“All right,” he said, hoping he sounded aloof. “If that had no affect on you, then I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.” He stood up, needing to distance himself. To keep her from seeing the proof of his wanting her, which was plain as day in his lap. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”
As he pulled the door open to leave, he could have sworn he heard her sigh. He smiled. Since he had nothing better to do with his time, a little seduction would be fun.
~*~*~
Darkness gives way to the blinding blaze of fluorescent bulbs. Gleaming stainless steel, starched white sheets.
Woman pants, moans, strains to give birth. Blond man stands next to the bed. Soft words of encouragement.
Blond man turns. Evil grin firmly in place.
Bart!
“She gave me a baby on the first try, you worthless little bitch.”
Tears sting eyes. Stomach roils.
“One time. Just one time is all it took. And I spent three years on you.”
A sob tears through the noises of labor.
Humiliation.
Desperate need to flee. Running from the room into the hallway. Not the hallway. The kitchen of her childhood home.
Mom’s kitchen. Sunshine yellow walls, sparkling clean counters, pastel lace curtains.
Dear Mom. So sweet, so kind. Sitting at the green Formica table with young Isabella, planning her twelfth birthday party.
The picture of innocence.
Frank staggers in. The stepfather from hell. Drunk. Mean. Angry. He grabs Mom by the hair, shouting slurred words of loathing. That sinister laugh of his, the one that meant Mom was going to get it. All because his dinner is still warming in the oven and not on the table when he stumbled through the door.
Screaming profanities at Mom, Frank reaches for the only thing on Mom’s ultra-clean counter. The cherished marble rolling pin, the only thing Mom has left of Grandma. Little Isabella begs him to stop.
Frank swings the rolling pin like a hammer at Mom’s head. Young Isabella runs from the room, sobs torn from the child’s throat.
Mom’s blood.
Stomach heaves. Tears flow.
Twelve-year-old returns with the dreaded Colt .45 Frank insisted she learn to load, to shoot.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Frank’s dead.
Too late. Much too late. Mom’s blood covers the floor. Mom’s dead, too.
Pain of loss. Pain of hatred. Escape!
Running from the house, out the kitchen door into the green stench of rotting jungle.
Men in torn fatigues. Thrown into the dirty hovel. Stomach rebels. Acrid aroma of death. Decay. Vomit.
Thirsty.
Intestines twist into knot of pain.
“She needs a doctor.” Uncle Cam pleads for her.
“Uncle Cam! Shut up!”
He won’t listen. “Please help my niece. Just some clean water.”
“No! Shut up, Cam!”
Deafening crack of gunfire.
Lifeless eyes stare into the dusty gloom. Blood pouring from the hole in his forehead.
“My fault! My fault!”
Chapter Seven
The first moan of anguish woke Brandon. Lying perfectly still, he waited. He heard a soft sob. Bella was dreaming. When she screamed, he bolted up the short ladder to the loft.
She twisted in the sleeping bag, sobbing. He wrapped his arms around her, tried to soothe her. “Shh, baby, shh.”
She yelled, “My fault! My fault!” and fought his hold.
“Bella, sweetheart, wake up. It’s a nightmare. Wake up!” Holding her against his chest, he gently rubbed her back. “Bella. It’s me. Brandon,” he whispered against her ear, trying to soothe her. “Wake up, sweetheart. Please, baby. Wake up.”
Her fighting stopped. She slumped against him. Hot tears ran over his chest as she cried.
“Sweet baby, shh. It’s just a dream. You’re safe. I’m here. Everything’s fine.” He prayed she heard him. Her body trembled, racked with heaving sobs of anguish.
Dear God, what had she been through?
Brandon had experienced plenty of night terrors about things he’d seen. He knew the terror, the anguish. His sweet little angel should never have to endure such pain.
He rubbed his hands over her back and shoulders. Kissed her temple. Lightly rocked her as if she were a child. “Breathe, baby. Come on, calm down.”
