Trust No One (Vista Security)

by Diana Layne

  She struggled to pull herself back in control. She leaned away. “I’m getting your shirt all wet.”

  He released her, handed her the box of tissues on the bedside table, pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out.” She blew her nose. No delicate way around it. Tears and snotty noses went together. She hated crying. “Doesn’t happen often.”

  “I guess you’re overdue.”

  She nodded. “Probably.” That was an understatement. She hadn’t cried yet over Keith, over her . . . physical losses. She hadn’t even cried at her parents’ deaths. At least not in public. She’d only cried for them once in the darkness, with her face buried in her pillow. She ended up with a headache to compound the emptiness and realized crying wouldn’t change a damn thing. Then. Or now.

  “Time to get you out of here.” Niko left to search for the doctor and the necessary paperwork for her release.

  She wondered if she would feel better at home. Her apartment had hardly been more than a place to park her few belongings. She rarely spent time there. Another new experience in a list of things she hadn’t planned.

  At her apartment building, he helped her up the stairs, and unlocked her front door. “Nice place,” he said diplomatically. “A little bare, but possibilities.”

  “You’re telling me yours isn’t bare, too?”

  He smiled good-naturedly, unable to deny the truth. “It is. Never there long enough.”

  “I guess I’ll have time now, you’ll have to come back to see how I decorate.”

  “Okay.”

  He took care of everything, ordered food, made sure she ate, even helped her to the bathroom. She hated being weak, hated depending on him, but knew she had little choice, and so was grateful for the help he offered.

  That first night home she experienced the nightmare for the first time. Niko came to her room when she cried out. Seeing her shaking, and crying again, he climbed into bed beside her. She spooned against him; he scooted close behind her, arms wrapped carefully around her to avoid her stitches. His warm hard body felt so good, so comfortable. Familiar, even. She went back to sleep with him kissing the back of her head and murmuring soft assurances.

  He stayed three days, got her set up with a full-time nurse. Then, as quickly as he walked into her life, he walked out again. Off to another assignment.

  She mourned the loss. Cried buckets of tears. For Niko. For Keith. For never being able to have children. And it still didn’t change a damn thing, still left her with a headache.

  Eventually she dried her eyes. A few decorating magazines showed up on her doorstep. She decided to decorate.

  * * *

  MJ entered the cabin, carrying the medicine from the pharmacy and sacks of food she’d bought at a small mom and pop grocery store—enough to last a couple of days. She set the bags on the slick, early American style dining table. No rough pine furniture for Lauryn’s decorating, and apparently Tasha hadn’t changed a thing since she bought the cabin.

  With a scan of the main room to make sure nothing had changed since she left, MJ went to the bedroom to check on Ben.

  He lay sleeping, an uneasy sleep, his face red, his eyes twitching, his head moving from side to side, his moans interspersed with an occasional muttered, “no”. Obviously having a bad dream. MJ understood all too well, and wondered what gave Ben nightmares.

  With a gasp of air, he jerked awake, staring at her with a glazed, confused gaze.

  “Bad dream?” she asked from the doorway.

  He blinked, frowned, his eyes focused.

  She walked over, touched his head, nearly snatched her hand away from the heat.

  “You came back.” His voice sounded dry, raspy.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I brought medicine and some food. I can make you soup or spaghetti rings.”

  “Spaghetti rings? What’s that?”

  “What it sounds like. A real delicacy. Angel loves them.”

  He grimaced. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

  “That’s a joke, right? You’ve already been a whole mess of trouble."

  “Some girls get all the luck.”

  “That’s me, Lucky. Luck just follows me like the smell of cow shit on a boot.” She repeated his words.

  He jerked his gaze to her and smiled. “Smart ass.”

  He struggled to sit up in bed when she brought in the food and placed it on the night table. He eyed the chair she pulled up beside him. “I think I can feed myself mommy.”

  She ignored his dig. “Thought you’d want company.”

