by Beth Andrews
“Time to go, York,” Layne called. “Unless you’d rather spend the rest of your night here?”
He crossed to her. “What?” he growled when she kept shooting him glances.
“Just wondering what that was all about back there.”
“Father/son chat.”
“Uh-huh.” At the locked metal door she stopped. “Am I going to have to rethink my opinion of you?”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said sincerely.
“Be that as it may,” she said, unlocking the door and holding it open for him, “I’m starting to wonder if maybe you’re not quite the asshole I always thought you were.”
“Give it a few minutes.” He brushed past her into the brightly lit hallway leading to the interior of the police station—and his freedom. “I’m sure your opinion of me will go back to normal.”
* * *
SITTING IN HER car in the dark, Nora shivered. She turned up the heat, held her hands in front of the warm air blasting from the vents. She was cold. Damp. Tired.
And seriously pissed off at Griffin. More than that, worse than that, she was hurt.
God, how pathetic was that to admit? But there it was. She’d gone out on a limb for him, had argued with her sister over him and he’d pushed her away. Not that it had stopped her from representing him at his arraignment, but he hadn’t looked at her the whole time, hadn’t spoken to her. Hadn’t thanked her.
Her fingers curled into her palms as she spotted him coming out of the local magistrate’s office, his shoulders hunched against the rain, his head down. He looked like a loner. Solitary. A man with no one to count on, no one to turn to.
I don’t want you here.
She straightened and flipped on her headlights, causing him to lift his head. She shifted the car into Drive. He may not want her help but he did need her. Whether he knew it or not.
Pulling to a stop beside him, she unlocked the door and rolled down the passenger side window. “Get in.”
He hesitated, the action so slight, she might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching carefully, then he stepped forward. “You don’t give up easily, do you?” he asked, ducking his head to see inside the car.
“It’s one of my more endearing traits.” He opened his mouth and she held up a hand. “Why don’t we just save the whole argument portion of this conversation? Either I give you a ride or you walk. In the rain.”
She thought he’d refuse. Figured he’d let that damn stubborn streak of his push him into telling her he’d rather walk, five miles in the rain, instead of accepting help from her.
“When you put it like that,” he said, opening the door, “how can I refuse?”
He must be in worse shape than she’d thought. Or he’d realized it was futile to argue with her. What she wouldn’t give for her sisters to learn that lesson.
“Rockland Avenue, right?” she asked as he reclined the seat.
“My bike’s at the bar.”
“You’re in no shape to drive a motorcycle. I’m taking you home.”
Leaning his head back he shrugged and shut his eyes making it more than clear he didn’t want to have any sort of conversation.
She pressed her lips together until they turned numb. Rude, ungrateful man.
She pulled out of the parking lot. Kept her gaze straight ahead. The windshield wipers swished softly, the rain pattered against the car. Underneath those sounds she heard the gentle exhalation of his breathing. After a mile, that breathing turned even, deepened, and she couldn’t fight the urge to glance at him.
All she could make out was his silhouette, the strong line of his jaw, the outline of his broad shoulders and that dense, tousled hair. With every inhalation she breathed in his scent, all musky and pure male. Elemental. Enticing.
She slowed and crawled along Rockland Avenue, squinting at the dark houses until she finally spotted the one she was looking for. She pulled into the driveway and turned off the car.
Griffin stirred and sat up. “How’d you know which house was mine?” he asked, his voice gruff and suspicious.
She unbuckled and took her keys out. “I’ve taken up stalking you. Didn’t you get that decapitated bunny I left on your front porch last night?” When he just stared at her she rolled her eyes. “I saw the tow truck,” she said, nodding toward the truck parked in front of a two-stall garage, “and figured it out. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
“The only thing more amazing than your skills of observation is your sense of humility.”
“It has nothing to do with being humble,” she said briskly despite her face warming. “It’s honest. I’m smart. I’m pretty. I also can’t hold a note, have no sense of rhythm and have very little aptitude for mechanical things. I can barely run my microwave without an idiot’s guide. It all balances out in the end.”
While he seemed stunned silent by that bit of logic, she got out of the car and hurried around to his side. She opened the door and offered him her hand. He frowned at it then, holding his right side, his other hand gripping the door for support, stood. His mouth thinned, his face went white.
She stepped forward.
“I’ve got it,” he growled.
Had she mentioned how stubborn he was?
She slammed the door shut, followed him up the short walk. His steps were measured, careful, as if it hurt to move. His house was dark, the shades drawn. Other than the truck and the fact that he’d left a pair of work boots next to the steps leading to a side door, there were few signs anyone even lived here. No sort of welcome anywhere. He may as well have put a big sign that read Keep Out! Visitors WILL Be Shot on the front lawn.
He slowly climbed the three steps, swaying when he reached the top. She reached out to steady him but he leaned forward, his shoulder hitting the wooden door with a solid thump. Resting the back of his head against the side of his house, he dug a key out of his front pocket then, without lifting his head, turned toward the door.
