Motive, Means... And Marriage?

by Hilary Byrnes

  The thought sent a sharp pang of fear through her body, and she quickened her pace. Shoving open the heavy steel fire door, she plunged into the narrow alley behind the bar.

  It was dark. Very dark. There were no streetlights back here, and when the door clanged shut behind her, the only source of light was abruptly cut off.

  “Patrick?” she called.

  No reply. She listened, but she couldn’t hear the sound of any voices. Where was he? Farther down the alley?

  Squaring her shoulders, she walked around an overflowing garbage bin and headed down the alley. The tap of her heels echoed loudly, magnified by the cement walls on either side.

  In the distance, she could still hear the thumping bass of the strip club, and the faint roar of an engine reminded her she was in the heart of the city. But the darkness in the alley was absolute. It enveloped her, and the panic flooded back, stronger this time. Oh, God, if something had happened to him....

  She fought back the fear, fought to keep her voice strong and clear. “Patrick? Are you here?”

  Silence.

  She kept walking. A few yards farther along, a second alley opened up, running perpendicular to the first. She paused and peered down it.

  A single, naked bulb over a doorway at the other end of the alley provided a small splash of light. A dark-haired man stood under the light with his back to the door, surrounded by four or five other men.

  It was Patrick.

  Relief raced through her at the sight of him, relief so fierce and strong that it sent a wave of dizziness to her head. Putting her hand against the wall, she steadied herself and took a deep breath.

  Suddenly she heard a jumble of raised voices. She jerked up her head just as one of the men punched Patrick in the stomach. In a blur of movement, Patrick hit him back.

  The man stumbled backward with a noisy grunt, his hands covering his face. “You broke my nose!”

  Patrick hit him again.

  All the other men converged on him in a rush.

  Chapter 11

  “Patrick!” Helen screamed.

  She sprinted toward him. Her spike heels made her slip and stumble, but she didn’t want to waste precious seconds kicking them off. From the end of the alley, she heard grunts and shouts and the sickening crunch of bone against bone. Patrick disappeared into a heaving mass of flying fists and legs, and her heart thudded with panic.

  Patrick had to be all right—he just had to!

  As she neared the end of the alley, she glanced around wildly. Two men with bloody faces were sprawled across the ground, out cold. Patrick stood with his back to the wall, his arms pinned by a couple of thugs. A short man wearing a clingy silk shirt and a tangle of gold chains deliberately drew back his fist and punched him in the face.

  With a shriek of pure outrage, Helen charged the stranger.

  He half turned. “What the—”

  She slammed into him full-force. He stumbled backward, away from Patrick. Her momentum carried her with him, and he struck out at her. His fist crashed into her stomach, and pain exploded through her body. She fell back against the alley wall, gasping for breath.

  Through a haze of pain and panic, she saw the man raise his fist again. She ducked and fumbled for her shoe. Her heart hammered as her fingers closed around it. She dodged another blow and sprang up with the shoe in her hand. Turning out the metal spike on the end of the heel, she smashed the man in the face.

  Blood gushed down his cheek. He staggered back, clutching his forehead. “I can’t see! You bitch, you’ve blinded me!”

  Helen hit him again. The metal spike sank into his flesh, and he fell to the ground with a hoarse scream. She whirled around, her shoe still raised, ready to fight off the other two men.

  Patrick had already dealt with them. They were running away down the alley, their footsteps clattering against the concrete as they disappeared into the darkness.

  “Good work, sweetheart,” Patrick said. He was leaning against the wooden door. In the ring of light cast by the naked bulb, Helen saw that his face was covered with blood.

  Her mouth dry with fear, she flew across the alley. “Patrick! Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Just fine.”

  She threw her arms around him just as he closed his eyes and slid down the wall to the ground.

  Helen dragged Patrick’s arm around her shoulders as he climbed out of the car. He tried to pull away, but she kept her arm firmly around his waist as she led him up the stairs and into his building.

  “I can walk on my own,” he muttered.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” she said grimly. “You’re too heavy for me to carry if you pass out.”

  “I’m not going to pass out!”

  “You already did once. It scared the hell out of me, Monaghan. I thought I was going to have to leave you in that alley while I went for the car. What if those guys had come back?”

  Patrick cracked a lopsided smile, and then winced and touched his broken lip. “I could’ve handled it.”

  “No, you couldn’t. You’re not Rambo, Patrick. As much as I’m sure you’d like to be.”

  “Rambo? Nope, I never wanted to be him. Too many guns. When I was a kid, I always wanted to be Bruce Lee.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Okay, maybe Clint Eastwood.”

  She sighed. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

  “Yeah.” The corner of his mouth twitched up.

  Helen stared at him. Even beaten and bruised, Patrick kept his sense of humor--and his pride. Just at the moment, his pride made her want to strangle him, but a part of her responded to his arrogance. His strength. And that same treacherous part wanted to kiss his swollen lips, to soothe his battered body with her own.

  Part of her, she told herself sternly, was a fool.

  She jerked her gaze away from him and fumbled through his keys. Finding the right ones, she unlocked the series of dead bolts and pushed the door open. Blindly, she groped for the light switch and flicked it on.