  Over their meal, soup for him, spaghetti rings for her, she told him about talking to Jeff and they debated when or if Tasha would show up. He managed to eat the soup, but he still looked flushed and in obvious need of sleep. She could identify with the sleep part.

  “Now that you have food in your stomach, we can get those antibiotics in you.”

  “We can, can we?”

  MJ realized she’d slipped into plural pronouns again. “Oh, shut up,” she said as she picked up their empty bowls.

  “You ate it,” he said with a touch of admiration in his voice, looking at her empty bowl coated with sauce.

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “Worse for me was termites in Botswana.”

  “I’ve eaten termites. And grubs too. A stir fried dragonfly once. Spaghetti rings are definitely better.”

  He looked at her with a new respect. “Maybe.”

  Or his eyes could be glazing from the fever.

  MJ went after the medicine and water, handed it to him. “Did you do most of your work in South Africa? I thought with your coloring you’d be in the Middle East?"

  “I was,” he said before he swallowed the pill. “South Africa was a trip outside the norm.”

  “Any family in the Middle East?"

  He shook his head. “No, just a hodgepodge of ancestors and I get this coloring.” He set the glass of water on the night table.

  Whatever the hodgepodge, the man looked good, aside from signs of being sick. It irritated her that she noticed. Further irritated her that she reacted.

  “So what are you doing on an assignment like this?”

  He closed his eyes, his long dark lashes fanning against his chiseled cheeks. When he opened them, MJ looked away, not wanting him to catch her ogling him.

  He seemed to hesitate, whether to gather strength or gather his thoughts, she wasn’t sure.

  “Jeff didn’t want me to retire.”

  “And he thought this job would inspire you to keep working?” Disbelief rang through her voice. “This is not a great assignment, y’know.”

  “So you’ve told me. Often.” He twisted his lips, perhaps he meant it as a smile but it came out more as a grimace. “He didn’t want me to retire from life,” Ben explained.

  She stared, did he mean . . . .

  “I was taking too much comfort in Southern Comfort. And tequila.” When he met her steady gaze, he shrugged. “And rum."

  Understanding dawned. “Job gone bad?”

  “Bad doesn’t describe it.” Pain passed over his face, a pain beyond what a mere gunshot wound would cause.

  No wonder he looked so ill; he was injured and going without alcohol. If he’d been drinking enough to alarm Jeff, then Ben had to be missing the booze. Should he be in rehab? Surely Jeff wouldn’t send Ben out if he needed to be in a hospital instead?

  Still, MJ knew the perils of a job going bad and doing what you could to forget the pain. “I understand,” she told him.

  Their gazes met, held, and for a moment she felt a connection with him, a disturbing, somehow familiar connection. Unsettled to the point of alarm, she had to look away.

  She was picking at an imagined spot of lint on her shirt when he said, “You might understand at that.”

  His look felt as real as a to
uch, his perception way too close to the truth. No. There could be no alliance between them.

  MJ pulled practicality around her like a heavy, no nonsense blanket. Short on fluff but it kept a person warm. And being a practical person, knowing how impractical it would be to get lost in his big brown eyes, she stared at a point just above his left brow and told him, “You probably need to rest.”

  “Probably.”

  His less than enthusiastic response made her stop the battle with herself and reluctantly she looked at him again, in spite of her intentions. “Bad dreams keep you from sleeping?” she guessed, unable to squelch her compassion no matter how much she tried.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You were tossing and moaning when I got back,” she said before admitting, “I’ve been there.”

  “Alcohol helped me sleep.”

  “Not long term.”

  “You speak from experience?”

  “Yeah.” She straightened the blanket over his chest, awkwardness at just standing and doing nothing catching up to her. “I found cuddling Angelina works better with the bad dreams.”

  “You make her sound like a teddy bear.”

  MJ considered, turned her lips up into a small smile. “That’s a good description. A cuddly warm teddy bear.”

