After Midnight

by Grimm, Sarah

  She stepped back. He caught the flash of uncertainty in her eyes as she tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.

  “Let me know if you decide you want something to eat,” she said, then glanced over her shoulder to the customers at the other end of the bar. Her cheeks were colorless, her eyes a pale gray. “I need to see if they need anything.”

  He reached out, slid his hand across the top of the bar as if he could keep her from walking away. “Isabeau.”

  Her gaze dropped to his hand before rising to meet his. “Yes?”

  He wasn’t ready for their conversation to end. Not after her silence the past few weeks. Hoping to keep her from running off, he said, “We didn’t place our supper order with you tonight.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He curled his hand around the lager bottle. “What did I miss?”

  “Creamy garlic potato soup.”

  “And the sandwich special?”

  “Izzy’s Secret.”

  Did he dare ask?

  “Marinated chicken breast on a whole wheat bun,” she supplied.

  Okay, he had to know. “What’s the secret?”

  “The marinade. Don’t order it unless you like it hot.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do like it hot.”

  A small smile tickled the corners of her lips. “Are we still talking food?”

  “You are. I’m not.”

  She stared at him for a long, silent beat. Then, the most amazing thing happened—she smiled at him. Her eyes sparked as she broke into an open, friendly smile that ended in a laugh. And in the way you only read about in one of those sappy paperback novels, his world shifted.

  He stared back at her, a little stunned. “So you can do it.”

  “What?”

  “Smile at me.”

  “I smile at you.”

  “No, Isabeau, you don’t.”

  Her smile faded. A curious mix of emotions flashed in her eyes. She lifted her chin a fraction, opened her mouth as if to comment, and was interrupted by a drunken bellow from the other end of the bar.

  “Izzzzy,” it slurred, drawing out the name in a way that set his back up. “Another!”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. “It’s time to go, Tommy,” she replied, her voice pitched so that he could hear her. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

  “Another,” the man growled as he slammed his empty glass down with enough force the resulting reverberation overpowered the music.

  Isabeau drew herself up to her full height, summoning a smile that didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “Excuse me, Noah. I’ve got to take care of this.”

  Spine straight and looking six feet tall, which she was nowhere near even with the three-inch heels she habitually wore, Isa turned and crossed to stand before Tommy. She removed his empty glass and placed it in the tiny sink before her with one hand, while the other ran a cloth across the bar.

  “Whiskey,” Tommy commanded. The menace in his voice matched the gleam in his eyes.

  Noah glanced over his shoulder, relieved to find Adam no longer sat comfortably by the door, but stood, his focus on the drunken patron.

  “No,” Isa replied to the demand for more whiskey. “I can either get you coffee, or a cab. Which will it be?”

  Hands clenched, the man surged to his feet. He was tall, taller than Noah’s own six one, and twice as wide as Isabeau, but she didn’t seem to notice. She kept her eyes leveled with his as temper caused his body to vibrate. “You’ve had enough, Tommy.”

  “Who are you to tell me when I’ve had enough?”

  “I’m the woman who owns this bar.”

  Anger flashed in his eyes. His jaw ticced. “Bitch,” he spat out.

  She held her ground. A few seconds passed, then a few more.

  The drunk staggered off in the direction of the restrooms.

  Muscles coiled, Noah kept his eyes on the man until he disappeared from view. Realizing he held a crushing grip on the bottle, he forced his fingers to relax.

  “Sorry about that, Larry,” Isabeau said to the man remaining.

  “Tommy never could hold his liquor.”

  “I know,” she replied softly, then picked up her rag, rounded the bar and began to wipe down the tables.

  Larry stood, tossed a few bills on the bar and headed for the door.

  Noah pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He forced tense muscles to relax. The song on the stereo changed, smoothly transitioning from one chart topper to the next. As the first few chords rang out, the sound of breaking glass split the air.

  Noah jerked around in time to see Tommy vise his hand around Isabeau’s upper arm and slam her against the wall. He pressed his body intimately against hers, muttering something meant for only her ears. His hand tightened on her upper arm. Pain flashed across Isa’s face, yet she made no sound.

  Noah came off the stool like a shot. Halfway to her, Adam stopped him.

  “I’ll take care of this,” the bouncer growled. He crossed the room faster than Noah thought the big man capable. They were about the same size, Adam and Tommy, but the bouncer had the advantage of being sober. He grabbed the arm not holding Isabeau and twisted it behind Tommy’s back. “Let her go.”

  Tommy released Isabeau. Adam released Tommy. He stepped in front of the big man, using his body as a shield. “Izzy, you okay?”

  Adam never took his eyes off Tommy, but Noah did. Isabeau remained against the wall, her right hand wrapped protectively around her left upper arm. Her voice was even and controlled as she replied, “Yes. I’m fine.”

  Her eyes told a different story.

  “You want me to have him hauled in?”

  “No. Just, on your way out, see that he gets into a cab.”

  Adam checked over his shoulder. “Izzy?”

  “It’s okay. I’m going to call it a night. Turn the lock for me, will you, Adam?”

