by Nora Roberts
"Do you believe that? That it's your responsibility to take this? Do you believe that means you are supposed to stay for better or worse, even if worse means being beaten whenever he has the whim?"
"I used to. I tried to. I took vows, Regan." She took a shuddering breath, because to her that had always been the bottom line. She had promised. "Maybe I was too young when I married Joe. Maybe I made a mistake, but I still took the vows. He didn't keep them. There were those other women, he didn't even care if I knew who they were. He was never faithful, never kind. But I took vows and I wanted to keep them."
She began to cry again, quietly now, because she had failed. "We've been married ten years. We have children together. I make so many mistakes—using my tip money to buy those shoes for Connor, and letting Emma play dress-up with my lipstick. And we couldn't afford that washing machine. I was never any good in bed, not like those other women he'd go to. I knew—"
She broke off when Regan only continued to watch her.
"Are you hearing yourself this time?" Regan said quietly. "Are you listening to yourself, Cassie?"
"I can't stay with him anymore." Her voice broke, shattering like thin, fragile glass. "He's hitting me in front of the kids. He used to wait until they were in bed, and that was bad. But now he hits me in front of them, and he says terrible things. Things they shouldn't hear. It's not right. It makes them part of it, and it's not right."
"No, Cass, it's not right. You need help now."
"I thought about it all night." She hesitated, then slowly eased down the neck of her sweater.
At the sight of the raw marks scoring that pale, innocent flesh, Regan's face went white and cold. "Oh, dear God—he tried to strangle you."
"I don't think he meant to at first. I was crying, and he wanted me to stop. But then he did." Cassie lowered her hand again. "I could see it in his eyes. It wasn't just the drinking, or the money, or the other women he seems to want. He hated me just for being there. He'll hurt me again if he gets the chance, and I have to think about the kids. I have to go to Devin and file charges."
"Thank God."
"I had to come here first, to get up my nerve." Knowing there was no more point in them, Cassie wiped at the tears. "It's hard, being it's Devin. I've known him all my life. It's not like it's a secret. He's been out to the house I don't know how many times when the neighbors called in. But it's hard." She sighed. "Being it's Devin."
"I'll go with you."
Cassie closed her eyes. That was why she had come here, to have someone stand with her. No, she admitted, ashamed all over again. To have someone hold her up.
"No, I need to do it myself. I haven't thought about after," she said, and soothed her raw throat with a sip of tea. "I can't take the kids back to the house until I know what's going to happen."
"The shelter—"
Stubbornly, Cassie shook her head. "I know it's pride, Regan, but I can't go there. I can't take my kids there. Not yet, anyway."
"All right, then you'll stay here. Here," Regan repeated as Cassie protested. "I only have one extra bedroom, so you and the kids will have to rough it."
"We can't pile in on you that way."
"You were the first friend I made when I moved here. I want to help. So let me help."
"I could never ask you that, Regan. I've saved some tip and overtime money. Enough for a motel for a couple of days."
"You wouldn't want to hurt my feelings that way. You're going to stay at my place. For the kids," Regan murmured, knowing that nothing would tilt the scales as heavily.
"I'll go get them after I see Devin." She had no pride when it came to her children. "I'm awfully grateful, Regan."
"So am I. Now."
"What's this? Tea party during business hours?" Because his eyes were on Regan, Rafe had stepped into the office and tossed his coat over the back of a chair before he saw Cassie's face.
Regan was stunned to watch charm metamorphize into pure violence in a split second. The quick, potent grin sharpened into a snarl. His eyes fired. Her first startled thought, as that lean body tensed to spring, was wolf.
When his hand shot out, Cassie flinched, and Regan leapt to her feet. Before Regan could step between them with some wild idea of protecting Cassie, Rafe's fingers stroked, gentle as a kiss, over the battered face.
"Joe?"
"It—it was an accident," Cassie stammered.
His opinion of that was one vicious word. He swung around, blood in his eye. Cassie was on her feet and racing after him.