  “What? You sleep with her or do you wake her after a dream?” No question she still had them.

  “I sleep with her.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That method definitely wouldn’t work for me.”

  “You don’t like kids.” She made a flat statement. A lot of people didn’t like children, no quibbles there. Even she had thought she didn’t like kids when she’d been working. And no doubt about it, children were a hindrance to a job like theirs.

  He didn’t answer; it was his turn to look away. Sadness poured off him in waves, and she felt compelled to touch his hand even while she silently cursed her weakness.

  “I didn’t mean you had to like kids. I always seem to talk about Angel these days.”

  “I can understand that.” He squeezed her hand. She didn’t want to acknowledge his touch felt good. Instead, she tried to unobtrusively withdraw her hand. But he wouldn’t let go.

  “There are better things to live for than being drunk. You know that. You just have to find it.”

  “Yes, mommy.”

  He startled a grin out of her. “I suppose I am lecturing.”

  He made a weird move, between a nod and a shrug. “A little.”

  “I’ll let you sleep.” She tried again to free her hand, but this time he pulled it up close to his mouth where she was forced to pay attention.

  “Since Angelina’s not here with you, if you have a bad dream tonight, you can come cuddle with me.” His lips brushed her knuckles.

  She jerked her hand away without a thought of being rude. The image of her snuggled next to him had plastered itself so completely on her traitorous brain she had to create some distance.

  Nope. No climbing in bed with Ben, she lectured herself. No matter how good the thought sounded. She forced a chuckle. “Dream on.”

  “I might just do that,” he said with a drug-induced smile.

  Shaking her head, she left the room but the image didn't leave her mind. It wasn’t a bad image, no, not at all. Their bodies side by side, legs and arms tangled. A warm feeling came over her. Too much time had passed since she cuddled with a man, but she didn’t want to break her fast with Ben.

  And for good reason, she reminded herself. She opened the flowered sofa sleeper she and Tasha used to share. MJ put the sheets on the thin mattress.

  Tonight MJ got the sofa all to herself. And though weariness made her steps drag, she didn’t know if she’d be able to sleep. She wanted Tasha to show up. She wanted to get back home, get on with her life, a life without Vista. Or Ben. Especially without Ben. And at this moment she especially wanted to quit thinking about climbing into bed with tall, dark and handsome.

  She tossed a lightweight pillow onto the mattress, and plopped down to take off her shoes. She realized she needed to change Ben’s bandage. Damn. She was simply too tired, too long without sleep. He hadn’t made a word of complaint either. He’d be okay until morning.

  She realized too, she’d like a shower but while she’d brought back gasoline, she didn’t want to strain the generator to heat up that much water. She didn’t have the energy to go to the trouble for that either. So she settled for washing her face, wiping off the rest of her body with the wet cloth, and brushing her teeth before crawling under the covers.

  She hoped neither she nor Ben had bad dreams.

  Chapter 12

  The sun startled MJ awake the next morning. Used to getting up early and being at work before the sun rose, she couldn’t believe she’d slept so late. Too many hours without sleep, too many years out of the business. Her body simply shut down.

  But there were things to do, and so she hopped out of bed soon after she opened her eyes. A few minutes later she had food ready, and mentally steeled herself to face Ben. Hopefully in the light of day she’d have more control over her unwanted attraction. She took a deep breath before she opened the door.

  “Breakfast,” she announced and popped through the open bedroom door. She’d slept well, no dreams at all, but Ben looked less than refreshed. She’d awakened a couple of times during the night to listen for him, but she hadn’t ventured into the room.

  Ben slit one eye open, his gaze drifted from her then to the tray in her hand, actually a baking pan she’d converted for the purpose. He closed his eye. “No thanks.”

  “Not an option. You have to take your medicine. With food, see?” She balanced the tray on one hand and showed him the sticker on the bottle of antibiotics.