  “Sure, Izzy, no problem.”

  Adam might not have a problem leaving Isabeau alone, but Noah did. Was he the only one who could tell her calm was only an illusion?

  “Consider yourself lucky, Tommy,” Adam continued, guiding the man toward the door with a hand to the back of his neck. “Left up to me, I’d have you strung up by your balls.”

  Tommy continued walking toward the door without comment. Adam stopped, motioned to Noah, “You, too, let’s go.”

  Isabeau leaned against the wall, staring without focus at the far side of the room. Her color was bad. Her breathing shallow.

  Noah shook his head. “I don’t think—”

  “No thinking. It’s closing time. Let’s go.”

  “It’s all right, Adam,” Isabeau assured the big man. “Noah can stay. I need to talk to him.”

  Noah waited until they were alone. “Isabeau, are you really okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not being completely honest with me?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied. She hugged herself and closed her eyes. Her right hand moved against her left arm, her long, slender fingers massaging. “I just need a minute.”

  “Can I do something?”

  “No.”

  Noah shoved his hands in his pockets and gave her the time she asked for. He felt helpless, and he didn’t like it one damn bit. The urge to envelop her in his arms was powerful. Isabeau didn’t like him to touch her, and if she didn’t like him to touch her, she definitely wouldn’t want him to hold her.

  Minutes passed before she whispered, “I never saw him coming.”

  “Neither did I,” he replied tightly. He should have kept an eye on Tommy. He knew the guy was angry and drunk—a bad combination under any circumstance. “How bad did he hurt you?”

  Her eyes opened. The fingers on her upper arm stilled. “It’s nothing.”

  “No? Then you won’t mind if I have a look.” He closed the space between them, and stared down at her, his chest tight. “Let me see your arm, Isabeau.”
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br />   She dropped her hand, exposing an angry red ring left by a man holding her with great force. At the back of her arm, he could clearly make out the mark of each individual finger. He swore under his breath. “You’re going to have a bruise.”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. He found that as unsettling as her admission.

  “You’ve had worse.” He had no idea what to think. “You mean from a fall or an accident of some kind?”

  Slowly her eyes rose to meet his. In them was something he didn’t want to see. Alarm clanged in his skull. Sweat gathered at his lower back. His body tightened like a bow. “What are you saying?”

  She dragged the heel of her palm across her forehead. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” A hard knot settled in his gut. “Who are we talking about? A friend? A lover?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “What is it?”

  Her eyes held his, pale and full of things he couldn’t name. Turning away, she started across the room.

  “Tell me what it is. Explain this to me.”

  She went still for a beat, then turned back. “Let go of me, Noah.”

  “Let…” He followed her gaze down to where his hand grasped her elbow. When had he reached for her? “Isa.”

  Her skin was cold. Shivers wracked her body. He eased her closer to his warmth.

  “Please let me go.”

  Because she looked like she was about to come apart at the seams, he released her elbow. “I would never hurt you.”

  “It’s not that.” She glanced up at him, then quickly away.

  The tears in her eyes killed him. “Isabeau.”

  “I can’t, Noah.”

  “What can’t you do?”

  A tear slipped down her cheek, and she dashed it away with a swipe of her hand. “I can’t have you touch me.”

  He balled his hands against the ache in his gut. He wouldn’t have guessed her admission could cause such pain. “Fine. I won’t touch you.”

  Shaking her head, she took an audible breath. Then another. “You don’t understand,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I want to. I want to understand.”

  She blinked, spilling tears down her cheeks. This time, she made no move to wipe them away. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “Isabeau—”

  “I didn’t want to cry in front of you.” She looked up at him, and the misery in her eyes made his throat tighten. “I knew I would...if you touched me.”

  He didn’t know what to say to her. He did know that there was no way in hell he was going to stand there and watch as she shook apart in front of him.

  Reaching out, he folded her in his arms. Her back went rigid, and he braced himself, prepared for her to pull away. She didn’t.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured, stroking her back with his hand. “It’s over.”

  Slowly the rigidity went out of her spine, and she swayed against him, pressing her face against the center of his chest as she wept softly.

  His hand made a gentle pass over her hair. He couldn’t help himself. “It’s all right now.”

  She melted against him, and the tension in his own body began to ease. Finally she was right where he’d wanted her from the beginning. With a sigh, he rested his cheek against the top of her head.

  “No one is going to hurt you again.”

  Chapter Four

  Isabeau didn’t know which she found more comforting, the husky baritone of Noah’s voice or the slow, steady beat of his heart in her ear. In contrast, her own heart raced with residual fear and disgust. Even now, she could still feel the pain of Tommy’s hand brutally clamping around her arm. The panic as his body pinned hers to the wall.

  Without warning, the terror slammed into her. She shuddered, then melted into Noah, pressing her face to his chest. Her fingers fisted in his shirt.

  He hugged her closer, his voice a whisper against her temple. “He’s gone.” A big hand cupped the nape of her neck. “It’s over.”

