by Beth Andrews
Prayers had never done him much good. He’d stick with things he could control.
“Honey?” Roger called. “You ready?”
“Yes.” Roger waved and headed out to the truck while Carol stepped forward as if to hug Griffin. He stiffened and she eased back but he didn’t miss the hurt in her eyes. “Do you have everything you need for…?” She gestured to his face. “I could stop by your house, bring some antibiotic cream or—”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
She cleared her throat and glanced at Roger who waited patiently. “Well…goodbye.”
He nodded. Made it two steps before her voice stopped him.
“You could come over for dinner tonight,” she said in a rush. “Roger’s making his bacon cheeseburgers on the grill.”
Every week his mother invited him to Sunday dinner and most weeks he found an excuse not to go. But today she seemed so fragile, so beaten down—not physically like she’d been by Dale—but emotionally. And Griffin was partly to blame.
“You making potato salad, too?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said as if that was a given, which, he supposed it was. Any time they’d had burgers when he was growing up, she’d made potato salad. “And chocolate chip cookies for dessert.”
Her voice didn’t change but her expression was so hopeful, her eyes wary as if she was just waiting for him to say no. Her expectations, her hopes weighed down on him. Bound him, trapped him in the past and the present and the future she so desperately wanted.
She loved him. But she wanted more from him than he could give. His time and attention.
His forgiveness.
He couldn’t just say no, not when looking at her made him feel like he’d been kicked in the throat. Not when he’d hurt her, deliberately and cruelly.
He couldn’t give her what she really wanted, but he could give her this.
“Well, then,” he said, “how can I resist? I’ll be there at five.”
* * *
WEDNESDAY MORNING, A sharp knock at her open office door had Nora raising her head from a particularly boring brief she was working on. Her eyebrows slowly crept up.
“Well, this is quite a surprise,” she said. Griffin slouched in her doorway in his usual uniform of jeans and T-shirt. Today’s shirt was white. She tipped her head to the side. “You know if you slicked your hair back and kept a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your sleeve, you could pass for Danny Zuko in Grease. John Travolta version.”
Although not even John could pull off the smoldering, brooding look Griffin wore so well. Her heart sighed. The man was sexy even with those fading bruises coloring his face. Nothing she could do about that. It was his attitude that needed work. A lot of it.
“You need to bone up on your insults, angel,” he said walking into her office. The sight of bad boy Griffin York sauntering in to see her was going to float the boats of the office gossips for at least the rest of the week. “I’ve found put-downs work best when the other person actually knows what you’re talking about.”
“If you don’t know what I’m talking about,” she said sweetly, “how do you know I was insulting you?”
That seemed to stump him but he just shrugged. “You have a minute?”
Did she have a minute after he was such an ass to her? After she’d kissed him—one hell of a kiss, too—and then spent over three days checking her phone for his call. One that never came.
“No.” To prove how busy she was, she pulled the Lang folder in front of her, opened it and started reading.
He sat down in the one of the leather chairs in front of her desk. Drummed his fingers against the arm.
After five solid minutes of it, the damn tapping about did her in. Sighing, she closed the folder, linked her hands and set them on her desk. “What can I do for you?” she asked, making sure her voice was super pleasant, that her smile was all sunshine and happy times.
It was either that or hit him over the head with her nameplate.
“Glad you found a few minutes to give me,” he said, shifting forward. “I—”
Someone rapped on her door frame.
“Do you—” Russell Wixsom broke off when he saw Griffin. Flinched—probably at Griffin’s bruises. They did sort of look painful. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Nora assured him, ready to introduce the two men, but one glance at Griffin’s glower changed her mind. “What’s up?” she asked Russ.
He stepped into the room, smiled at her. “Just wondering if you have the Pecora file.”
“I do…” She flipped through the files on her desk. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking it from her. He started to walk out, turned at the door. “Hey, a couple of us are going out for drinks after work. You interested?”
“Sure.”
His grin widened. A fellow associate attorney, Russ was tall, blond and athletic. He was also smart and charming and he looked damn good in that expensive charcoal suit.
She wanted him to hurry up and leave so she could get back to looking at Griffin.
“I’ll swing by around five-thirty,” Russ said, “and we’ll head out together.”
He sent Griffin one more curious look, started to shut the door but then seemed to change his mind and left it open.
“He’s your type,” Griffin said.
“Excuse me?”
“That guy. He fits in with the whole lawyerly thing you’ve got going on,” he said, gesturing to her hair—pulled back in a neat bun—and her simple white button-down shirt.
“First of all, this lawyerly thing happens to be my job. Secondly, I don’t have a type. But I’ll take it as a compliment that you think a successful, handsome man would be a good match for me. Although I’m sure he only asked me to join them as a professional courtesy.”
Griffin snorted, slid down in his seat, his legs straight, his shoulders hunched. “Don’t let the polished veneer fool you. Under that suit is a man.”
