Clear Intent

by Diane Benefiel

  He was lucky Dory was too sweet to laugh in his face. Who the hell thought proposing in the middle of an evacuation shelter teeming with people was a good idea? Jackson Morgan, that’s who. Not that what he’d said rated as a proposal because it had been lame, as in stupider-than-stupid lame.

  He knew how things were done, but he’d acted on impulse and jumped the gun. He didn’t have an engagement ring, and had he really said he had feelings for her? People had feelings about their goldfish, they had feelings about Taco Tuesdays. If you loved a woman, you used the word “love,” unless, apparently, you were Jackson Morgan, because then you were an idiot and told the woman of your dreams in the middle of the lamest proposal in history that you had feelings for her.

  The knocking shifted to a more insistent pounding and had him scrubbing a hand over his face before he remembered the bruises. He sucked in a breath at the fresh bloom of pain, then rose wearily to his feet, scooping up Betty. He hauled open his front door to lean heavily against it as he stared at the woman.

  Called it. There she stood on his doorstep in the glow of the porch light, so beautiful she made him ache, her gorgeous brown eyes full of sympathy and concern, a white bag clutched to her chest. She wore those stretchy pants women liked that ended below the knees, which emphasized her long, toned legs. On top she wore a pullover thing with a hood and dipped collar that made her neck look exceedingly bitable. Damn.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “If I say yes, will you leave?”

  “Probably not.”

  He must have looked particularly pathetic because she reached out, and he took an instinctive step back. “You don’t want to touch me right now.”

  “Why? Are you in pain?”

  Was he in pain? His shoulder was scraped to shit, the left side of his face felt like he’d been sucker-punched by a three-hundred-pound linebacker rather than a hundred-and-fifty-pound woman, and his heart lay in the shards Dory had broken it into. Yeah, he was in fucking pain. “No. Go away.”

  He moved to shut the door in her face, mildly surprised when she stuck out her foot and blocked the motion.

  “I want to come in, Jack.”

  “I don’t want you in.”

  She stepped forward and he cursed himself when he took an automatic step back to avoid any contact, accidental or otherwise. “You don’t want to be here, Isadora. I’m fresh out of sunshine and light.”

  “Is that what you think of me? That I can’t face anything unpleasant?”

  The image flashed across his mind of Dory with a bruised face and holding a crying Adrian when she’d finally made the decision to press charges against Rodrigo. The memory didn’t improve his mood. “No, that’s not what I think.”

  “Look, Jack. That conversation at the evacuation center, well, I didn’t say what I wanted to say. But I think we can set that aside for right now. You’re hurt, and I want to help you.”

  “You were pretty clear. You don’t want or need my protection, and you don’t want to marry me. It was a stupid proposal, but there you have it.”

  She gave an exasperated sigh and moved forward again, and his reflexive retreat had him muttering a string of profanities. It also gave Dory an opening to step inside and shut the door behind her. Shit, shit, shit. He’d never be able to exorcise the memory of her in his house if she kept turning up. He knew good and well that with the image of her in his home seared onto his brain cells it would live there forever, and he’d have to carry that around as a constant reminder of what would never be.

  Giving up, he withdrew to the kitchen. He set Betty in her bed, then collapsed into a chair at the dining table. He picked up the glass that still held a finger of Jim Beam, the other medicine he’d used to dull the pain. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but it would do. He looked at her over the rim of the glass. “Adrian with your folks?”

  “Yes. They’re still at Trish Gallagher’s. Adrian’s asleep now. He had a grand time this evening. Dad and Trish’s boyfriend, Landon, were teaching him the fine art of poker.”

  Great. She wasn’t on mom duty. That information ratcheted up the temptation about a hundred-fold. He tipped back the glass and drained it. When he reached for the bottle, Dory snatched it up and marched to the kitchen.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he barked out the words. The glugging sound told him exactly what she was doing. He surged to his feet and got to the sink as the last of the contents of the bottle splashed into the drain. “Son of a bitch.”

  “You can thank me later. Alcohol isn’t going to make you feel any better. My experience when Rodrigo drank is that it only makes things worse.” Dory’s sweet smile was propped by the steel in her tone. “Did you take any pain meds?”

  “You just dumped my pain meds down the drain.”

  “Even you’re not that stupid.”

  “Why the hell are you here? You going to tend my wounds, Isadora? Hold my head when I’m puking up my hangover into the toilet?”

  “You’re not drunk.”

  “I was working on it.”

  “Did you have dinner, or anything to eat?”

  “No time while I was on shift, and I fucking didn’t feel like it when I got home.”

  Now he sounded like a petulant teenager. His nasty attitude didn’t put her off, instead she took his hand and led him to the chair he’d vacated. Compassion laced her tone. “Sit down before you fall down, big guy. Brad said he told you to go to the doctor but didn’t think you had. You need the bandages replaced. Someone has to deal with you, and I volunteered.” She studied him with her hands on her hips. “But first, I’d say you need food.”

