When Bruce Met Cyn (5 page)

Bruce accepted that. He patted her hand. “I'll get you some ice for your ankle. Use my chair to keep it elevated while you eat.”

“Yes, oh-mighty-one.”

The variety of names she called him weren't exactly complimentary, but they weren't outright insults, either, and Bruce was too relieved to have her good humor restored to say anything about it.

The rain started not two minutes later. The sky opened up and the storm hit as an angry torrent, accompanied by wailing winds and a spattering of hail. The lights in the kitchen flickered, but didn't go out.

He was glad. Never before had he felt so entertained watching a woman eat. Cyn was small, but she had a hearty appetite. He'd realized while watching her that her manners were surprisingly refined. In his past experience, hookers were deliberately crass and uncouth. If Cyn tempered what she said, no one would ever suspect her of being anything other than an exceptionally appealing young lady with a middle-class background.

She ate every bite on her plate, but refused seconds when Bruce offered them. “Any more and my jeans will pop a snap. But thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

She pushed her plate back and slouched in her seat with her hands laced over her flat belly. “There's nothing in this world like home-cooked food.”

Bruce was good at picking up on clues to a person's background, but as clues went, that one was pretty in-your-face. “You normally eat at restaurants?”

“I've never had a kitchen, so yeah.”

“Never?”

She met his surprise with an expression of negligence. “Not since I was a kid, and my mother sure as hell wasn't Suzy-homemaker, you know?” She stood up and stretched, flexed her ankle experimentally, and frowned. “I'd better be on my way. I don't want to abuse your hospitality.”

It was three in the morning, it was storming, and she looked exhausted as well as hurt.

After giving her a long, thoughtful look, Bruce came to a sudden decision. Only moments ago, he'd had his intentions all planned out. He'd told himself it'd be for the best for her to go the motel. He'd told himself it wouldn't look right, for
her,
if she stayed with him. He'd check in on her, offer her assistance, and keep in touch. A good plan. A solid, typical plan.

But suddenly, things felt different.

He didn't want her to go.

He stood in front of her, hating the way she abruptly turned defensive and watchful. “I'll drive you to the motel,” he told her, holding her gaze with his own. “But if you'd prefer, you can sleep here for the night.”

Barefoot, still half-asleep, Jamie Creed stepped out onto his wooden porch. The trees surrounding his hidden home blocked his view of the stars.

But he could see
her.

She was here, at last, in Visitation. Safer, but not out of danger, not yet. He closed his eyes and concentrated, but it didn't help. He could see her, smell her, practically feel her warm flesh and the trembling of her most secret fears, but he couldn't see the threat. Not clearly enough to help.

Frustration bit into him, making him tense. He brought his fists lightly against the railing. The wood was slick and wet once again with another spring rain. Soon the wildflowers would be blooming and the birds would all return. The woods would be alive with newborn wildlife: deer, beaver, fox…It was a time of year he loved, but now, he felt weighted down with the unknown.

He had to help her,
but how?

Already she'd touched him in ways he didn't like, calling out to him, connecting with him when few people ever tried. Not anymore.

The whistling wind cut through his T-shirt and unsnapped jeans, ruffling his beard and sending his too-long hair into his eyes. He'd awakened with her need, a need he couldn't yet understand. He'd hoped a breath of cold, crisp air would clear his head. It hadn't, but he realized that she was with Bruce, and for now, that was enough. Bruce was a good man. He'd keep her safe.

Tonight.

But was Bruce strong enough to protect her forever?

 

Cyn woke with a small stretch—and her foot bumped into a hard, masculine thigh. Memories ran through her like a flash fire, memories of Palmer Oaks, numerous faceless men after him…She bolted upright in alarm and dread. Her heart was racing, her head spinning—and she saw Bruce.

Slumped more upright than otherwise at the other end of the sofa, he stirred, got one eye open, and stared at her. Their gazes held.

“Good morning,” he rumbled in a sexy, sleep-deep voice that sent shivers all through her.

Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Cyn blinked, praying he would disappear. But he didn't. “You slept there?” she accused. “All night?”

His attention moved from the top of her wildly tangled hair, to her shoulders, breasts, and abruptly to the ceiling. “It would appear so. Sorry.” He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I meant to go upstairs, but I guess I fell asleep.”

“What kind of lame-ass excuse is that?”

He shrugged, stretched, and yawned. “We were talking, then you dozed off and I was listening to you—”

“Listening
to me?”

One side of his whiskered mouth lifted in a slight, self-conscious smile. “You sounded very peaceful in your sleep.”

Get a grip, Cyn.

