by Julie Miller
“Of course I do. It’s what big brothers do.” She understood all too well. But his wry effort at humor triggered a hot sheen of tears that stung her eyes. “May I?”
She followed his gaze down to the bench where her hand rested beside his. Little more than imagination separated their fingers, but he still waited for permission to take her hand.
She didn’t give it. Instead she laced her fingers through his and squeezed his hand in a firm grip of her own. “You don’t have to announce every time you want to touch me.”
“Yeah, I do.” He angled himself toward her, hooking one leg up on the bench and switching hands before reaching out and pressing his callused fingertips against her cheek. Jessica held her breath. But the touch was so gentle, so tender, that she turned her cheek into the cup of his palm and remembered what it felt like to crave a man’s touch. “Until that ‘what if’ question disappears from the corner of your eyes and you believe I’m not going to hurt you, I’ll ask before I touch.”
It was a sad testament to her attack, and a remarkable bit of patience and understanding from a man who seemed so hard.
“I want to kiss you, too.” He slid his fingers into the hair at her temple, massaging her there, never breaking contact with her skin. “But I have a feeling that’s a little ways down the road. Especially…” He trailed the tip of his finger across her bottom lip, and Jessica felt the tug of that portentous caress all the way down to her toes. The promise of his desire warmed parts of her she hadn’t wanted to even think about for too many months. But before she admitted, even to herself, how much she wanted that kiss, too, Sam pulled away. “If possible, you’re going to trust me even less when you find out what it is I need from you.”
He stared at her so intently that she hugged her arms around herself and leaned away. His eyes must have ached with their unblinking beseechment, willing her to understand the unspoken message there. Wait a minute. An awful, sick thought soured her stomach, spoiling the illusion of intimacy they’d just shared.
“Let me guess.” Her voice sounded cold, even to her own ears. “Your sister was raped before she was killed.”
He looked and sounded like a special agent now. “I’m fairly certain the man who attacked you is a serial rapist who’s left a trail of victims in his wake. You’re the only one lucky enough to have survived.”
“Lucky?” she scoffed. Jessica withdrew, both figuratively and literally. She rose and crossed to the nearest post. Hugging it, she pressed the same cheek that had savored Sam’s touch against the rough-hewn pine. “You knew about my attack before you ever came here. And I went through that whole painful confession. You were using me.”
She heard the creak of wood taking his weight as he stood behind her. “I’m an agent conducting an investigation. You’re an eyewitness. I didn’t like lying to you. But I needed your cooperation whether you were willing to give it or not. I still do.
“Don’t tell me to go away, because I won’t,” he went on. She felt his heat as he stepped closer, moving toward her in that determined, relentless way of his. “I need facts, details, so I can track down this creep and put him away where he belongs. I may have failed to protect Kerry, but I won’t fail to bring her killer to justice. Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes.” If only it were that simple. But then another thought struck her. This whole nightmare got more complicated by the minute. She held on to the post, but angled around to face him. His expression was hidden in the shadows cast by her porch light. “The FBI wouldn’t let you investigate your own sister’s murder.”
“I said I was on leave” was his version of an explanation. “Local police departments are just now starting to connect these crimes. But they’ve reached a dead end at every turn. I won’t. He struck again this week in Las Vegas. I can’t wait for the Bureau to form a task force. This guy is too good. He’ll hurt someone else. I think—” she didn’t want to hear this, but she knew it was true “—he’s trying to hurt you. All over again.”
“I think he is, too.” She might not have time to wait for a task force, either, and the prospect terrified her. She hugged the pole tighter, feeling too confused to seek solace in Sam’s arms right now, though she suspected he’d be willing to give it. She was tired of being the victim, tired of being afraid. She’d been raised to be stronger than that. She was stronger than that. Summoning that strength, she stood up straight and looked Sam in the eye. “What do you need me to do?”
“Your report to Chicago P.D. was sketchy at best. Anything you can tell me might help. An MO. Something he said. Any kind of physical description—hair color, build, scars or other distinguishing marks. A name or nickname if you have it.”
“Is that all?” She nailed the sarcastic tone in her voice, but neither of them laughed.
“If you’re strong enough to talk about it.” Sam’s voice had gone soft. The Irish lilt that danced along her nerve endings and worked its way into her heart had returned. “I promise to keep you safe. I won’t let him hurt you, no matter what happens with my investigation. Jess?”
“So you want me to tell you all about the night I was raped.”
“I know I’m asking a lot. I know it won’t be easy.”
The black void inside her head mocked her. She wished she could turn on a light and pull out the details he wanted, the ones she needed to remember. She wished she could deal with the details and move past them and not have to carry around the constant reminder of all that had been taken away from her that night.
But she couldn’t. Forget not being easy.
“It’ll be impossible.” All she had to do was hold up one hand to silence his apologies about lying and his insistence that she was the only one who could help him. “Because I don’t remember a thing about that night.”
FROM ACROSS THE PARKING LOT, Sam watched Jess standing on the porch, waving to a retirement-age couple who was driving away with a child-size sleigh and Santa Claus doll they’d bought from her shop. She looked for all the world like the classic beauty, friendly nature girl and successful businesswoman she was.
