by Alicia Scott
Her expression was so firm, her lips pressed together so tightly, he found his gaze lingering there. And fought the unholy urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her thoroughly. His gaze grew dark and he felt the restlessness gnaw sharply and urgently at his gut.
He had to get out of here, damn it. He had to get on his way, escaping from whatever shadowy thing was holding him captive. Another wave of darkness swept over him and he swayed slightly from the sudden exhaustion. He saw her hazel eyes soften with concern, and it was more than he could stand.
“I always checked up,” he whispered suddenly. “I always made sure you were all right.” Silly, stupid words, and he hated himself for saying them the minute they were out.
Immediately, her hazel eyes grew hard and her chin shot up. “Of course, Garret. And how kind of you. I’m sure I was doing grand when my mother died. The years of medical bankruptcy weren’t hard, either.”
He frowned, knowing that wasn’t what he’d meant and cursing himself yet again for saying anything. “But I knew there was someone here to look after you,” he added instead. It only buried him deeper.
“Drop the distant-protector act,” she told him bluntly. “I’m not Cinderella and I’m not looking for a fairy godmother. You went off to play soldier, Garret. That’s who you are, that’s who you’ve always been. Don’t try to dress it up now.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously, but just as he was going to open his mouth, another wave of weakness washed over him. He felt his knees go suddenly loose, and the next thing he knew, she was beneath his arm, guiding him toward the bed.
“Big stupid fool,” she muttered the whole way. “Big stupid fool.”
She had him back in the bed and covered up as fast as possible. She didn’t want to look at his naked legs with their mysterious scars, and she certainly didn’t want to see the rest of him. She wanted him well, and she wanted him gone.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered as if reading her thoughts. She glanced up to find his eyes staring into hers with an intensity she didn’t like.
“Cagney can bring some clothes,” she said after an uncomfortable minute. She remained standing at the bedside when she really should be moving away. Garret awake was not an easy man to handle.
He nodded, his dark eyes still not leaving her alone. Suddenly, he grinned again, this time the twisting of his lips at once bitter and mocking. “So anxious to see me go?”
“Never knew you liked to stay,” she stated right back.
His grin widened. “You always did understand me.”
For one moment, she couldn’t say anything at all while the words twisted her stomach into tight little knots of old aches and new pains. She forced herself to take a deep breath, and smooth her hands over her vintage skirt.
“Where will you go?” she asked calmly, congratulating herself on sounding so composed.
His grin, however, wavered. He turned away, and for a long moment, he closed his eyes. And though he didn’t say a word, she knew he was remembering the words he’d once spoken but now didn’t seem to want to recall. The ragged holes in his mind allowed him to know about her and the bus stop, but denied him what happened to his back.
“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” he said at last, his big body moving restlessly beneath the worn white sheets.
“It’s all right,” she found herself saying, the words creeping out on their own. Defensively, she raised her chin. “Cagney’s my best friend, Garret, and you and I, we go way back, as well. You can stay as long as you need to. Cagney thinks maybe you’re safe here. If that’s the case, you should stay. At—at least,” she faltered, “at least until you know more.”
He gave her a little smile, but it wasn’t pleasant. “You always did take care of everyone,” he said softly, his frustration directed at once at himself but making him lash out at her anyway.
Her hands stilled on her skirt, then she forced herself to shrug. “Charity is never wasted.”
“Little Suzanne, the kindergarten teacher,” he whispered, his dark eyes sweeping over her. “Always raising everyone else’s children. What will you do when they grow up, Suzanne? What will you do when this batch is gone, as well?”
For a moment, she couldn’t move, his words cutting too near all those deep fears she only acknowledged late on rare nights. She made herself continue to breathe, but even then, her voice trembled when she finally spoke. “I remember you as being many things, Garret Guiness,” she whispered at last. “But I never remembered you as being so cruel.”