"No, Rafe, please don't do anything." Desperate, she pulled at his arm, all but jumped on his back. "Please don't go after him."
He could have knocked her aside with a shrug. It was that knowledge that added bitter fuel to the fire. "You stay here. Stay with Regan."
"No, please." Cassie began to weep again, helplessly, as she pulled at him. "Please. Don't make me any more ashamed than I already am."
"The bastard's going to pay this time." He bit the words out, started to set her aside and looked down. The tears did what fists and threats could never have done. They stopped him cold. "Cassie." Undone, he wrapped his arms around her and cradled her against his chest. "Don't cry, baby. Come on now, it's going to be all right."
From the doorway of the office, Regan watched him. How could there be such tenderness, she wondered, side by side with such savagery? He was holding Cassie as though she were a child, his head close to hers as he murmured to her.
Regan's own throat burned, and her own cheeks were wet when he lifted his head and looked at her.
Yes, the violence was still there, alive and restless in his eyes. Vital and fierce enough to steal her breath from her throat and make her stomach muscles quiver. She swallowed hard before she spoke.
"Bring her back in here, Rafe. Please."
Every nerve inside him was tensed for battle. He craved the hunt, the fight, the blood. But the woman in his arms was trembling. And the one who watched him with shocked, frightened eyes was quietly pleading.
"Come on, baby." As if she were a fretful child, Rafe tucked Cassie under his arm. "Come on, let's go sit down."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize to me." It took every ounce of control to lead her back into the office, to keep his voice easy on the words. "Don't apologize to anyone."
"She's going to Devin." Because her hands were shaking, Regan busied them with the tea and cups. "She's going to file charges. That's the right way to handle it."
"That's one way." He preferred his own, but he eased Cassie into a chair, brushed her hair way from her damp face. "Have you got a place to stay?"
Cassie nodded, took the tissues Regan handed her. "We're going to stay with Regan for a little while. Just until..."
"The kids okay?"
She nodded again. "I'm going to get them as soon as I see Devin."
"You tell me what you need, and I'll go by the house and pick it up for you."
"I... I don't know. I didn't take anything."
"You tell me later. Why don't I walk you down to the sheriff's office?"
She shuddered out a breath, mopped her face. "No, I need to do it by myself. I should go now."
"Here." Regan pulled open a drawer in her desk. "Here's a key to the door upstairs. You and the kids settle in." She put the key in Cassie's hand, closed her fingers over it. "And lock it, Cassie."
"I will. I'll go now." It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, just standing, walking to the door. "I always thought it would get better," she said, almost to herself. "I always hoped it would." She left, with her head bowed and her shoulders hunched.
"Do you know where he is?" Rafe murmured.
"No, I don't."
"Well, I'll find him." As he reached for his coat, Regan put her hand over his. His eyes lifted slowly to hers and burned. "Don't get in my way."
Instinct had her laying her other hand on his cheek, her mouth on his. The kiss was soft, soothing them both.
"What was that for?"
<
br /> "A couple of things." She took a deep breath, then put both hands on his shoulders. "For wanting to kick the bastard's face in." She kissed him again. "For not doing it because Cassie asked you." And again. "And last, for showing her that most men, real men, are kind."
"Damn." Defeated, he laid his brow on hers. "That's a hell of a way to keep me from killing him."
"Part of me would like you to. I'm not proud of it." As the anger stirred again, she turned back to the hot plate. "Part of me would like to watch while you beat him senseless. Even worse, I'd like a shot at him myself."
Rafe stepped over, uncurled the hand she'd balled into a fist. Thoughtfully, he lifted it, pressed his lips to the palm. "Well, well... And I figured you for a cream puff."
"I said I'm not proud of it." But she smiled a little. "It's not what she needs now. Violence is just what she needs to get away from. Even if it's justified."
