by Jo Davis
Then the lock scraped and the door opened to reveal Julian standing on the threshold, gaping at her, scratched, bruised, rumpled.
And half-naked.
The man was just over six glorious feet of taut, tanned skin stretched over cords of lean muscle. Her gaze slid down his strong throat to the beautiful gold cross resting on his smooth chest, to the dark, pebbled male nipples, to the impressive ridges of his abdomen, south to the drawstring cotton sleep pants hanging way low—holy shit, no underwear—on slim hips that she’d bet her life savings could make a woman scream when in full Elvis rotation.
“You want to talk to me, my face is up here, querida,” he said in amusement, his accented voice smooth as hot butter. “Unless it’s not conversation you have in mind?”
Good God! Her cheeks heated and she forced herself to meet his eyes squarely. And oh, what gorgeous eyes they were, so dark brown they appeared almost black, vibrant, dancing with mischief. As though he knew a delicious secret and couldn’t wait to share, perhaps over a glass of wine. Gathering her wits, she reached for the cool sophistication she wore like a shield. Too bad she croaked like a frog with emphysema.
“I just came by to make sure you’re all right. I hope you don’t mind my dropping in on you like this.”
He lifted an eloquent brow and dipped his head a bit, causing a fall of raven hair to tumble into those mesmerizing eyes. “This isn’t exactly in the neighborhood for you, Grace. Forgive my rudeness, but I’m surprised to see you here. What do you care what happens to me?”
Flummoxed, she stared into his striking face. What did she care? Too much, she knew. After all these months of pursuit, his white flag of surrender was an icy slap of reality. No man would make a fool of himself forever, and she wanted this one in her life. “May I come in?”
He shrugged, stepping back and holding the door wide. “Sure.”
She walked inside, casting a furtive glance at his bruises. His entire right side—chest, arm, ribs, and hip—was a deep shade of purplish black and looked horribly painful. He led her inside and she noted his slow, halting shuffle. His back was spotted with bruises, as well, though not as widespread. Only his face sported some raw scrapes on his chin and cheek-bone, and she guessed his heavy clothing had protected his skin from further damage.
In the living room, he lowered himself to a chocolate brown leather sofa with a miserable groan and propped his bare feet on the glass coffee table. “Have a seat, please,” he said, waving a hand. “Tell me why you’re really here. I mean, if Six-Pack told you about my accident, he also told you that I’m fine, so you had no need to come here.”
“You’re notfine,” she pressed, avoiding his perceptive question. “You left the hospital with a severe concussion, you idiot!”
He gave her a tired smile, flashing a set of straight white teeth against his bronzed face, and the effect was devastating to her senses. “I can mope here as well as there, and in greater comfort. What’s the point?”
“You could’ve hurt yourself worse! You could have brain damage, swelling or something.” She perched on the other end of the sofa and set her purse on the coffee table, scowling at him. “What if you’d come home and passed out? Had a seizure?”
“I’m a paramedic,” he reminded her gently. “After the CAT scan, I knew I was okay. Plus, I know the symptoms if I start to feel worse.”
“But what if you’re so sick you can’t call for help?”
“What do you want me to say? I left, I’m not going back, and I’m not sorry.” Julian scrutinized her for a long moment, dark eyes drinking her in. “I hate being physically confined, okay?”
Physically confined.The way he’d said it, low and hollow, as though death were preferable, made her pause. “Are you claustrophobic?”
“Not on the job, crawling through tight spaces and stuff, but yeah. You could say that.”
“Sounds more like a fear of being helpless than claustrophobia. What would you say?”
He flinched, a shadow passing over his expression, there and gone in an instant. “That I’m dying of curiosity you’ve yet to satisfy.”
Confounding, aggravating man. “Is it such a big mystery why I’m here, given how you’ve been on my heels like a bloodhound?”
“I haven’t called you in weeks.” He looked far too smug for comfort. “Yet here you are, just as I’d decided to throw in the towel. Why is that? I wonder.”
