by Tee O'Fallon
At the top landing, the faint, lingering smell of freshly painted walls pervaded the air, and he thanked whatever had driven him to bust his ass the past few weekends to complete all the interior painting before his friends arrived.
He led the way to the only vacant bedroom in the house. Unfortunately, it was directly opposite the master bedroom. His bedroom. If his friends hadn’t been bunking with him for the next two months, he would have put her in the bedroom on the third floor. For safety’s sake. Higher level rooms were inherently safer from break-ins. Yeah, that’s why. Again, not because he’d kissed her and she’d kissed him back with enough passion to knock his fucking socks off.
Reaching inside the open door, he flipped on the light switch, illuminating the cream-colored walls and the newly refinished four-poster bed with its rich red brocade duvet cover. When he glanced back, Trista was busy taking in the whole room. A faint look of surprise lit her features.
“Like it?”
With her eyes wide, she gently lowered Poofy to the floor, whereupon the cat began inspecting and sniffing the antique rug. “It’s beautiful. I had no idea.”
The appreciative look on her face tweaked his sense of pride. He’d been renovating the old Colonial for two years, and he was finally finished. The place did look damn good.
“I’ll give you the grand tour after we get some shut-eye. There are fresh towels and toiletries in the bathroom. I’ll get you something to sleep in, and a litter box and water for Poofy.” Rather than give in to his urge to take her in his arms and hold her tightly, he left to go gather up the items he’d promised.
When he returned to Trista’s room, the door was almost closed, but not quite, reminding him it was still in need of repair. Through the opening, he glimpsed her sitting on the bed with her back to him, still wearing the overly long scrub pants, but she’d tossed his jacket on a chair. Poofy stalked back and forth across the duvet with his tail held high in that regal, self-important way all cats had. A sooty towel had been draped over a chair, and the cat’s fur was nearly all white again.
She pulled her hair to one side of her neck and began speaking to Poofy in a gentle, soothing tone. He couldn’t hear what she said, but it seemed to ease the animal’s anxiety because it lay down, tucking its feet beneath it, gazing up at her as if he were soaking in every word she said.
Matt didn’t know much about cats, having preferred dogs at a very early age. He supposed cats could just as easily be attuned to their owners as dogs. Maybe it was their inherent aloofness that made him think cats didn’t give a shit about anything except themselves. Contrarily, dogs were all about pleasing their masters. Yup, he’d take a dog any day over a cat.
He tapped twice softly on the door, doing his best not to startle her. God knew she’d been through enough for one night—hell, for one week—and the last thing he wanted to do was to scare her. When she turned at the sound of his voice, his attention was first drawn to how smooth and graceful her bared neck and shoulders were. Then he noticed the dull, sleep-deprived look in her eyes and felt guilty for ogling her. He was used to going without much sleep—he’d been that way since the Marines—but she’d probably need to sleep half the day away.
“The door doesn’t latch shut entirely unless you give it an extra tug,” he said pushing it open enough for him to set a low plastic tub on the floor. “No kitty litter, so I lined it with newspaper. I’ll go into town later and get whatever you need, so make a list when you wake up.” He nodded to the old oak desk. “There’s pen and paper in there.”
She rose from the bed and came to where he stood. The cotton camisole was smudged with soot, but not enough to hide the curves of her waist or the fullness of her breasts. “I don’t have any m-money, or checks, or ATM cards, or…” Her voice trailed off, and he knew precisely what she was thinking. I don’t have anything. “But I’ll go to a bank, then go shopping for myself.”
“Negative.” Matt shook his head, also knowing she wouldn’t like what he said next. “I don’t want you setting foot off this property.”
The dullness in her expression instantly evaporated, her green eyes lighting with fire. “I’m not a prisoner here.” She parked her fists on her hips, pulling that damned, soot-covered camisole tighter across her breasts.
