by Cherry Adair
He might not consider himself a hero, but right now he was the only game in town. If nothing else, he was big and solid.
Tally burst through his door at a dead run.
Other than the blinking outline of the mean-eyed cat snoozing at the foot of the bed, the room was empty.
"Unless you can turn into something useful, you're no good to me," she told Lucky. Not bothering to close the door, Tally made a screaming uie, and charged down the dark corridor. She did a running jump, a don't-step-on-the-cracks, scaredy-pants jump across her own doorway, and charged full tilt toward the stairs.
Disorientated by the dark, breathing as if she'd run six miles instead of six yards, she groped for the metal handrail. Light. She had to get into the light. Now.
Body vibrating with urgency, she found the handrail and stepped down… a hard shove caught her between her shoulder blades…
Tally went cartwheeling through the thick darkness.
"Honey, you need a keeper."
Once he'd scraped her off the cement floor of the bar and taken her into a back room where Auntie had a narrow daybed tucked into a corner of her small office, Michael had checked her over. After falling ass over teakettle down a staircase, she was fortunate nothing was broken.
Tally tentatively wiggled her nose between two fingers, her blue eyes crossed as she tried to see the tip. "I think my node ith broken."
"It's not. Which is amazing, considering your speed when you came through that door. You're lucky you didn't break your neck."
She would have hurt a hell of a lot more if the door had been fully closed. As it was, she'd tumbled, screaming at the top of her lungs, through the partially open door. Her momentum had propelled her like a rocket. Wearing a dazed expression, and a pair of powder blue man-style pajamas, her unceremonious arrival had caused quite a stir among the few remaining late-night diehards. Several of whom were now crowded in the doorway, watching them. Michael would bet any one of the men outside would've liked an opportunity to run his hands over Tally Cruise's slender body.
She rose up on her elbow, glanced toward the door, then said with quiet urgency, "Michael. That guy came back. I heard him… breathing. I ran like hell, and when I got to the head of the stairs"—she shivered, her breath coming fast and uneven—"the son of a bitch p-pushed me."
"Calm down. You're hyperventilating."
"Of course I'm hy-per-ven-til-at-ing! S-Someone is—someone tried to—"
"Tally?"
She sucked air. "Wh-Wh-a-t?"
"Take a slow, easy breath, honey." Her pupils dilated as their gazes clung. Her blue eyes were too large, glassy and unfocused as she struggled to catch a real breath. A clammy film of perspiration glazed her skin.
His fingers tightened on her shoulders. "Easy. Try to relax." He stroked his hands soothingly down her arms. Her muscles were tight as bowstrings, fragile.
Michael took her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed her tear-damp cheekbones. She was gasping, couldn't catch her breath, her heart going nineteen to the dozen. From the looks of it she was in for a full-blown panic attack.
"Breathe with me." Michael placed his hand on her chest, fingers spread. Beneath his palm her heart flub-dubbed like a trapped bird. "In… slow. Out…"
She grabbed his wrist. " 'n't breathe!"
"Yeah, I see that, sweetheart." Hell… He slid his arm around her back and pulled her against him. His open mouth came down on hers. For a second she struggled, then became pliant in his arms as he breathed with her, gradually slowing his own breathing down until she matched his, and they breathed in unison.
After a few minutes she was so into the kiss, she forgot about breathing. Only then did Michael raise his head. "Better?"
"Much." She gave him a tremulous smile that went straight to his heart. "But you wouldn't be nearly as convenient to carry around as a brown paper bag."
He huffed out a laugh. "Did you hurt yourself barreling down the stairs at ninety-nine miles an hour?"
Tally rubbed her forehead and shook her head. "I must have rubber bones. I think I bounced."
He said nothing for a moment as he stared at the livid marks around her slender throat. The marks had darkened considerably in the last few hours. The imprint of two large thumbs showed clearly against the soft pulse at the base of her throat.