It took long minutes, but her body slowly relaxed against him. Her arms crossed over her chest, pinned between them, slowly loosened their grip around herself. “That’s it, baby. You’re safe. You’re completely safe. Just us, in the middle of nowhere, warm and cozy in this little cabin. Nothing but mosquitoes to cause harm around here.”
“I...hate...mosquitoes,” she said between shuddery breaths.
“I know you do, love. But they can’t really hurt you, just annoy the crap out of you.”
“Hold me tight,” she pleaded as she fought another wave of tears.
“Shh. Right here. I’m not going anywhere.” He squeezed her a little tighter, scooting a bit closer so they touched from shoulder to toes. He pushed her hair away from her face and kissed her forehead. “You all right, sweetheart?”
With another trembling breath, she nodded. “I have to blow my nose.”
His lips against her forehead, he smiled. “Stay put. I’ll get you a napkin.”
“Thanks.”
Brandon crawled down from the loft and grabbed up the roll of paper towels from the counter. He ripped a couple off and wet them with water from the jug then took the wet ones, along with the rest of the roll back up to Bella.
Tearing one off and folding it in half, he held it to her nose. “Blow.” She reached for it, but he didn’t let go. “Blow.”
She did.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded.
Then he took the cool, damp towels and gently wiped her from the top of her forehead to the V opening of her nightshirt. She gave a long, tired sigh.
He dropped the used towels over the edge of the loft where they went splat on the floor. Stretching out next to her, he held out his arms. Without a single hesitation, she snuggled against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He pulled her tight against him and kissed the top of her head, her silky hair tickling his nose. “Want to talk?”
“No.”
His body reacted to her soft warmth and womanly scent. As inappropriate as it was, he couldn’t stop the tightening in his groin.
“Do you think you can go back to sleep?”
She nodded against his chest. Her warm nose bumped against his chin.
“Goodnight, Princess Bella.”
Her answer was a soft sigh that shot through him like an arrow piercing his heart and stealing his breath. In a moment so pure, so strong and clear, he knew this sweet woman in his arms owned his soul.
~*~*~
Brandon woke alone. That surprised him. As he’d fallen asleep with Bella nestled against him, her breath softly brushing his skin, he’d looked forward to waking with her in his arms. No such luck.
The scent of coffee permeated the air, and he smiled. She wasn’t a big coffee drinker, told him she wasn’t sure why she’d hauled the small tin all the way out here in the first place, but she made him a half pot each morning.
He climbed down from the loft and stretched. Her mattress was much more comfortable than the lumpy old couch. Too bad sleeping with her had been a fluke. She wouldn’t allow it again anytime soon. He’d like to do a lot more than just hold her while she slept.
A note, anchored down by a pink can of raspberry-scented, girly shaving gel caught his eye. Next to it sat a mint green colored disposable razor.
There’s coffee for you on the stove. I’m going hiking today. Be back before dark. I saw you scratching your face yesterday, and you’ll smell like berries for a couple hours, but the razor’s new.
Isabella.
Once again, an example of her thoughtfulness. She was something
else.
He poured himself a mug of lukewarm coffee from the percolator on the stove, sat down at the table and stared at the note. She’d called out her uncle’s name in her sleep. There had to be more than just his loss that cut her so deep she had night terrors.
Brandon had experienced both nightmares and night terrors. Nightmares were the safe kind, the ones a mind conjures up out of nowhere. Unseen monsters that don’t really exist. Then there was night terrors. The one’s he’d seen the department chaplain about. The kind that needed to be talked through. Night terrors didn’t fade from the mind in the light of day. He’d fallen asleep more nights than he could remember, praying to God to make it through the night. Praying to forget.
Brandon took a gulp of the coffee and almost choked. It was horrid, strong enough to stand a spoon in. No wonder she didn’t like coffee if it tasted like this. He grabbed a pack of oatmeal cookies off a pantry shelf. Without Bella around to make breakfast, he’d settle for what was at hand.
