by Eve Gaddy
Realizing lying in bed was useless, Casey got up and went back to the greenhouse, hoping boring paperwork would send her to sleep when nothing else had.
As she approached the office, she heard a thud inside. Pausing with her hand on the door knob, she heard it again. She opened the door, stopping dead on the threshold. Casey didn’t know who was more surprised, she or the big, beefy man who stood over the CPU unit with a crowbar.
Harold Broderick?
Broderick glanced up at her, then brought the iron bar crashing down on the unit.
“Stop!” Casey shouted, springing forward. “The police are on their way!” A lie, but he didn’t have to know that. “Stop it, right now!”
He paid no attention to her, but gave the poor, battered unit a couple more hefty strokes. He turned to the monitor just before she reached him. The glass screen exploded, but luckily for Casey, Broderick took the brunt of the flying shards. She grabbed his arm as he swung it back.
He snarled and backhanded her, then continued to beat on the machine. Casey reeled away, dazed by the blow. Shaking her head to clear it, Casey grabbed him again, this time managing to bang his arm down on the corner of the desk. He cursed and the bar fell clattering to the floor.
Deprived of his tool, he grabbed her around the throat before she could move away. “Bitch,” he growled as he squeezed. “Think you can get rid of me? I’ll show you.”
The sickly smell of whiskey washed over her, triggering a memory she’d pushed out of her mind. Memories of the day she’d fired Broderick and he’d towered over her, screaming incoherent threats. She’d been uneasy then, but not afraid, knowing Len was close by if she needed him. Tonight, she was on her own.
Casey clawed at Broderick’s hands, then, realizing that was futile, she tried to jab his eyes with her thumbs. He gave an enraged roar and choked her harder. She’d thought him malicious, though essentially harmless, all bluster and vague threats that he’d had no intention of carrying out. But the hands tightening around her neck felt anything but harmless.
She was an idiot. She should have run for help when she’d first seen him, but she’d acted on instinct, instead. Casey didn’t back down from a fight, she confronted it. In this case, stupidly. Maybe even fatally.
Her vision grayed. Above the blood pounding in her ears she heard a shout. For an instant, Broderick’s hands loosened and she jerked back enough to bring her knee straight up into his groin. He howled in pain, but didn’t let go. She raised her knee again, but missed him. Then, suddenly, she was free.
Clutching at her throat, she gasped for air. Two men struggled, crashing to the floor seconds later. Nick, she thought, barely recognizing him for the fury of his expression. He and Broderick rolled over and over, oblivious to the glass on the floor, crashing into the desk, the computer unit, the chair, the wall. In the confined space between her desk and the back wall, the men didn’t have much room to maneuver, and the sounds they made—flesh striking flesh, curses and grunts—echoed in the silence.
Her breath returned, but when she attempted to speak, to shout, her voice emerged in a croak. Undecided, she tried to think of what she could do to help. She thought about the phone, but the two men were between her and the desk. Her gaze lit on the crowbar and she took a couple of hasty steps toward it.
The men were also between her and the weapon, with Nick on top. He pulled back his arm, ready to land a blow on the other man’s face, when Broderick grabbed the crowbar, raised it and slammed it down across Nick’s shoulder.
Casey heard it, a sickening thunk of metal striking flesh and then a shout of pain. She gave an outraged cry and sprang toward them, but they crashed into her and she fell, going down in a tangle of men, sweat and blood. They moved away from her, but she saw Broderick lift the crowbar again and hit Nick with it, this time across the ribs. By the time she scrambled to her knees, Broderick had thrown Nick aside and run out the door.
“Son of a bitch!” Nick said, and got up, clutching his side and grimacing, obviously in pain. He took a few steps toward the door, then stopped and looked back at Casey. “Are you all right?”
Still unable to speak, she nodded. He headed outside, but came back moments later. Casey was still standing behind the desk, staring at the wreck the man had made of her office and computer.
