“I can take an afternoon off every now and then. All my meetings were this morning for once. So I can be lazy.” He’d pay for it tomorrow, but it would be worth it. “You interested? We could see a movie. Maybe I could cook dinner for you or something, then take you home later tonight.”
Hell, it was worth it just then. To see that slow smile spread over her face.
“I think I’d love that.”
Shame didn’t mix with grief any better than rage did.
As Nia rode back into town, she decided at least the humiliation gave her something else to think about, though. She’d spent nearly two hours driving around not doing much of anything as she tried to convince herself that maybe she’d been wrong.
But she hadn’t been wrong.
She wasn’t wrong … at least not now.
She’d just been wrong earlier.
So very fucking wrong when she stormed into the house of a man she didn’t know, a man who’d never done a damn thing to her or her family, and accused him of being a murderer—a rapist. Insulted his girlfriend, mistress, whoever in the hell Hope Carson was.
In other words, Nia had totally humiliated herself.
Under normal circumstances, Nia hated it when she did that sort of thing—hated putting her foot in her mouth, and no, it wasn’t going down easy right now, either.
But it was easier to think about that than all the other shit in her head.
It was a sad, sad thing when a woman would rather deal with how much she’d humiliated herself—in front of a hot guy, no less—than face her own problems.
Law Reilly hadn’t touched Joely.
Probably didn’t even know her.
And the woman with him. Nia sighed as she slowed her bike down near the town square, pulling off to the side. That woman didn’t have it in her to hurt somebody, much less torture somebody.
Neither did Reilly. He could kill—she’d seen the look in his eyes when he placed himself between her and Hope. He was the sort of man, she suspected, who could and would kill to protect those who mattered. But that didn’t make him a killer.
He definitely had some moves on him, that was sure. Wincing, she lifted a hand off the handlebars and studied her right arm. It was discolored, the bruise spreading along the inside of her wrist, an ugly rainbow of a bruise. She needed to ice it down, take some Motrin.
What you really ought to do is just get the hell out of here. Call your boss. Get an assignment. Let these people do their job.
That was what the calm, logical, rational voice in her head insisted.
But her heart … every time she closed her eyes, she saw Joely’s battered face.
Joely.
Heaving out a ragged sigh, she pinched the bridge of her nose.
Joely.
She couldn’t leave.
Not yet.
And even if she did, she’d just be back.
She went to pull her bike back out into the flow of traffic but the car going by her made her go still.
The cute brunette from Reilly’s.
Leaning back in a silver Jaguar, with her eyes closed and a not very happy look on her pixielike face. The guy with her glanced toward Nia as he slowed for a stop sign, but then looked away.
Absently, she rubbed her arm and thought about following.
She could catch up with them—tell the lady she was sorry.
But she’d already convinced that chick that Nia was missing more than a few marbles. Following her wherever wasn’t going to help, was it?
Sighing, she checked the road and pulled out.
A car came speeding up behind her and then slammed on the brakes. And the horn. Nia put her booted foot down and looked behind her, glaring at the driver.
Through the windshield of the plain, light blue sedan, she could see his face, square and ruddy—midthirties, his white-blond hair cut short, and his expression completely pissed off.
Get out of my way. It was written all over his features.
Nia was still feeling more than a little pissed off, more than spoiling for a fight. Tipping her glasses down her nose, she stared at him.
Make me.
Their gazes locked and held.
Finally, he blinked and she turned back around.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
Deliberately, she kept her speed about five miles below the speed limit through the square. The lunchtime traffic was heavy enough that he had no chance of cutting around her and she smirked as he rode as close as he dared behind.
Shit, if he thought that was going to bother her, he had absolutely no idea the hell she’d been through lately. As she neared the sheriff’s office, she slowed down to a crawl and waited until the last possible second to pull over. When he blasted by her, she flipped him off and took note of the license plate and the rental sticker on the back bumper.
Stupid bitch, Joe thought as he blasted on by the bitch on the bike.
A dyke, he thought, smirking to himself.
Fucking dyke on a bike—needed to get laid.
But damn it, he’d lost Jennings and Hope.
Where in the hell were they?
After they’d left the Inn, he’d been sure they’d be going back to Reilly’s, but they hadn’t and he had no idea where in the hell they were and it wasn’t like he could drive around looking for them, either.
Not around here. Too small a town, and he’d get noticed.
Already had, really.
The bitch on the bike had noticed him.
She wasn’t from around here—at least the tags on the bike weren’t local, but she’d stopped in front of the sheriff’s office, and he didn’t like that.
Plus, he’d seen the way she lingered, just long enough to note his tags.
Shit.
Where in the hell were they?
Hope sat at the island, absently spinning a glass of wine in her hand and watching while Remy stood across from her, chopping up vegetables. He did it easily, competently, like somebody who was used to cooking a lot, and not just macaroni and cheese out of a box.
“Like the wine?”
She glanced down at the glass. “Ahh …”
Remy grinned at her. “You’ll know if you like it when you actually try it.”