She stood on her toes and peered over his shoulder but couldn’t see why it took him so long to open the door. “I hope you have a first aid kit,” she said, frowning. “Maybe we should have picked one up at the convenience store.”
“I have what I need,” he said over the soft click of the lock turning. He opened the door and glanced at her. “And you’re not coming in.”
“Sure I am.” To make it easier on both of them, she slipped past him to the center of the small kitchen, stopping by a round table. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up and into your jammies.”
He looked at her, then behind him, then at her again. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”
“I have two older sisters. It was practically my nickname growing up.” The room was too dark for her to get more than a vague impression of counters and appliances, the digital clock of his microwave glowing. She glanced behind her, saw a hallway.
Hoping her vision would soon become accustomed to the darkness, she felt her way out of the kitchen, heard him heave a sigh of frustration—or maybe resignation—behind her.
She came to what she assumed was the living room—at least she thought that huge lump was a sofa. Backtracking down the hall, she trailed her hands along the wall as she went. She opened a door on the right only to discover a coat closet. The next door was open. Stepping inside, she felt around until she found the light switch. Flipped it on to find a workout room, complete with free weights, a bench, treadmill and large, flat-screen TV hanging against the far wall.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She jumped and spun around with a squeak. She’d been so immersed in her search she hadn’t realized he was right behind her. “Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she said, covering her racing heart with her hand.
“Sneak up on you? Lady, you’re snooping around my house.”
“I’m not snooping,” she said, sounding prim and dismissive but really, he didn’t have to make it seem as if she’d been rifling through his underwear drawer. “I’m looking for the bathroom.”
She marched across the hall and flipped on the light in another room. Finally.
“Well?” she asked, sticking her head back into the hallway when he just stood there. He slouched against the wall all sexy and disheveled and brooding and dangerous. Good Lord, even with the cut lip and the black eye he was massively, potently sexy.
She set her hand on her cocked hip. “You want to get rid of me? Let me help you then I’ll go on my merry way.”
“How ’bout we skip the first part and get right to the second?”
“I can’t just leave you here in the shape you’re in. That’d be like…like…abandoning an injured puppy by the side of the road.”
“A puppy?” he muttered, hanging his head. “Jesus.”
“Would you please just come in here and let me help you?” she asked, searching his medicine cabinet.
He straightened and walked toward her, his gaze hooded, the uninjured side of his mouth curled up. “You going to tuck me into bed when you’re through?” he asked, his voice husky and inviting as he drew close, so close she could see the pain lingering in his eyes, see how his mouth tightened with it.
Even when he was hurting, he kept it hidden. Maybe especially when he was hurting.
“Yes,” she said dryly. “I find bloodied, bruised men irresistible. Take me, Viking God.”
“Viking God?”
“Just a little fantasy I have going with the actor who played Thor.” She set a bottle of pain reliever on the vanity next to the sink, considered the hydrogen peroxide but then dismissed it before pulling out a box of bandages. “Washcloths and clean towels?”
He came into the room far enough to open the door below the sink. She crouched, surprised to find folded piles of washcloths, hand towels and bath towels all lined up neat rows. Grabbing what she needed, she straightened, shut the medicine cabinet and caught sight of her reflection in the oval mirror.
And wished she hadn’t.
Okay, so she’d looked better, she thought, fighting the urge to try to smooth her frizzy hair. A lot better. Using the heel of her hand, she rubbed at the streak of mascara running from the corner of her eye to her temple and deliberately turned from the scary image.
She opened the bottle of pain relievers and shook two out into her hand before holding them out to him. “Here.”
He eyed the pills, took the bottle from the sink and shook a third into her palm before picking them up, his fingertips trailing across her skin. She rubbed her tingling hand against the front of her jeans as he bent, washed the medicine down with water from the tap.
When he straightened he seemed to have edged closer to her. A drop of water clung to his swollen lower lip and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
The bathroom was small with the toilet between the sink and a bathtub that ran the entire length of the back wall. It was cramped and sparse and masculine with its brown walls and dark woodwork.
And way too intimate with him standing so close, his razor on the sink, his toothbrush in a glass holder, the scent of his aftershave lingering.
She wet the cloth with warm water then faced him, her heels and his position—half-sitting against the edge of the counter—making them the same height. Biting her lip, she gently pressed the washcloth against the cut below his eye. In the harsh overhead light of the bathroom, he looked even worse than before. But he didn’t flinch while she cleaned the cut and then gently wiped dried blood from his swollen lip.
He didn’t move at all, just stared at the wall, his breathing steady and even.
How many times had he been hurt by his father before he’d learned not to make a sound, not to show anyone that he was in pain?
She rinsed the cloth, wrung out the excess water. “I know you’re upset about what happened—”
“It was a fight. I’ve been in plenty of them.”