Fury rose like a black tide inside him. Some son of a bitch had put his filthy hands on her. Hurt her. Michael gently pushed her sweat-damped hair off her chalk white face. "You slid in like a ballplayer going for first base." Her pretty eyes were cloudy, and bewildered by the violence. And damn it, Michael was pissed. That ticked him off more than anything. She was zilch to him.
They barely knew each other. She was nothing more than Church's daughter. A pawn. A means to an end.
"We'll get to the bottom of this." He kept his voice soothing instead of murderous. "Whoever it was, probably wanted mon—"
"Here, baby girl, you take two of these. How you feel now?" Auntie had returned with a glass of water and a pill bottle.
"Thanks." She managed a smile for the other woman as she took the bottle and glass. "I'm sure I'll be fine after a good night's sleep." She grimaced. "Though how I'll manage that, I don't know. Every time I go to my room—" She handed the glass of water to Michael, shook a couple of Advil onto her hand, then took the glass back to gulp the water. "Thanks." Her smile was crooked. "You give new meaning to the words 'mouth-to-mouth' resuscitation."
"It's a gift." He didn't want her to thank him, or look at him with trust. But one look from those baby-blues and he almost forgot his own name. "Need help getting upstairs? Want me to get a big stick and come with you?"
"I'd love you to get a big stick. Then you could shove it up his—"
"Who he?" Auntie demanded, eyes narrow, beefy arms akimbo.
"Some guy tried to rob Tally in her room."
"Did he hurt you, baby?" Auntie demanded, coming to take Tally's chin in her hand. "Hoo-ee. That sumbitch give you bad bruises!" She shook her head in disgust. "It be those seasonal sailors comin', goin'. Bring boats in, havta hang around waiting to take 'em back out. Nothing better to do than drink—which is mighty good for Auntie—and steal from my customers, which is bad! The bossman get back, he gonna hear from Auntie, quick-quick! Enough bad stuff. You hear?"
"I hear you," Michael said grimly, helping Tally to her feet. She still looked chalky, which made the emerging bruise on her cheek look even darker. "Let's get you settled, before I start asking questions."
"Yes. Good. Get our girl in bed. We ask questions." Auntie put a beefy arm around Tally's narrow shoulders and led her through the door. "Out of the way, you!" She pushed through the men crowded outside. They scattered like chickens before a fox. "Business is now closed. Go home. Henri? You close up and lock that door."
"Now you," she told Tally, "just scoot upstairs and take nice hot bath, then Auntie give you a good, deep-tissue massage. Get those nasty knots out. You see. In morning you be fit as a fiddle. Henri? Make it quick-quick!"
"A hot shower would be great," Tally said. "Thanks for the Advil… oh. The light in my room's burned out. Do you have a bulb I can take up?"
Auntie bustled off behind the bar for a bulb. Tally looked pale, and fragile. She also looked damn delicious to Michael in those pale, soft pajamas covered with little yellow flowers. Not that tailored pajamas on a woman appealed to him. He usually preferred his women in nothing at all. Tally looked too virginal and ice princess-ish for his tastes.
And he wanted her more than his next breath. Damn.
Michael walked over to the counter and picked up the beer he'd abandoned when she'd crashed through the door headfirst to land practically at his feet.
He took a sip. Warm. "Go ahead. Turn on the light in the hall. I'll bring it up when I come."
She held a hand casually over the empty buttonhole on her pajama top. As if he hadn't already noticed the button was missing. As if he hadn't inadvertently seen a curve of small, plump breast when
she'd been lying down.
As if her slender arm across her chest prevented him from seeing the outline of her body through the thin cotton back-lit by the light in Auntie's office.
"I'll wait." Tally held on to the doorknob without opening the door. "I'm in no hurry."
He saw the nervous rapidity of her breathing and the tantalizing throb of her heart in the hollow of her throat. He wanted to put his mouth there. He wanted to put his hands on her. Instead, he chugged the last inch of warm beer, then crushed the can in his fist.
She wasn't his problem.
Tally took the proffered carton of lightbulbs from their hostess and hugged it to her chest.
Michael held the can tighter. A shield between himself and the woman with fear in her clear blue eyes. Damn. "Want me to come up and look under your bed?"