  She turned to look at Patrick, who was propped up against the doorjamb. His lower lip was broken and swollen, and blood stained his face and neck. His hands were bloody, too, and his knuckles scraped. But instead of repelling her, seeing his injuries made her want to kiss him even more.

  She covered her instinctive reaction with a frown. “You look awful,” she said flatly.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t feel so hot, either.” Patrick pushed himself away from the door. He let out a muffled groan and wrapped his arm around his ribs. “Somehow I don’t remember Dirty Harry ever feeling like this.”

  “Ribs hurt pretty badly?”

  “They hurt a little, yeah.”

  “They’re probably cracked.” She kicked the door shut and tugged Patrick’s arm around her shoulders once again. “You’re going to bed.”

  “I’m not gonna argue with you there.”

  Slowly, Helen led him across the room. This time, he didn’t pull away. His breathing came in harsh rasps, and he leaned on her just a little. Helen tightened her lips and tried to concentrate on getting him to the bed. Not on the hard beauty of his chest or the weight of his hand on her shoulder. Definitely not on the feel of his denim-clad thigh rubbing intimately against hers.

  Finally, they made it to the bed. Heaving a mental sigh of relief, Helen let go of Patrick.

  He collapsed onto the bed with a groan. “Hell. I feel like I just got run over by a truck.”

  “You pretty much did. Five of them.”

  “Five, huh? No wonder my ribs hurt.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, careful to keep several inches of space between them. “Who were they, anyway?”

  “You remember the guy with the gold chains? The one you jumped on? He was Jamie Lee’s pimp. Name’s Rocky.”

  “What were you doing out there with him?”

  “One of the other guys came up to me in the bar and said he had some information about Jami
e Lee. When I went outside with him, Rocky and his friends were waiting. Rocky said he’d heard I was asking questions about him, and he wanted me to know he didn’t appreciate it.”

  Helen stared at him in exasperation. “Why did you go outside in the first place? Didn’t you realize it could be a setup?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I figured it was worth the risk.”

  “You just never give up, do you, Monaghan?”

  “Nope.” His eyes turned dark and serious. “Helen, listen to me. The situation wasn’t that dangerous. They might have broken a few bones, but it was only a warning. They weren’t going to kill me.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you shouldn’t have come charging down that alley.”

  A spark of anger ignited in her chest. “So I should have just left you there? And walked away?”

  “That’s right.”

  She glared at him. “I thought we were partners.”

  “We are, but—”

  “But only when it’s not dangerous.”

  Patrick’s jaw hardened. “I’ve already put you in enough danger. I don’t want you in any more. You could have been badly injured or even killed back there.” He clenched his hands into fists. “Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

  “You’re not my keeper!”

  “No, I’m not! I just care enough about you that I don’t want to see you bleeding to death in some back alley!”

  Helen gasped, and Patrick dragged his hand over his eyes. “Dammit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just—the idea of you getting hurt makes me crazy.”

  “Well, I didn’t get hurt.”

  “No, but you could have.” He grabbed her hand. “Why did you do it? There isn’t another woman in the state who would have run screaming toward those guys instead of away from them.”

  The feel of his warm palm against hers sent ribbons of heat racing up her arm. Suddenly she felt light-headed, almost dizzy.

  “Helen?”

  She gulped, struggling to concentrate on his question. “Why did I do it? I don‘t—don’t know. I didn’t even stop to think. When I saw that man hit you, I just knew I had to stop him. I had to protect you—any way I could.”

  “I’m not worth risking your life for.” His jaw tightened. “Do you hear me? I’m not worth it.”

  She looked straight into his silver eyes. “No?”

  “No.” Patrick jerked his hand out of her grasp and sat up. His face contorted with pain as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” Helen demanded.

  “I’m going to the bathroom to clean up.”

  “No, you’re not. Get back into bed. I’ll get everything you need and bring it here.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to.” Helen got to her feet. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Helen boiled a kettle of water and gathered all the first-aid supplies she could find. Balancing a bowl of steaming water on her arm, she made her way around the screens to Patrick’s bed.

  She almost dropped everything on the floor.

  Patrick stood with his back to her—his naked back. Broad, defined shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. There were several dark red bruises around his ribs, but they didn’t detract from the sleek beauty of his golden skin, from the aura of power and strength that radiated from his muscular body.

  Helen stood transfixed by his beauty as he peeled off his jeans and dumped them on a chair. His hips were lean, sexy, perfectly proportioned. His legs rippled with thickly corded muscles. Even his feet—long and just a little flat—looked beautiful to her.

  Patrick turned to get into bed. His eyes met hers, and he froze. A dark red flush started around the base of his neck and swept up his bruised face in a tide of color. Helen’s eyes widened. He was blushing. Patrick Monaghan was actually blushing because she’d seen him naked. She could hardly believe it.

  “Helen.” He dove into bed and yanked the covers up to his chest. “I didn’t know you were there.”

  Suddenly she realized she’d been staring. Staring shamelessly. No wonder the poor man had blushed. Her own cheeks heating with embarrassment, she put the bowl of water and her other supplies down on the wooden dresser by his bed.