Great. Now he was going to have fun nettling her. “I’m here because I want to be, and I don’t have a better psychoanalysis for you than that.” She sighed. “This isn’t really the way I’d planned to accept your dinner invitation. If it’s still open.”
His sensual lips curved into a small smile, but he didn’t precisely leap for joy. He appeared guarded. Of course, he wasn’t going to make this easy, and she didn’t blame him.
“Did your well of rich lawyers run dry? Is that why you’re here, for easy pickings?”
Don’t get angry. What’s he supposed to think? “I don’t date other attorneys. In fact, I don’t date much at all. No time.”
“But you’ll make time for me.” His tone, rife with self-deprecating humor, betrayed his doubt.
“I’m not proposing marriage, just accepting an invite to dinner as friends.”
“You want to be friends.” He studied her from under a thick fringe of lashes, expression warm.
“I’d like that very much,” she said, scooting next to him to lay a hand on his left thigh. Lord, his muscles were so tight under her palm, his body heat scorching her through the thin material and radiating up her arm. “I think we could be good friends. I know I almost lost the opportunity to find out, because of my indecision. But I’d like to try. What do you say? Is it worth a shot?”
She knew the answer the exact moment the warmth in his dark eyes became a low-burning fire. His breath seemed to catch as he looked down at her hand, so slender against the bulk of his leg, and covered it with his own. He brushed his thumb lightly over the delicate skin of the back of her hand, his calluses rough and, to her surprise, more than pleasant. A working man’s hands, humming with sure, solid strength. But his voice, when he spoke, was quiet and vulnerable.
“Do you weigh every single decision in that brilliant lawyer’s brain as if the fate of the universe rests on it? Or am I really so hard to like?”
Guilt speared her breast at the sudden, startling notion that she’d misjudged this man from the beginning, based on assumption and bias. Now she strongly suspected that the grinning, careless devil he presented to those around him was nothing more than a bold cover for an aching, lonely soul.
Which completely melted her inside.
And made him even more dangerous than before.
“Guilty as charged on the first question. ‘Hunting a hair in the soup’ is an ingrained trait my sister is constantly trying to nag out of me. Oh, it’s great in the courtroom, but hell on personal relationships.” Turning her hand, she curled her fingers around his. “As to the second . . . no. You’re far too easy to like, Julian, and I guess it scares me a little.”
He gazed at their linked hands. “You, afraid of anything? I find that difficult to swallow.”
“You know what you said about physical confinement? Well, I suppose you could say the same for me, emotionally. I’m independent to a fault, and the idea of tying myself to another person, depending on him for love and security, a sense of well-being? Frightening.”
He cocked his head, looking genuinely interested. “Where does that come from?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “I have no clue. I had a normal upbringing, no skeletons, nothing. It’s just me, I guess.”
He brought her fingers to his lips, brushed a kiss across them. “I say the only way to conquer a fear is to face it.”
“Like you did by leaving tread marks on the way out of the hospital?” God, his mouth. Pure magic.
“Touché,” he said, laughing. The deep, masculine rumble sent shivers down her spine. “Mayb
e we both need more practice in expanding our comfort zones.”
Before she could form a reply, Julian pressed her palm to his chest, over his heart. Then he cupped her cheek and urged her close, hesitating a fraction of an instant before settling his mouth over hers.
Oh. Oh, God. Magic?
No, much more. Overwhelming, wicked sensuality.
His tongue swept between her lips to tangle with her own. Explored her moist heat in a slow, gentle seduction. His heartbeat thrummed under her palm, his skin so soft, so hot. He smelled like earth, rain, and a hint of spicy cologne. More potently male than any man she’d ever known.
She melted against him and one arm went around her waist, cradling her close as he deepened his kiss. Not demanding, but giving. Opening all of himself to her, not forcing his attention, but simply enjoying this moment together.
