The speedometer crept up to ninety. His heartbeat calmed, a breath of satisfaction whooshed from his lungs as he finally hit a speed that concentrated his mind.
He slammed on the brakes to take the hard corner at the bottom of the stretch.
“That was some ride.” Her voice was soft as honey and caressed his ragged temper.
“Sorry.” He flashed a grin that said anything but. He liked speed. Always had. One vice he could live with.
“That’s okay, but the police like to sit just inside the town limits and catch speed-boys like you.” Her smile looked indulgent and warm, an electric jolt to his burned-out senses. “Just so you know.”
He grinned back, unable to help himself even though it fueled his frustration, made him shift uncomfortably in his seat and secretly pissed him off. “You ever done anything illegal, Sorcha?”
It was a loaded question, but you never knew. The woman must be exhausted. Maybe she’d confess and shoot a bullet through his instincts.
Sorcha snorted, sat up and straightened her hair. “No way.”
And the cocaine on the Isle of May was a figment of his imagination? “Come on?” He pushed. “Not even a speeding ticket or graffiti on a park bench?”
“You must be joking.”
Oh sure, he was a laugh a minute. Just ask his dead partner.
She adjusted her seat upright, stretched her legs as much as she could in the confines of the compact car. “I was the town freak when I went to live with my mother, or haven’t you worked that out yet?”
He’d figured it out all right, although it didn’t sit well. Had it twisted her mind? Taught her to hate? Made her crave power and revenge?
“When I went to Cornwall to live with Mom I was so desperate to fit in, I was the model child. I ate everything put on my plate, including tomatoes, which I hate, and I got good grades. I kept my room immaculate and by the time I was eleven I even did laundry.”
His fingers tightened around the gear shift. He knew all about trying to fit in, conforming until there was nothing left of you but lies.
Jesus, he’d tried so hard as a child to make up for whatever was wrong with him. When he’d been growing up, his grandfather had been so emotionally distant he’d rarely even looked at him, let alone spoke. So as a teenager Ben had set fire to the garage just to get the old bastard’s attention. He’d got it all right. If the cop next door hadn’t broken in, Ben was pretty sure he’d have been beaten to death with his own aluminum baseball bat.
Conversely that night had saved him. He could have followed the other neighborhood dirtbags into the drug trade, made enough fast cash to rub his puritanical grandfather’s nose in expensive cars and designer threads. Instead he’d joined the fight against crime, kept his honor, and watched his partner bleed out on the floor.
And ended up sitting right here next to Sorcha Logan.
Streetlights made it easier to see her expression. She picked up her bag from the foot well and pulled out a tube of lip balm, smoothed it over her lips. It took real effort to drag his gaze back to the road.
“My mother wasn’t exactly Martha Stewart,” she told him. “She abandoned me and my dad and didn’t really want me back. I behaved myself or else I’d have ended up in foster care.”
The mother sounded like a piece of work. “Where is she now?” He knew. Another test.
“She died of cancer a couple of years ago.” Sorcha pressed her lips together.
Ben loved his mother, but she hadn’t backed him up when he’d needed her, hadn’t protected him from the old man’s brutality. He knew better than anyone how to rely only on himself. The way Sorcha seemed to rely on herself. “That sucks. Sorry.”
Her soft sigh added a sharp twist of guilt to his conscience.
“It’s okay.” Her voice got quieter, barely audible above the blast of the heater. “The strange thing is when she got ill she actually started to need me.”
He heard her swallow though he kept his eyes fixed on the road.
“Before she died we became close. I finally got to know the woman, rather than this resentful being who couldn’t fit herself into the mold of a mother.”
He forced the image of a lonely child out of his consciousness. The insights into her childhood evoked the sort of sympathy that hit too close to home.
“What kind of books do you write?” she asked suddenly.
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second—he’d already forgotten how to lie. “True Crime.” It was as close to reality as he could manage.
She huffed out a quiet laugh. “That explains it then—”
“Explains what?”
