In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  “Pull in there,” he said as they sped down Main Street, past the dermatology clinic where he’d last seen Abby, and on to the Nook, the only place open at this time of night. His breathing picked up speed at the possibility of seeing her.

  She pulled over and looked at him, her expression almost comically shocked. “You’re going in there? You? In a bar?” And then, totally unexpectedly, she burst into laughter. “Oh. My God. It’s a woman! You’re… Wait. Are you stalking her or something? Is that why you had me drive you? Because I will not—”

  “Of course not.” His face flushed red. “It’s…it’s more complicated than that.”

  “I see.” Although he didn’t think she did. She stilled, then, her eyes serious on him, and whispered, “You’re in love.”

  His chest convulsed.

  “Okay, okay.” She smiled, almost affectionately, and nodded. “Okay.” She patted his hand. “Go on. I’ll… Good-bye, Luc.” She gave his hand a squeeze and released him, looking sad now.

  Luc got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk to watch her pull away. He looked down at Le Dog, noticing for the first time that, though he’d gotten him a collar, he’d never bothered with a leash. Not that they needed one. Le Dog was never far.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t very well bring the animal inside the bar with him.

  Luc lifted his gaze to the Nook’s bright sign and fogged-up windows and the long line of cars parked out front. Christ, what had he gotten himself into?

  Only, the question was about more than tonight, wasn’t it? It was about Abby and the cult and…and everything. Although, for the first time, there wasn’t an iota of doubt that he was on the right path, no matter that it had flipped his life upside down. At the end of Main Street, Céline’s taillights disappeared, and right here, the bar’s door opened, letting out light, music, and a few laughing people. They stumbled happily to a car as he stood out here in the cold, knowing that he wasn’t good enough for the woman inside.

  * * *

  “Order up!” André called from the kitchen window, but with no outstanding food orders, Abby couldn’t figure out who it was for.

  Rory clarified. “Abby, it’s time to take a break.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  After a full day here, she had already gotten used to her boss’s sardonic brow and his amiable way of bullying her into things. “Had André make you pasta, love. Pick it up from the window and settle your arse on a barstool. Or, if you need some quiet, use my office.”

  The food did look good. Somehow, Abby hadn’t noticed how hungry she was, but her stomach was gurgling embarrassingly. She wouldn’t pay attention to the exhaustion weighing down her limbs.

  “I don’t—”

  “Dinner’s on us, love. Always during your shift, remember? Otherwise, you’d never get any food in you. Go eat.”

  She did as he asked. He was the boss, after all. And, Abby noticed, she was starving. It was… She glanced at the office clock as she collapsed onto the sofa. Ten thirty. Goodness, where had the time gone?

  Remembering how Luc had forked and twisted his pasta, Abby did the same, careful not to make a mess of her apron.

  That reminded her. Digging into the big front pocket as she chewed, she pulled out wads of cash. She was shocked by how much there was.

  It turned out people paid for food and drinks, and on top of that, they gave her money. Rory had refused it earlier when she’d tried to hand some off on him.

  “It’s yours, darling,” he’d said in his British accent. British, she thought, where they don’t pronounce that t in the middle of words like butter or water. Amazing how she’d barely set foot off the mountain and already she’d met an English bar owner, a half-Peruvian sheriff, a Mexican cook, and…the obvious, of course: the Frenchman she did her best not to think too much about.

  There was way more than a hundred dollars in here, which would pay for more clothes at the thrift shop for Sammy. Maybe she could start a car fund.

  She looked at the clock again, anxiety tightening her back and neck. There wasn’t time to buy a car before getting Sammy out.

  She’d leave at two, when the bar closed. Two in the morning sounded right. Nobody at the Church would be awake at two.