She blinked. Then laughed. “Thank you for that anatomy lesson. Please tell me that next you’re going to draw me a diagram.”
His expression darkened. “You with him?”
“Why, Griffin, are you asking if Russ and I are sleeping together?”
He straightened. Looked ready to chew up the leather chair and spit it out. “Never mind.”
“Because I have to say, your interest in my sex life is very sudden. But before your head explodes, let me just say that I’m not sleeping with, dating, or even interested in Russ on a personal level.” Well aware the door was still open she lowered her voice. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I was involved with another man.” She leaned back. “Does that clear things up for you?”
“None of my business,” he said, lifting a shoulder and looking as if he didn’t care one way or the other.
But he did. Or he wouldn’t have asked.
If that gave her a sense of pure female satisfaction, no one had to know but her.
“You’re right,” she said, proud her tone was so even, as if she hadn’t spent way too much time the past few days remembering their kiss. Wondering why she couldn’t stop thinking about someone so emotionally closed off. “It’s not. Now, was there something specific you wanted from me? Or did you just stop by to share your wise and witty comments on my dating life?”
His mouth flattened. “Just wanted to see if we were square.”
Pressing her fingertips against her temples she slowly shook her head. The man was giving her a headache. Thank God she was sitting behind her desk in her small, tidy office. It put her in the position of power. Of control.
Even if that power and control were all in her head.
“It must be the lack of caffeine so far today,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’m no
t following you.”
He shifted—in agitation? Frustration? Who knew? “You helped me out Saturday. At the police station and with the judge,” he added, pulling something out of his back pocket, “and I wanted to take care of any business between us.”
It was then she realized he’d pulled out a checkbook. She sat up straighter. Sounds from the outer offices filtered through the buzzing in her head, voices, the low clacking of fingers on keyboards, the occasional phone ringing.
She kept her smile firmly in place. “You came here to write me a check?”
“You acted as my lawyer,” he pointed out, grabbing a pen from the wooden pencil holder Brandon had made her for her graduation from law school. Griffin started making out the check. “Despite the fact that I asked you not to, you still did.”
“And now you want to pay me,” she said, making sure it was clear in her mind.
He glanced up at her. “You’re catching on.”
Oh, she sure was. She stood and walked over and shut the door, leaned against it, crossing her arms so she didn’t give in to the urge to wrap her hands around his stubborn neck and squeeze. “I may be catching on, but I’d like to make sure. You didn’t come here to thank me for helping you out the other night. And you aren’t here to apologize for being such a jerk at your house, nor did you come to see me because you felt something when we kissed.”
His shoulders stiffened. “I’m here to pay you for the work you did for me.”
She pushed away from the door. “Work you’ve made clear you didn’t ask me to do,” she said, wondering why it hurt so much that he thought so little of her. It shouldn’t matter. He wasn’t a friend, wasn’t someone she ever had to see again. Best to move on and learn from her mistakes. And her first mistake was in thinking there was something more to Griffin than his hard exterior and snide attitude.
Lesson learned.
“Who should I make this out to?” he asked, as clueless as someone with a functioning brain could get.
And to think, she’d spent the past three days jumping every time her phone rang, stupidly hoping it was him. Maybe he wasn’t the only idiot in the room.
“I don’t care who you make it out to,” she said, going behind her desk once again. She looked down her nose at him and smiled thinly. “But I’m sure you can guess where I want you to put it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRIFFIN NARROWED HIS eyes. He didn’t know what had set her off but he wasn’t in the mood to play around.
Not after witnessing that slicked-up suit flirt with her. Couldn’t she see that asshole wanted more than to have her join him and a few coworkers for a drink or two? How could she be so naive? So blind?
How could she even think about accepting some other guy’s invitation after kissing him the way she had the other night?
Jealousy gnawed at his gut. Turned his vision a distinct shade of green.
“You did a job for me,” he said gruffly, hoping if he ignored the unfamiliar emotions roiling through him, they’d eventually go away. “You should be paid.”
“I did you a favor,” she amended, looking all prim and proper behind her desk, not a hair out of place, her shirt demure with its tiny buttons and a ruffle at the collar. He wanted to muss her up, slide those buttons free and feel the softness of her skin. “Just like you did me a favor that night. As far as I can tell, we’re even and I’d like to just forget the whole thing ever happened.”
She was using her lawyerly voice, all reasonable and logical. It pissed him off.
He moved to the edge of the chair, his muscles tense. “Easy for you to say. I’m reminded every time I catch sight of my reflection. Every time I move too quickly.”
Every night when he shut his eyes he relived the fight, the conversation with his father at the police station. Eventually exhaustion would overtake him. And that’s when the real torture would begin.
She invaded his dreams. Night after night she came to him in his sleep. Touched him. Kissed him. Took him into her body, rose above him, her hips moving, her breasts swaying. Then she’d shake that glorious cloud of hair back and smile at him.