  “Later,” he answered keeping his eyes tightly shut.

  Thick dark stubble covered his face, another couple of days he’d have a beard. Small thin lines accented his pinched lips, his forehead wrinkled in deeper grooves, from pain or withdrawal or exhaustion she couldn’t tell.

  She sighed loudly. “Is it just universal that men are the worst patients?”

  “No lectures,” he warned, but his voice lacked power.

  “It would be useless to lecture,” she agreed. “Men’s ears are perpetually closed, and they never hear a thing.” She sat the tray on the chest of drawers close to his bed. “So I’m not lecturing. You’re going to get up. Eat something. And take your medicine to get better if I have to sit on you and force it down your throat. I’m on a tight schedule here, and you’re wasting my damn time.”

  He finally opened both eyes to glare at her. With a growl he turned sideways. “Just like a woman, nag, nag, nag.” The harsh effect he’d probably intended was weakened by a slightly green look around his face. Was he going to be sick?

  He tossed the covers back and lurched to his feet. At some point during the night, he’d ditched his jeans and the burning question “boxer or briefs?” was now answered.

  He lurched his way to the bathroom. She refrained from offering to help, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any interference.

  Instead she called after him, “You’re lucky I’m here to take care of your sorry ass. I’m not a nurse, you know.”

  He slammed the bathroom door.

  She thought about how he’d looked as he stumbled toward the bathroom. Yeah, he’d been shot, but it’d been a clean wound. And yeah, he was running a fever, but he’d had a dose of antibiotics and something to bring down his temperature, and he was strong enough physically.

  So the alcohol was causing him as much trouble as the gunshot.

  He fumbled his way back to the room, crawled onto the bed, and lay down face first on top of the covers. The navy blue boxers might be looser fitting than briefs, but the material framed his muscled butt well enough. Must think of something else besides the well-shaped butt covered only in thin cotton and long muscled legs stretching naked beyond the flimsy material. Thank goodness he still wore a shirt so she didn’t have the
opportunity to stare at his naked back as well.

  “How many days have you been sober?”"

  He mumbled to the bed, but it sounded like he said “too many”.

  “Still going through withdrawal?”

  He turned his head, face toward the wall. “Is that what this is? I thought I was dying.”

  She allowed a brief smile to pass over her face at his dark humor before she walked over to the bed and touched his uninjured shoulder. A muscle flinching was his only reaction.

  “Eat,” she ordered, picking up a toaster pastry for herself.

  He rolled over, looked at her. One eyebrow raised. “What the hell are you eating?”

  Do not let your eyes travel down to the front of the boxers, she told herself. Answer the question. “A toaster pastry, but it’s not toasted, no toaster. Which is why we don’t have toast. But I do have bread for sandwiches later.” She took a bite. “Cherry, yum.” Definitely needed toasting, but it was better to concentrate on eating than on the almost nude man on top of the covers. She resisted the urge to tell him to climb back under the blankets. No need to let him know that his bare legs or what hid behind the fly on those boxers, was distracting her.

  “Is that more junk you feed your kid?”

  “Only occasionally,” MJ said without a touch of guilt. She liked the sugary things more than Angel. “And these were in such a cute princess box. Angel will love it.”

  “You want me to eat Princess Pastries?” he asked, seeming to have trouble grasping the concept.

  She almost laughed at the look on his face. “You could pretend you’re a prince.” Even the most sensitive of men would have trouble with that, and men who worked at Vista never scored high on the sensitivity scale. Got in the way of the killing they had to do.

  Before he could answer, she shook her head. “No that’s too much of a stretch. So I bought you these.” She tossed him a granola bar sending it to a perfect landing on the bed just in front of his nose. “I know you’re such a connoisseur.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  “Eat it, you’ll feel better.”

  Reluctance evident in every move, he sat up, ripped open the package, tossed the wrapper on the floor. With a sullen look on his face he took a bite and chewed.