She didn't hesitate. "Please."
Michael held the door to the upstairs rooms open for her. The stairwell was dark, as was the hallway above. He flicked the switch a couple of times.
"Wait here." He handed her the crushed beer can and took the lightbulbs. His knuckles accidentally brushed against her small breasts. She drew in a breath and held it.
He released the door, waited a second or two for his eye to adjust, then sprinted silently up the steep cement steps to the floor above.
None of the upstairs lights were on.
Not over the stairs. Not in the hallway. Not in her room.
Her bedroom door stood wide open. The shutters blocked any starlight. The small shell night-light he'd seen when he'd searched her room that morning was gone.
He entered cautiously. Empty. The room smelled faintly of Tally's perfume. A hint of tuberose, and the floral shampoo he'd seen in their shared bathroom down the hall, mixed with the iodine scent of the sea.
Her room was set up exactly like his. Wood floor, queen-size bed, small bedside table, and a lot of violent pink. He strode to the table and removed a bulb from the pack. After the experiences of the last couple of days, it was no wonder she was freaked out. She'd probably woken from a dream, found the light burned out, and panicked.
Michael reached in to remove the dead bulb… there was nothing in the socket.
Chapter Eight
« ^ »
Half an hour later, Tally emerged from the bathroom. Since she'd never been beaten up, she wasn't positive this was what it felt like afterward. However, considering the aches and bruises her assailant had inflicted, she figured this kind of discomfort was in the ballpark. A hot shower had helped dull the aches; walking into her brightly lit room helped even more.
Seeing Michael Wright sitting in the chair under the window didn't help one bit. "What are you doing in here?" She realized she was clutching the front of her pajama top where the button was missing closed in her fist like a maiden aunt. She dropped her arms to her side and relaxed her tense shoulders.
She knew without looking that the thin, frequently washed cotton clung to her damp skin. She thought longingly of her nice, thick velour robe back in Chicago. She thought even more longingly of being in Michael's strong arms.
Auntie's gazillion-watt bulb purged the shadows from the room. The only remaining dark spot was the pirate seated by the window. Enigmatic, intense, he personified shadow.
"I found this under the table." Michael held up a small, nasty-looking knife. "Tell me about him."
Tally sat on the bed with a thump. She closed her eyes, trying to remember what he'd felt like, the space he'd occupied. "He seemed to be about eight foot ten. In reality, he was probably about… five six, seven. Solid. Balding. What hair he had was greasy and thin… French. Somewhere in the south, close to Spain, I'd guess."
"That's impressive."
Pleased, Tally smiled. "I don't want you to think I'm just a pretty face."
"Honey, the way you handled that guy convinced me of that. Nobody downstairs fits that description. I checked the shrubs below the lanai—nice shot, by the way—he landed hard, but judging from his footprints, managed to limp away. So the question is, what was he doing in your room?"
She scrunched up her face. "I'd swear he said he was here to kill me." Tally held up a hand. "Okay, not swear. I thought that's what he said. At first. But it seems so illogical, so farfetched, I dismissed it." Her fingertips automatically went to the necklace of bruises. "Until he put his grubby hands around my throat."
"Not so illogical if you throw the explosion of the boat, and the death of both Bouchard and the crewman, into the mix," he said flatly.
"Oh, God. I thought that, too, but I didn't want to say it aloud." She pulled her pillow onto her lap and rested her elbows on it. "I thought maybe… but then, why? And who? It seems too ridiculous for words. He must've been looking for money. My traveler's checks, jewelry. As Auntie said—a lot of transients to-ing and fro-ing the boats for my father." She narrowed her eyes. "Right?"
"Someone was in here tonight. The bulb didn't burn out. It was gone. So's your night-light. Which means that either you were unlucky enough to have two visitors, or your inept knife-wielding assassin came back for another try. What about your jewelry and money? Still here, or gone?"
She slid off the bed. "God. I hope he took every dime." She was an adult, with access to credit cards, and to all manner of assistance should she need it. The panicky feeling faded a bit. But she knew it was crouched deep inside her, ready to spring forward and attack without warning. If the thief had wiped her out financially, she'd deal with it.