  She opened his freezer, rummaging around before pulling out a bag of frozen peas. She loosened the peas in the bag, then brought them to him to lay against his eye. It took all his restraint not to pull her into him and simply hold on. He’d made a strategic error in calling her on their bickering, because without the verbal barrier, and with his emotions so raw, he was having a hell of a time keeping his hands off her.

  He watched with his good eye as she went to the freezer again, this time pulling out a bag of diced potatoes. It eased some of his frayed edges to watch her move around his kitchen as she prepared a meal. The flame went on under a pan, she dribbled in a little oil, and when that had heated she emptied the bag of potatoes so they sizzled in the hot oil. Adjusting the flame, she sprinkled salt, then put a lid on the pan. Where he would have dumped eggs directly into a skillet, she cracked them into a bowl. She opened bins in the refrigerator, then rummaged in his cupboards, picking up bottles and examining labels before selecting a few. “Fresh herbs would be better, but you don’t seem to keep any in stock.”

  “Not much point. I work long hours, so by the time I feel like cooking, they’ve gone bad.” He shrugged, then wished he hadn’t when his shoulder sang.

  She added a few sprinkles from a couple of bottles, then whipped the eggs and poured them into a different skillet. As she moved around his kitchen she talked, telling him what was going on at the evacuation center, that Adrian had lost a tooth, and how much she enjoyed that Trish Gallagher was having a romance with Landon Halloway.

  “In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Trish flustered, but that man has a way. He looks at her with those sexy eyes of his and she blushes. And this evening she stopped what she was doing to give him a kiss on the cheek, and he completely lost his train of thought. It’s so sweet.”

  She paused when Betty got up, stretched, then walked into the kitchen, her nails making clicking sounds on the linoleum. Dory crouched to pick up the little dog, cuddling her in her arms and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Any news about Betty’s owners?”

  “Kiana called. Mom’s been released from the hospital, and she and her mom are staying with the grandma until the danger from the fire has passed.”

  Jack rose to his feet to get Betty her treats. He put the bag on the counter, the little dog watching his every move. He would lay money that the cage
y look on the dog’s tiny face was her calculating whether she could keep her spot in Dory’s arms and still score a Milk-Bone. Dory decided for Betty, setting down the dog who promptly planted her fuzzy butt in front of him, her eyes shining and entire body quivering in anticipation. “Dog is a damn slave for these things.”

  “She’s a little sweetheart. I’d like to get a dog for Adrian, but want to wait until we can buy a house for ourselves. He loves Tigger, though.” She went on to tell him how she and Adrian had found Tigger stuck in a storm drain when he’d been a kitten.

  Jack let the words flow over him, soothed by the rise and fall of Dory’s voice. She turned on the heat under the kettle, put slices of sourdough into the toaster, and within five minutes was setting a full plate of food and a steaming cup of tea in front of him. She sat across the table, nibbling on toast and sipping her own tea. Thirty minutes ago he’d been feeling sorry for himself and stewing in his own misery, but Dory’s presence, along with the humble meal she’d prepared, pushed back on the unhappiness that had been dogging him. And that was a dangerous headspace to occupy.

  Dory had made her feelings clear, and he was delusional to read too much into a simple act of human kindness. As much as he wanted her to stay, in his current state her presence made him feel too emotionally exposed.

  He finished clearing his plate, a full stomach making him feel steadier, then rose to carry his dishes to the sink, throwing the bag of peas back into the freezer. “Thank you for making me dinner. I appreciate it. I’m okay on my own now.”

  “You’re welcome, and I don’t think you are. Sit down, Jack. I’ll take care of the dishes before I leave. But right now I want to look at your injuries.”

  A wave of exhaustion almost had him giving in to do as she ordered. He caught himself, instead making his way down the darkened hallway to the back of the house. He took the turn into his bedroom, sprawling onto the bed face down with a groan as pain lanced through his body. He turned his head against the pillow so any blood still seeping from his gashed forehead wouldn’t make a mess on the pillowcase. Seconds later the bright light of the overhead fixture blazed on and had him slamming shut the lid of his exposed eye. He could have closed the door and locked it, so maybe he was torturing himself by allowing Dory into his bedroom.

  He could follow her movement by the sounds she made. The click of the lamp on the nightstand brought added light against his eyelid that dimmed when she switched off the overhead light. There was quiet broken only by the tapping of Betty’s nails, then the sound of running water from the bathroom, and footsteps as Dory returned to the room. She set something on the nightstand, then the side of the bed dipped as she sat beside him. He drew in a controlled breath and reminded himself that he didn’t have the right to do what he desired with every cell in his body, and that was to reach for her and bring her body down against his to have her lie in his arms. To just hold her.

  Cool fingers touched the side of his face. “I’m going to start with the scrape here on your forehead.”

