Night Angel

by Renee Reeves

  Ignoring the obvious plea in her eyes he reached out and touched her right cheek, tracing the rough lines that marred her soft skin beneath the makeup. Her indrawn breath was ragged and harsh. She went still, barely breathing, her peachy-tinted skin rapidly paling till it was stark white against the darkness of his hand.

  "Want to tell me what happened? What that son-of-bitch did to you?"

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  Chapter 12

  He was staring at her cheek, those blue, beautiful eyes that haunted her dreams almost black in anger and ... something else.

  Then it hit her, making her stomach drop to her feet. Making her want to wretch.

  It was ‘the look.’ The one that she absolutely hated and yet had seen from everyone, sometimes even Lisa. Pity, or maybe disgust, she thought. Just like everyone else.

  Her eyes filled with tears and the unfairness of it was like a physical blow to her chest. Fighting for breath she yanked herself out of his reach. For just a few days she had felt almost like a normal woman—one who had caught the attention of a startlingly gorgeous man. That illusion now shattered into a million sharp-edged pieces, each one slicing into her as they fell. Cutting her raw.

  Ashamed, she turned away from him, “I don't need your pity,” she hissed, wrapping her arms tight around her middle and backing away so he wouldn't see how much she was trembling, how much she hurt. “So why don't you just leave now and not come back."

  She covered her cheek with her palm, still feeling the ghostly imprint of his touch. “Go!” she cried.

  He stiffened, his thick black brows drawing low over his narrowed eyes. He cursed under his breath, low, foul and ugly and took a quick step towards her, reaching for her again.

  Hastily she backed away, holding out both hands to ward him off. “S-Stay away from me!” She put a shaking hand to her forehead, confused by her conflicting desires. Part of her wanted him to hold her again, but the other part was afraid of being made a fool.

  He ignored her protests, advancing on her. “Pity? Morgan, for Gods sake! It's not what you—"

  "No! You're just like everyone else!” she sobbed, glaring at him and stumbling away, “I bet you don't think I'm so beautiful now, do you?"

  "Yes,” he said quietly, his voice rumbling from the depths of his chest. “I do. If you only knew how much. But I also see plenty of evidence that you've been treated like shit. And I guessed right about your husband putting his hands on you, didn't I?"

  The brusque statement hit like a blow, penetrating her mind and the hurt that had filled her. Using her hand she dashed away the tears and looked at him. He was so blindingly handsome. The perfect male animal. No flaws to be found, so unlike scarred, gimpy her.

  Morgan laughed, but it came out as a sob; she had been so stupid to let herself be reeled in by a few scraps of hope. Maybe Richard had been right about her. He had always called her a weak-minded twit who was too stupid to know when to give up.

  A man like Nick would have a new woman for each day of the week. Beautiful, perfect women. Ones who didn't limp and who had no scars and who didn't freak out when a man touched them. They'd enjoy sex and know how to please a man like him.

  "You're lying. But that's okay; I'm used to it. And yeah, you're right,” her chin trembled and she clenched her jaw against the show of weakness, “my husband used to beat the crap out of me and then some. The pretty proof is right there on my face, every single day for the entire world to see.” A sob caught in her throat and she gestured sharply at her face.

  He cursed, reaching for her. “Sweetheart, just let me—"

  "Stop!” She jerked backwards, dashing the wetness from her face. Crying had never done any good; she knew that for a fact. Making her voice low and hard, she said, “Please ... just get away from me. I'm not one of your horses that needs saving."

  Nick went still, his heart slamming painfully against his ribs. Briefly he closed his eyes, imagining some of what she must have endured and wondering if he had pushed her too far. He knew full well how evil people could be and the knowledge that Morgan's husband had used his fists on her, tried to break her body and spirit, turned his blood to ice. The sick, sadistic bastard...

  Nick drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with crisp, clean air, calming himself and relaxing his tight fists while he contemplated how to handle the next step. God ... if only he could take her in his arms, protect her from the world; absorb her pain into his body...