“He’s disappeared into the fields. There’s no way I can find him in this darkness. Goddamn it, if I could have gotten my hands on him again, I’d have—” He broke off when Casey ran to him, and he gathered her in his arms.
“I know who he is,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder and hoarse still.
“I recognized him, too. It was Broderick, wasn’t it?” She started to speak, but he hushed her. “Don’t try to talk. I’m calling 9-1-1.” His arms tightened, and she could hardly breathe, but he felt so strong, so comforting, she didn’t care. She clung to him as if he were a life raft in a raging sea.
Finally he pulled back to look at her. “Are you really all right? Just nod.”
Casey nodded, feeling tears spring to her eyes. “What about you?” she managed to say. “He hurt you.” She touched his side where Broderick had hit him with the crowbar.
Nick sucked in a breath, then gently removed her hand. “Nothing but bruises.”
“And these,” she said, running a hand along his arm. The skin was abraded with glass shards. Not life-threatening, but surely painful.
“No big deal. Not like this.” His fingers touched her throat, so gently she might have imagined it. “Damn Broderick,” he murmured. “He’d better pray the police get to him before I do.”
Their eyes met, and Casey sucked in a breath. She’d never seen that particular look in Nick’s eyes. Never really imagined she would. But it was there, as clear and shiny and true as anything she’d ever seen. He loved her. Even if he hadn’t said it, Casey was never more sure of anything in her life. Nick loved her.
“COME ON, chère,” Remy Boucherand said a short while later, “you have to go to the hospital. As soon as you give your statement. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t insist on it.” He looked at Nick. “You talk to her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
They had moved into the greenhouse itself, where there were benches to sit on while they gave the detective their statements. Nick’s shoulder and ribs hurt like hell, but worse was the fear that lingered after seeing that bastard with his hands around Casey’s throat.
“He’s right,” Nick said. “You have to let the doctor check you out. Quit being stubborn about it.”
She turned to him. “I’ll go if you will.”
Nick started to protest, but Casey ignored him, telling Remy, “He was hit with a crowbar. Twice. At least. Tell him he has to go, too.”
Nick gave in. If it would get Casey to go, he didn’t mind. Much. “All right. It’s a deal. So, how about we give our statements and then go to the hospital and get it over with?”
Boucherand pulled out his notebook and jotted a few notes. “Good deal. Now, Casey, you arrived first?” She nodded. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’ll give you the details, but the first thing I should tell you is that Nick and I both recognized him.”
Remy’s eyes sharpened, as did his voice. “Go on.”
“Harold Broderick. He is—was—an employee of mine. I had to fire him earlier this year. He ran some of the tractors, and we’d been thinking about letting him run the harvester when Len couldn’t, but he didn’t work out.”
“Why not?” the detective asked.
Her hands shook a little and she clasped them together. “He came to work drunk. I gave him a warning the first time and sent him home. But the second time, he was gone. I can’t afford to have men operating our machinery drunk.”
Remy nodded, taking more notes. “Did he have a problem with that?”
Casey frowned and her hand crept up to her throat. “He made a bunch of threats, but I figured it was the liquor talking. It was nothing very substantial, just ‘you’ll be sorry, bitch
’ kind of statements.” She shrugged. “I never imagined he was serious. I guess I was wrong.”
“Looks like,” Remy agreed. “Anything else? When did you fire him?”
Casey rubbed a hand over her brow. “I can’t remember exactly. I could look it up.” She stopped and shook her head. “Well, I could if I had a working computer.”
“Don’t you have backup disks?”
“Sure, of the most important stuff. I don’t know if the employee records are backed up, though. Probably not, but I can look.”
Remy nodded. “If not, I’m sure there’s another way we can find out. Was this recent, though?” He looked at her searchingly. “Say, before the fire at Bellefontaine?”
She let out a breath as if she’d been holding it. “Oh, my God. It was about a week or two before that.”
“I think I’m beginning to see a pattern,” Remy said.