  She looked down at the pasta and forced herself to take another bite when what she really wanted was to pack it up in one of those white cardboard boxes and sneak it into the refrigerator upstairs for Sammy to eat tomorrow. Common sense told her she should eat more. She took another bite of pasta, which was good. A little too sweet, maybe? Nothing like the rich red sauce that Luc had fed her. The herbs in his pasta had been greener and the tomatoes brighter. The brightest time of her life.

  Goodness, would she ever stop thinking of him?

  After another few bites, she packed the food up and made her way back to the dining room, where the crowd was changing. More men, fewer families, the bar thick with people and the tables nearly empty.

  “Dancing again tonight, love,” Rory said when she joined him behind the bar. “I’ll take care of these punters, and we’ll clear those tables off our dance floor, get things ready for the DJ. You’re welcome to clock out now or…you can stay and tear up the dance floor again. Either way, I won’t need you.” After a lascivious wink, he turned to a group of men at the bar, charmed his way through their order, and joined her on the floor to help her move the tables and chairs, transforming this place into the closest thing Blackwood had to a nightclub.

  I work in a nightclub, she thought with a private laugh. What would Isaiah say? What would Mama say?

  She glanced at Rory—a man who pretended, with every fiber of his being, to be lazy. Every movement appeared somehow slow and laconic, yet look at how much he accomplished. There was an art to it.

  When they’d finished, she went to the back to take off her apron, again eyeing the clock. Eleven. Still too early, but her nerves jangled in anticipation of what she planned to do. She didn’t figure she’d be able to sleep with the thumping of the music beneath her. Nor, for that matter, with the thumping of her heart. Lord, she could hardly breathe.

  “Here, love.” Rory’s voice cut into her thoughts as he handed her a drink.

  “What’s this?”

  “Vodka cranberry.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “Not big drinkers where you’re from, then?”

  She shook her head and avoided his eye, because he’d been kind—beyond kind, considering he’d given her the room upstairs to live in for next to nothing—but there was a light in his eye that she didn’t trust.

  “Something on your mind?” he asked.

  “Oh. No.”

  “Come on out and watch the crowd, then.”

  “Yes. Yes, I think I will.”

  She followed him out and settled at the bar, where she watched him work. A handsome man, she thought, but not…not Luc.

  “Abby?”

  The voice, so familiar she felt it in her belly, couldn’t possibly be real.

  “Abby? Could I speak with you?”

  She spun around in her seat. And there he was, looking flushed and disheveled and so much better than she remembered.

  “Hi” was all she could manage, the vodka and marinara threatening to come back up. She was intensely aware of her clothes, stained despite her best efforts, the flat, white sneakers, scuffed by whoever had worn them before, the hand-me-down jeans, and…everything.

  “You are well?”

  Abby forced a smile, powered a big breath in, and nodded. “I’m great. Great, thanks. I’ll just… What are you—”

  “I just wanted to—”

  “Oh,” Abby said, turning to hide her embarrassed smile. “You go ahead.”

  “You are working here.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Ah.” He glanced ove
r her shoulder—avoiding her eye?—and back, straight at her in a way that proved how wrong that theory was. His voice lowered to a whisper. “How is your…?” He motioned over his shoulder.

  “Better. I’m… It’s… George was finally convinced that I’d healed well enough to leave. So…”

  “Good.” He looked down. Definitely avoiding. “Good.”

  “Yes. The beauty of modern medicine.”

  “I’m glad you’re well.”

  “So.” She let her eyes slide to look at the people behind him. “What brings you here?”

  “Just came in for a drink.”

  “Shift’s over, Abigail, my darling.” Rory appeared by her side, his voice quiet but sharp as he eyed Luc in a decidedly unfriendly manner. “I see the Cape Cod’s not to your taste. What’s your poison?”

  “My poison?”

  “What do you like to drink, dearest?”

  “She likes a good Bordeaux,” Luc answered, his focus shifting to Rory in what looked like a challenge, before returning to her.

  “How about a cheap Chilean red?” Rory asked.