His gut told him no mere monster from the deep could rip through her the way it had last night. She’d been terrified. There was absolutely no other word for the way she’d reacted. One hundred percent sheer terror.
He’d experienced nights like hers most recently after the explosion at the meth lab. Hours spent reliving the mistakes made and the horrors of that night. The heat, the flames, the explosion, the bodies.
The bodies. Three men he barely knew. Agents just like him.
But he’d survived. The survivor’s guilt he’d been warned about hadn’t come until the day after he left the hospital and met with their families. He thought it was the least he could do. Hooked up to too many damn machines, too drugged, and in too much pain to attend the funerals, he hadn’t been able to express his condolences. It was part of his duty to meet with Jeff and John’s widows, Xavier’s mother.
That was when the guilt had hit hard. The women were pleasant enough, no one blamed him, but he saw the pain in their eyes. The wives who would never again be held in their husband’s arms. The mother who looked at him with tears in her eyes.
Brandon scrubbed his hand over his face as he remembered Xavier’s mother. She was the same age as his own mother. What would his mom do if she were ever awakened by that knock on her door at three in the morning? Dear God, for that matter what was she going through now? He’d been missing for days. She was probably worrying herself sick.
When he thought about the weeks upon weeks he hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone to call her, when she’d left messages for him and he’d blown off returning the calls, shame nearly drowned him. He loved his mother. How could he have ever been so selfish?
Not anymore.
He needed to get out of the agency and come home. He wasn’t sure what he’d do, but he was his mother’s only living relative, and he needed to look out for her. Be there when her furnace went out at forty below, when she got a flat tire.
His mortality was all too real now, and as he approached forty, having spent the last twenty years in law enforcement of one kind or another, he thought maybe it was time to pass the torch to the younger guys. The ones who had the guts, wanted the glory, and lacked the knowledge that life is too fleeting. He’d done his duty to his country. He wanted to live to see forty-five, sixty, eighty if he was lucky.
He’d been a proud Marine, Special Ops for the secret, elite Viper Team, a big city detective on the Seattle police force and then a Drug Enforcement agent. Enough was enough.
He reached up to his left shoulder and found the scar, the only bullet he’d ever taken. Only a deep flesh wound, nothing life threatening. How he’d matured since then. When it had happened only a few years earlier, he’d felt like Superman. Indestructible. Even a bullet couldn’t stop him.
But an exploding building sure had. And if he’d been standing two feet to his left, he’d be just like Jeff, Xavier, and John. In a box, six feet under.
Shaking his head, he finished off his coffee and put another cookie in his mouth to dispel the bitter aftertaste. He was home now. Even when he was going down in that plane, he never felt totally out of control. An emergency water landing was so much easier than staring down a drug dealer with an automatic weapon pointed in your face.
This was right where he belonged. In Alaska.
In Alaska with a totally infuriating, absolutely captivating woman who’d saved his life. He wanted to know her secrets. All of them. And then he wanted to know the rest of her. Her body. Her love. And he didn’t give a good god damn how long it took. He wanted forever. With her.
And that, more than anything, shocked the hell out of him. He’d never thought he’d be in law enforcement his entire life. He knew someday he’d come home and start up a business of some kind because he didn’t want to work for anyone else. But never in his life had he had thoughts of long term relationships and all the homey shit that came with them.
Like a house. A big yard. A dog or two. Children…
If God looked out for fools like him, he could believe that he was sent to this deserted part of the state and plopped in sweet Bella’s lap.
He’d often imagined himself a bit like a cowboy. The one in the white hat who came to save the day. He’d been playing cops and robbers for half his lifetime, but it wasn’t a game, and he didn’t like the odds any longer.