And he’d wake up gasping, his body hard and aching, his hands reaching for her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Maybe I should do something to help…ease…your pain and suffering.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Really, it’s the least I can do.” She hauled her purse onto the desk and pulled out her wallet. “Is cash okay? I don’t have my checkbook with me.”
What the hell…? “What are you talking about?”
She widened her eyes. “You got hurt because of me. I should reimburse you.”
He shoved to his feet, regretted it when his side pinched. “I don’t want your goddamn money.”
“No?”
“No,” he ground out.
“But you acted as my bodyguard,” she said, throwing his words back at him—which was a low thing to do. “I feel a certain amount of compensation is required.” She held out three twenties. “Is this enough? I’m not sure what the going hourly rate is for bodyguards-slash-hired-fists these days.”
He laid his hands on her desk, leaned forward. “Don’t push me, angel.”
“I’m terrified,” she drawled, mirroring his stance. “What’s the problem? You wanted to pay me for something I did, why can’t I pay you?”
“Because, damn it, I wasn’t working. I was protecting you.”
The words exploded out of him, hung in the air like fireworks, lit up for her inspection.
He exhaled through his teeth. Forced himself to straighten slowly and crossed his arms. He’d walked right into that. Followed her down the path without even considering where he’d end up.
Her expression turned smug. He shouldn’t find it so sexy. “I knew you liked me.”
Then she smiled at him. One of her real smiles, filled with warmth and humor that made him feel all heroic and right instead of how he usually felt. Angry. Toxic.
“Don’t be letting that ego of yours grow,” he warned but his voice wasn’t as harsh as it could’ve been, “or there won’t be any room left in here for us. I just didn’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Thank you. Now don’t ruin this tender moment by offering to pay me again. If you wanted to see me or talk to me, you could’ve just called. I’d hoped you would.”
Her sincerity knocked him on his ass. She shouldn’t be so trusting. So honest. Didn’t she know he could use those against her? She needed to learn how to guard her heart, her thoughts and feelings before she got hurt.
But he had wanted to check on her. For days he’d fought it, told himself that she didn’t need his protection. She had her family, her sister the cop to make sure Dale didn’t get to her, didn’t hurt her. He’d even considered that Dale’s interest in her could be based on something he’d seen in Griffin’s eyes that night, something that had telegraphed his attraction for her to his father.
But in the end, he couldn’t stay away. Not another day.
“Have you seen my old man since Saturday?” he asked.
“No,” she said, frowning. “But Layne said Ross spoke with him again yesterday and he agreed to take a polygraph test. Which is surprising considering he’s still making noises about filing a formal complaint against the MPPD for use of excessive force.”
He would. “A polygraph’s a waste of time.”
“I agree. They’re not reliable and aren’t admissible in court, but I think Ross is using it more as an interrogation tool and not—”
“It doesn’t matter. Because he’ll pass it.”
She stilled. “You think he’s innocent?”
“I don’t doubt he’s capable of murder.” It ate at Griffin, that he’d come from someone who was. He picked up her nameplat
e, turned it in his hand. “But guilty or not, he’ll pass the test because he’s a con man. A liar. He’s good at it. He’s even better at doing whatever he has to to get what he wants. And I think he wants you.”
Her face went white. “What?”
“He sought you out. Found you when he arrived in town before he even went to the police station, and then at the bar he focused on you more than Tori.” Griffin set the nameplate down with a thud remembering how Dale had zeroed in on Nora. How…self-satisfied he’d been when she’d confronted him. As if he couldn’t have planned it better.
“I think he’s trying to hurt my family through me.” She raised her chin, a princess warrior. But her voice trembled. “I mean, what other reason could there be?”
“I don’t know.” He wished he did. “Just…be on your toes,” he said, choosing his words carefully, because he couldn’t be like her. Couldn’t blurt out what he was thinking and let people see inside his head. Inside his heart. “My old man’s sneaky.”
He expected one of her wiseass comebacks, instead she slowly skirted the desk and closed the distance between them, her gaze intense. Searching. Compassionate.
“This is hard on you. Having your father back in Mystic Point. I knew it would be,” she continued when he opened his mouth, “I mean, rationally I understood that, of course it would be…unpleasant…for you and your mother, but all I could think about, all I cared about was bringing him back here so we could get to the truth about what happened to my mother. I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I didn’t consider what this must be like for you.”
She was close. But not close enough. He shifted, trapping her between her desk and his body. “I don’t want your apology,” he said gruffly. “I don’t need your pity.”
“No?” she asked, her warm, coffee-scented breath floating across his chin, a challenge in the soft purr of her voice. “What do you want?”
He wanted her hands on him, pressing lightly against his chest like she had the other night. He wanted her mouth on his, warm and seeking. And she knew it. He could see the awareness in her eyes, just as he saw that she wouldn’t be the one to make the first move. Not this time.