His gaze burned into her, and his brown eyes looked doubly sexy when heavy with fatigue and coupled with an unshaven jaw and rumpled hair. He shrugged again, half-apologetic, more than a little pensive. “I guess I dozed off at some point.” He looked away and ran both hands through his hair, smoothing the overlong, sun-streaked locks.

Cyn couldn't quite take it in. She'd sort of slept with a man who hadn't paid her. And he hadn't touched her. He'd just…listened to her?

What if she'd snored?

She remembered using his bathroom upstairs to wash up and change into one of his sweatshirts. It had been storming so hard, she'd refused to let him run out for her suitcase, and he'd been equally adamant that she not go after it. So, she'd borrowed his shirt.

It was clean, fresh from a drawer, but still it smelled of Bruce, and her stomach had done that funny twisting thing again after she'd pulled it on over her head. She'd hugged it to her, somehow comforted until she realized what she was doing and forced herself to stop.

She didn't need his comfort.

She didn't need anybody.

After she'd washed up and cleaned her teeth, he'd brought her blankets and a pillow so she could nest on the oversized couch in the room used for watching television and reading.

The kitchen and TV rooms took up only a small portion of the first floor. The rest, with the addition, were designated for church services. By necessity, the rooms were small, which meant that even if Bruce weren't on the couch with her, they'd have been in close proximity.

Cyn tried to quit staring at him. “Last I remember, we were gabbing…”

Bruce nodded. “You looked more asleep than awake, but you asked me a lot of stuff about Visitation, and so I answered.”

Cyn nodded as snippets of memory crept back on her. She'd been curled up under the blankets, warm and drowsy, while rain continued to batter the house and the wind whistled through the trees and rattled the plastic covering the unfinished wall. The next thing she knew, she woke up and Bruce was still there.

He turned slightly to face her, and his denim-covered thigh brushed her bare feet again. She'd left her jeans on, and he still wore all his clothes, but it felt more intimate than anything she'd ever experienced.

And she'd pretty much experienced it all.

Or so she'd thought.

She felt crippled by confusion and conflicting emotions, and pulled her feet beneath the blanket, well away from him and his heat and his masculine perfection.

Though nothing escaped Bruce's notice, he pretended not to see her reaction. “How's your ankle?”

She hadn't thought about it until he mentioned it, and then she realized a dull, throbbing ache traveled up her leg. “It's great.”

“Fibber. Keep that up and your nose will grow.” He stood, scratched his stomach and yawned.

Her gaze zeroed in on impressive morning wood straining the front of his jeans. Her mouth went dry.

Oh boy. She'd seen plenty of erections on plenty of guys in the past few years. Some of the men were handsome, some were pigs.

They all paid.

They all left her feeling cold and empty.

She didn't feel cold or empty now. She didn't mean to stare, but she couldn't get herself to look away, either. He was
so
fine, so incredibly good-looking, and now, despite knowing he was a preacher who sermonized on sins and sinners, he had a boner—which made him all man, as far as she was concerned.

She'd kept her purse beside her through the night, and now she hugged it to her chest.

“Want to take a shower while I fix breakfast?”

Finally, Cyn elevated her attention to Bruce's face, and wanted to melt on the spot. He wasn't leering, he wasn't even going to acknowledge the perfectly normal morning function of his body or her less-than-casual reaction to it. Well, he could keep his face as expressionless as he pleased, but he couldn't dim the heat in those dark bedroom eyes.

She saw it, and for some unknown reason, a reciprocal heat burned deep inside her. “A hot shower would be heaven.” If she hadn't turned over a new leaf, she'd have invited him to join her. But all things considered, he probably would have refused her anyway.

“When you finish bathing, get the antiseptic ointment from the medicine cabinet and put some on your scratches.”

Cyn touched her neck and discovered a sore spot and a few nicks. She shoved her thick hair back from her face, knowing she looked a fright…Oh, for crying out loud. Who cared?

She didn't.

She didn't want him to be attracted to her, anyway. “Sure, thanks.”

After untangling herself from the blankets and readjusting the strap of her purse, she stood. Her ankle felt better today, and she gingerly put her weight on it. Her hair hung in long, twisted ropes down her back, and more muscles ached than didn't. Getting dressed and ready to go job-hunting was going to bite.

Bruce didn't touch her. He just crossed his arms over his chest and watched her. “You have more aspirin?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need help up the stairs?”

“Hardly.” Damn him, she'd make it if she had to crawl. Did he have to be so caring and helpful and…

“Then I'll go get your suitcase.”

Guilt nearly choked her. It wasn't his fault that she didn't know how to deal with nice people. “It's not raining anymore?”

He looked toward the window, but the curtains were drawn. “Not hard, if it is. I don't hear anything.”

