Her Forbidden Hero

by Laura Kaye

  Pride surged through Marco. She’d improved so much since he’d last heard her that he was well and truly awed.

  And she so clearly felt the music. It poured through her and wrapped around him, making him recall the lyrics he’d never considered meaningful between them before, but now kicked up his pulse as he wondered if she thought they had any significance. The song spoke of loving someone more in the now than all the important people they’d known and loved and lost in the past. Marco pressed his fingers to his lips and rubbed, unable to look away but suddenly feeling like the walls of the open, airy room were closing in on him.

  When the last notes faded away, the silence of the room rang loudly. Marco cleared his throat. “You’re really good, Aly. You killed that. Seriously.”

  She blushed and settled the body of the guitar on the floor so it rested against her leg. “I took music lessons as electives. I didn’t want to lose, uh, the guitar.”

  Marco swallowed down the knot that lodged in his throat, the one growing bigger as her big brown eyes settled on him and refused to look away. He leaned toward her, his hand aching to wrap around her neck, tangle in her hair, and pull her in. He reached out…and pointed to the guitar. “Can I see it?”

  She grinned and passed it to him. “Of course. It’s solid wood. Spruce, mahogany, and rosewood.”

  He accepted the instrument. “A Seagull. Nice. These guitars always have a great tone, as you just proved.”

  Alyssa’s cheeks flushed beautifully. He wanted to taste the heat off her skin.

  “Go ahead. Give it a try,” she said.

  He cradled the guitar in his lap, drawing his knee up to support the body of it. “Shit, Aly. I don’t know if I can anymore. My damn hand.” He dropped his lefty to his side, shielding it from her gaze.

  She scooted nearer on the futon and rested a hand on his knee. “Just try.”

  His leg went tense. Not from fear of playing but from the effort it took not to toss the guitar to the side, pull her into his lap, and see what else his fingers might be capable of. Jesus. He heaved a breath. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

  He centered his right hand over the sound hole and curled his left around the neck. The strings bit into his fingers as they settled into a C chord. One of the pitfalls of not having played in a long time, his fingers no longer had the calluses he’d built up when he’d played frequently. The bite of the metal wasn’t unwelcome, though.

  He strummed the guitar, changing into another easy chord. Man, this played like a dream, the tone warm and resonant.

  Alyssa gripped his knee, drawing his concentration away from his hand position. He lifted his gaze to her, and pride shone out of every pore of her beautiful, smiling face. Man, how that expression lit him up inside. In fact, he would’ve sworn the whole house shone more brightly with her there.

  He launched into the first bars of an old favorite, and damn if he wasn’t playing. But his joy didn’t last for long. Twice he messed up his fingering, unable to change chords fast enough or compress the strings hard enough. A muscle cramp seized his forearm. He’d beaten his arm to shit two nights ago, and clearly it wasn’t up for any more abuse. His fingers slipped from the neck and he clenched his teeth to keep from roaring in frustration. Just one more part of his old life that was gone.

  “That was great, Marco. See? You can still play. You’re just rusty.”

  He held out the guitar and rose when she accepted it. “I’m not rusty, Alyssa. I’m too fucking broken to play.”

  He paced to the front window and braced a hand against the molding. Out in the street, a man walked his dog and, farther down, a woman pushed a stroller. Just ordinary people going about their days. Did any of them feel this constant pressure on their heart and weight on their shoulders? Or was that shit reserved especially for him?

  Oh, goody, because self-pity is such an attractive quality.

  Warm arms came around his stomach as Alyssa embraced him from behind. Her head settled between his shoulder blades and, without telling his hand to move, he found himself clutching her hands to his chest.

  He gave in to the comfort of her touch and absorbed everything he could from her. The magic of her music still swirled in the air, and in his mind’s eye, he saw himself turning in her arms, bending down, clutching her face in his hands, and drawing their mouths together. He’d walk her backward through the house as their hands tugged at shirts and bared skin. They’d end up on the bed and she’d be all splayed out, warm and his for the taking.