She made a face. Joey had spent about two years on a wine kick and while she had tried some she liked, most of the stuff he’d liked were dry reds—the ones that had descriptions like oaky and bright acidity. She’d hated them.
Eyeing the pale pink, she lifted it to her lips and took a small sip.
Her eyes widened. Okay, now not too many of the wines Joe—stop it. Right there. Just stop. Determined to cut off that line of thinking, she took another sip, savoring the light, almost fruity taste. “What is this?”
“It’s a blush wine, from a local winery. I know the owners and buy the stuff by the case.” He cocked a brow. “Like it?”
“Yes.” She was tempted to drink it all, in about one gulp, but she wasn’t too sure what that might do to her head. It had been a long, long time since she’d had much of anything to drink …
Abruptly she set the glass down.
A weight dropped down on her and her throat went tight.
Shit—
One moment, she was right there. Smiling at him.
Then she was white as a ghost and her green eyes were dark and heavy and so full of fear. The familiar punch of fury hit him in the gut, but he pushed it aside, set the knife down.
Going around the island, he came up behind her, murmuring her name as he moved.
“Hope?”
She stiffened, turning glassy eyes his way.
“Are you okay?”
“I …”
She licked her lips, looked back at the glass. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know if I should drink …”
He looked at the wineglass then at her. “Why not? Is there a reason you shouldn’t?”
Calm. Logical. Just keep her talking. “Reason?”
He rested a han
d on her back, stroked it, but he was ready for her to pull back. She leaned into him, though, and when he moved closer, she curled her body next to his, rested her head on his chest. His heart banged hard against his rib cage and he had to fight not to wrap both arms around her. Instinct told him it wouldn’t help her right now. But fuck, all he wanted to do was cradle her close, so close.
“Yeah. Is there a reason you shouldn’t drink the wine? Does it make you sick or something?” But it wasn’t that. He already knew.
“No. No, it’s not that.” She shook her head, mumbled against his chest. Then she straightened up, once more staring at the wineglass … mesmerized. Then she looked up at him. “You know about my ex, don’t you?”
Breathe, Jennings. Breathe. She doesn’t need your anger on top of whatever she’s dealing with.
So he breathed through the fury and when he reached up to stroke a hand down her cheek, his hand was rock steady. “Yeah. I know.”
“The first time I really tried to get away from him, I did it with alcohol and drugs—I tried to kill myself.” She looked down at her wrists, staring at the scars. “I wouldn’t have done it this way—I can’t stand blood. But I wanted away from him so bad, I did try to kill myself. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, all the crap they gave me to explain why I was so unhappy when I should have been delirious with joy … I took all of the pills I could and washed them down with this dumb collector’s edition of Maker’s Mark whiskey that he had. He didn’t even like me touching that stupid bottle and I drank as much of it as I could before I passed out.”
A harsh noise, caught between a laugh and a sob, escaped her.
She covered her mouth with her hands and pulled away.
Remy caught her shoulders. “Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t pull away from me.”
“Don’t you hear what I’m saying?” She half jerked away, half stumbled, fighting to get away.
Realizing he needed to let her, he released her and it hurt, watching her put more and more distance between them. When she spun around to face him, her eyes were wide, dark, and furious. “Don’t you get it?” she snarled. “I’m a fucking mess. I tried to kill myself. Instead of just leaving him, I tried to kill myself. Way to make choices, huh? What in the hell is wrong with me? And what’s wrong with you? Why do you want to be around me?”
“You were stuck with a manipulative bastard,” Remy said, shoving his hands in his pockets and telling himself to stay where he was. She needed space right then—he could see it, but damned if he didn’t want to go to her. “He had probably done everything imaginable to convince you that you had nothing and nobody else but him, so why the hell would you think you’d have a lot of options? And you still got away from him, didn’t you?”
She just stared at him, her eyes still holding that glassy, panicked sheen.
She was shaking.
His heart broke. He crossed the floor and pulled her against him, one arm going around her narrow waist while he cradled the back of her head in his other hand.
“You got away from him, and damn it, there’s not one thing wrong with you. The problem is him. Not you. It’s him. Got that?”
Her hands came up between them and he braced himself, ready to let her go. But all she did was curl her hands into his shirt, clutching him close. “If there was nothing wrong with me, I wouldn’t have stayed …”
“You thought he loved you,” he murmured. “You thought he loved you and you loved him.”
She shook her head. “Not at that point.” She rested her head on his chest and sighed. “He had me so twisted up inside, but I knew he didn’t love me. I just couldn’t leave. I wasn’t brave enough. So I took the easy way out. What in the hell are you doing with me? Why do you want to be with somebody like me?”
“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. He slid his hand around and cradled her chin, eased her head back. “The very first time I saw you, I wanted to do just this … hold you.”
Then he rubbed his lips across hers. “Kiss you.”
A soft breath shuddered out of her and her lashes fluttered over her eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Hope.” He lifted his head and stroked his thumb over her mouth. “Stop thinking there is.”
