights still on, sending scant illumination around the area. He stopped and turned her to face him. For a long moment, she got lost in the dark mystery of his eyes, until he said, “So, what'll it be?”

He wanted to know if she'd ride with him. But he'd already told her he wouldn't just leave her alone, and she'd been dumb enough for one night.

She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

An increasing breeze, damp with the threat of rain, lifted a long tress of her hair, sending it past her face and against Bruce's throat. She watched him draw in a deep breath, then mentally shake himself. He smoothed her hair back, tucked it behind her ear. The moon shone down on him, giving his masculine form an almost divine aura.

Damn, but he took her breath away.

His warm fingertips grazed her cheek, and then he dropped his hand. “I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do.”

Odd, but what she wanted most at that moment was to curl into him and beg to be held. No one had ever really held her, not without expectations. No one had ever really cared about her, about what she wanted and needed, and suddenly, she craved his comfort.

But she hadn't begged for anything in years, not since she'd gone off on her own, and she sure as certain wouldn't start now.

Besides, she'd known since she was sixteen that her looks presented her as a sexual being, not merely a female. If her mother and Palmer Oaks hadn't made that clear, the Reverend certainly had. He blamed her for the way Palmer reacted to her. He told her that her soul was carnal.

Reverend Thorne was wrong, she knew that now, but men did look at her and get ideas. She wouldn't encourage those ideas with too much touching. Not anymore. Not even a man who seemed genuinely kind. She just didn't know enough about honesty to judge him.

“Naw, I'd rather ride than walk.” And to dismiss the moments past, she laughed. “Sorry I freaked on you.”

Bruce accepted her decision with a nod and they continued on toward the car. When she limped again, he asked, “Are you sure your leg's okay?”

“It's nothing.”

“You're limping.”

Her laugh sounded loud in the otherwise quiet area. “I've limped worse after being on my back all day.”

His gaze zeroed in on her like a homing beacon. “Meaning?”

He knew damn good and well what she meant, but she said only, “You're a preacher, right? So I better not melt your ears with my sordid tales of debauchery.”

“You have a colorful way of putting things.”

“I'm a colorful kind of gal.”

“I'll take a look at it if you want.”

“No.”

“Okay, then.”

The idle chitchat distracted her. She needed to plan out the rest of the evening.

“I'm building a church,” he said, as if the last fifteen minutes hadn't happened.

He treated her like any other woman he might have encountered, not as a crazy ex-hooker who leaped out of cars, not as a woman who looked like the original temptation.

It was…nice. “You mean in Visitation?”

“Yes. The closest one is almost two hours away, and a lot of the locals use that as an excuse not to attend service. Because I always liked working in the streets, I haven't limited myself to a single church in a very long time. But now, I don't know. It feels right to build a church right in the town proper. I feel the…
pull
to be there again, addressing a congregation, delivering a sermon. Do you know what I mean?”

He opened Cyn's door for her and she sat down, but kept her legs out. The interior lights spilled out in a soft arc, exaggerating Bruce's features, sharpening his bone structure, making his hair lighter, his eyes darker.

So many contrasts the preacher had.

“Sure. I felt the pull to come to Visitation.”

“That's why you're here?”

It was probably past midnight. By the minute, the air grew heavier with the scent of an approaching storm. But Bruce seemed in no real hurry to be on their way.

Cyn wasn't sure what to think of that. “Yeah. Like you with your church, I'm ready to change my life, too.”

“And you chose to do that in Visitation?”

“Visitation was the place that chose me.”

He smiled again. “Maybe you're right. Maybe fate is lending a hand. For both of us.”

Cyn licked her dry lips. All things aside, a girl couldn't be too careful. “I've gotta ask you something, Bruce.”

She'd kept her tone light, but his look was full of serious regard as he stared down at her. “Of course. Anything.”