  Alyssa nuzzled into his back and pressed a kiss against his shoulder.

  He sucked in a breath, his erection punching against the fly of his jeans again. But it wouldn’t just be sex. Not with her. The ache in his chest and the constriction in his throat, that was about the part of him that wanted to comfort her and be comforted in return, that wanted companionship and a place to belong. It would be about lo—

  He shook his head, clamping down on the tail end of that thought. Without question, Alyssa would give him everything he wanted and more, but what he wanted was just a bunch of fantasy bullshit for someone like him.

  It killed him to do so, but he twisted free of her arms and forced himself to face her. Frustration and regret weighed on his shoulders like an anvil. “This”—he waved his finger back and forth between them and swallowed down a river of sadness—“this right here. This can’t happen.”

  Alyssa’s expression morphed from surprise into hurt, and the tinge of pink on her cheeks revealed a healthy dose of embarrassment mixed in.

  Wasn’t that the sour cherry on his shit sundae? Hurting her was the last thing he wanted to do, but better to hurt her a little now than a lot later.

  She dropped her gaze. “I didn’t mean… I just wanted…” She turned and crossed the dining room to the hallway.

  From where Marco remained at the window, he easily heard the click of the bedroom door as she closed it between them.

  …

  Alyssa sat on the edge of Marco’s bed torn between heartbreak and lust. The former based on the awful finality of his words. The latter based on the betrayal of Marco’s body as he said them. When she’d averted her gaze from his face, her eyes drifted down, and she’d been stunned to find a bulge filling out the front of his jeans.

  She couldn’t get the image out of her mind’s eye, and the lust was slowly but surely beating the heartbreak into submission.

  Okay, take a breath, Aly. Think.

  She debated the meaning of the seeming contradiction for a few moments and came to the conclusion that Marco didn’t want to want her, but he did. Maybe? Possibly?

  Or maybe she was neck deep in wishful thinking.

  Oh, why were men so complicated? Or, at least, this man?

  Alyssa badly needed something simple and straightforward. The last two nights’ less-than-stellar sleep left her weary and heavy-eyed. All at once, her earlier plan for the afternoon returned to her: back before the whole playing-house-with-the-man-of-her-dreams thing happened, her intent had been nothing more taxing than worshipping the sun. She didn’t have a pool, but there was no reason she couldn’t still enjoy this beautiful summer afternoon.

  She flipped open her suitcase and dug into one corner. Shivering, she threw the scraps of fabric onto the bed and undressed. The purple bikini was the only suit she owned. Last thing she wanted was Marco thinking she was pulling some cheesy stunt to reel him in. She turned to the mirror as she settled the pieces into place. The top was a more modest halter style, but it still left her tummy bare and revealed a fair amount of cleavage.

  She gathered her iPhone, earbuds, and sunblock from her room, then stopped in Marco’s bathroom and fished two towels from the linen closet. A big navy towel around her body, she wandered into the kitchen and filled a glass of water.

  “Al—” Marco’s voice trailed off into a strangled cough.

  Alyssa turned to face him, her arms full, nervous about where things stood between them, not to mention her state of undress. �
�Did you need something?”

  “Uh. No.” His gaze dragged down the front of her. “Um, what are you doing?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I thought I’d enjoy the sun for a while. If that’s okay with you.” Alyssa mustered the courage to meet his gaze. His expression was dumbfounded. Whatever. She was too tired to figure him out right now. Sighing, she crossed the room, sure she could feel his eyes on her back. She had to juggle things for a moment to open the kitchen door, but then she was walking out onto a wide back porch that stepped down into a small but inviting yard.

  Oh, what a beautiful view. There was no single peak to the mountains around Frederick. The Blue Ridge Mountains, of which Braddock Mountain was a part, really did live up to their name—they were a series of ridges that rose and fell all the way out to the western part of the state.

