The desire to flee took wing in her again, and she actually backed up a step or two before she stopped, hearing Char’s voice.
You’re crumbling day by day. That makes you a victim as long as you let yourself be.
She met Ben’s eyes, saw that he’d known very well that she was losing her nerve. Not letting herself change her mind, she marched to the round oak table nestled in the bay window and sat down. “I like a teaspoon of sugar in my tea.”
Ben smiled, as if to himself, and lifted the whistling kettle to pour. “Good to know.”
DAMN, he couldn’t believe his eyes when he’d seen her sitting out there in front of his house in that beat-up black Blazer of hers.
Ben had been trying to talk himself into spending the afternoon stripping the wallpaper in the living room. It was a crappy job; he’d already done it upstairs in two of the bedrooms. The living room was going to be a bitch, which was why he kept putting it off. He could have paid someone to do the work, but there were enough things, like plumbing and wiring, that he couldn’t do, so he felt obligated to take on the ones he could. He hadn’t gotten very far on the house. He’d had a condo in L.A., and hadn’t realized how much time he was going to have to spend on basic maintenance, like mowing and fertilizing the lawn, cleaning gutters and getting the garage into shape so he could actually park in it. And then there was the job; in his first months, he’d found the department so shoddily run he hadn’t taken any entire days off.
Today, he’d been letting frustration with Faith get him down. He had needed to take on something that would make him sweat, give him aching muscles. Only…he’d glanced out the window, and there she was.
He’d frozen, standing back so she wouldn’t see him. Waiting, until he realized in sudden alarm that she must have been in the middle of talking herself out of whatever urge had brought her here in the first place.
Now she was planted at his kitchen table, wrapping her fingers around the mug of tea he’d set in front of her. Fiddling with the string of the tea bag, swirling it in the hot water, gave her something to do. If she’d noticed her tea was raspberry herbal and had no caffeine, she hadn’t commented. Ben put the sugar bowl and a plate for the used tea bags on the table, then sat down himself.
“You aren’t sleeping, are you?” he said after a minute, when she kept gazing, mute, at the mug.
Faith shook her head. The movement made her braid slip over her shoulder and down over her breast.
He made himself keep looking at her face. “Nightmares?”
“Sometimes.” She looked up at him with eyes that seemed a darker blue than usual, as if desperation deepened the color. “Mostly…I have trouble falling asleep at all. Or staying asleep. Just as I’m dropping off, I get zapped and jolt awake. It’s like…being poked by a cattle prod. I’d swear my body doesn’t think I’m supposed to sleep.” Her words tumbled over one another, as if she couldn’t stop them now. “And if I manage at all, after an hour or two, zing! I’m awake again. My heart will be thudding, and adrenaline is shooting through me.” She hunched her shoulders. “I talked to Dr. Pauley—he’s been our family physician forever—and he gave me a prescription for sleeping pills, but…” She let out a gust of air. “I suppose I’m afraid I’ll keep needing them. And I thought eventually I’d get better on my own.”
“But you’re not. And it’s been weeks.”
She bristled. “You think I don’t know that?”
“For God’s sake, you can’t heal without sleep!”
“I thought…” She ducked her head and swirled the tea bag again. “That is… Did you have trouble sleeping, after…?”
“Hell, yes.” He hadn’t had anyone to hold him at night then, either. Not someone he could trust.
The thought jarred him momentarily, and he frowned. Trust to do what?
Aware that she was watching him now, he said, “For me it was mostly nightmares.” He moved his shoulders uneasily. “I still have ’em once in a while.”’
“Really? How long has it been?”
“I’ve had to shoot to kill twice in my career. Once was early on. Has to be sixteen, seventeen years ago. It was a traffic stop. Taillight out, just me walking up to the driver’s side to issue a friendly warning. Turned out the guy had a warrant for murder one out on him. He opened fire, winged me with the first shot. I returned fire and hit him in the head.”