"You do?"
"Hell, yes. That means he was here to take stuff. Stuff can be replaced."
As for the man with the magic lightbulbs, her non-hero, all she knew about him was his proclivity for garish Hawaiian glow-in-the-dark shorts, and his name. And she couldn't be sure "Michael Wright" was his name. He had a nice boat. But as far as Tally knew, he could have stolen her traveler's checks.
If he looked like a pirate… Lord. She was getting paranoid. "I'll check later."
"Honey, you don't have anything I want." His lips moved in an unnerving parody of a smile. "Check now."
You don't have anything I want? Swallowing hard, Tally reached down at the head of the bed and grabbed her cosmetic bag. With trembling fingers, she pulled out the jewelry pouch and opened it. "Maybe it wasn't flashy enough for him."
Michael took the pouch and looked inside. "Understated. Elegant. Expensive." He glanced at her and handed it back. "Very… you."
She didn't know whether to be insulted or flattered, so she ignored his assessment. The wallet was easier. She fanned out just over three thousand dollars in traveler's checks. "Guess he didn't like my money, either. Traveler's checks are so, so understated, elegant, expensive, and so me."
Her attempt at levity fell flat. Her mouth went dry, and she felt the blood drain from her head. "This is not good."
"Don't be too quick to jump to conclusions. If he did want to kill you, he was a lousy assassin."
"Oh, thanks. I've never rated incompetence highly enough. I feel so much better now."
"This is a pocket knife, honey. If he was serious, he would've had something bigger and sharper. And he'd've done the job without waking you."
Tally put a hand up to her throat. "Thanks. I think."
"My guess is he was here to rob you and couldn't find the goods. You woke up and scared the crap out of him, and he was trying to frighten you."
"He succeeded, thank you very much. Why did he come back, then?"
Michael put his hands behind his head and whistled out a breath. "Hell if I know." The hair in his armpit was dark and silky.
Oh, Lord. How could a man's armpit be sexy? She dragged her attention away from that body part. But there were other, even better things to look at. His broad chest. His muscular arms. His mouth…
God, she was glad he was here. How casual he was. All tanned, hairy skin and insouciant relaxation. Tally perched on the edge of the mattress, one big, stretched nerve.
She straightened her shoulders, uncertain whether s
he should pull on something over her pajamas or act as though she were properly dressed for company. With perverse disappointment she realized her state of undress didn't seem to bother him at all. But it bothered the hell out of her. Knowing he was three feet away, and she wasn't wearing any underwear under her pajama bottoms, made her hyper-conscious of body parts she'd told to go back to sleep.
"Walk me through this one more time. What happened before you fell?" Michael asked, his tone cool and meditative. There was a quality in his stillness that unnerved her, although she couldn't think why. If he were any more laid back he'd be in a coma.
She noticed a small, pale, crescent-shaped scar just above his left nipple. She could only see it because the light was so bright. He also had a genuine six-pack of banded abdominal muscle that moved gently as he breathed. Her mouth went dry. He'd asked… ?
"Something… someone… woke me. The room was pitch-black." There was something far too… immediate about him. Something far too elemental, too visceral. Unfortunately, there was also something secretive about him—the haunted look in his eye, the bitter twist to his mobile, unsmiling mouth—that called to her, even though she was smart enough not to let it show. It was a ridiculous and unfounded physical reaction to a total stranger. Tally ruthlessly tamped down the bubbling cauldron of emotion. I said no. I mean no, she reminded herself.
"I ran," she said with spurious calm, finger-combing her short, damp hair off her face. "I felt a hand on my back before I fell."
There was a brief knock at the door; her uninvited guest rose. Tally backed up. Auntie shuffled in with a sunset orange beach towel over one shoulder and a bottle of oil in her hand. She looked from one to the other. "I come back later."
"No, come in," Tally said quickly. "Michael was just leaving."
"Sleep good, hottie."
" 'Night, ladies." Michael gave Tally a look that said they weren't done, then closed the door quietly behind him.