Nick had already gotten a good impression of Boucherand from meeting with him about the stolen harvester, but his opinion rose another notch. The detective appeared to be both thorough and insightful.
“Add this to it,” Nick said. “Casey and I saw him the day before the casino opening. We were having lunch at Brew-Bachers and he was there. I should have pounded the scum then,” he said, his mouth tightening with anger.
Casey put her hand on his thigh and patted it. “Nick didn’t like the way he acted.”
“What did he do?”
“Same thing as before. He said a lot of ugly things.” She paused. “I figured he was drunk again and blew him off.”
“And I let him go,” Nick said. “I didn’t do a damn thing to the bastard. I should have broken his face.” But Casey had asked him not to, so he’d given in to her.
“You did the right thing, Nick,” Casey said. “The man was drunk, and besides, he left the restaurant when he saw the manager coming over. There wasn’t any reason to cause a scene.”
Nick’s eyes met the detective’s. “I should have taken care of him then. Casey wouldn’t be sitting here with bruises on her throat if I had.” He clenched his fist, then loosened it. It was swollen from his earlier encounter with Broderick and hurt like hell.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Remy advised. “Doesn’t sound like anyone thought he was dangerous before this. Besides—” a grin widened his mouth “—if you’d busted his face in a public place, I’d have had to haul you in, and then Casey would be on my back.”
“It would have been worth it,” Nick said. He looked at Casey, thinking the bruises had darkened in the short period of time they’d been talking. “If it would have stopped him from putting his hands on Casey.”
He didn’t want any man’s hands on Casey. Not in anger or any other way. And he wasn’t at all sure what to do with the feelings that seeing her in danger had brought to the surface.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NICK AND CASEY didn’t get back from the hospital until very late. But Casey was wired and shaky, and she couldn’t have slept on a bet.
“Will you stay?” she asked Nick when they arrived at the cottage. On the way, they had passed the big house, dark, silent, brooding—looking like some gothic mansion in the fleeting moonlight.
Realizing her brother would hear the sirens when the police came, Casey had called and let Jackson know what had happened. He’d come to the hospital, as well, despite Casey’s insistence that she was all right. She’d finally convinced him to go home after he’d been reassured by the doctor that neither she nor Nick had suffered serious injury.
But Esme hadn’t showed up at all, which shouldn’t have bothered her, but did. She was a grown woman who certainly didn’t need her auntie taking care of her…especially not an aunt who was still furious with her.
“I should let you get some sleep,” Nick said. He wouldn’t look at her. In fact, if she’d been the paranoid type, she’d have thought he was avoiding her.
“Nick, I—” She didn’t want to seem weak and whining. But she felt vulnerable. And very, very lonely. Too lonely to let pride get in the way. “I really don’t want to be by myself right now.”
He didn’t say anything, just turned off the car and got out. He’d been remarkably quiet since that moment in her office. Had she imagined what she’d seen in his eyes? She didn’t believe so. But he sure didn’t give the impression he wanted to talk about it now.
So she wouldn’t talk. Instead, she took his hand and led him to her bedroom. Made him sit on her bed, stepped between his legs and started to unbutton his shirt. He still said nothing, just watched her with wary eyes. She kissed him and had the satisfaction of seeing the wariness fade a little.
Casey pushed his shirt off his shoulders, shuddering when she saw the bruises on his ribs, and the abrasions on his face and forearms from all the glass. She traced his ribs with her fingers. “I’m sorry. I knew he hurt you. It looks so painful.” She leaned down and kissed him.
“Just bruises,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Not even a cracked rib. I’ll live.”
“I know.” She drew back and looked into his eyes. “So will I, thanks to you.”
His eyes darkened, his lips tightened. “What were you thinking, going after that guy by yourself? He’s three times your size.”
“I didn’t think. I just reacted.” She bit her lip, glanced away from him. “I know it was stupid. I realized that when he—when he nearly—” She broke off, unwilling to complete the sentence.