She nodded, thought about how to put her question, then just blurted it out. “You into hitting women or kids? For any reason?” She watched him closely, waiting for any telltale sign that might give him away as a liar or a fraud.

There was no hesitation. “Never.” His fingers touched her chin, tilting her face up to his. His thumb brushed at a little dirt on her jaw. “And I'd do anything in my power to stop anyone who did.”

Cyn wasn't sure about that. No one had ever really intervened on her behalf before—but then again, she remembered the trucker and how Bruce had rushed out to defend her.

Just as he had before, he dropped his hand the moment he realized that he touched her. “Good men don't abuse others, and I wouldn't want to think of myself as less than a good man. Not perfect, mind you, because God knows I have my flaws.”

Cyn nodded. “Picking up strangers is one of them.”

He grinned at her quip. “I have nothing but disdain for anyone who deliberately hurts another person.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Is that what you're afraid of? That someone will hurt you?”

She shrugged, wary of dredging up the past and the ugliness of it. It was incredible that she'd told him so much already. She'd never shared her awful secrets with anyone. “If a man thinks he's justified, then who's to stop him?”

Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets. The fact that they were alone on a deserted road in the middle of the night didn't disturb him. “There is no excuse, none, for ever hurting a woman or child. Unfortunately, bad people are everywhere, hiding behind occupations, wealth, social standing, and fanatical convictions. A mean spirit isn't something exclusive to the ugly or the poor—it's not something you can easily see in a person's eyes.”

He'd be good at delivering the sermons, she decided. He had a real passionate way of sharing his opinions and beliefs. “I can sometimes tell.”

He stared down at her so intently, she felt it like a tactile touch. He looked big and imposing, but she wasn't afraid. Not now.

“You couldn't tell with me.”

“You just took me by surprise, that's all.” She tried a halfhearted smile. “If you say you're a saintly sort, then who am I to argue?”

He wasn't appeased. Just the opposite—her words seemed to set him off. “Tell me something, Cyn. You're obviously an intelligent woman. Why are you taking so many chances? When you know the risks, why are you hitchhiking and—”

“I don't have a car.” She felt like saying, “Duh,” but didn't.

He gave her a look of incomprehension.

By necessity, her view of such things was philosophical. “I needed to travel.”

“But it scares you.”

“Most times, fear is a luxury, so it doesn't matter if you're afraid.” She shared with him what she'd always known. “And I don't really have a choice.”

Bruce rubbed his face, stared up at the heavens, and muttered something under his breath that she didn't quite catch. Then, in an almost angry stride, he headed to his side of the car.

Cyn had learned to read people, especially men, and Bruce Kelly was as sincere as a man could be. She would have seen that before, if his odd vocation hadn't taken her by surprise.

He slammed his door and started the engine. “Ready?”

“Ready
is my middle name.” She swung her legs into the car, shut the door, and let out a long breath. She'd been up for too many hours to count, which maybe had contributed to her earlier panic. As she fastened her seat belt, she asked, “I think I'll sleep while you drive. I'm pooped.”

 

Bruce knew that Cyn wasn't really asleep. With his jacket pulled up over her chest and shoulders like a blanket, she dozed. But anytime he moved—to adjust the radio, to turn down the heater—she opened those pale eyes just enough to watch him.

It broke his heart to see such a young woman so vigilant and fearful. She was stretched out as much as a person could be in a car while still sitting upright. She kept her purse looped across her neck, with the purse tucked securely under her arm, but otherwise her limbs were loose and relaxed.

Her face was half turned toward him, her long, silky hair teasing her breasts, hanging almost to her elbows. Her nails were short and blunt, unpainted. Her feet were small and narrow. She wore no makeup at all.

And she was so incredibly sexy she made his heart race. Half asleep, she should have looked like a child.

Instead, she looked…wanton.

Her features were exotic, so delectably carnal and earthy that she needed to do nothing at all to make a man think of rumpled sheets and sweat-damp bodies straining together. Bruce had no doubt that she'd had more than a few men anxious to bed her.

