SOMEBODY'S HERO

by Marilyn Pappano

  She opened to him, and he stabbed his tongue inside her mouth, stroking, thrusting. Her hips were hot against his and her breasts were nestled tight. She clung to him with both hands, urging, tormenting, pleasure and pain. Her fingers slid beneath his untucked shirt, cool against his feverish skin, and her nails scraped delicately over his nipple, making him shudder, her mouth swallowing his gasp.

  Muscles taut, he pulled her hands down, settling them around his waist, but she wasn't content to leave them there. Before he could do more than release her wrists, than stroke his tongue across the silky, coarse, smooth textures of her mouth, she moved them again, this time gliding downward over his waistband, across his fly, curling around his erection in a warm, gentle, unbearable grip.

  He jerked his mouth free, jerked her hands back and put her away from him. "Oh, God, don't do that. It's been so damn long…" One more touch, and he was liable to embarrass himself with his lack of control.

  She didn't argue, didn't struggle against him, but smiled a lazy, womanly smile. "So, do you want to have dinner with me, Tyler? I've got the food and I'd be happy to provide the dessert."

  He shouldn't. He knew damn well what dessert was likely to be. But he shouldn't have kissed her either. Shouldn't have spent the past four evenings with her. Shouldn't have ever spoken to her beyond a distant hello. He shouldn't have done a damn thing, and the day would come when he would regret every minute of the time he'd spent with her.

  But not as much as he would regret it if he didn't.

  "I'll help you carry everything over."

  * * *

  As Tyler unlocked his door, Jayne grimaced. "I forgot my cell phone."

  "If Lucy needs to call and you're not home, Sarah will give her my number."

  "Oh. Okay." She liked the idea that his boss's wife thought them enough of a couple that his house would be the second place she'd look for Jayne.

  She'd liked that kiss, too. If he hadn't stopped it when he did, they would still be naked when Lucy came home—on the porch, on the sofa, in bed. She wouldn't have been particular about where.

  And they were going to wind up there anyway. That fact made her stomach fluttery. She hadn't wanted sex so much in longer than she could recall. Hadn't thought that a kiss might make her combust. Hadn't felt so weak and powerful and bold and trembling and needy. Hadn't felt such promise. In a few hours…

  She forced herself to take a calming breath as she followed Tyler into the kitchen. He set the bag of food down, then went out back to light the grill while she unpacked the groceries. The steaks were marinating in a sealed plastic bag. She'd already scrubbed and pierced the potatoes for a few minutes in the microwave, then a finish in the oven. The salad merely needed to be emptied into a bowl; she'd brought a cucumber and a tomato to add to it.

  And as for dessert… She glanced down at herself. She wasn't arrogant enough to think that she could entice every man. Her breasts were on the average side, her waist could stand to be whittled an inch or two, and her hips… Jones women tended to be a tad too curvy there. But she had good legs and one distinct advantage: Tyler wanted her.

  How cool was that?

  He came back inside, the dogs on his heels, washed up and peeled the cucumber while she chopped the tomato. "Where can I find a bowl for the salad?" she asked, then followed his gesture to the cabinet to the left of the sink. She opened both doors and her brows arched toward her hairline. The bowls were nested according to size, type and color—clear glass on the left of the bottom shelf, yellow pottery in the middle, speckled blue ceramic on the right. Plastic storage bowls—also stacked by size and type—and their lids took up the second shelf. "You are seriously organized," she said, not sure whether she was impressed or intimidated.

  He turned to look, and a faint sadness darkened his eyes. "My father used to beat the hell out of my mother whenever he found anything out of place. She's not orderly by nature, so I learned to help her out."

  "I'm not very orderly either," she said apologetically.

  "That's okay. I'm neat enough for both of us."

  When he turned back to the sink and the cucumber, a small smile curved her lips. Both of us. She liked the sound of that.

  She emptied half the salad mix into the bowl, then added the tomato before leaning against the island near him. "Did he beat you and the other kids, too?"