"I've known her since she was a kid." Rafe glanced down at the tea Regan poured him, shook his head at it. It smelled like a meadow at springtime, and would undoubtedly taste the same.
"She was always little, pretty and shy. All this sweetness." At Regan's curious look, he shook his head again. "No. I never made any moves in that direction. Sweet's never been my type."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He stroked a hand over her hair, let his fingers drift into it, through it. "You're taking on a lot, letting her and the kids stay with you. I can take them out to the farm. We've got plenty of room."
"She needs a woman, Rafe, not a bunch of men— however well-intentioned. Devin will find him, won't he? And take care of it?"
"You can count on it."
Satisfied, she picked up her own tea. "Then I will, and so should you.'' Now that the step had been taken, she eyed him over her cup. "You must have come by for a reason."
"I wanted to look at you for a while." Her bland gaze had his lips curving. "And I figured to go over some of the wall treatments—and the parlor furniture. I want to complete that one room, give me a feel for the rest."
"That's a nice idea. I—" She broke off at the sound of movement and voices from the shop. "I've got customers. Everything's here—the paint samples and fabrics, itemized lists of furnishings."
"I picked up some samples of my own."
"Oh, well, then..." She crossed to the desk, booted up her computer. "I have a room-by-room rundown here. Why don't you go over it? Several of the pieces I've suggested are here. You can take a look at them when you've finished here."
"All right."
Thirty minutes later, flush with three sales, Regan stepped back into the office. He looked so big, she thought, so...male, sitting at her lovely little Chippendale desk. She could smell him—wood dust, soot, oil.
His boots were scarred, his shirt was ripped at the shoulder. There were traces of plaster or drywall dust in his hair.
She thought he was the most magnificent animal she had ever seen. And she wanted him with a kind of primal, mindless lust.
Whoa! To steady herself, she pressed a hand to her jumpy stomach, took three deep breaths.
"Well, what do you think?"
"You're an efficient woman, Regan." Without turning, he flipped open a file with printouts of her lists. "It doesn't look like you've missed a trick."
Flattered, she walked over to look over his shoulder. "I'm sure we'll need to adjust, add a few details after we see one of the rooms completed."
"I've already made some adjustments."
She straightened again. "Oh, really?"
"This color's out." Briskly he tapped the paint chip, then located the page on-screen where her colors were listed. "I ditched this pea green here for—what's it called? Yeah. Loden."
"The original color is accurate."
"It's ugly."
Yes, it was, but— "It's accurate," she insisted. "I researched very carefully. The one you've chosen is entirely too modern for the 1800s."
"Maybe. But it won't spoil anyone's appetite. Don't get your panties in a twist, darling." When her breath hissed out at that, he chuckled and turned around in the chair. "Listen, you're doing a hell of a job here. I have to admit, I didn't expect this much detail, certainly not so fast. You've got a real feel for it."
She didn't care to be placated. "You hired me to help you reconstruct a particular era, and that's what I'm doing. It was your choice to make the house look the way it did in the past."
"And it's my choice to make adjustments. We've got to make some room here for aesthetics and modern taste. I've had a look at your place upstairs, Regan. It's a little too much on the female side for me—"
"Fortunately, that's hardly the issue here," she told him, stiffening all over again.
"And so neat a man'd be afraid to put his feet up," Rafe continued smoothly. "But you've got taste. I'm just asking you to use it, along with research and accuracy."
"It seems to me we're talking about your taste. If you're going to change the guidelines, at least make them clear."
"Are you always so rigid, or is it just with me?"
She refused to stoop to answering such an insulting question. "You asked for accuracy. I don't care to have rules changed in midstream."
Considering, Rafe picked up the paint chip that had started the ball rolling. "One question. Do you like this color?"
"That's not the point—"
"Simple question. Do you like it?"
Her breath whistled between her teeth. "Of course not. It's hideous."
"There you go. Guidelines are, if you don't like it, it doesn't fly."
"I can't take the responsibility."