  “If that’s what you”—think I should drink, she’d been about to say, which was ridiculous; instead, she finished with—“have, then that’s what I’ll take.” And then, because she couldn’t help it, she added, “But if you ever decide to upgrade, I know of a wonderful local vintage.”

  Luc’s blush intensified at those words, and he looked away when Rory eyed him. “Shall I get this man a drink, as well?” he asked her, waiting for her nod before taking off to serve their drinks.

  “I lied,” Luc said, eyes finally settling on her face.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “About coming here for a drink.” He shook his head with that self-deprecating expression that made her want to wrap her arms around him. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the music, which, she could tell, only served to make him uncomfortable. “I came here to see you.”

  Oh, that did it. That woke her up. Swallowing back whatever she’d been about to say, she watched him and held back her smile.

  “But Le Dog is outside, so I should—”

  “Hold on.” Abby turned to call to Rory. “Can we bring the wine upstairs?”

  “Course, love.” Rory threw a look at Luc, which she appreciated.

  “Meet me at the back door. I’ll open it up for you, and you can come up to my…my place,” she finished. The words felt strange in her mouth, like she was an imposter, or a child pretending.

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that,” Luc said before walking off, his big body cutting a too-large swath through the crowd.

  Rory set down two glasses and an open bottle of wine on the car beside her.

  “So that’s your poison, then.” She frowned for a second, thinking he meant the wine, until she followed his gaze to Luc’s departing back. “We’ve all got our Kryptonite, haven’t we?”

  “Our what?”

  He blinked slowly, eyes focused sharply on her, and she had the distinct feeling she’d divulged too much information with that bit of ignorance.

  “Man of Steel? Superman? The only thing that fells him?” he asked, and rather than continue to show her ignorance, Abby smiled and forced out a tight chuckle.

  “Oh, right. Of course,” she said and turned away.

  “You’re not in Kansas anymore, darling.”

  “Definitely,” she said, with absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Picking up the bottle and glasses, she turned and headed to the back.

  25

  The tiny apartment upstairs from the Nook reminded Luc of something you’d find on the top floor of a Paris apartment building. A real estate agent would no doubt call this “character.” Le Dog didn’t seem to mind, though. With a satisfied huff, he settled next to what looked like a heating vent. Not even the thumping floor seemed to bother him.

  “You’re living here?”

  “Yes.” She indicated that he should sit, but he couldn’t. Who could possibly sit with this much…energy running through him?

  He shoved back the anger he felt at Abby living in a place like this. Cracks in the ceiling, a kitchen sink stained beyond repair, linoleum that should have been replaced decades ago. She didn’t belong here.

  Not like she belongs in your crappy cabin, came a voice from the back of his mind.

  Swallowing back the hounding voices of doubt, he served the wine and waited for her to sit. When she didn’t, he stayed standing, suddenly filled with doubt.

  “I’ve…I’ve missed you.” The words didn’t sound like his. They sounded too weak. Too real.

  “You have?” Her eyes were massive and liquid, and fuck, they made him feel so damned alive.

  He huffed out a strangled laugh and slugged back a glass of wine rather than throwing himself at her feet.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked in lieu of a response.

  “Fine. Better.”

  “Your back?”

  “Yes.” After a pause during which they both drank, she elaborated. “It’s better. Not perfect, but better.”

  “Good.” Why was this so awkward? It shouldn’t be awkward, it should be—

  At the sink, she reached up for a glass—a jam jar—and filled it with water. She slugged it back and splashed her face.

  Only then did he take in the details of her—not their disgusting surroundings or his disgusting thoughts, but her. She looked…good. Tall and full, her body different in clothing that was her size. Blue jeans that fit her. A shirt that flowed from her strong, slender shoulders, down over breasts that were lush and full and suspended. A bra, which both delighted and dismayed him. The thought of fancy, frilly lingerie on this woman was enough to heat his blood.