~*~*~
Isabella sat on the ridge above the small cabin, the sun hot on her head and back, and stared at the sparkling azure lake until her eyes watered. She should be walking; that was what she’d come here to do. She needed to regain her strength, and walking was a good way to accomplish that goal, especially when traipsing the spongy moss. She just didn’t have the energy today. Exhaustion weighted her down. Made her bone weary. Sad.
She’d awaken in Brandon’s arms, and it had felt good. Too good. His long, lean body wrapped around her like a warm, magnificent blanket. From head to heels she’d felt the power of him. And he hadn’t made one sexual move. Not a single one. Even his hands had been appropriately placed this morning. One holding her snugly around the waist, the other lying innocently beneath her head, cradling her.
Damn it! At least if she’d awaken with groping fingers or pressing hips, she’d have a reason to...what? Be mad? Push him away? Demand that he never lay a hand on her again? But he’d been so sweet. She didn’t like sweet. No, that wasn’t true. She didn’t trust herself with sweet.
She hadn’t found any man appealing enough to want to touch or kiss, let alone sleep with, since just after her divorce. For one brief week, about a year after the divorce papers were signed, she’d had a quick fling with a lion tamer from Ringling Brothers’ Circus. The circus had been one of her uncle’s research projects. The affair had been fast, heavy, and very unfulfilling. The night she woke in his bed, in the throes of a nightmare, the asshole had practically tucked tail and run. After that one brief liaison, she’d sworn off men.
The only person who’d treated her nightmares as something serious was Cam. And now Cam was part of them. Cam had held her in the middle of the night when terror ripped through her until she couldn’t see or feel anything but the past. Cam had rocked her back to sleep after calming her fears. Brandon wasn’t Cam. Brandon wasn’t her uncle. Brandon was all man. And the worst thing about it...she wanted him. Desperately.
Flopping back on the soft carpet of sphagnum, Isabella groaned. She stared up at the sky so blue not a single cloud to marred its perfection.
The nightmare encompassed everything in her life that had ever gone wrong: Finding out she couldn’t have children, Bart’s infidelity, the murder she’d committed as a child. And now Cam’s death.
She’d been nightmare-free for three whole years. Now they were returning at an alarming rate—she’d had five since coming here. All because of Cam’s death.
She’d have to throw herself back into therapy. Silly wasn’t it that she’d thought she’d be able to handle this one on her own? But the person who’d helped her through the rest of it, her faith
ful, unwavering supporter, was gone. And it was her fault. Just like the rest of it. If she hadn’t been sick, if she’d been stronger, he’d still be alive.
If her life wasn’t messed up as it was, now there was the icing on top of the cream-filled cake. One very handsome, extremely wonderful, totally forbidden, Brandon Wilks. Who was slowly stealing her heart.
He worked in law enforcement. That in itself should have been a major turn-off. Isabella had no intention of ever getting romantically involved with a man who might or might not come home every night. Who might or might not be lying dead in a ditch, or in an exploding building, when he should be having dinner with her. She could never understand women who married cops. Their lives were too dangerous. She saw what her uncle looked like with a bullet in the head. She sure as hell didn’t need to see her husband that way.
No man could live with her nightmares. Bart had been ready to check her into the loony bin because of them. He couldn’t stand them. They kept him awake. He wanted her to take sleeping pills or Prozac or anything that would stop them because he wasn’t getting enough sleep.
But Brandon had held her, she reminded herself. Asked if she was all right. Asked if she’d wanted to talk. And then he’d held her all night long.
She threw her arm over her eyes, blocking out the bright perfection of the day. Damn him anyway. Why did he have to crash in her lake? She didn’t need this. Not now. Not ever.
She needed to cry.
She wanted to go back to the cabin, crawl in bed next to Brandon and beg him to hold her until the rest of the world disappeared and there was nothing left but the two of them. Here, in the middle of nowhere. Forever.
~*~*~
The damn mosquito kept buzzing in her ear. Its high-pitched whine would drive a monk to curse.
Alaskan Nights Page 7