An awakening.
Her entire body blossomed to life. Her nipples, the insistent throb between her thighs. So long since she’d been held, pleasured. And he was solid and good underneath her, his erection pressing against her hip through her skirt. Hard and ready, yet taking his cues from her. Not rushing.
Greedy, she wanted more. She wriggled against him, eliciting a moan. Encouraged, she raked one hand through the longish strands of his silky black hair, cupped the back of his head to draw him closer. Deeper.
Julian broke their kiss with a gasp, pulling back and screwing his eyes shut with a sharp curse in Spanish. Dazed, she blinked at him for a second before realizing what she’d done.
“Your head! I touched your wound, didn’t I?” The gray cast to his tanned cheeks, the lines around his mouth as he panted in pain, were answer enough. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry!”
“It—it’s okay.”
“And your poor bruises! You’re hurting and I’m lying half on top of you.” Carefully, she levered herself off him, reached out, and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Show me where the injury is so I can check to make sure I didn’t make it worse.”
Without arguing, he gingerly touched a spot near the back of his head. “Here.”
Leaning over him, she parted his hair, searching until she found a neat row of stitches, about an inch in length. “The cut’s not bleeding,” she said, relieved. “But that’s some knot you have there. No wonder you were sick for hours.”
He cracked an eye open, breathing a little easier now. “Ever had the flu?” She nodded. “With a knock like the one I took, multiply the nausea and disorientation by ten. For a while, I figured dying would be kinder.”
She shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“I wasn’t.”
She moved over to give him some room, and he sat up, gritting his teeth. Part of her was disappointed she’d ruined their interlude, but the return of common sense was for the best. They were going to be friends. Anything more was a complication neither of them needed.
Even if they sparked like dry kindling and a torch.
Even if desire for completion with him left her breathless and shaky.
Julian seemed to sense her withdrawal, and didn’t press. Nor did he get angry or sullen. He just smiled and flicked a hand at his state of undress—and unsatisfied arousal. “I’d put on some jeans or something to, um, make you more comfortable, but to be honest, moving around to get dressed hurts too much.”
She shook her head, amazed. Who knew this man was such a gentleman? “I won’t be scarred for life at the sight of a little skin.” Well, a lot of yummy skin. “Besides, this is your home and I barged in. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I will be, don’t worry. It’s not like I haven’t had a concussion before.”
“Don’t remind me.” Several months ago, Julian had been caught in the explosion that had nearly killed Howard. Two good men almost lost at the hands of a maniac. Deftly, she steered the topic from that subject. “How’d you get home from the hospital, anyway?”
“Called a cab. My car is at the station, so Tommy’s stopping by to give me a ride when I return to work next Wednesday.”
“Isn’t six days after you were struck awfully soon to go back?” She didn’t like to think of his pushing himself too hard, too fast.
“Naw, I heal fast. I might still be a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.”
What a bunch of macho baloney. Thinking of her dad, she decided stubbornness must be burned into a man’s DNA. She started to tell him so. Then another thought occurred to her. “Did the police catch the driver who hit you?”
Julian sighed. “Nope. Hit-and-run, didn’t even slow down. Zack said the truck’s rear license plate was missing, too, so we don’t have much to go on.”
The back of Grace’s neck prickled. “That means either the driver or someone else removed the plates.”
“So?”
“Doesn’t that bother you? It makes your accident sound like not such an accident after all.”
He dimpled a grin at her. “Oh, come on. Who’d want to hurt me on purpose?” His grin faded along with his rhetorical question, and he looked away, eyes widening.
Alarmed, she laid a hand on his arm. “What is it?”
“What? Nothing, bella,” he said, giving her his full attention once more. “I’m just wiped out.”
“Oh. Well, I should go—”
“Please don’t. Stay for a while and—” He broke off with a soft laugh, the sound wistful. “Listen to me. You probably have a million things to do that don’t include keeping me company.”