She turned, her skirt swirling around her legs, and even as he reached out to her, she swept from the room. The door shut firmly behind her, and he was left only with the frustration burning his gut and the soft waft of roses in the air.
Chapter 3
Garret had healed enough to roar.
Standing in the hall outside the closed bedroom door, Suzanne could hear his raging demands interspersed with Cagney’s quiet, steely replies. Garret wanted his clothes, a car and an immediate departure. Cagney informed him his clothes were burned, the car returned, and he might as well stay put until he fully regained his memory.
In the hallway, Suzanne found herself nodding her agreement, then quickly suppressed the movement with narrowed eyes. She didn’t care what Garret did, she reminded herself sternly. Garret was Garret. His leaving was not an if, only a matter of when. To listen to his grumbling retorts to Cagney’s arguments, she’d do well to remember that.
The door opened abruptly, and she started self-consciously where she stood, trying to make it appear as if she’d just arrived there. Cagney’s gray eyes met hers with a knowing look and she flushed immediately.
“So who won?” she asked as innocently as possible.
Cagney’s jaw tightened, and she didn’t have to look down to know his fists were clenched with the tension. “He’ll stay for now. At least until he remembers what the hell he’s running from, or Mitch learns enough to fill in the blanks. You’d think we were trying to kill the man rather than save his miserable, stubborn hide.” Cagney shook his head and took a deep breath. “I’ll be back in an hour or two with some clothes. In the meantime, he’s all yours. I’d suggest that you stop feeding him. He gets much more of his strength back and we won’t even be able to tie him down.”
Suzanne’s hazel eyes opened wide as she wondered if Cagney was joking or not. By the look on his normally calm face, probably not. Then abruptly, Cagney’s gaze narrowed in on her dress.
“Today’s not Sunday,” he said suddenly.
Suzanne’s cheeks flushed a little darker, but she managed to hold her head up even as her hands fidgeted with the beautiful, tiny-flowered folds of the dress’s flowing skirt. The dress had been a Christmas present from Dotti and Henry Guiness, and was one of the few pieces of original clothing she possessed, everything else having been prudently purchased from resale shops. The flowing lines smoothed over her rounded form, while the earth tones brought a glow to her skin and warm color to her eyes. Generally, she saved the Laura Ashley dress for church.
“Everything else needs to be washed,” she said a trifle defensively, then attempted a casual shrug of her shoulders. Cagney’s gaze narrowed even more, but the moment he opened his mouth, she held up a restraining hand. “Don’t you have some errands to run?” she asked pointedly. Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears, but she refused to back down. It didn’t matter what Cagney thought. She had not put this dress on for Garret. She simply liked the way it felt, and there was nothing wrong with a woman enjoying the feel of fine fabric against her skin. Besides, at thirty-two years of age, she did not have to justify her choices to anyone.
“I give him two days,” Cagney said abruptly, his gray eyes steady on her face, “and then it won’t matter what you or I say. He’ll just leave if for no other reason than he doesn’t know how to stay.”
“Then he goes,” she said blithely, her hands crinkling the folds of her skirt while the disturbing images of Garret’s naked body flashed
through her mind. “Time to get going, Cagney. Give Marina my regards.”
Cagney continued shaking his head even as she led him to the door. She’d no sooner closed the door than she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to find Garret standing ominously in the hallway, a thin cotton sheet knotted ridiculously around his waist like a toga.
“Done talking about me yet?” he said scowling. His dark eyes raked up and down her figure, and she found herself automatically holding in her stomach. His scowl deepened. “Do you always wear dresses?”
“Of course,” she retorted dryly, attempting to scan his half-naked frame as casually as he’d done hers. “But only because I don’t look nearly as good in a sheet.”
And he did look good in the sheet, like some wild pagan with his long black hair and week’s worth of beard. The thin white cotton contrasted vividly with his darkly tanned, black-furred chest. His ribs still stood out sharply, a testimony to wherever he’d been but couldn’t remember. And on his arm she could see the burn scar, mirroring the one on his leg. She found her eyes lingering there and had difficulty swallowing. He had strong, well-muscled thighs.