“The way you always seem gravitate toward trouble.”
“Me?” He curled his lip in a mock sneer. “I’m not the one who went chasing intruders in the dark.”
She grimaced.
He pulled up into his parking spot, a rare patch of concrete wedged between two cottages. Pervasive shadows filled the empty spaces. If the attack on Carolyn had been a case of mistaken identity, Sorcha would be alone in her cottage and possibly in danger.
“Pack a bag,” he ordered. “You’re staying with me till you get your security ramped up.” Damn. This was a mistake but what else could he do?
She slumped in her seat. “He won’t come back.”
“What if he does, Sorcha?” It was 3:30 a.m. and he didn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly. There was no finesse left in him anymore.
“I don’t know.” Sorcha looked at her front door and bit her lip.
“Come on. I’ll check out the place while you grab your gear.” He put his hand on her knee and a charge crackled over his skin. Not just lust. Something else. Something he didn’t want to examine.
What the hell he was doing?
***
Internal pressure pounded her skull, threatening to split it wide open. The voices struggled to escape. Sorcha twisted first one way and then the other, too agitated to get back to sleep. Ghosts crowded her mind, all vying for attention. Waves throbbed against the beach in an unremitting cadence. No matter how exhausted she was, sleep was impossible.
She’d dreamt again.
Seen her father’s face a second before a ferocious wave ripped him from the lifeboat. Uncle Angus’s tears soaking her hair when he’d held her tight and told her it wasn’t her fault, and her mother laughing as orange flames engulfed her. And the dream that woke her every single night—of flames and tight bonds, naked flesh and searing heat. People screaming as their bodies blackened and charred.
Sorcha jerked upright, frightened, unsettled. Her eyes darted to the closed curtains, unable to shake the sensation of unseen eyes. She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders before going to the window. Holding her breath, she whipped the drapes apart. But there was no one out on the street. It was still dark. Feeling ridiculous, she turned away.
Cautiously she crept into the lounge, glanced at the telephone, but it was too early to phone the hospital to check on Carolyn.
Soft amber lamplight lit the room. The chair by the window was empty and she tried to make herself feel glad rather than lonely. Walking toward the telescope, she jolted as her pale reflection hit the glass, her heart banging violently.
She kept expecting to see her father’s ghost.
Despite the blanket, she shivered because sometimes the chill went deeper than skin and bone.
The first time he’d appeared had been in Australia, not long after her granny died, when she was finishing her Master’s thesis. Late one night she was heading home through the elegant columns of the Great Hall and he’d been walking across the grass away from her, wearing his Arran sweater in the subtropical heat.
It might have been years since she saw him, but she’d recognized his bandy-legged walk, the short hair on the back of his head. Frantic, she’d chased him, thinking his death had been some terrible misunderstanding. But no matter how fast she sprinted, she couldn’t catch up and he’d left her lying there st
retched out in the dirt, sobbing in the dark.
Not long after that she’d started hearing voices, as though she was eavesdropping on private conversations—only the people weren’t there. And her father had begun turning up all over the place, his silent misery as loud as a foghorn across the firth.
She’d spent her spare weekends volunteering as a Surf Life Saver on the Gold Coast. Didn’t take a genius to work out why she’d taken up that sport. One day Iain Logan had begun showing up there too. Standing in the Coral Sea, waves up to his waist, the heavy jumper he’d died in, dragging him beneath the surf.
She’d nearly drowned trying to save him, and after the second or third time, people had started to whisper and point. So she’d confided in Bruce.
She closed her eyes. God, she’d been so dumb. Put all her trust and love into a man with the backbone of microwaved squid.
She banged into the telescope and cringed as it thudded off the glass. Damn. She darted a glance at Ben’s bedroom, heard nothing from inside. He’d looked knackered when he’d gone to bed.