In all likelihood, she'd sold them the privilege on a regular basis. He also knew, given her reserve and probable background, that some of those men had hurt her.

Yet, they hadn't broken her spirit. That bespoke an uncommon inner strength, and gave him hope.

Despite her fortitude, the exhaustion was plain in her boneless posture and the weariness etched in her face, so Bruce drove straight home. After parking on the gravel road in front of the half-finished church, he turned off the headlights and cut the engine. “Cynthia.”

Her eyes opened and she straightened with a luxuriant stretch and a lusty yawn. “Where are we?” Curious, she glanced around, saw that everything was dark and empty, and gave him a suspicious frown.

“My place.” He got out and circled the hood to open her door.

Eyes wide, she scampered from the car so fast, she forgot her shoes. She faltered a moment on her hurt ankle, then breathed deeply of the cold night air. Bruce watched her toes curl against the chilly, dew-wet grass.

“This is Visitation?” She looked around with a sort of silent awe.

Bruce felt his lips twitch. She said “Visitation” with the same reverence one might give heaven. “It is. Part of it, at least.”

He reached in the car for his jacket and wrapped it around her, then fetched her sandals. She braced a hand on his shoulder as she slipped them on her feet, saying a distracted, “Thanks.” She was too busy soaking in the sights to pay much attention to her feet.

He pointed down the street. “There's a nice diner where you can catch breakfast in the morning, but they're closed for the night now. Around the block, about two minutes from here, is a small motel. The town's small, with one strip mall, a few small businesses, and a factory farther out. Fact is, you can drive completely through town in under ten minutes, but if you go back about an hour from where we came and take the exit into—”

“No.” She closed her arms around herself to ward off the April chill and favored him with a bright smile that made everything masculine in him stand at attention. “I'm here and I'm staying. In Visitation. Nowhere else.”

Bruce cocked a brow at her quick insistence.

Her smile turned whimsical. “I've dreamed about this place so many times. I want to see if I recognize it in daylight, if it feels as good as it did in my imagination.”

“All right.” Bruce had learned long ago when to push and when to let things ride. “I can take you to the motel after you eat.”

She gave him a calculated look. “If the restaurant's closed, how do you plan to feed me?”

Because he couldn't help himself, he flicked the end of her nose. “I can cook.”

“No kidding? I mean, I didn't expect you to do that, but a starving woman doesn't quibble.” She nodded toward the building. “So these are your digs?”

Bruce relaxed. Finding herself alone with him in a less-than-public place didn't seem to alarm her at all. Other than her brief, overwhelming fear on the road, she'd been as at ease as a long acquaintance.

“This will eventually be my church.” Pride filled him as he gestured to the two-story, red brick house now sporting a very large, not-quite-complete addition. Because he'd been gone overnight, he'd left the porch light on and it showed the destroyed lawn typical of new construction. The building wasn't fancy, but he loved it.

God didn't need fancy, and neither did Bruce.

“It doesn't look like a church.”

He watched her smooth her unruly curls, tossed by the wind. It distracted him, and made him think of things he shouldn't. He shook his head. “In the same way that I don't look like a preacher?”

“Just the opposite. It's too plain to be a church.” She lightly elbowed him. “And you're too hunky to be a preacher.”

Plenty of women had teased and flirted with him, but he'd never paid much attention, never lost sight of the fact that they needed him and depended on him. With Cyn, it was different and he had to deliberately keep his mind off taboo speculation. With her, he didn't just see the bravado of a woman covering past hurts. He saw long, silky hair and warm, smooth skin. He smelled her—the scent of woman, more provocative than any manufactured perfume. He enjoyed her bold gaze, the tilt of her sexy mouth…“Did I mention that my father was a preacher, too?”

Thank God, she'd been unaware of his intimate perusal. She smiled without a care. “Does he look like you?”