She did. But suddenly, there was nothing she’d like more. “Are you hungry at all? Because I can scramble a mean egg, if your stomach is up to it.”
The surprise—and happiness—on his sexy face was well worth the impulsive decision. The first she’d made in a really long time.
“I could eat something,” he admitted.
“Good. You sit right there and rest, and I’ll take care of everything.”
The slow, lopsided grin sent a jolt to her toes. “I have no doubt of that whatsoever.”
Lord, she was in big trouble.
♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥
6
Grace was here. In his kitchen.
In his life.
Last evening, when he’d tumbled to the bottom of the ravine, he hadn’t been sure he’d have a life to resume. And now the woman of his dreams was skipping work to take care of him. Somehow, someway, he must’ve done something to please the saints. From his spot on the sofa, he fingered the cross around his neck and listened to Grace’s melodic voice as she hummed, fishing eggs out of the fridge.
Unreal. No one had cared for him since he’d left home, years ago. A houseful of sisters fussing over him and Tonio couldn’t compare with the attention of a gorgeous woman like Grace, here on her own because she’d chosen to be, not out of obligation.
Friends. Okay, he had to admit he didn’t like the distance she wanted to keep between them. But companionship was a place to start and he could work with it. He should be grateful for what she offered. Right?
Tell that to his raging libido. God, just those few moments when her guard had come down and she’d kissed him as though he were the only man on earth, pressed into him, her body soft and pliant . . .
But she’d pulled back afterward, leaving him hard and aching for more.
Who was he kidding? He must be ten kinds of a masochist to long for what he could never have. He’d known he wasn’t a keeper the day he’d walked out of Mama’s house for good. After all the heartbreak he’d put his family through, all the secrets and lies, as much as they loved him, they’d been relieved to see him go. How could he blame them?
Let us never speak of it again.
No, Mama.
Vaya con Dios, hijo.
“Toast?” Grace called.
The sweet sound of her voice chased away the past, and he could swear the room seemed brighter. The aroma of scrambled eggs teased his nose and made his stomach rumble, and he thought he might be able to keep them down. Toast would help
. “Please.”
“Where do you keep your plates?”
“The cabinet to the left of the sink. Silverware is in the drawer to the right of the dishwasher.”
He heard her push the lever down on the toaster and rummage for a plate and fork. Next, she scraped the eggs out of the skillet, set it in the sink with a clatter, then got something else out of the fridge.
“Can you make it to the table, or do you want to eat on the couch, where you’re more comfortable?”
I’d rather feast on you. “I’ll go sit at the table,” he said with more confidence than sense. Whatever he’d hoped to gain by a manly display to prove he was feeling great had back-fired. As he pushed to his feet, his abused body screamed in protest and his head swam. He reached for something to steady himself and found Grace already at his side.
“Good grief, why do men have to be so stubborn?” Putting an arm around his waist, she helped him over to the small dining table while he tried not to lean on her too much.
“I’m not stubborn. I’m a pussycat.” He lowered himself into his chair with a pained groan, figuring it best not to add that all she’d have to do was stroke him the right way and he’d purr.
“Ha! More like a saber-toothed tiger.” Before he could reply, she disappeared into the kitchen again. The toast popped up and after a few moments, she returned with his plate, a fork, and a glass of orange juice. She set the items in front of him and took a seat across the table.
“Thanks. This looks good. Hey, aren’t you fixing anything for yourself?” Frowning, he eyed her empty spot.
She shook her head, some of the white blond tendrils escaping the clip at her nape to hang in wisps at her cheeks. “No, I’m not hungry. I’m not in the habit of eating a big breakfast because I’m usually in too big of a hurry in the mornings to bother.”
“You wouldn’t skip meals if you worked with us,” he said, spearing some scrambled egg. “We burn so much energy, we eat three squares a day with plenty of carbs. Can’t perform a rescue if we’re running on fumes.”