“You sure about that?” She gave him a wobbly smile and then looked over at the counter. “You give me a glass of wine and I take two sips and have a nervous breakdown.”
“That wasn’t a nervous breakdown.”
She sighed. “No. It wasn’t. Especially not for me.” She eased away from him, and this time, he let her go, watched as she made her way back to the island. She stared at the wine, as though she hoped to find some deeply hidden answers there.
“If it’s bothering you, I’ll dump it out.”
She looked at him. “No. I don’t want it to bother me. I’m tired of letting shit cripple me, Remy.” She reached for the glass, rolled it nervously between her hands. “But I am still messed up, you know. And you’re blind if you can’t see it. Or you’re just too polite to say it.”
“We’ve all got issues, Hope. But you seem to think I should look at you like you’re a grade A basket case.” He went back around the island. If she was going to try to pretend things were normal, he’d try, too. He hoped. “You’re not. You had a bad marriage, and that’s putting it mildly. If you didn’t have issues from that, I’d be more worried about you.”
She lifted the glass to her lips. As she took a small sip, then a second, he watched her from under his lashes.
“So it doesn’t bother you that I was hospitalized?” she said, tossing it out like a challenge.
Carefully, Remy laid the knife down. Then, not trusting himself to speak just yet, he reached for his wine, but he didn’t go for sipping it. He tossed it back, but it didn’t do a damn thing to cool the rage burning inside. He’d be doing better if it was tequila. Or whiskey—straight, burning a path down to his stomach, and maybe burning through the fog of rage in his brain.
Looking at her, he bit off, “Oh, hell, yes, it bothers me. But not for the reasons you think. You didn’t belong in there and we both know it. That bastard you were married to somehow managed to manipulate the system to put you in there and keep you in there and that pisses me off in more ways than you can imagine. Yeah, it bothers me. But not like you think.”
“Thank you.” She glanced down at her glass and then back up at him.
“Don’t thank me.” He reached for his knife and went to work on the rest of the vegetables, chopping up red bell peppers with a vengeance. “Don’t thank me, okay?”
It seemed kind of weird, but as he stood there, the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up, the silver knife flashing as he cut up the vegetables, Hope felt her heart flutter.
His blond hair tumbled into his eyes and she couldn’t see that blue gaze right then, but there was a strange, burning glitter in them.
It made her belly go tight.
She slid off the stool.
As she walked around the island, he went still. She rested her hands on his waist, pressed her head against his back. “Why not?” she asked.
“Why not what?”
“Why shouldn’t I say thank you?” It meant a lot to have him say he didn’t think she belonged where Joe had put her. It meant something.
The muscles in his back stiffened. “I don’t want your thanks, Hope,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Down low, everything went hot. Tight.
“Remy?”
“Yeah?”
“What do you want from me?”
She’s trying to kill me.
Remy put the knife back down and eyed the meal that wasn’t ever going to get cooked at this rate. Taking a slow breath, he turned around and looked at Hope.
Then he wished he hadn’t turned around, because that lazy, lambent look in her eyes was one he didn’t need to see … not right now.
Vulnerable state of mind, Remy. She’s in a vulnerable state of mind …
“I don’t want anything from you,” he said gruffly. Cupping her chin, he bussed her mouth lightly. “Nothing more than you want to give me, at least. But you don’t need to thank me for stating the obvious—and I don’t want to hear it, okay?”
“Yeah. I got that. But that’s not an answer.” She still had her hands on his sides. And her fingers were kneading him, like a little cat; it was the most erotic damn thing, driving him crazy. Tipping her head back, she stared at him, her soft green eyes warm, seductively so.
Oh, shit.
Trouble. Major trouble. How much wine had she drunk?
“What do you want?”
“I did answer that—whatever you want to give me. When you’re ready. But not now.”
“What’s wrong with now?”
Remy groaned. “First? You’ve had one bitch of a day. And now you’re feeling rough over some bad memories.” He dipped his head, skimmed his lips down her neck. She shivered. Despite himself, he smiled. “I want you—you know that. But when we’re together, it’s going to be because we both want it, both need it for the same reasons. Not because you need a teddy bear. And right now, I think I’d worry you need comfort more than sex.”
Hope stared at him and tried to decide if she wanted to laugh or feel insulted.
“Remy, the last thing I think when I look at you is teddy bear.”
He chuckled, then dipped his head and nipped her lower lip. “Good. But whatever you’re thinking … we’re not doing it. Not now. Not after the day you’ve had. Now go sit down. We’ll eat, I’ll take you home. You can get some rest.”
“You’re really into taking care of people,” she murmured.
He stroked a hand down her back. “Not people, Hope. You.”
“You ready to go home?”
It was pushing past nine. They’d had dinner. Watched a movie, cuddled on the couch and for a short while, she’d been able to just not think. Not think about that woman who’d pulled a gun on her and Law. Had a short while when she hadn’t thought about what Law had done, how he’d used their friendship.
But time was running out, she supposed. It was late and she needed to get out of here. Go back to his place, face Law. Deal with what had happened.
If You See Her Page 21