  She was sobbing openly now, one hand covering her eyes while the other stayed clamped against her belly. She backed away from him towards the barn, her fragile shoulders jerking with each violent heave. He watched in helpless, enraged silence as she blindly bumped into the barn and slid down the wall to plop on her butt right there in the grass. Her hair tangled around her shoulders. Long strands, wet from tears, cut across her face and mouth as she continued to cry in great wrenching sobs.

  He winced when her slight shoulders jerked with a particularly violent one. His emotions were in an uproar, his hands clenching and unclenching and he knew that if her husband had been alive and standing in front of him he would have ripped the son-of-a-bitch's throat out.

  Shit ... seeing her cry felt like somebody had sliced into his chest with a dull knife and was systematically carving off small pieces of his heart ... very slowly and very painfully. He wanted to slam his fist through the wall—through the bloody bastard's face that had reduced her to this. Anything to take her pain away.

  He wanted to—God.

  Why did each of their encounters have to be so fucked up?

  He shoved his hand through his hair, locking his fingers behind his head and pacing back and forth, shaken by the driving urge to comfort her but riddled with fear of not knowing how. If he came on too strong, too determined, she would run away from him as she had before, and possibly never let him near her again. She was already wary and hurt, thinking he had been playing with her ... lying to her.

  She was still huddled against the barn, head down and sobbing quietly into her arms. He started towards her, and was only a few feet from her when he stopped, cursing tightly under his breath. If she was one of his horses he would know instantly what to do—move slowly, take several days getting them used to him, and then begin—but this was Morgan, not a horse, and he was not a comforting man. He had no experience being tender outside of the bedroom, and even those instances were few and far between. And relationships? Those were pretty much zero. Women wanted to fuck him, not date him, and until now he had been okay with that. But now ... now he felt utterly useless and the reality of that was harsh.

  It was blazingly obvious that she came with some serious baggage. One misstep with Morgan and he could hurt her deeply, possibly even more deeply than she had been hurt already.

  And you're so skeleton-in-the-closet free?

  Okay. Can't call the kettle black. Hell, if she knew his past it would most likely send her into an even bigger panic attack. Ex-con. Yeah, that's the type of man a woman who has been abused wants to get involved with. One who's been in prison, behind bars, judged too dangerous for civilized society. Nick felt an odd pain in his throat, and a burning behind his eyelids. Ex-convict ... dangerous ... He looked down at Morgan, his eyes traveling over the exposed nape of her neck, so delicate and fragile and pictured her husband wrapping his hand around the slender column. He swallowed hard, dislodging the tightness in his throat and willed away the burning in his eyes. Not once since collapsing had she looked up at him.

  Ex-con. Murderer ... He had an ugly history and the why of it wouldn't matter.

  Nick ground his jaw as a heavy weight settled between his shoulders and he realized that that was the truth of it. He was nobody's savior, especially not Morgan's, a woman who had already been through so much pain.

  He had lived here for over ten years and whenever he was in town some people still looked at the ground and hurried past as he walked down the street. Even Jake, who had never caused trouble a day in
his life and usually had a smile for everyone had been treated to the same judgments, just because he happened to be the brother of an ex-con.

  It had been hard getting out of prison and trying to get on with his life. People, in general, did not like to give trust or second chances, especially not when faced with his black past. No matter what outside image he projected, once people found out he had been in ‘the big house’ doors were slammed shut ... and locked. The stigma never went away.

  And here he was, basically stalking a woman who had lived a life of pain and who was now struggling to make it on her own. He could unintentionally ruin that.

  Nick looked down at her still huddled against the barn, but was surprised to see that she had stopped crying and was now staring at him out of tearstained gold eyes, her expression bleak and resigned. Tired. She deserved so much more than being with a black-tempered ex-con whose past was always present, and who knew nothing except how to train horses and how to fuck.

  She deserved someone like Jake.