  “Looks like you’ve probably got some bruised ribs.” She tried to sound cool and casual, as though all she’d been doing was checking out his injuries. Not his body.

  It didn’t work. Her voice came out husky and breathless—the voice of a lover, not a nurse—and she felt herself go an even darker red. Fortunately, Patrick didn’t seem to notice.

  “I guess,” he muttered. He leaned over and reached for a washcloth.

  Helen snatched it out of his reach. “No way. You’re going to lie there and behave yourself while I clean you up.”

  His eyes hardened. “I’ll be fine. Just leave the stuff there. I’ll deal with it myself.”

  Helen crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. She understood his pride, but this was ridiculous. “You are not going to deal with it yourself. You are going to lie there quietly while I disinfect your cuts and bruises and check your ribs.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.”

  He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, Nurse Stewart. I see who’s in charge here—and it isn’t me.”

  “Damn right.”

  Patrick lay back and closed his eyes. Helen soaked a washcloth in the hot water and gently sponged away the blood on his face. She bit her lip when she saw the extent of his injuries. He had a nasty cut high on one cheek, and his lower lip was split and puffy. One of his eyes was badly swollen already, but his nose wasn’t broken and all his teeth were still there.

  Looking at his bruised and battered face, she felt a dangerous tenderness swell up in her chest. Ruthlessly she suppressed it. She’d looked after injured men before, she reminded herself. Why should this be any different?

  “So what’s the damage?” he asked.

  “I think you’re going to live, Monaghan.” She uncapped the bottle of antiseptic and sloshed some onto a cotton ball. She pressed the cotton onto the cut on his cheek, and he flinched.

  “Sure doesn’t feel like it.” He winced as she sponged the cut. “Ouch. That stings.”

  “It’s antiseptic. I know it stings, but you don’t want these cuts to get infected.” Helen tossed out the cotton ball and soaked a fresh one. When she was done cleaning the cut, she put a small bandage over it and moved on to his split lip.

  His lower lip was badly swollen and obviously sore. As gently as she could, she stroked the cotton over the cut. Slowly, she traced the outline of his lip. Her heart began to beat a little faster. Touching him like this, she couldn’t help remembering the way his mouth had felt on hers that morning. Soft—and then hard—and then soft again, and oh, so warm. When he’d kissed his way down her throat, the feel of his mouth on her skin had sent fire coursing through her body....

  Her fingers gentled, lingering on his mouth. Patrick’s breathing shallowed. She brushed the cotton across the soft inside of his lip, and he made a strangled sound.

  She jerked her hand away. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No. No, you didn’t.” Patrick’s expression was pained, his eyes squeezed shut.

  Helen frowned. “Are you sure?”

  His breath hissed out from between his teeth, and she thought she heard him swear under his breath. “Just get on with it, okay?”

  “Sure,” she said stiffly.

  She took his right hand and started cleaning his scraped knuckles. His thumb rubbed against the back of her hand, rasping faintly on her skin. Heat whispered through her at his touch. She looked down at his strong, tanned fingers, at the wisps of black hair that swirled across the back of his hand, and she remembered the way he’d touched her last year, remembered his hands gliding across her naked skin.

  Suddenly she wanted to touch him—and not
with the touch of a nurse. Tentatively she slid her thumb over his palm.

  Patrick flinched.

  Helen bit her lip and picked up the bottle of antiseptic. Patrick was in pain, she told herself sternly. She should be concentrating on cleaning his cuts and bruises, not wondering whether his strong hands would still feel so good against her skin....

  Hastily, she finished cleaning and bandaging his knuckles. When she was done, she reached for the blankets that covered his chest.

  Patrick grabbed her wrists. “What are you doing?”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” She wrenched her hands out of his grasp. “I’m going to look at your ribs.”

  “No.”

  “What’s the problem, Monaghan?” She gave him a sarcastic smile. “You have a sudden attack of modesty? No need. I’ve seen your chest before, if you remember.”

  Something flickered deep in his eyes. “I remember,” he rasped. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

  Her heart began to thump. “I’m not going to ravish you,” she said, praying he wouldn’t notice the way her voice cracked. “I just want to see if your ribs are broken.”

  “How are you going to tell? You used to be a doctor?”

  “No. I was the industrial first-aid attendant in a factory. That’s how I put myself through college.”

  He closed his eyes. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  Leaning forward, Helen pulled the blankets down to his waist. Her gaze slid across his chest, and she sucked in her breath. Somehow she’d managed to forget exactly what his naked, powerful torso looked like.

  Now, she stared at his broad chest, at the thick, well-defied muscles. His stomach was flat and hard, a ripple of ridged muscles marching downward. Fine black hair covered his chest, tapering as it ran across his belly and under the blankets that covered his hips....

  With an effort, she forced her gaze back up to Patrick’s ribs. There was some ugly bruising, mostly on his left side. Trying to concentrate, she ran her hand over his ribs. The feel of warm skin and crisp, soft hair beneath her hand made her heart thump even harder, and she struggled to keep her mind on her job. Checking each rib, she slid her fingers higher, across the bulge of his muscle, over the little nub of his nipple.