"I'm paying you to take it." Since that settled the matter as far as he was concerned, he turned back to the screen, and scanned down the displays. "You got this what-do-you-call-it in stock, right? Isn't that what this I.S. stands for?"
"Yes. The double chairback settee." Her heart dropped to her feet. She'd bought it the week before at auction, with his parlor in mind. If he rejected it, her books were going straight into the red. "It's in the shop," she continued, keeping her voice coolly professional. "I've put a hold on it."
"So, let's take a look. I want to see this fire-screen and these tables."
"You're the boss," she muttered under her breath, and led the way.
Her nerves strained as she stopped by the settee. It was a gorgeous piece, and it had had a price to match. However much she coveted it, she would never have made the bid if she hadn't had a customer in the wings.
Now, she thought of that customer—the scarred boots, the ripped shirt, the potent aura of man. What had she been thinking of, she wondered frantically, imagining Rafe MacKade approving of an elegant, curvy, and decidedly feminine piece such as this?
"Ah, it's walnut..." she began, running a suddenly icy hand over the carved arm. "Around 1850. It's been reupholstered, of course, but the material is very much in keeping with the era. You can see the double-shaped backs are centered by a circular upholstered panel. The workmanship is first-rate, and the seat is surprisingly comfortable."
He grunted and crouched down to peer under the seat. "Pricey little thing."
"It's sixty-nine inches wide, and well worth the expense."
"Okay."
She blinked. "Okay?"
"Yeah. If I stay on schedule, I should have the parlor ready by the weekend. I could take delivery on this by Monday, unless I tell you different." He glanced up at her. "That suit you?"
"Yes." She realized she'd lost all feeling below the knees. "Of course."
"C.O.D. all right? I don't have my checkbook on me."
"That'll be fine."
"Let's see the Pembroke table."
"The Pembroke table." She looked dizzily around the shop. "Over here."
He straightened, holding back a grin. He wondered if she had any idea that, for a few minutes there, she'd been clear as glass. He doubted it.
"What's this?"
Distracted, she stopped. "Oh, that's a display tab
le. Satinwood and mahogany."
"I like it."
"You like it," she repeated.
"It'd look good in the parlor, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, I had it down as a possibility."
"Send it over with the couch thing. Is this the Pembroke here?"
All she could do was nod weakly. When he left, an hour later, she was still nodding.
Rafe headed straight to the sheriff's office. He'd have to put in a couple of hours overtime on the job, but he wasn't leaving town until he knew Joe Dolin was in a cage.
When he stepped inside, he found Devin tilted back in his chair, his feet propped on his battered metal desk. Devin's uniform consisted of a cotton shirt, faded jeans and boots worn down at the heel. His only concession to his position was the star on his chest.
He was reading a dog-eared copy of The Grapes of Wrath.
"And you're responsible for law and order in this town."
In his slow, deliberate way, Devin marked his place and set the book aside. "That's what they tell me. Always got a cell waiting for you."
"If you've got Dolin in one, I wouldn't mind you putting me in with him for five minutes or so."
"He's back there."
With a nod, Rafe walked to the coffeemaker. "Have any trouble with him?"
Devin's lips curved in a lazy and wicked smile. "Just enough to make it fun. I'll have a cup of that."
"How long can you keep him in there?"
"That's not up to me."
Devin reached out for the chipped mug Rafe offered. Since he insisted on making the coffee himself, it was the MacKade brew. Hot, strong and black as night.
"We'll transfer him to Hagerstown," Devin went on. "He'll get himself a public defender. If Cassie doesn't back down, he'll have his day in court."
Rafe sat on the corner of the cluttered desk. "You think she'll back down?"
Fighting frustration, Devin shrugged. "This is the closest she's ever come to doing anything about things. The son of a bitch has been pounding on her for years. Probably started on her on their wedding night. She can't weigh more than a hundred pounds. Got bones like a bird." His usually calm eyes went molten. "She's got bruises around her throat where he choked her."