  For a time it seemed the cucumber required all his attention. Then he shrugged. "Our mother was his favorite target. He never laid a hand on Rebecca or the boys. I would have killed him if he had." He gave her a sidelong look. "That was my bedtime prayer, my every wish—for him to die. And finally he did."

  Did you ever wish on stars when you were little, Lucy had asked him, and did they ever come true? Yeah, he'd replied. But not the way I expected.

  "What happened?" she asked softly.

  He offered her the cucumber, ran the peelings through the garbage disposal, then faced her. His expression was stark, intense, his eyes haunted, and tension radiated through him. One hand rested on his hip, knotted into a fist. The other pressed against the countertop so hard that his fingertips were shades of red and white. "He was stabbed in the chest. By my mother."

  Jayne couldn't stop the gasp as she stared at him. "Oh, my God…" Sweet, quiet, little Carrie? She was so timid, so gentle. What kind of hell had her husband put her through to drive her to such drastic action? "Tyler…"

  He drew a breath so heavy that it made his broad shoulders shudder. "He had beaten her practically to death earlier that evening, and when I tried to stop him, he started on me. She just couldn't take it anymore. She told me to put the kids to bed and she waited until he passed out and she … killed him. She woke me up and told me what she'd done, and I called the police. They took the kids off to social services and they took her and me to the hospital and then they took her to jail."

  "They charged her?"

  He nodded, the look in his eyes fourteen years distant. "She was convicted of manslaughter and went to prison for eleven months. The kids and I came here to live with our grandparents, and when she got out, she came here, too." Abruptly he met her gaze. "Alex was born in prison."

  "Oh, my God." She wanted to wrap her arms around him, to hold him tightly and never let go, but he looked so stiff. He wasn't in the habit of confiding in anyone, and she suspected her reaction could either encourage him to do so again or discourage him. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "He deserved a more painful death."

  For a moment he stared at her, and she feared she'd made the wrong choice. But after a time, some of the strain eased from his features and one corner of his mouth quirked. "Yeah," he agreed. "If anyone deserved to suffer, it was Del." He took another deep breath—no shudders this time—then glanced outside. "Ready for the steaks to go on the grill?"

  She nodded.

  "How do you like yours?"

  "Medium-well, please."

  This time the nod was his as he picked up the steaks, a plate and tongs, then started away. She watched until the door closed behind him, then turned her back to the windows and pressed one hand to her stomach.

  Dear God, his mother had killed his father! She had loved him, lived with him, borne him four children and carried the fifth—and she'd plunged a knife into his chest. The enormity of it overwhelmed Jayne.

  You had a tough childhood, didn't you? she'd asked Tyler, and he'd simply shrugged. Even tonight, when she'd asked if his father had beaten him and the other kids, he hadn't exactly answered. He never laid a hand on Rebecca and the boys.

  Which was as clear as any other answer he might have given.

  A tough childhood. She hadn't guessed the half of it.

  The sound of the door opening alerted her to his return. Abruptly she picked up the knife and began slicing the cucumber. Hoping her expression held some semblance of normalcy, she glanced over her shoulder as he came inside. "I didn't ask—do you like cucumbers?"

  "Yeah."

  "I love them, but Lucy won't touch them. When I
made the mistake of telling her that's where pickles come from, she wouldn't eat pickles for months."

  He came to stand at the end of the island, resting his hands on either side of the salad bowl. He looked calmer, more in control, than when he'd gone outside. "It's okay. You can be shocked. People always are."

  She scraped the slices into the bowl, then laid the knife aside. "It's a terrible thing. It hurts my heart to think of you living through that. And your mother…"

  "Don't you want to ask why? Why didn't she leave him? Why didn't she call the police? Why didn't she get help?"

  "Serving spoon?" When he pointed to a nearby drawer, she found a spoon, then stirred the salad. "They say an abusive man is most dangerous when his victim tries to leave. As far as calling the police, who's going to protect you when they're gone? Because they do have to leave at some point, and he is going to come back. Where do you go with four children, another on the way and no job skills? What do you do when the one person who's supposed to love you best tells you you're worthless and stupid, that no one else would want you, that you're lucky to have him, that it's all your fault? When he escalates gradually from a shove to a slap to a punch and he's always got a reason to blame you that you can't entirely deny?" She drew an unsteady breath. "You can't have physical abuse without emotional abuse, and the emotional can be so much more devastating. When you destroy a person's self-esteem, her confidence, her hope, you can't be surprised when she finds a drastic solution to the problem."