  Alyssa dropped her supplies to the ground and released the towel covering her body. Bending, she flicked the terry out over the grass until it settled into a smooth rectangle. Sunblock was the next order of business—the last thing she wanted was to burn, especially if she fell asleep. As she smoothed it on her legs, she glanced up and nearly gasped. Inside, Marco leaned against the jamb of the back door. Watching her.

  He didn’t try to hide his gaze. Or pretend standing there had been coincidental.

  He looked like a man dying of thirst.

  Alyssa shivered. Hopefully she appeared unruffled on the outside, because on the inside, her heart lurched into a sprint that had her hands shaking as she applied lotion to her stomach, chest, shoulders. She tossed the bottle to the grass next to her and chanced another glance to the door.

  Marco was still there.

  She reclined on her towel, a strange tingling erupting over her skin.

  With her iTunes set to a mellow playlist, Alyssa inserted her earbuds and concentrated on breathing. Soon, the weight of the sun’s rays pressed her into the ground until every bit of tension drained from her muscles. For long moments, she hovered on the edge of consciousness. And then she gave in to her body’s demands and fell softly asleep.

  …

  Walk away, man. Walk away.

  But Marco couldn’t. Because Alyssa had literally mesmerized him.

  Shit. All the times they’d gone up to Cunningham Falls to go swimming at the lake when they were kids… Never once had he viewed her as anything but his best friend’s sweet little sister. Of course he hadn’t.

  But while Alyssa was still sweet—and still Brady’s younger sister—she wasn’t little. She wasn’t a girl. She should be off-limits—no, she was off-limits, for so many reasons—but his body didn’t seem to be getting the message.

  Truth be told, his body wasn’t the only one ignoring what ought to be accepted fact. Her presence, her touch, the kindness and acceptance in her eyes—all of these offered the promise of comfort in a way little else had this past year. Her laugh and her positivity uncovered a part of him—the old Marco—he’d been unable to find in the darkness and confusion of his damaged mind. Problem was, he saw the idolization in her eyes, too. While she thought she was looking at the guy she’d known four years ago, and for a lifetime before that, she had no idea he was only half the man he’d been.

  And when she figured it out, seeing the realization on her face would slay him.

  Even if she could grow to accept who he was now, would it really be fair of him to ask her to accept less than she deserved?

  Because Alyssa Scott deserved it all.

  His gaze dragged over her still form. The sun shone off her long hair as if it had a high-gloss finish. Her skin glistened, and that purple bikini left way too fucking little to his imagination to be good for his sanity. Jesus, she was stunning. Petite and fit, with curves where women ought to have curves. He could almost smell the sun on her skin, taste the salt of her sweat on his tongue, sense how the hot silk of her hair and the heated firmness of her hip would feel in his hands.

  Without thinking, Marco stepped onto the porch and walked down into the grass. Before he knew it, he was standing over Alyssa, his body casting a long shadow over the length of hers. Warring desires rocked through him. But for now, being near her was enough—would have to be enough.

  Moving to her side, he spread out the extra towel she’d brought beside her and lay down on his back. The sun was too hot against his black jeans and its shine too bright in his eyes, but this closeness, this feeling of not being alone—maybe it meant he was even weaker than he thought, but he needed it. Jesus, he was starving for it.

  Movement from the towel next to him captured his attention. Marco rolled his head to the right and found himself looking into Alyssa’s big brown eyes. She held his gaze for a long moment, neither of them talking, or moving, or avoiding the scrutiny of the other.

  Finally, she turned her head back up to the sun and closed her eyes. Her hand slid across the grass between them and clasped his. His throat went tight. She’d known. Dammit, she’d known just what he needed from her. He slid his long fingers between her slender ones, linking them together more tightly.

  And then he closed his eyes and struggled not to voice his greatest fear.

  He might be falling in love with her.

  Chapter Eight

  Marco had nightmares.