She’d thought about him all last night. Lain there on her bed, the hot, humid July wrapping around her while images of his naked, muscular build branded themselves into her mind. She’d found herself wondering what it would be like to run her hands through that crisp, dark matting of hair, what it would feel like to lay her head against his solid, well-defined chest.
The restless, inexplicable ache in her stomach had been almost unbearable.
“I, I gather you’re staying a bit longer,” she stammered, leaning farther back against the door.
“A bit,” he replied darkly. His gaze wandered restlessly around the entryway, and she could see his fists clench and unclench at his side. Garret was the most physical man she’d ever known, more at home with football, track and baseball than in the tight confines of the classroom. From the bleachers, she used to watch him practice, captivated by the sheer beauty and grace of his power. Dreading returning home.
“Maybe I could show you around,” she said breathlessly, trying to think of anything to keep herself distracted. “I don’t think you were ever inside the house.”
He shook his head and abruptly his scowl faded. She knew without asking what he was thinking because she was remembering it, as well. Her mother, long hair unkempt and skin bloated from the alcohol, lolling against the sofa. From time to time, people had come over and sat on the huge, wraparound porch of the old house. But no one had ever come inside, and no one had ever asked to, either.
“How’s Rachel?” Garret asked suddenly, his eyes watchful.
Suzanne shrugged at the reference to her sister. “Married now,” she said simply. “She lives in Charlotte.”
Garret nodded. “You get to see her often?”
Suzanne paused, then shook her head. “Rachel swore never to come back,” she said squarely, her gaze momentarily resting on his face. “You ought to know something about that. But then, you at least went off to do some good instead of serving as a human punching bag for a drunken lout.”
Garret stiffened, his dark brows drawing together into a fearsome line. “Her husband beats her?”
Suzanne arched a fine brow. “It happens, you know.”
“Well, damn it, you ought to do something about it!”
“And what would that be, Garret? Kidnap her, maybe shoot him? She’s a grown woman. She makes her own choices.”
Garret glared his disapproval, but she met his dark gaze unflinchingly with her own steady eyes. She didn’t need him to lecture her about her sister. She’d spent the first twenty years of her life trying to raise Rachel, trying to protect and shelter her from the burdens of their life. She didn’t need Garret to point out her failure, and she didn’t need Garret to voice all the worries that continued to age her before her time.
“Men shouldn’t beat women,” Garret said curtly. He began prowling the small square of the entryway again, the folds of cotton swishing around his thighs as he walked.
Suzanne didn’t say anything, just watched his relentless pacing.
He whirled around abruptly, just a few feet away, and pinned her with such dark eyes she forgot to breathe.
“I can go have a talk with this guy before I leave,” he offered suddenly.
Suzanne smiled, a small, twisted smile, and shook her head. “This isn’t high school anymore, Garret. Conway isn’t Tank Nemeth. You did what you could once, and God knows I’ve tried. Maybe someday…” She shrugged. “I put aside a little money here and there. If she ever gets up the courage to leave, I’ll help her. It’s the best any of us can do.”
He nodded, but he could see the tightness around her eyes, the press of her lips. He’d upset her, and he’d always hated to see Suzanne Montgomery upset. Then she squared her shoulders in a gesture he knew too well, and he felt his muscles tighten beyond restraint. It was all he could do not to take a step forward. As she moved away from the door, he caught the scent of roses, and he had to clench his teeth not to abruptly draw her into his arms.
Damn, but he’d never understood himself around her. And damn again that he was here in this ridiculous sheet, barely able to remember his own name.
He wanted nothing better than to throw his fist through a wall, or worse, catch her in his arms and kiss her senseless. How many pins before that proper hair came cascading down? How many kisses before that tight look left her face and she melted against him, moaning his name.
He whirled around and began pacing the confines of the entryway in earnest. If he had to stay cooped up much longer, he was going to lose what was left of his mind.