  He pictured men seeing her in the lingerie. Other men, many men. Like that barman downstairs, whose throat he’d rip out, whose fucking heart he’d tear into pieces, whose stupid, lascivious grin he’d—

  Her hands grasped his face, and she kissed him, hard.

  “I missed you, too,” she whispered in his mouth, and Christ, he couldn’t stop himself from crushing her with his arms, pulling her in tight and seeking out the hollow of her neck, that place where the smell was purely her. Even with the scents of the bar layered over top and odors of cooking, he found her there and drew her in. Home. She felt like home.

  Her lips went to his again and gave him the kiss he’d been missing for so long, sensation, yes, but so full of emotion, he thought he’d drown in it. Christ, what had he done before her?

  Her mouth was hot and hungry, the sounds she made even better.

  “Take this off,” she whispered, plucking at the coat he still wore. Hurriedly, he removed it and then, at her urging, his shirt.

  Everything stopped when she put her head to his chest—an echo of what she’d done the week before in his cabin—and breathed. Just breathed.

  “What are you doing, amour?”

  “Listening,” she whispered. “Just listening.”

  “There’s nothing there.”

  She exhaled loudly and shook her head from side to side.

  “You have no idea, do you, Luc?” she asked, finally pulling back to look him in the eye, her face…tragic, maybe, which he hated. “No idea.”

  “About what?” he asked, truly puzzled.

  “Your heart, Luc. You have no idea how beautiful it is.”

  All he could do was watch her, this woman who didn’t realize she’d stolen it right out from inside him.

  * * *

  Abby meant to tell him what she planned. But then she’d seen his face—that sweet, scarred face—and she couldn’t help but kiss him. After that, his shock had been so palpable, and she’d known in this instinctive sort of way that he was shocked at her desire and her emotion. He was shocked by how much she wanted him.

  It ma
de her want him so hard she couldn’t stop touching him, caressing him. Good Lord, if she could, she’d consume every inch of him.

  Which gave her an idea.

  The impact of her body against his was jarring. It rattled her foundations. It probably jolted the dancers downstairs in the bar. Her hand in his hair, yanking his head closer, his face near hers, their teeth clashing too hard. His lips were torture; he could kill her with that tongue, and oh no, his smell. His smell was torment. Excruciatingly perfect.

  She’d sell her soul for that smell. To the devil. She’d let Isaiah and his minions burn every inch of her. Something purely animal escaped her mouth. No containing it, but that was fine. Fine when he took it, ate it up, gave her a noise of his own.

  Goodness, where was this coming from? The need and the…greed? Where had she kept it all these years, up until she’d met this man? It was old and deep and strong, an overflowing well.

  Luc’s shoulders were hot under her hands. Her fingers scrabbled at his waist, tore at it until he helped her get whatever it was off, down, down, landing at their feet with the clunk of keys.

  Bless me, this body.

  She glanced down to see his underwear—navy-blue shorts—and the need to consume him swelled anew.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t… I can’t.

  Slowly, she sank to her knees.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t, Abby,” he said, his accent thick, choppier than she’d ever heard it. She tucked her fingers into his waistband and dragged it down, slowly, slowly, while his voice faded away to a pained-sounding groan.

  He seemed far away up there now, with her face next to his cock and his smell so warm and potent and perfect.

  She bit her lip to hold back a sound of her own and slowly reached for him. He was big and thick, and the color of him here was darker than she remembered. Above her somewhere, he protested, but his hands hung limp at his sides, which made the protest feel halfhearted.

  Full of curiosity and desire, she brought him—his cock—close to her face and ran it along her cheek. It was so soft she had to do it again, and Luc sounded like he was dying. With a half smile, she eyed him. “You okay?” she asked. Goodness, how had she not known the power of this? Of holding a man’s desire in her hand? Of drawing it out until it stretched thin and tight between them like a guitar string, taut enough to break, but so perfectly pitched when she plucked it.