Her eyes were huge and dark again, and he had the belated thought that maybe she didn’t need to hear the details. He could hear her breathing, but she didn’t say anything.
“Second time I was working Vice and a partner and I were involved in a big drug buy that went bad. My partner was killed, I was shot again. I took out a couple of them.”
Seeing his partner die, that was what had lingered in his nightmares. Figueroa had had a young, pretty wife and an eighteen-month-old girl, the cutest little thing. Man, Figueroa had loved them. Ben was still angry, wondering why the guy had put in for Vice, why he’d taken such chances when living or dying should have mattered more to him. Maybe he’d just been young enough to believe himself immortal; from the look on his face as he went down, he hadn’t expected it. The complete surprise still sent a shudder through Ben.
“And you had nightmares both times?” Faith asked carefully. She was finally squeezing the tea bag around her spoon and depositing it on the plate.
Doing the same, he nodded. “I had to see a police psychologist. And there were guys I could talk to who’d gone through it.”
“Char wants me to see a therapist.”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” he told her. “Depending on how you go into it.”
“Dad leaves his door open. So I can hear him snoring.” She smiled faintly. “And he really does snore. It…um, helps a little. Knowing he’s there.”
“Are you sleeping in your bedroom?”
She shook her head. “I just can’t. Char cleaned up all the blood, of course, but…I can’t.”
She might get pissed at him for saying this, but he thought he needed to. “Moving may be a good thing.”
“I…had the same thought. Which doesn’t make me feel any better about having to give up, about losing the farm. It’s home. It’s always been home. Can you understand that?”
Her expression was so beseeching, he couldn’t resist reaching out to touch her hand. “I’m trying. But I’ve never had a home. Not the way you’re talking about. I grew up in different circumstances.” And he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her about the crime-ridden neighborhoods where his mother had found rooms or an occasional apartment in which to raise her son, about the foster homes that followed when her heroin addiction stole her ability to be any kind of parent at all. This house in a poster-perfect small town was the closest thing to a home he’d ever had, and he still didn’t know why he’d come looking for it.
“Different?”
He shook his head. “Moving a lot.”
“Oh.” Her gaze became unfocused. “I think I was born wanting everything to stay the same. Life to be predictable. I never imagined anything but having a life like my parents’. Mom was a teacher, too. Did you know that? She quit after Char and I were born. Well, I get why. Imagine suddenly having two babies in diapers! Looking back, I can see that I was trying to model my life after hers. Rory came along at the right time, so I married him. I assumed we’d take over the farm from my parents eventually.” She fidgeted with her spoon. “I guess none of this has anything to do with why I can’t sleep, or why I feel as if…”
She couldn’t seem to finish, so Ben did it for her. “As if your life makes no sense at all anymore.”
Faith blinked. “Yes. I guess that’s it.”
“Of course it has to do with why you’re so adrift now. If you hadn’t married Rory, it wouldn’t have all ended the way it did. I’m guessing you’re pretty tangled up trying to figure out why you did choose him, why you didn’t see him for what he really was.”
“Yes.” The word was strangled. “Oh, God. I don
’t understand myself at all.”
Just like that, she was crying. Despite everything, he’d never seen her lose control like this. As if horrified at herself, she clapped her hands over her face, but her body shook and tears spilled between her fingers.
Ben moved fast, circling the table, lifting her and settling with her on his lap. He might have expected her to struggle, but she didn’t. She burrowed her face into his throat, grabbed hold of him as if she’d never let go and sobbed.
He found himself rocking her, as if she were a distraught child, the motion coming naturally. With one hand he massaged the nape of her neck, her braid bumping his knuckles. With his other arm he held her tight, making sure she’d feel completely secure and protected.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, over and over. “Let it out, honey. Just let it out.”
She felt almost boneless by the time she went still, as if exhaustion had finally claimed her. He was glad. A man didn’t get that many wishes come true, but today he had every intention of lying beside Faith and watching her sleep.
He stood, cradling her in his arms, and walked back through the house.