  Jake, the good brother, who had never been in trouble, and who was kind, patient, loyal, and a gentleman, especially when it came to women. Jake would know how to soothe her, how to help her move beyond the past. And sex ... Jake would know exactly what she needed—would know exactly how to make love to her ... Jake and Morgan. In a sick self-torture Nick's brain flashed with images of his brother covering her sweet body, of Jake parting those pale thighs ... Oh ... God ... The pain of it was real, as if it had already happened and he had lost her, but the pain of knowing he could ruin her future, could only hurt her in the end, was just as strong. Leave ... leave right now. You've already hurt her, she thinks you've made a joke out of her, so just turn around and move one foot in front of the other until you're in your truck and headed down the road.

  No, goddamnit! Not like this.

  Those huge eyes followed his every move, and she gasped slightly as he dropped to his knees in front of her. His hands were shaking as he cupped her face. The rough pad of his thumb traced the swollen softness of her bottom lip.

  "Shhh, sweetheart, it's alright,” he soothed when his fingers touched her scars and she tried to pull away. Raw emotion closed his throat, and the urge to kiss her, to lay her down in the overgrown yard and worship her with his mouth and hands and body until she understood how beautiful she was to him was nearly unbearable.

  "Morgan?” Her name was a gruff whisper. He pressed his lips against her ear as she pushed her wet face into his shoulder, soaking his shirt with her tears, no longer fighting or lashing out. “Whatever it is baby, it'll be okay."

  He rubbed her slender back, absorbing her shudders into his stronger body while she cried.

  As he stroked her hair he memorized the smooth, silky feel of it between his fingers. Regret, hot and harsh, closed his throat and he had to glance away before he could speak. Coward. “Listen, sweetheart...” his throat tightened again, choking him. He swallowed once more and then forced out the words he didn't want to say. “I wish you understood ... since the first time I saw you how much I—” he swiped a hand over his jaw, cursing.

  No point in going there now, there was no way she would believe him.

  "I'll, uh ... I'll send Jake out here to help you get this place situated. He'll help with whatever you need. You won't have to see me.” The words tasted bitter, regret poisoning each of them.

  "No,” she said, pulling away from him and rubbing her eyes. She didn't look at him; instead she stared at the distant line of trees that separated their properties. “I don't want to see either of you. Just like I don't need or want your pity."

  Nick's mouth dropped open in shock while his brain tried to wrap around her statement. Pity? Holy shi—"Pity is the last thing I think about when I look at you, Morgan."

  She gave a shaky little laugh, “Yeah ... that was evident by the expression on your face. And to think that I—"

  Nick knew by the way she clamped her mouth shut that something very important had been about to spill out.

  "You what?” he asked softly.

  Silence. Frustration mounting he swiped a hand over his head. “Damn it! You what, Morgan?"

  That delicate jaw clamped even tighter. Throwing caution to the wind and ignoring her high-pitched squeak, Nick tunneled his hand through her hair until he cupped the back of her scalp. He tugged until her head tilted and she arched her neck, her gold eyes wide with alarm, black lashes spiky from her recent tears.

  His first thought was to back off, comfort her, but he ignored it, sensing that right now comfort would only send her into a deeper zone where only she could go. He wanted her fired-up, pissed off, hell, anything she had to give him he'd take. Anything except this small, defeated shell sitting on the ground in front of a crumbling old barn.

  He'd be damned if he was going to leave her thinking that pity had been his motive.

  Staring straight into her eyes, keeping his voice fierce and low, he said, “You think its pity I feel for you? Well let me tell you sweetheart, it's not pity that makes me hard every damn night since I first saw you. And if you haven't figured it out, yes, I'm talking about my di—penis.” Since he was still holding her head she couldn't move, but her eyes immediately dropped to his groin, then flew back up to his face. Bright spots of pink highlighted her cheeks and she reached up, grabbed his forearms and tugged. Gently resisting her he said, “No, don't try to get away; I'm not hurting you Morgan. I'm telling you this because you need to hear it and I'm damn well going to get it out before I leave."