Amnesia?
Sounded like a damn convenient excuse to avoid dealing with reality. Her gaze connected all too briefly with his before whistling for the dog and disappearing inside the cabin. She’d explained what little she did remember—up to the moment she’d left the museum fund-raiser in angry tears, and then after the moment she recalled running from an alleyway with only a ratty blanket to cover herself as she hailed a cab and went to the hospital.
Everything else in between? A blank.
Sam knew his resentment and disappointment weren’t fair. Jessica Taylor had dealt with a reality as harsh as any he’d faced. Harsher, according to the explanation her therapist had given her. Whatever she’d seen and experienced the night of her attack had been too horrible to bear for some reason, so her mind was protecting her from the pain by blocking it out.
Most of it, anyway. He’d witnessed two flashbacks himself, once with the sheriff’s first visit, and then at the auction. She might not be ready for it, but her brain was trying to force her to recall something. He intended to stick around long enough to find out what that was. He just prayed she figured it out before the bastard leaving those hideous messages robbed her of the chance.
“This is the last one, Sam.” Work and heat and tireless energy—unfortunately, not his own—brought him back to the job at hand.
Derek Phillips was a strapping eighteen year-old, well suited to the defensive tackle position he played on his high-school football team. They had a chance to win their district and play for the state title in their class for the second year in a row, Derek had told him. Several times. Sam grinned. Jess’s teenage neighbor was the kind of person who never met a stranger. The kid had worked hard all afternoon and struck up one friendly conversation after another, despite Sam’s distracted mood.
“It’s about time,” Sam answered, grabbing his end of the railroad tie Derek had pulled off the back o
f Jess’s pickup and carrying it over to the edge of the parking lot. “I never thought we’d finish this job. Looks nice, though. I appreciate the help.”
“No problem.”
Sam set his end of the railroad tie and stood up straight, stripping off his work gloves and pulling the navy bandanna from his jeans to mop the sweat from his forehead. Damn. This air was too still, too hot for September. He hadn’t seen today’s weather report, but there must be a storm brewing. A doozy of one if the dark green-gray line of clouds gathering in the west was any indication.
He smoothed the hair back from his forehead and tied the bandanna around the top. But he saw that even better relief from the heat was on its way. With the latest rush of customers gone, Jess was striding across the yard with a tray of that delicious, thirst-quenching lemonade. Hell. He couldn’t help but smile in anticipation. The whole vision was delicious. Long legs. Swaying hips. Silky chestnut hair catching in the breeze created by her graceful stride.
A fanciful thought sneaked into his imagination. Her lips would taste just like that lemonade—smooth and sweet, with just enough tart to make it interesting. They were lips that could quench a man’s thirst. And, man, he was dying of thirst.
But Jess’s startled misstep brought an abrupt end to his sentimental journey. A trio of barn cats scattered in front of her as Harry bounded over to join them, turning this break into a little party. But was it the uneven ground, the cats or Derek that had caught her off guard? The teen had removed his shirt earlier, and made no move to put it on now. Did the kid’s naked chest bother her the way his seemed to?
“Hallelujah!” Derek yelled as Jess handed him a drink. His brown eyes lit up as he looked down at her. “This is way cool. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Derek. You’ve earned it.” Apparently, nothing more than the terrain had tripped her up a moment ago. Now she was playing the perfect hostess.
Derek beamed at the power of Jess’s friendly smile. The young man seemed to stand up straighter, his chest seemed to expand to an even more impressive girth. Then he started talking football again. Something about making an all-star team and playing exhibition games around the Midwest. And winning them.
Sam thanked Jess and hid his amusement behind a long swallow of the cold, lemony, sweet drink, trying not to make the inevitable comparison to kissing her. The kid was preening for the pretty lady. Showing off. Doing his damnedest to make an impression.
Had he ever been that young and studly and full of himself? Sam mused. No doubt.
But then he found himself looking just as hard at her as the two conversed. A genuine smile from Jessica Taylor was a thing of beauty. No wonder the kid had a crush on her.
He did.
As if feeling the intense heat that suffused his body from the inside out, Jess turned to face him. There was no smile for him, only the awkward stammer of an excuse as she began her retreat. “Bring the glasses up to the house when you’re finished. I’m going to go in and start adding up receipts. When you two get cleaned up, come on in for dinner.” She turned to Derek and winked. “Unless you’ve got a hot date tonight.”
“Uh, no, ma’am.” Derek’s cheeks blushed a bright pink, and he’d worked on a farm too many years for it to be sunburn. “Just meetin’ some friends later. If you’re cookin’, though, I’d be glad to stay.”
“It’s just Reuben sandwiches.” She gave him an option out.
Derek didn’t want it. Sam supposed if the kid tried his charm act on a high-school girl, he’d have her eating out of his hand. But Jess was eleven years his senior. Couldn’t he see that her interest in him was only neighborly? Sisterly at best. “They’re my favorite. Sounds great.”
With dinner set, Jess went back to the cabin. The view from the rear was just as mesmerizing as the view from the front had been. Sam felt his jeans grow tight. This was some kind of cosmic retribution, he reasoned, downing the rest of his lemonade and starting the cleanup part of the job.