Her head hurt and she needed to take more painkillers, but a boat’s running lights glowed offshore and captured her attention. Indistinguishable figures hauled a couple of streaming lobster creels over the side. She pointed the scope toward it, looked through the lens and smiled as she made out the distinctive image of a horse painted next to the nameplate.
The Kilmore had been her daddy’s fishing trawler, named after a famous Grand National winner. Her yacht was called Red Rum after another legendary racehorse. According to Uncle Davy, Iain Logan bet one hundred pounds on the British Grand National every year and faithfully recorded the outcome in his diary.
An image flashed in her head and her heart fluttered beneath her breastbone.
Where were his diaries?
Chewing her lip, she frowned. She’d forgotten about them. Maybe they were in the cottage somewhere? Would Uncle Angus know? Or maybe his wife had put them up and never told her. Sorcha would have to go and ask her, though even the thought of visiting Aunty Eileen made her shoulders slump as she blew out a dejected sigh.
Another memory tumbled out of the ether. Crabbit. Her dad had always said that Aunty Eileen was fair crabbit.
She smiled at the memory and hope flourished inside, lifting the tension across her chest so her breath flowed more easily. Maybe if she found the journals, she’d solve the mystery and her father would leave her in peace. The notion she might not want to know the answers tickled the back of her brain, but she stubbornly pushed it away. Ignorance had gained her nothing but suspicion and uncertainty her whole life. Knowledge was power.
She found the medication the hospital had given her and swallowed two tablets. As she did so she noticed a bruise on the back of her hand and rubbed the tender spot. She recalled the strength of the attacker, the roiling hate that even now made her heart contract extra hard for a couple of beats.
Unnerved, she headed to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, then with her steaming mug walked back to the chair and sat, careful not to spill the scorching liquid in her lap.
The boat bobbed on the gentle swell, just beyond the rocks that skirted the shoreline. Tea warmed her belly, and a yawn crept up and stretched her mouth wide. The voices were quiet now. Her eyelids drifted closed.
A finger stroked her cheek and she jerked into the air, spilling tea all over her lap.
“Jesus.” Sorcha thrust her cup onto the windowsill and stepped out of her pajama pants, wiping her hands and legs with the material. A palm-sized patch of skin was red and stinging, though she didn’t think it would blister.
God. She was such a klutz.
Silence loomed, deafening in its intensity. She looked up to find Ben staring at her with a stunned expression on his face. It took another second to realize she was half-naked except for her pink socks and oversized T-shirt, and it somehow felt different this time.
“You should have been a stripper.” His tone was amused.
She hugged her arms to her chest, hunched her shoulders protectively around her body. Between him, the chair and the window, she was trapped. Her bottom pressed up tight to the chilly windowsill. She’d never been self-conscious about her body before, was blessed with a tall frame, a fast metabolism and an innate love of sport. Certainly she’d never felt this wretchedly awkward or gangly before. Never felt every inch of bare flesh quiver as a man’s gaze brushed her body.
He stood too close, wearing boxers and a navy T. Smelled like a hot sleepy male. She held her breath, hyper-aware of every cotton-covered muscle.
However, the expression in his bloodshot eyes was not one of seduction. He looked absolutely knackered. “What are you doing up?” He glanced at his watch, then tugged on his ear.
Upside-down she saw it was 5:30 a.m. He’d had two hours sleep.
“I had trouble sleeping.” She gnawed the edge of her index finger. Wanted to bite her nails in a habit she thought she’d outgrown years ago.
“Go back to bed.” He ran a hand through his hair as if praying for patience.
Her eyes shot to the spare room. “I had a nightmare,” she admitted. “And I know it sounds stupid but I’m too scared to go back to sleep.”
Ben had been more than kind to her. Not only had he driven her to the hospital, he’d lent her his strength and given her a safe place to sleep. Now she was repaying him by disturbing his slumber.
“I’ll go.” Tears welled as the voices started to jabber. She tried to sidestep him, but they both moved at the same time and bumped into one another.