“That wasn’t just a fight and we both know it.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Don’t go there.”
“I’m just saying if you want someone to talk—”
“I don’t.”
Her movements jerky, she reached up, brushed the hair on his forehead back so she could press the cloth against the cut there. She’d meant to keep her touch cool. Impersonal. But the strands were thick and soft and she combed her fingers through them once, twice, as she cleaned the blood from his skin. Held his hair back while she applied antiseptic ointment.
He didn’t want her comfort, her sympathy. All she could do was clean his wounds. She couldn’t heal his pain, couldn’t change his past or the circumstances that had brought them here. Couldn’t take away his anger, the bitterness he wore like a shield.
She couldn’t fix him.
* * *
SHE WAS TRYING to kill him.
Griffin’s fingers ached from gripping the edge of the counter so tightly, his breath burned in his lungs. She was pressed against him, her breasts brushing his chest, her thigh rubbing his with every move she made. She was all lush curves and sweet smelling skin and soft hands.
Her fingers, combing through his hair, trembled. Lust settled low in his stomach, tightened his groin. She lowered her gaze to his, her eyes dark, her mouth no longer that glossy red, but bare. And damn her for it being even more tempting.
Her hands slid away from his hair, his face, to trail lightly across his shoulders, down his arms. She encircled his right wrist and tugged, holding the back of his hand up to study. His knuckles were scraped raw and swollen. Bruises were already forming around the base of his fingers.
And they hurt like hell.
Nora squeezed antibiotic ointment onto her finger then dabbed it on the cuts and scrapes, her touch gentle, her head bent over her work. “For someone who makes his living with his hands, I would think you’d be more careful not to injure them.”
“Life’s full of dangers,” he said, his breath ruffling the top of her hair. “It’s a risk just getting out of bed each day.”
She lifted his other hand, repeated the process of tending to him. “Yes, what rotten luck that Dale’s face just happened to get in the way of your fists.”
When she finished and finally let go of him to put the cap back onto the ointment, he straightened, hissing in a breath when a sharp pain shot through his side.
She frowned. “Here,” she said, reaching for the bottom of his shirt, “let me see…”
He crossed his arms, pressed his lips together against the pain. “You’re taking this playing doctor thing pretty seriously.”
“I’ve always believed if you’re going to do something, you should do it all the way.” When she tugged on his hem, he held firm. She blinked innocently at him, her eyes lit with humor. “It’ll be okay,” she said so solemnly he didn’t doubt she was messing with him. “I promise to be gentle.”
He slowly lowered his arms, held his breath as she lifted his shirt and slid the material up past his rib cage. Her brow furrowed, she bent her head and studied his side, trailed her fingertips lightly over the ridges of his ribs. The muscles in his stomach contracted, sweat beaded along his hairline. Each touch was torture. And salvation.
“What’s the diagnosis, Dr. Feelgood?” he asked, unable to hide the gruffness of his tone, the unsteadiness of his breathing.
“I have no idea.” But she continued touching him, those featherlight touches that were driving him insane; her warm breath washing over his skin. “You’ve got a nasty bruise but I’m not sure if any ribs are cracked or broken.”
“They’re not.”
“How do you know?” she asked, her voice strained. Wobbly.
He narrowed h
is good eye. What was going on with her? “I’ve had cracked ribs. Broken ribs. Twice. I know what it feels like.” And while his side hurt, it wasn’t near the pain that came with a more serious injury.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her fingers splayed against his side, her thumb pressing against his hip point.
He wanted to grab her arms, shove her away from him. Was afraid if he did, he’d yank her close instead, beg her to touch him all over. “You’re sorry? What the hell for?”
“He hurt you,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry he hurt you.”
Griffin’s blood went cold. Because he knew she wasn’t talking about the fight with Dale—or at least, not tonight’s fight. She was talking about all the other times his father had hit him. Worse, she sniffed and looked up at him, her hair a tangled, golden mass around her face, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears.
No. Make that hell, no.
He inhaled sharply, ignored the pain in his side and swallowed back the bitterness rising in his throat.
She blinked and tears spilled over.
“Those for me?” he asked softly, edging closer, his knee bumping her inner thigh. He traced the billowy sleeve of her shirt. “What else are you offering?”
She rubbed away the moisture on her face. “What do you mean?”
He stepped closer, closer still, forcing her to back up, not stopping until she bumped into the wall. But she didn’t seem frightened, more…curious. “I mean you’re here to take care of me, right?” Laying the flat of his hand against the wall by her head, he leaned down, grinned as much as his split lip would allow. “I know exactly what would make me feel better.”
CHAPTER TEN
“REALLY?” she asked, as if he’d just said he was thinking about repainting the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed he hadn’t gotten a rise out of her—or disappointed she hadn’t taken his bait. “And what would that be? A pity screw?”
“Aw, angel, I don’t pity you.”
“I was talking about things from my perspective.”