“Of course not.” He forced his gaze back to hers. “Whoever’s trying to kill you may not know about my involvement, and probably won’t figure on you being stashed at my house. But until I can get more information about what’s going on, it’s not safe for you anywhere.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He cut her off, pressing his lips together to keep from shouting. If it wasn’t for the fact that his friends were likely in deep REM sleep at the moment, he would have. He leaned in until his face was a scant inch from hers, keeping his voice low and controlled. “Someone tried to slit your throat. When that didn’t work, they tried to burn you alive. What part of the message are you not getting?”
That green fire he’d glimpsed moments ago dulled, and her shoulders slumped as the frightening reality of his words kicked in.
“Look,” he said, handing her the T-shirt he’d draped over his arm, along with a shallow dish to use as Poofy’s water bowl. “We’re both dead on our feet, and…” Bad choice of words. “I don’t know about you, but I’d really like to wash off the smell of smoke and get some sleep. I suggest you do the same. We can talk more later. Good night. Or rather, good morning.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and closed the door behind him, giving it an extra tug to verify the latch did indeed lock into place this time. Before crossing the hallway to his own bedroom, he stood outside Trista’s door, pressing his fingers to his forehead. He hoped he’d made the right decision bringing her to his home. The practical logistics of the plan he’d just set in motion had more obstacles than Omaha Beach on D-Day. A cynophobic woman shacking up with seven K-9 officers and their dogs was a royally fucked-up scenario.
Once inside his room, he stripped out of his filthy clothes, dropping them on the bathroom floor, then tore off the bandages on his hands. He turned on the shower, waiting only a minute or so before stepping gratefully under the spray and turning his face into the hot stream of water. He uttered a groan of pleasure. But as the water hit all the shallow cuts and scrapes scattered all over his hands, chest, and abs, he sucked in a tight breath.
Great. He’d forgotten about those.
The headache that had been brewing behind his eyes had finally begun to hammer in full force. It had started when Trista kicked him in the jaw outside her house, and he’d hit the back of his head against the brick siding. Now blood pounded mercilessly throughout his skull.
When he finished showering, he stepped into a pair of clean knit boxers and went in search of aspirin. When he didn’t find the bottle he was searching for, he figured one of the guys had snatched it in anticipation of a hangover. On the way to the kitchen, he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. Shit. His torso looked like he’d been hit with light shrapnel, and the left side of his jaw was turning three shades of purple.
When he opened his bedroom door, he paused, listening for any sounds inside Trista’s room, but there were none. Hopefully, she could manage to get some rest.
Heading down the hallway, the same snoring came to his ears, louder this time, and definitely coming from Jaime’s room at the top of the stairs. Knowing his friend’s proclivity to snore like a freight train after a night of drinking, Matt had strategically placed Jaime as far away from the master bedroom as possible.
In the kitchen, he began searching the upper cabinets for the spare bottle of aspirin he knew was tucked away somewhere. He moved down the line, checking each cabinet, determined to find the little white pills that would be his salvation. Finally, he caught sight of them in the cabinet over the stove, hidden behind boxes of sugar and flour. Why the fuck he’d put them there, he didn’t know. Reaching for the bottle, he froze.
Soft cre
aks sounded in the hallway, the kind made by someone stepping lightly, tentatively. Matt tensed, trying to decipher whether the source of the noise was friend or foe. The house alarm hadn’t gone off, but given the violent events of the past few days, he readied to lunge for one of the dozen or so brand-new chef’s knives sticking out from the butcher block inset in the kitchen island.
Trista rounded the corner. Her hair was damp, and his white T-shirt covered her from the neck down to her knees. The cotton shirt swamped her slight form, but he’d chosen it because it was well worn and would be comfortable to sleep in. But that also made the soft fabric cling lovingly to the mounds of her bare breasts. At least, he assumed they were bare, because the only clothes she had left in the world were that cotton camisole and probably panties. Although even the panties he couldn’t be sure of.
At the sight of him, she gasped, her green eyes wide. She put her hand to her throat, then her breath came out with a whoosh. “You scared the pooh out of me.”