He’d been dead for months. Dead to his feelings, dead to his hormones, dead to his heart. Thoughts of vengeance had been the only thing keeping him alive. But he hadn’t really been living.
Jess Taylor was reviving him, making him care, making him want. Making him wish like hell that he was a better man and she hadn’t been hurt so badly.
Because he wanted her. He was falling for her. He hadn’t even kissed her yet, but every touch, every look, every word, awakened something in him. Something only she could satisfy.
But she’d been touched by violence, altered by it. She needed a gentle man who’d never carried a gun, who’d never wanted to kill a man. She needed—she deserved—a healing kind of love.
And unless he could find a way to heal himself first, Sam O’Rourke wasn’t that kind of man.
Six o’clock came and went with only a few more patrons stopping by. Sheriff Hancock had stopped by with his wife to pick up two tabby cats. He reported that his department had found numerous trucks matching the description Sam had given him, and his deputies were “following up.” To Sam’s way of thinking, it was a politely vague way of saying they wouldn’t have any helpful information for Jess anytime soon.
And then another of Jess’s brothers stopped by. Gideon Taylor. His four boys had shown up with a slice of birthday cake for their favorite aunt, then gone off to explore the nooks and crannies full of treasures for sale in her cabin, with the delightful mission of each choosing something for themselves.
This brother didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. There was something almost telepathic in his dark eyes as he shook Sam’s hand and introduced his wife. Sam knew he was being sized up, but couldn’t tell if he passed muster.
He’d warned Jess not to reveal his true occupation to anyone. But the Taylors weren’t fools. They must suspect that he was here for some reason beyond manual labor. But whether Gideon thought he was there to protect his sister—or if he was the danger she needed protection from—the man never let on. After the break-in, Sam wondered how many other family members would “happen by” to check on her, and her new hired hand.
Now that the shop was officially closed, and a chilly wind had picked up, Sam had hurriedly tied tarps down over the more fragile items on her porch, and locked down the barn and outbuildings. He parked her truck in the garage, removing the gun and holster from the glove compartment where he’d kept it locked up and close at hand all day long. Now that Jess knew the truth, there was no need to hide it or his ability to use it. And he wouldn’t be caught again without that sure line of defense the way he had been last night.
Derek had been fed and, at Jess’s urging, sent on home before the rain hit to get ready for his night out. Sam and Jess were alone again. Alone with the dog and the looming storm whipping in tumbleweeds and cornstalks and other debris from the west. As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, electricity crackled in the air, making the hair on his arms stand on end.
But the ten-degree drop in temperature wasn’t the only thing riding in before the storm hit.
A bright red Porsche convertible, expertly tuned and fully loaded, judging by the smooth hum of the engine, sped down the hill from the north and careened through the brick gates marking Log Cabin Acres. Spitting new gravel from beneath its low-slung frame, the car flew like a jet leaving a contrail in its wake. Sam paused on the landing. The dark-haired driver spun a ninety-degree turn and skidded the car to a halt at the center of Jess’s parking lot. He killed the engine, peeled off his mirrored sunglasses and climbed out before the wake of dust caught up and clouded around the car.
Man, what a waste of fine machinery. And what a seriously wrong picture this was. The driver, dressed in dark jeans and a polo shirt, and wearing a pair of tan leather shoes without any socks strode on up to the cabin as if he owned the place.
Was this another brother?
Sam quickly ran through his impressions of Sid, Mac and Gideon Taylor. They were forces to be reckoned with when it came to Jess’s welfare. But none of them h
ad struck him as irresponsible thrill seekers.
To hell with keeping a low profile. The back of his neck prickled with more than electricity. Obeying that warning instinct, Sam tossed his holster into his room and tucked his Sig Sauer into the back waistband of his jeans. He pulled his tattered white Fenway Park T-shirt down over the gun and vaulted down the stairs to meet this cocky son of a bitch head-on.
But Jess had heard the commotion, too. She dashed out onto the porch with Harry. The wind caught the screen door and banged it against the house. But even that racket wasn’t enough to mask her heavy sigh. She planted her hands on her hips and marched down the steps to meet their visitor.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Not the friendliest of greetings, but clearly, she knew this man.
Interesting.
Sam held back half a step, ducking behind the corner of the porch to watch this meeting play out. Jess hadn’t sicced the dog on the guy as he approached, but the ramrod-straight line of her posture didn’t exactly say she was happy to see him.
“Jessica? Honey?” He flashed straight white teeth as if his presence here was obvious. “I drove all the way to see you as soon as I heard about the break-in. My insurance man called me this morning. You should have. Are you all right?”
His insurance man called on a Sunday morning?
“You drove all the way from Chicago?” She sounded skeptical.
Chicago?
“Of course.” The man tossed aside his sunglasses in a dramatic gesture. “No matter what’s happened between us, I am always going to care about you.”
Alex Templeton. Marketing wizard. The man Jess said she’d broken up with that fateful night in Chicago. Sam made the connection to the newspaper photo an instant too late.
Alex Templeton scooped a startled Jess up into his arms and planted a solid kiss on her.