She stiffened and then began to struggle. “What are you doing? Ben! Let me down. Where are you going?”
“Hush,” he murmured against the top of her head. “Remember what I said that day? You need to nap, and it’ll be in my bed.”
Taking the stairs with her in his arms was effortless. She weighed next to nothing, alarmingly little, as if her substance had slipped away along with her defiance and strength.
“I can’t go to bed with you! Are you crazy?” She had the sense to quit struggling while he climbed the stairs, but resumed when he reached the second floor. “Ben!”
“Just a nap,” he said. “Would that be so bad?”
He shouldered open his bedroom door and carried her to the bed. With one hand he swept the covers back and deposited her on it. Her face was puffy and blotchy and indignant, and he felt the familiar cramp under his breastbone he got each time he looked at her. Only this time it was stronger. So much stronger it hurt.
“I…” She swallowed. “You won’t…?”
“Just nap.” Instinct had him keeping his voice low, the way he might have sung a lullaby.
He sat down by her feet and took her shoes off, then stood again and tucked her under the covers. When he went to the windows and lowered the blinds, she only watched him.
Finally, he unfastened his shoelaces and kicked off his sneakers. In the dim light, he could see that her eyes were still big, like a baby owl’s, but she hadn’t protested again. Ben got under the covers, too, still wearing jeans, T-shirt and even socks. He wanted to gather her in his arms, but he didn’t. Instead, he stroked one finger down her still damp cheek, pushing a strand of hair back, behind her ear. And he smiled.
“Sleep, baby. Just sleep. I won’t go anywhere.”
“You’re weird,” she said again, her voice sounding funny.
“Yeah.” He caressed her cheek again. “I know. But go to sleep anyway. You’re safe. You can trust me.”
“I know,” Faith whispered. “I do know that.”
“Good.” His thumb wanted to touch her lips, but he didn’t let it, just stroked her cheek again, softly.
After a minute her eyes closed. She tucked her hand under her chin and relaxed.
As the afternoon wore on, Ben lay there at her side and watched her sleep. Even though it occurred to him that maybe he should call her dad and let him know where she was, he didn’t. Because he’d promised. He wasn’t going anywhere.
CHAPTER NINE
FAITH AWAKENED SLOWLY, as if swimming up through the shifting, flashing waters of her dreams. Even as consciousness returned, she felt clearheaded in a way she hadn’t in weeks.
She frowned. Why did she feel so good? Had she actually slept? At last?
And then her eyes opened and she saw the big man sprawled beside her, a pillow doubled under his head to give him some elevation over her. Her heart bounded in the moment of confusion. Ben?
A smile softened his hard mouth. “Hey,” he murmured.
Memory flooded back and she blurted, “Oh, my God.”
He grinned. “Yep. We did the nasty. We slept together again.”
With his eyes still smiling and that devilish grin carving a dimple in one lean cheek, crinkling the pale scar that ran from the crest of his cheekbone up one temple, his dark hair tousled, he was the sexiest man she’d ever seen and she was almost speechless.
Almost. “Oh, my God,” she said again, then in shock, “What time is it?”
“Ah…” He rolled over to look at a clock his body blocked from her sight. “Five-thirty.”
“Five-thirty? In the evening?” She sat up fast enough to make herself dizzy. “I told Dad I’d be back hours ago!”
“Give him a call. Tell him you’re staying for dinner.”
“I’m not.” Barely letting her vision clear, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and looked for her shoes.
“Sure you are.” Ben’s voice, behind her, was almost gentle. “Why wouldn’t you? Isn’t your dad capable of opening a can of soup?”
“Maybe I don’t want to.” Faith couldn’t look at him. Slipping on her shoes and tying them was a good excuse to avoid his gaze.
“And why wouldn’t you?” he said again. He’d settled on an armchair and was putting on his own shoes.
Swallowing, she took a quick survey of the room. His bedroom. Where she had spent the last—oh, my God—six hours sleeping on his bed.