“Pooh?” He barked out a laugh at her obvious reluctance to use the word “shit.” In a house full of seven cops and seven dogs, she’d better get used to hearing it. Often.
“Yes, pooh.” She straightened her shoulders and stuck out her chin, as if she was proud of the word.
“You don’t swear, do you?” he asked, again wanting to laugh when her pink lips twisted into an indignant pout. His question reminded him of when she’d asked whether he drank alcohol.
“Of course I do. When the situation d-demands it.” She padded hesitantly into the kitchen, her bare feet almost soundless on the tile. Her eyes dipped to his chest, down his body, all the way to his toes, and back again. Matt didn’t know if she was checking him out or eyeballing all the scrapes on his body.
And speaking of cursing, hell, her shins were dotted with cuts the same way her arms were. He’d seen them at the hospital, on her pale, soft skin, and it had made his gut clench with anger at the nameless, faceless fucker who’d torched her house.
As she came nearer, his gaze was drawn to her feet. Christ, even they were cute. Unpainted, tiny feet with tiny toes. And shit, was that a…no way. Gracing the big toe of her right foot was a silver ring studded with pink, sparkly stones. “Nice toe ring. Who knew you were such an undercover rebel. You got a tattoo somewhere?”
That elicited a tiny smile. “No. But every now and then, I like to take a walk on the w-wild side.”
He laughed, louder this time. “Honey, if you think that’s walking on the wild side, we’re gonna have to work on that.”
Her smile faltered, and he realized why. He hadn’t intended it, but his words were laced with sexual innuendo. Fuck. Why the hell had he said that? There might be something in the air between them, but he’d never be capable of giving in to it.
Clearing his throat, he turned and took two glasses from one of the cabinets. “Can I get you some water for your throat?”
“Yes, please.” She stood beside him in front of the sink, and the smell of soap and shampoo wafted to his nose. “Do you have anything stronger? I’m exhausted, but I c-can’t seem to fall asleep.”
“Just beer.” He filled both glasses from the tap, handing one of them to her. “I can pick up something for you when I go shopping.”
Nodding, she took the glass. “I’ll take that beer.”
He padded to the refrigerator and snagged a bottle of River Horse ale, popping the cap off, then holding it to her.
She accepted the beer, but her gaze was on his chest. “Did the nurse put any ointment on those?”
“Some.” He watched her eyes wander from his pecs to his abs, and his cock began to harden. Gritting his teeth, he angled his body away from her so she wouldn’t notice the ever-growing bulge beneath his tight shorts, but she’d turned and left the kitchen without a word.
He blew out a breath. “Thank God,” he muttered. Not having sex in a while would do that to a guy, and he’d noticed lately that his body was on a short leash.
Opening the refrigerator, he snooped around for something to eat. Luckily, his friends had shopped, and the shelves were jammed with everything from steak and chicken to eggs, cheese, and every vegetable in the produce section. He reached for a package of cheese when he heard the same creaking in the hallway and lifted his head. Trista re-entered the kitchen, and he glanced down to see that the cool air streaming from the fridge had brought his wayward cock to heel. When he closed the door, he noticed the tube in her hand.
“You really should put some antiseptic ointment on those cuts.” She squeezed a dab of pale-yellow cream onto her finger.
You? The ointment was on her finger.
Taking several steps closer until she was standing directly in front of him, she reached out tentatively, pausing to lock gazes with him for a heartbeat before dabbing cream onto the longest of the cuts, the one on his right pec.
Her touch was gentle, soothing as she daintily massaged the cream into the laceration with the tip of her finger. When she finished with that cut, she moved on to the one immediately below it, near his right nipple. His nipples weren’t normally an erogenous zone, but holy shit.
He willed her not to look down at the bulge growing again. Thankfully, she was concentrating on what she was doing. Her brows furrowed, and the creamy skin over her nose crinkled as she worked diligently to administer ointment to all the abrasions on his torso.
She really was a tiny thing, the top of her head barely reaching his pecs. Taking a step closer, her tantalizing scent filled his lungs, and he couldn’t stop himself from breathing deeper.