  His thumbs moved slowly over her cheekbones, back and forth, softly stroking. His eyes dipped to her lips, lingering as the tip of her tongue came out to wet her bottom lip. In any other woman he would take that as an invitation, but not Morgan. Even so he couldn't resist leaning nearer, so close now that he could see himself reflected in her eyes. She was tensing up again, but he remained close, willing her to believe him. “Look at me Morgan and tell me you still think I'm lying. Pity has nothing to do with the way my gut clenches, or the way my heart pounds when you look at me with those huge golden doe eyes."

  "N-Nick...” Her voice was a mere breath of sound and she tugged at his wrists again, fingers trembling and slipping on his skin with her efforts. “Stop..."

  "Too late sweet, the ball's rolling now. Shhh ... Relax, I'm not hurting you.” He waited until she stopped pulling on him and sat quietly, her fingers loosening, embracing his thick wrists. “And don't even get me started on what your hair does to me, drives me crazy is an understatement. But you really want to know what I think when I see you?” Tenderly he started massaging her scalp with his fingers, working his way along the back of her head to the nape of her neck. Her shoulders rose and fell on a slight sigh and her eyelids fluttered in enjoyment.

  "I see a beautiful woman. Yes,” he emphasized when she opened her mouth to protest, “I said beautiful because it's true. You're sweet and gorgeous Morgan. Life's given you some tough shit to deal with, but that's past now ... you don't have to fight or be afraid anymore ... you...” he swallowed, glancing away from her, needing a moment to get the words out, “you deserve to be happy.” And that's why I'm going to let you go.

  A lump formed in his throat and then his vision went blurry, shit. He hadn't cried since he was seventeen and his mom had died. Focusing on the woman in front of him he stroked his fingers softly over her cheek, over her scars, feeling the long rough edges that marred her otherwise baby-fine skin. Fresh tears rolled down her face, wetting his hand.

  He swallowed hard, then gruffly whispered, “Every warrior has battle scars, sweetheart."

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  Chapter 13

  Morgan sat at her kitchen table, staring sightlessly at the mess of paints and brushes on her kitchen floor, a glass of forgotten tea in front of her. A packet of sweetener sat unopened beside it. It was eight o'clock in the morning, the sun was shining outside and the kitchen walls were waiting on a last coat of paint, but she just couldn't find the wi
ll to get started. The brilliant yellow that had made her feel so cheerful just weeks ago had failed yet again today.

  It had been two weeks since she had seen Nick and she didn't understand how she could miss someone she barely knew.

  'I see a beautiful woman. Yes, I said beautiful because it's true.' The words replayed incessantly in her mind, especially when she looked at herself in the mirror. She kept the words with her, close to her heart.

  A little bit of hope tucked away like a beloved treasure.

  She thought about him constantly, wondered what he was doing at certain times of the day and night ... pictured him riding a horse, or lying in his bed with the sheet pulled up just to his waist, heavy arms crossed behind his head on the pillow. She had even wondered what type of sheets he slept on or if he wore a robe around his house like her husband had. No, that didn't fit. A man like him doubtlessly preferred only briefs or boxers. An image of him leaning against a kitchen counter in only a pair of boxers, his big, dark hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, filtered into her brain.

  She would love to see that in person. But that would mean you'd have to wake up ... with him. In bed. After a night of—she stopped herself.

  If fantasies like that weren't ridiculous then she didn't know what was. Hadn't she learned by now?

  His brother, Jake, had shown up once to collect the tools Nick had left and to offer his help if she needed it, but she had politely refused. He had hesitated, apparently wanting to say something, but then had just looked at her for a long moment before getting into his truck and driving away, leaving her feeling as if the door to something special had not only been slammed shut, but bolted.

  In fact, she felt much the same as she had when Richard had first introduced her to his fist.

  Shell-shocked.

  Her head hurt, her lip burned, and the metallic tang of blood hit her tongue, soaking between it and the indentation behind her bottom teeth. Gagging and coughing she struggled to her knees. Blindly she fumbled and her hand hit the side of the bed. She gripped the thick comforter tightly, using it to pull herself halfway off the floor.