The ceiling was high, befitting the age of the house, but slanted at one end, above a dresser. The walls were textured as if they’d been plastered and were painted a creamy white, and the molding and baseboards had obviously been stripped and restained a warm, maple brown. Only the wood floor itself still needed refinishing. He’d covered a good part of it with an oval braided rug in a plain navy blue. The bed was enormous; king-size, she guessed, which made sense given his height. It and the large, upholstered armchair were the only signs of luxury in here.
“You need paintings,” she said. “Something.”
He looked around. “Yeah. I just haven’t figured out what yet. And, hell, it’s not as if there aren’t other things to spend money on.”
“The roof,” she remembered.
Ben grimaced. “The roofer has been and gone, patched it up. He thinks it will hold up for the winter, but I’ll need to get a new roof come spring or summer.”
“Oh, dear.” She remembered her parents agonizing when they’d had to put a new roof on the farmhouse about fifteen years ago. It had been a financial calamity, the first of many, she thought now.
Ben stood. “How do you feel?”
Her standard fallback—fine—almost popped out, but the truth was, she felt amazing, as if the blood pumping through her fizzed with tiny bubbles, like champagne.
“Good,” she admitted. “I don’t like being bullied, but, um, for some reason I let go and really slept.” Faith felt heat climbing her cheeks. Some reason. They both knew what it was. Hurriedly she asked, “Did you nap?”
The intense satisfaction on his face should have annoyed her. Instead, it made her wonder if that’s how he’d look after sex. Except…more.
“Maybe dozed,” he said.
Maybe? Did that mean… “You didn’t stay all afternoon, did you?”
“Sure I did. I said I wouldn’t leave you.”
He’d lain there and watched her sleep. For hours. Oh, God. Did she snore? Drool? Snuffle? She couldn’t possibly have been a pretty sight.
So what? She’d given up wishing he thought she was pretty long ago, hadn’t she? He was a cop. The one who’d rushed to her aid over and over.
The one who hadn’t been able to stop Rory.
Her breath started coming faster, thoughts of Rory reawakening anguish.
Exasperation in his voice, Ben said, “Damn it, Faith, put the brakes on whatever you’re thinking about.”
&nb
sp; Startled, she met his dark eyes. “How did you—?”
“You started humming like an electrical wire.” He gripped her arm, hoisted her to her feet and started her for the door. “Come on. You can help me make dinner. That’ll get your mind off your troubles.”
“I can make dinner at home, thank you,” she snapped.
“I gave up my afternoon for you. You owe me dinner.”
At the top of the stairs, Faith pulled her arm free of his grip. “Oh, play the guilt card! You claimed to want me to come talk to you.”
“And I did.” He flashed another grin. “I still do. Over dinner. We didn’t actually get much talking done, you know.”
No, they hadn’t. She’d cried, and then… And then he’d swept her off her feet and carried her up to his bed.
Purely sexual hunger cramped between her legs. Faith hurried ahead of him down the stairs, wanting to hide her face. She knew she was blushing again.
The trouble was, while she’d wanted him from the beginning, she had no idea how to handle him in this mood. She wasn’t actually very experienced with men. There’d been one semiserious boyfriend when she was in college, and then Rory. And her relationship with Rory had been more…comfortable than passionate, until that inexplicable anger of his had destroyed it.
For the first time ever, it occurred to Faith to wonder whether her lack of passion had had something to do with his anger. Had he sensed that she wasn’t giving him something he needed? That she was capable of more, and holding back on him?
But she wasn’t! She hadn’t known then that another man could stir something so powerful, so…unsettling in her. She had loved Rory.
Or, a voice seemed to whisper in her ear, you thought you did.
No! She would not feel guilty for something she couldn’t help. She would have been faithful and loving and content, if only he’d been the man she had believed him to be. If, later, she had felt even the faintest stirring of these alarming feelings when she met the new police chief—and that was a big if, because she might never have had occasion to meet Ben Wheeler at all—she would have stifled them. Firmly and completely, because she was married and that was that.
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