  "More research?" he asked quietly.

  She shook her head. "I watch television. I read a lot."

  "You would never stay in a relationship like that."

  "No. The first time a man raised his hand to me, I'd be out the door. But I'd bet I'm a stronger person than your mother was when she met your father. Abusive men don't choose strong women. We're not malleable enough, vulnerable enough, fragile enough." She paused. "I don't mean to insult your mother."

  He shook his head dismissively. "No, you're right. She was all that and more. Do you know she never stopped loving him? She never gave up believing that it was her fault, that if she could just be better, it would all stop and we would all live happily ever after. Not until he was dead."

  "I don't understand that," she admitted. "But sometimes the way we feel is the way we feel, and logic and sense have nothing to do with it." Like Tyler not always believing that he was a good man when everyone around him knew he was. He had a reason for thinking that way, and whether it was logical to others was inconsequential. It made sense to him.

  Feeling a tremendous urge to lighten the mood, she picked up the salad bowl and two bottles of dressing. "Our steaks aren't burning out there, are they?"

  "Mine hasn't gone on yet. Yours should be done in a minute." He waited until she came even with him to move, but it wasn't toward the door. Lifting his hand, he brushed his fingers along her jaw, so gently she hardly felt it. Then he walked away.

  * * *

  Dinner was easy. They sat across from each other and talked about nothing important—the weather, the best time for planting flowers, the work they planned to do in Jayne's kitchen. Normal, everyday conversation that made Tyler feel like a normal, everyday person. How long had he waited to feel that way again? And how long would it last?

  Until he told her everything about Angela.

  Grimly he pushed the thought out of his mind. It would come out eventually, but damned if he was going to let it ruin the night. He needed this—needed Jayne—too much. Maybe later he would be strong enough, but not tonight.

  He'd just risen to clear the dishes when the phone rang.

  Setting his plate down again, he crossed to answer, then watched as Jayne took over the task. "Hello," he said absently.

  "Hey, Tyler, guess who this is."

  "Oh, gee, let me think … it wouldn't be Lucky, would it?"

  She giggled. "Yep. Is my mom there? 'Cause I called our house and she wasn't there, and Miss Sarah said maybe she's at your house."

  "Yes, she is."

  "Tell her I'm gonna spend the night here, okay? And tell her we're gonna sleep in the tree house just to make her freak. Okay? So I won't be home until sometime tomorrow—"

  "Whoa, Lucky. You need to talk to your mom."

  "Aw, but, Tyler—"

  "Hold on." He took the phone to Jayne in the kitchen, then removed everything else from the table. Bracing the receiver between her ear and shoulder, she started rinsing dishes while talking. "I don't know, babe… Of course I trust Sarah… But you haven't spent the night with anyone but Grandma and Grandpa in a long time… We-e-ell … okay."

  Even from a distance Tyler heard the squeals of delight that made Jayne wince.

  "I love you, sweetie. Have fun."

  Since her hands were wet, Tyler removed the phone, then shut it off. "She'll be all right."

  "Oh, I know." She smiled ruefully as she began loading the dishwasher. "Truth is, I'm thinking about myself. I haven't spent the night alone in, like, five years."

  "You want me to send Diaz and Cameron home with you? They'll share your bed, but I'll warn you—they're both cowards. If someone tries to break in, they'll be under the bed whimpering."

  "That's okay. I'll be under there with them." She closed the dishwasher door, then faced him. "I'd rather share my bed with you."

  His throat went dry and his internal thermostat shot up somewhere past the red zone. She'd said the words so casually, but there was nothing casual about the fast, hot lust coursing through him.

  Or the hesitant look in her brown eyes. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, then shifted awkwardly. "Sorry. I, uh, don't do bold very well."

  "I don't know. You got me hard with seven words."