It still looked dark to Cyn, but in her former profession, where the night meant work and the day was dead, she'd kept the hours of an owl, not an eagle. “What time is it?”

Glancing at his watch, he said, “Almost seven. It's supposed to clear up today. The sun will be out before you know it.” He turned and headed for the door. “I'll be right back.”

 

Bruce found her upstairs, sitting on the edge of his bed, her purse in her lap, and it floored him. He'd stood outside in the cold long enough to get his body under control, but his thoughts were another matter.

The second he saw her, urges and images converged on him in a tidal wave of heat and need. Cyn could stand in a pile of mud and give men thoughts. Seeing her on a bed—
his
bed—was like throwing gas on an already blazing fire.

The urge was there, prodding him to step in, to ease her onto her back and cover her with his body, to taste her, take her…

He was going to have to get a handle on his reactions or else keep his distance. No other option was permissible.

And he didn't want to stay away from her.

He started to speak to her, and belatedly he saw that her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped. Lust fled in the face of concern. He took two silent steps into the room. “Cyn?”

Immediately she straightened and gave a small, brave smile. “Sorry. No place to sit up here but on the john and I thought you might want to make use of that before I get in the shower.”

“Right.” Her blunt speech didn't put him off. After years of running the safe house, he was well used to women saying just about anything. Still, he'd never shared a bathroom with any of those women. And, at least in his mind, none of them had looked like Cyn.

He set her bag beside her. She looked more worn than any woman ever should, especially a woman so young. She'd attempted to comb her hair but she still suffered bedhead, and dark circles were under her vivid eyes, the contrast lighting them like the pale blue of a flame.

She hadn't had enough sleep, but Bruce didn't know what to do about that. He had an appointment, and if the weather cleared, men, both paid contractors and volunteers, would show up to work on the church.

He couldn't, wouldn't, leave her alone to deal with them. Cyn was both skittish and provoking. He refused to borrow trouble.

Added to her obvious fatigue, she now had the small scratches on her throat and her mouth was pinched with pain, no doubt caused by her ankle. Should he insist she go to the doctor to get it checked?

One look at her stiffened spine and he knew she'd do just as she pleased. He managed a smile. “It's stopped raining and the sun's peeking out, but it's still chilly. You have warm stuff to wear?”

“You're worse than an old lady, you know that?”

Feigning offense, Bruce said, “Concern is part of my stock and trade. Be nice and tolerate it, okay?”

She laughed, dropped her suitcase on his bed and opened it to produce a sweater set. “I promise I'll be warm enough.”

Bruce would prefer she wear a coat, but maybe she didn't have one. He frowned, realized she was watching him with a sort of rebellious regard, and got hold of himself. If he got too smothering in his worry, she might bolt on him. Best to retrench now before he pushed her too far. “Give me just a minute and then the bathroom's all yours.”

He was in and out in less than two minutes. He didn't bother to shave yet, but he did splash his face and brush his teeth. Cyn was waiting for him in the narrow hall when he stepped out. He felt her closeness like the brush of warm breath, and his guts tightened.

Not since his high school days, before he'd decided to become a preacher, had he felt such volcanic sexual need. Back then, he'd have talked the girl into going to the gravel pit, or the drive-in—anyplace that ensured privacy where they could indulge their healthy desires. He'd been young and undisciplined then, like most testosterone-ridden youths.

These days, his healthy desires were well under control. Or at least they were the day before.

He started to edge past her. “I'll head to the kitchen and get breakfast going.”

She didn't move out of his way. “Shouldn't it be my turn to cook?”

“Do you know how?”

Amazingly enough, her face colored. It was the first time he'd seen her blush. “Not really. But I'm not stupid. I can read directions.”

He was close enough to kiss her—scratch that. He managed a brotherly smile. “Next time, okay?”

Her brows lifted the tiniest bit. “Next time?”

He had to put some distance between them before he did something even dumber than coddling her. “Sure, you can pay me back. You're not leaving Visitation anytime soon, right?”

“I don't plan to leave ever.”

God help him.
“There you go.” He stepped past her, and his chest brushed against the lush fullness of her breasts. Bruce couldn't bring himself to look at her again. “Don't linger too long, okay? I don't want your pancakes to get cold.”

As he trotted down the stairs, he felt as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Lust had no place in his life right now, but he had a feeling that as long as Cyn hung around, he'd be dealing with it.

He had the table set and a platter of buttered pancakes ready when he felt her presence. He looked up, and his breath caught.

Silly girl.

Did she really think dowdier clothes could mask her appeal? She wore the sweater set, dark green and high-necked and a size too big, over loose-fitting khakis and slip-on shoes. Her long hair was still damp and had been woven into a thick braid. She wore no makeup and her eyes showed her uncertainty.