“Your nursing skills are exemplary,” he said, surprised at the husky tone of his voice.
Without looking up from her ministrations, she smiled. “It’s a hidden talent.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what other hidden talents she possessed. He didn’t, knowing it would come out screaming even more of sexual innuendo.
She’d made it to his lower abs, and when her fingers began massaging a large cluster of tiny scrapes, he flinched, but not from pain.
“Baby.” She snickered, glancing up. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes roved his face, then down his chest and back to his abs. She squeezed out another blob of cream and dabbed it onto a different spot. A lower one.
Her touch was getting waaay too close to ground zero. The skin above his waistband tingled, and he suppressed a shudder at the goose bumps parading up and down his back. Worse, his balls had grown tight, and he was hardening again like nobody’s business. It felt…good.
The thought had the same impact as dousing both heads of his body with a bucket of ice water, and he was hit with the familiar, sweeping tidal wave of guilt that drowned him whenever he began to enjoy something in his life.
It was Matt’s fault that his best friend would never know the gentle touch of a woman’s fingers on his chest, inhale her delicate scent, or experience the aching pleasure of burying himself inside a woman’s body.
So as much as he wanted to let Trista dab his entire body with ointment, he gently, but firmly, clasped her wrist and tugged it from his chest. Every bit of her warm skin he touched branded his fingers, singeing him with regret. Raising her brows, she gazed up at him in question. But he’d never tell her the answer. Ever. He was damaged goods and always would be.
“Go to bed, Trista.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, he felt like a shithead. It was as if he’d just kicked a puppy. The flicker of hurt in her eyes was unmistakable but necessary in order to give him distance and to ram home the inevitable reality he was doomed to live with for the rest of his life. Solitude.
Turning away from her, he braced his hands on the porcelain farmhouse sink and waited until he heard her receding footsteps on the kitchen tile and the stairs creak as she went up to her bedroom.
He dragged a hand down his stubbled jaw, unwillingly facing facts he’d been trying to deny. Thoughts of Jerry had been intruding more and more lately, nearly every day, in fact.
Ever since he’d
met Trista Gold.
Chapter Thirteen
Trista woke to dappled sunlight filtering in through the wooden slat blinds and stretched her arms over her head. The beautiful antique clock on the bedside table told her it was two o’clock. She’d slept a much-needed, solid eight hours and felt significantly better than she had when she’d fallen into bed.
What she’d done last night in Matt’s kitchen was so not like her. It was as if her alternate personality had been released. Rubbing ointment all over his perfectly toned, incredibly muscled body… She’d been like a woman possessed. The memory had her groaning in embarrassment.
Maybe she should chock it up to the stress of the last week and everything that had happened. Perhaps she could blame her Nurse Nancy routine on gratitude.
No. That isn’t it.
Sgt. Matt Connors was beautiful. With all that smooth, taut skin covering thick, hard muscle, she hadn’t been able to keep from touching him. His arms were long and strong, as were his legs. From his pecs to his abs, his entire torso was covered with undulating ridges of incredibly well-defined muscle. Looking at him in the kitchen, with him wearing nothing but those tight boxer shorts, her mouth had literally watered. That had never happened to her before. Then again, aside from an occasional day at the beach, she’d never been around a man so scantily clad, and it did things to her body that she’d also never experienced.
Tingles had skittered across her skin, and beneath Matt’s soft T-shirt, her nipples hardened to tight buds. Something deep inside her began craving something new. Something unfamiliar.
She’d been through hell over the past few days and hadn’t given a thought to what it would mean to stray beyond her comfort zone. She’d nearly been killed twice in the past week, and for once in her life, she wanted to do something without second-guessing herself, without preparing an analytical plan to examine every action and reaction.
If she’d learned nothing else over the past few days, it was that life could be cut short, without any warning whatsoever. So she’d done what her feminine instincts demanded. And those instincts had screamed at her to rub that goddamn antiseptic ointment on Matt’s body. So there.