  Her gaze dropped to his groin. He half expected her to blush, but instead she responded with a sweet, sexy smile. "So you're interested."

  "It's a little hard to hide."

  "Well…" She glanced around, then laced her fingers together. "I guess we could, uh … maybe we should…"

  "We don't have to jump into bed right this second." Not that he would mind. "Wait here a minute."

  He cut through the living room, then down the hall to his bedroom and into the bath. A few years ago, when the loneliness had become too much, he'd bought a box of condoms, keeping them in his night stand drawer, intending to use at least a few. He hadn't, though, and they'd wound up nothing more than a reminder of what was missing from his life. He rifled through the bathroom drawers until he'd found them, stuffed a couple in his pocket, then returned to the kitchen. On the way past the woodstove, he picked up a block of waxy firestarter and a box of matches.

  Circling the island, he caught Jayne's hand and pulled her through the French door to the deck. The grill was still warm when they passed it, but its heat didn't extend more than a few feet. At the center of the deck, he released her and knelt in front of the freestanding fire pit that had been Rebecca's house-warming gift. He rarely used it unless she came for dinner, but tonight seemed a very good time.

  The wood stacked nearby was old and dry. It took only a minute to get a fire blazing. While Jayne warmed herself in front of it, he pulled a double-wide chaise closer, laid the back flat, then drew her down onto it with him.

  She settled on the thick cushion, lying on her back, watching as he stretched out beside her. "Did you make this?"

  "Yeah." It had been meant as a gift and had sat there on the deck for months. When he'd never decided who to give it to, he'd had the cushion made and kept it.

  "It's nice."

  "More stable than a hammock." The warmth from the fire drifted around them, the smell sweet and smoky, nearly overpowering Jayne's own scents. "Tell me something for real. How many times have you gotten out of a hammock without help?"

  She smiled smugly. "Hundreds. My dad's had one in the backyard for as long as I can remember. He read me stories there, we took naps and he taught me everything I needed to know about living. It was our special place
."

  He nuzzled her hair from her ear and brushed his mouth across it, making her shiver. "Feel free to need help whenever I'm around."

  "Like I said, it worked out well."

  He nuzzled her ear again, and her fingers curled tightly around a handful of his shirtfront. Everything in him wanted him to hurry—to go straight for her mouth, her clothes, her body—but his control was rigid. He'd waited a long time for this, and for all he knew, this could be his only chance. He could let the truth spill about Angela, or Rebecca could decide to tell her tomorrow, or she could decide he wasn't worth the effort. He might not measure up to Greg, might not satisfy her, might not—

  She caught a handful of his hair and tugged his mouth to hers, gliding her tongue inside. Her fingers were gentle and strong and touched him in just the right way to make him burn. His blood was hot, searing his skin, heating his breath. He wanted to shuck his clothes and hers and see just how much hotter he could get and survive.

  His shirt slid from his shoulders, down his arms, the night air a cool shock against his back, and her hands were touching him, moving restlessly across his stomach, his chest, his throat, his jaw. Bracing himself on one arm, he blindly reached for her hand but got distracted by her skin, soft, silken, feverish. Ending the kiss, he gazed down at her and stroked her from cheek to jaw, from throat to the swell of her breasts, from shoulder to fingertips, making her lashes flutter, her breath catch. She grasped his fingers with hers and slid them back up, molding his hand to her breast, gasping, whispering his name.

  It was the most erotic thing he'd ever heard.

  Her dress buttoned down the front, and each button opened easily, revealing her pale lacy bra, gold-tinged skin stretching across her rib cage, the delicate dip of her navel, lacy barely-there panties. Muscles clenched, hand trembling, he stroked her. Her breathing hitched, her flesh quivered, and she made the softest, hottest little sounds deep in her throat.

  He couldn't fill his lungs. Couldn't think clearly for the haze clouding his brain. Couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stand too much more. But through sheer will, he forced himself to do all those things. To take his time, to press his lips to all that smooth golden skin, to tease and arouse her, to mouth her nipple through the delicate lace, to unfasten the small hook and uncover her breasts, to ignore the throbbing and the hunger and the desperate need and the incredible ache.