  Gradually, her tears ebbed. Her shivers eased as she soaked up the warmth of his body, the security of his embrace. She drew in a ragged breath meant to fill her lungs with oxygen and restore her equilibrium. Instead, it filled her with his provocative scent.

  She turned her face to his throat and absorbed the sensations. He held her so close, her breasts molded against his chest. His thigh rested between hers, his left hand spread wide against the skin of her lower back. Her nerves hummed as she became aware of the tips of his fingers beneath her waistband. A whisper of desire slashed through her.

  Easing back, she tipped her head and looked up. She sucked in a breath when she found his eyes locked on her. An electric current ran through her. Her heart climbed into her throat. A kiss. She wanted just one kiss. To close the space between them…

  She took a step sideways, out of his arms.

  “Isabeau.”

  God, she loved the way he said her name, how it rolled off his tongue like a sigh. It stirred something inside her, dropped the bottom out of her stomach. The same way the thought of learning his taste did.

  She took another step in retreat.

  “Isa?”

  His fingers worked the buttons of his chambray shirt loose. She could only stare, heart securely lodged in her throat as each one popped free, revealing a bit more of the T-shirt he wore beneath.

  “Are you still with me?”

  She’d never felt more lost. Still trapped in the web of desire for him, she didn’t know what he was talking about, or why he was removing his shirt.

  He moved behind her, and her eyes slid closed. She started when he touched her, eased the shirt up her arms. The soft cotton carried his scent. Still warm from his body, it felt like being enveloped in his arms again.

  “To chase away your chill,” he explained, and he lifted her hair out from beneath the shirt. His fingers brushed her neck and every nerve ending went on high alert.

  Oh God, how was it possible that hot on the heels of revulsion could creep lust? Her eyes snapped open. A rush of heat moved down her chest.

  His hands settled on her shoulders, and he turned her to face him. Unable to look him in the eye for fear he would be able to see what path her thoughts veered down, she concentrated on the shirt he still wore.

  Although sleeveless now, she didn’t believe it originally had been. Navy, worn and on the comfortable side, it clung to him in all the right places, emphasizing his broad shoulders. Her gaze wandered to the play of muscle in his arms and the tattoo on his right shoulder as he began to roll up the sleeves of the shirt she swam in.

  The image of a skull decorated his upper arm. As a woman, she didn’t understand the male attraction to skeletons and skulls, but as the honorary daughter of a talented tattoo artist, she recognized quality body art when she saw it. Off center and primitive in design, this was not it.

  “I know someone who could fix that for you.”

  He glanced in the same direction as she before switching to the other sleeve. “You know about tattoos?”

  “A bit,” she understated. Her eyes flicked downward. “Do you do this often?”

  “I have a niece who liked to play dress up in her younger years.”

  “And you would oblige her?”

  Finished with her sleeve, he tucked his hands into his back pockets. “Does that surprise you?”

  She considered him for a moment. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I never thought of you as an uncle.”

  “How do you think of me?”

  As the man who made her body hum with one look. Whose presence in the same room set off a symphony in her head, and whose touch sparked an electrical current. But also, as a man who wanted something from her she didn’t have in her to give.

  His eyebrow arched. “Is it that bad?”

  “No. It’s that complicated.” He hadn’t moved his gaze from her face, and h
er pulse kicked up a few beats. She stared back at him, curling her hand around the spot on her arm that continued to throb. “I’m sorry I cried all over you.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. You were frightened. Hurting. You should press charges.”

  “I can’t do that.” She turned, started for the bar. “I’m going to pour myself a cup of coffee. Would you like one?”

  “Sure.”

  Isabeau slipped through the pass-through and retrieved two mugs while he sat on the stool in front of her. She filled the mugs, moved back around the bar, and handed him one. “I didn’t ask you how you take it.”

  “This is fine. Why can’t you press charges?”

  “I can’t cause him any more pain.”

  “Who?”

  She blew across her mug, then sipped. “My father.”

  “Your father? I thought your father had passed.”

  She eased onto the stool next to him and curled her chilled hands around her mug. “My biological father has. I mean the man who was a father to me in every other way, Thomas Cahill.”

  “It’s not a coincidence that they share a name, is it?” His voice held no hint of the frustration that she could see in the tight set of his jaw.

  “No, it isn’t.” She shifted her hold on the mug, welcomed the warmth slowly seeping into her hands. “Thomas is Tommy’s father. Thomas and his wife divorced when Tommy was a boy. Tommy’s mother raised him.”

  “Let me guess, you were raised by his father?”

  She nodded. “My mother and Thomas met when I was two. We moved in with him not long after. They were together until her death.”

  “What was your mother’s name?”

  “Nicole,” she supplied, smiling as the image of her mother flashed through her memory. “She was kind and beautiful, a cellist with the New York Philharmonic.”

  “So you came by your talent naturally,” he said, his voice quiet, matter-of-fact.

  “My gift, she would call it.” Only it had turned out to be her curse. Wrinkling her forehead, she set her mug aside and changed the subject. “Tell me about your niece.”

  “I have a nephew as well. They’re my brother’s children.”

  “What’s his name?”