  Alyssa first learned that her second night at his place. She’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and heard him calling out words too slurred for her to understand but in a tone so tortured she couldn’t miss the feeling behind them. For long minutes, she’d stood in the doorway of the dark dining room, debating whether to wake him. But then he’d settled, and she’d returned to bed.

  Every night, it was the same thing. Sometimes it went on longer. Sometimes he shouted out or moaned. The specific notes of his anguish varied, but the basic soundtrack remained the same, like a needle on an old LP stuck in a particularly deep groove.

  She wished she could talk to him about it, ask him what was haunting him night after night. But ever since she’d woken up late Sunday afternoon to find the towel beside her—and the house itself—empty, he’d been avoiding her. She was sure of it. He was gone when she got up in the morning and beat her to work every day. He didn’t join her and the others in the break room for a bite to eat, and, after making sure she safely got back to his place after work, he often went to the gym, not returning until she’d fallen asleep.

  The only thing that kept her going was her memory of the desperate need in his blue eyes while they’d lain side by side under the summer sun.

  But how could she be there for someone who insisted on staying away?

  Maybe he simply didn’t want her to be.

  By Wednesday night, her heartache for him blossomed into the determination to simply confront him. She couldn’t go about her life acting like everything was okay when her oldest friend and the person who owned the biggest piece of her heart carried torturous pain around inside him.

  Of course, she had to wait for him to come home from the gym first. In his bedroom, she changed out of her work clothes and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of girly striped boxers. Then she planted herself on the futon, eyes on the front door, and waited. As the numbers on the LED screen of her phone passed one a.m., Alyssa struggled to remain awake, and then finally stopped fighting it. She’d hear him come in. Against one armrest, Marco had stacked a pillow on top of the folded blanket he’d been using at night, so she reclined against them and let herself drift off.

  Warm arms slipped under her body and for a moment she was weightless.

  Forcing her eyelids open, Alyssa looked up at the hard angle of Marco’s jaw. “Marco,” she whispered, her sleepy voice cracking.

  “Shh. Don’t wake up,” he said in a low voice.

  God, his body felt so good against hers. She reached up and cupped her hand around his neck. “Talk to me.”

  He turned sideways with her as he stepped through the bedroom doorway. Gently, he laid her on his bed.

  Before he could pull away, she laced both hands b
ehind his neck. “Please.” In the quiet stillness of the dark room, she heard him swallow thickly.

  He grabbed one of her hands and pulled it away. “Don’t.”

  She couldn’t see the expression he wore, but his tone was crystal clear. Tears flooded her eyes, and she found herself so glad for the dark.

  His footsteps padded quietly across the room and the door clicked shut. She was alone.

  But that little exchange hammered the nails into the coffin of sleeping for the night. After maybe an hour, she sat up and debated. She pushed out of bed and opened the door. Finding the house dark, she crossed the hallway to the dining room doorway and listened.

  It didn’t take long to hear what she’d come in there for. The strangled whimpers and half cries echoing from the front room broke her heart.

  She tiptoed over to the futon, which was silly, since she was planning to wake him. “Marco?” she whispered. She moved closer. “Marco?”

  The diffuse moonlight through the front windows allowed her to make out his position, laying on his back, the covers twisted around his legs. She knelt beside the futon and laid a gentle hand on top of one of his, which strained and fisted into the blanket.

  He released an anguished gasp that sent her heart into double time. She inhaled to say his name again just as his fist went slack under her grip. Still unconscious, he angled his head toward her and exhaled a shaky breath.

  Minutes later, his breathing evened out into the slow and soft rhythm of normal sleep.

  Alyssa burst into tears. She pressed her hand over her mouth to smother the sound and felt her sorrow for him drip over her knuckles. As much as her outburst was borne out of her grief for his pain, it was also the result of a bone-deep relief. Had she finally found a way to help him? Even if he didn’t know it—even if he could never know it—she’d watch over him as he slept. If her presence or touch or whatever it was calmed him, she’d give him as much as he needed to protect him from his nightmares.