“Yes, it was—”
He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her head down to put his lips on her bruised throat. She felt his tongue tracing each fingerprint, salving the hurt.
“Don’t ever do that again. Don’t ever put yourself in that kind of danger.” He leaned back to look at her, his hands framing her face. “For a minute, when I walked in and saw his hands around your throat, I thought he’d killed you. Do you know how that made me feel?”
“No,” she whispered. “Tell me.”
“Scared. Bone scared.” He tugged her down on the bed beside him. “I’ve never been that scared before. Not even when I was a kid and she left me—” He halted and started again. “I’ve never worried about another person, not like that. If I hadn’t come in when I did—”
She stopped him with her fingers on his lips. “But you did. And I’m fine.”
“I know,” he murmured, and kissed her. “I know.” He held her as if he’d never let her go. He kissed her and lay down with her on the bed, his lips never leaving hers.
With frantic hands and trembling fingers, they helped each other out of their clothes, racing to feel bare skin against bare skin. She felt as if she were drowning, drowning in Nick.
She straddled him, and he put his hands on her hips to steady her. Then he tugged her head down to kiss her mouth. His tongue made long, slow, intense thrusts, as he slid inside her with the same rhythm. His hands tightened on her hips, helping her rise and fall with each deep thrust.
The light thrown by her bedside lamp was dim, but she could see every expression on his face clearly. She thought then that she would never forget this moment, no matter what came afterward. Their eyes met. His hands came up to her breasts, and she covered them with hers. He drove into her hard, just as she climaxed. He said her name, thrust one last time and shuddered as he came.
She didn’t know how long she lay collapsed on his chest. It was a mistake, she knew that even before she said it, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Propping herself up on her forearms, she gazed down at him. He didn’t look happy. If it hadn’t sounded melodramatic, she’d have said he looked…tortured.
“Nick—”
“Casey, don’t.”
She said it anyway. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes. “Don’t say it.”
“Why?”
He rolled them over, so he was above her. “I care about you, Casey. More than I’ve ever cared about any woman. More than I knew it was possible to care for a woman.”
She stroked her fingers dow
n his cheek. He looked so sad it almost broke her heart. “Nick, are you trying to say you love me?”
He shook his head. “I’m trying my best not to say it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. And I don’t want to explain. Not now.”
“Why?” she asked again.
He put a hand on her hair, gently caressing. “Because you said you didn’t want to be alone tonight.” He bent and kissed her lips. “And neither do I.”
“And you think if we talked…” His tongue circled her nipple, then he sucked it deep into his mouth. His hand slid down between her legs, to stroke, to entice. Her back arched and she gasped, shivering at the liquid sensation that pooled between her legs. “Oh, I can’t think when you do that.”
“I know,” he murmured against her breast. “Don’t think. Just feel. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He raised his head and gazed deep into her eyes. “Give me tonight, Casey. This one night.”
It was a mistake. But she let him hold her, make love to her, and she couldn’t regret it.
NICK DIDN’T REGRET the night before. How could he, when he knew it was the last time he’d ever make love to Casey? No, he didn’t regret it, but he wished like hell the morning after hadn’t come.
Nick had never had the luxury of ignoring reality. Not even when he was an infant, he suspected. His only recollections of his parents were of screaming, and fists, and pain. And hunger. Always hunger. Maybe there had been something else, but he had blocked that from his mind as surely as he’d blocked everything else. The past was dead, thank God, and he didn’t intend to relive it.
He left Casey sleeping and went to make coffee. He didn’t look forward to the conversation they were about to have. There were things he should have told her last night. He should never have made love to her without talking to her…but he hadn’t been able to resist her. He’d come so close to losing her, in a very final way, and he’d needed to reassure himself that she was alive and well.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they did stand a chance. He could stick around and…and what? He closed his eyes and shook his head. Who was he kidding? He knew nothing about families, nothing about love. Nothing about being there for another person, day in, day out, year in, year out. It wouldn’t work—no matter how much he wished it would. And he owed it to Casey to tell her that.