He steadied her by gripping her arms. “It isn’t safe.” His hands were warm on her flesh, and a sliver of something hot unfurled low in her tummy.
His expression softened when he noticed her tears and he gave her a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened—seeing one woman hurt was bad enough.” He let her go and reached for the mug she’d placed on the windowsill. He finished the tea in one gulp. She tried not to notice the ripple of his Adam’s apple in that lean throat. He slumped into the chair beside the telescope and covered his face with his hands.
She studied him while his guard was down. He seemed more relaxed in the pre-dawn shadows. More approachable. Less…dangerous. Short dark hairs covered strong tanned legs. She tried not to imagine the rest of him but her eyes kept drifting to where his T-shirt hugged his broad chest, and her mind insisted on filling in the details.
She looked away, held her pajama pants in a crumpled ball while trying not to sway from exhaustion.
“Tell me about the nightmare.”
She jerked to meet his gaze. She’d never told anyone about her dreams. They were too real, too vivid. “It sounds stupid.”
“I’m pretty sure I just dreamed a gorilla in a pink tutu chased me up a chimney so don’t let that stop you.”
Something about this more lighthearted version of Ben made her want to confide. Maybe because he was only here temporarily? Sometimes it was easier to connect with people who were just passing through.
“I’m being dragged through the streets by a mob.”
He raised a brow.
“I’m naked—” his slow smile shot a bolt of unexpected desire through her blood, “—and they tie me a post in a town square, which is right on the seafront, and start piling rushes and bales of straw around me.” She wasn’t the only one tied to that stake, but she didn’t tell him that.
“Everyone is screaming and shouting and then they light the fire and stand back to watch me burn.”
He recoiled, dark eyes flashing. “It’s not the first time you’ve had that dream, is it?”
She shook her head.
“You think you’re projecting what happened to you as a kid?”
She tried to smooth the gooseflesh from her arms. “Probably. Maybe. I don’t know. But it feels real.” Right up to the point where the flames started to licked her skin and the pain woke her up.
“No wonder you can’t fucking sleep.”
A giant yawn stretched his mouth wide. “Shit, I’m tired.”
“I’ll go home.” She aimed for a smile.
“No.” He seemed to reach some sort of decision and held out his hand.
It froze her to the spot. Part of her wanted to run, because the kind of attraction that sparked between them had once broken her heart. Another part of her, the stronger part, was overwhelmed by the need to connect with something real. Something flesh and blood.
She took his hand and he pulled her toward his bedroom.
Dragging her feet, she balked, held back, not sure she wanted to take that next step. She wasn’t ready. Bruce had seen to that.
Impatient, he tugged harder. Then stopped. He turned and looked at her with exasperation.
“Sorcha, I can’t sleep with you prowling around and you’re too scared to sleep alone.” He scrubbed a hand over bleary eyes. “I’m not gonna jump you. I’m too fried to think about anything except sleep.”
The thought of a decent night’s rest sounded heavenly, but she’d learned the hard way not to trust. “That’s what a guy says before he jumps your bones.”
“Yeah. Believe me, that’s not gonna happen.” His eyes were unreadable, but his laugh convinced her.
For some unfathomable reason she trusted him. And one thing she knew for certain was she didn’t want to be alone. And if it went further than that? Her toes curled in her socks. If it went further than that, she’d lay to rest another ghost, only this one was a good-looking blond surfer-boy.
Maybe it was time to take the risk.
She let Ben pull her into his bedroom, let him settle her on one side of the bed before he got in the other. He didn’t touch her, never crossed the midline threshold of the bed, but his being there soothed her. Even though she was conscious of every sound he made and absorbed every particle of heat he radiated.
She was weary of being haunted. Ghosts and nightmares wouldn’t bother her when she was here.
“Go to sleep.” From the sound of his voice he was halfway there already.
Smiling, she turned away from him, glad of his solid presence beside her in the big bed, so tired her eyes were already closing.
Storm Warning Page 12