“I’ll show you around,” Suzanne offered softly.
He nodded without meeting her eye, and followed her gratefully into the next room. Her hips swayed softly when she walked, the deep brown folds of the dress swishing seductively around her ankles.
His body went hard, and he decided he truly was a depraved S.O.B.
At least the living room was big. He immediately veered away from her, crossing to the wide expanse of bay windows. Through the white-rimmed panes of glass, he could see the hot July sun seeping through tall maples and deep green firs. At the edge of her lawn, golden fields swayed with the force of an invisible wind. If he stood outside now, he would smell honeysuckle and heat and freshly mowed grass. In the mornings, there would be a hint of cool pine, drawn down from the mountains, and in the evenings, the hum of the crickets’ lullaby. Hot, languorous days and soft Southern nights, meant for lounging on porches with sweating glasses of minted iced tea in hand.
It had been a long time since he’d been home.
“People come by often?” he heard himself asking curtly.
Behind him, he could feel more than see her shake her head. “The house is set back a bit, and I don’t get too many visitors.”
“Good.”
He forced himself away from the window and continued his prowl. The living room was everything he’d expected, he decided. The worn hardwood floor was well oiled and partly covered by an old gold, crimson and blue Oriental rug. Rather than a normal-size couch, she had one of those antique love seats with faded gold fabric and curved legs he didn’t trust to support a child, let alone a full-grown man like himself. Everything was old and worn, but she’d tried to dress the place up with vases of roses and brightly flowered pillows.
If you looked closely enough, though—and he always did—you could see the fraying of the fabric, the thin lines etching up through the plaster of the walls. The house was simply damn old, its contents, as well. Maybe too old for a single woman on a schoolteacher’s salary.
He filed that away in the back of his mind and wondered why, once her mother had died and her sister had moved away, she continued to stay. From the perimeter of the room, he spared her a quick glance. She stood in the center, trying to appear nonchalant, while her hands slowly crushed the hell out of her skirt. He found himself grinning.<
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Old TV, not even with a remote. But she’d come into the nineties enough to purchase a VCR, and shelved neatly beneath it was an alphabetical selection of a dozen movie titles. He scanned them quickly. An Affair to Remember, The African Queen, Casablanca, From Here to Eternity. He threw her a cocked eyebrow, and her chin came up primly.
“I like classics,” she said. He kept looking at her, and she crunched her skirt a little more. He began to feel like the big bad wolf confronting Little Red Riding Hood.
It wasn’t such a bad description.
“The dining room’s through here,” she told him, her voice light. He could still read her agitation, however, in the quick rise and fall of her chest. The pretty, tiny-flowered fabric of her dress molded her breasts nicely, highlighting the soft, feminine swell with an enticing trim of lace. She walked through an archway into another room, her skirt swirling around her, and he followed her with the hunger still burning in his gaze.
The dining room was dominated by a large oval table, and she took refuge behind it.
“It’s not much,” she said quietly. The table was old, and once it had probably been beautiful, as well. But her ancestors hadn’t been good caretakers, or perhaps back then they’d had enough money not to care. At any rate, the formerly rich cherry wood was now warped with water damage and the table was wobbly from years of neglect. Nicks and scrapes, filled in from her futile attempts at refinishing the piece, rimmed the outside edge.
It seemed to her that Garret’s sharp eyes saw every flaw, and she kept her shoulders rigidly straight. She’d fought so hard to save the house that simple possession had seemed enough. Now, for the first time, she was looking at her rooms through a stranger’s eyes and seeing all the blemishes on her prize—the old furniture she couldn’t afford to reupholster, the rug she didn’t have enough money to replace. She’d wanted to repaint the rooms last year, but the roof began leaking in the spring, taking up all her money instead.
Garret came to the marked-up buffet, and a traitorous blush crept unwanted up her cheeks. Behind the protective glass rested her one true indulgence: her dolls.