  Masochist that he was, he let her do it. He shifted to lie on his back and opened his eye to a slit to watch as she picked up a damp washcloth from a basin. She leaned over him, and a tendril of hair that had escaped her ponytail trailed against his cheek as she used the warm cloth to dab at the injury. He endured the sweet torture when she ran her fingers into his hair to hold it back from his forehead. God, he loved when she did that.

  “Mom cleaned this earlier, but she wanted me to check to make sure it’s not infected.” She leaned closer and her breath warmed his face. “I think the edges look a healthy pink.” She pulled out first aid supplies from the white paper bag she’d set on his nightstand.

  She dabbed at the wound with a Q-tip and smeared on some ointment. She used medical tape to affix another bandage, then bent down to press soft lips lightly to his skin like he’d seen her do with Adrian on more than one occasion. She froze, as if suddenly realizing what she’d done.

  “You’re killing me here, Dory.”

  “Sorry.” She sat back. “Um, we need to get your t-shirt off.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  She rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead, then sighed. “We do. Mom couldn’t cover everywhere that’s scraped with bandages, and I could tell when we were in the kitchen that your shirt is stuck to the scrapes.” She frowned. “How did you wear your bulletproof vest when you were injured?”

  “Carefully.”

  “That must have hurt like the devil. Let me see, Jack.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Either you let me take care of you, or I call my mom.”

  “Your mom is the best, so that isn’t much of a threat.”

  “Then how about this: I won’t leave until you let me take care of you.”

  He raised up to his elbows. “Maybe that’s my plan to keep you here with me.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

  “Don’t bother responding to that.” He was done fighting. Whatever happened with her, or didn’t happen, well, that’s the way things would go. He pushed himself off the bed. When he was steady, he hooked a hand into the back of his collar to tug his shirt over his head, hissing through his teeth when it pulled at scabs that were beginning to form over the injuries.

  “Let me help you.”

  She stepped behind him and gently lifted the shirt away and bunched it at his neck so he could pull it over his head. He turned, and with his gaze locked on hers, unbuckled his belt and dropped his jeans. It didn’t bother him in the least to see her face flush rosy. Then her gaze dropped and the color drained from her cheeks. He glanced down. From his lower ribs to beneath the waistband of his boxers, the part of his body Rodrigo had managed to slam into that boulder was ripening into one big, angry bruise.

  She lay gentle fingers against his ribs. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

  He backed away from her, bending forward to hide his expression while tugging off his socks. She didn’t need to know that she was near slaying him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dory watched Jack ease his big body back down onto the bed. Her hero was bruised and battered and, whether he liked it or not, he needed her. She refused to stand there like an idiot ogling that oh-so-gorgeous body, so she dragged her attention back to the task at hand. Unscrewing the lid from a container she’d brought with her, she removed a moist pad, warming it between her hands. “Can you roll onto your side?”

  He did as she asked. She unfolded the pad and pressed it onto the area of his skin that was turning the deepest purple. She applied a couple more, then lay one over his eye.

  “What’s that?”

  “Witch hazel, it will help with the bruising.” She rose and crossed to the bathroom, returning a minute later with a towel. Carefully arranging it, she motioned to Jack, helping him roll face down on the towel while keeping the pads in place.

  Areas that hadn’t been protected by the bulletproof vest were a mess of scrapes and gashes that had her blinking rapidly against threatening tears. “Oh Jack, I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “No, it’s Rodrigo’s fault. But I’m still so sorry you were hurt.”

  “I’ll live.” His voice was a low rumble muffled by the pillow.

  She grabbed the washcloth and took it into the bathroom to rinse, using the opportunity to blow her nose. When she returned, she carefully wiped dried blood from the deepest cuts that had started bleeding again when his shirt had been pulled off. She spread Neosporin, applied a large no-stick Telfa pad her mom had packed in the bag, and then a more absorbent gauze over that, before taping them securely.

  “You didn’t tell me if you’d taken any pain reliever.”

  He mumbled his response, so she bent closer. “What did you say?”

  He raised his head and took the pad off his bruised eye. He mumbled once more, but more audibly. “I had one pill and it didn’t make a dent.”

  “Who doesn’t have Tylenol?”


  “Evidently, me. That’s what the Jim Beam was taking care of.”

  The light from his nightstand was shining in his face, and she bent closer. Her hand went to his hair again. “Oh, my god, you have green eyes.”

  “So?”

  Her head was nearly resting on the pillow nose to nose with his as she peered closer. “I always thought you had brown eyes, but they’re actually really, really dark green.”

  “Who cares?”

  He turned slightly so that both of those green eyes were regarding her with sudden focus. “You joining me here, Isadora?”

  She sat up abruptly. “Do you know you only call me Isadora when you’re getting pissy?”

  He laughed, then uttered a deep groan. “Dudes don’t get pissy.” She opened her mouth and he reached up to lay a long finger on her lips. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

  Her heartrate spiked when he rubbed his finger along her bottom lip, those green eyes glittering with sudden intensity, and she couldn’t help her response any more than she could stop the sun from rising. She touched the tip of her tongue to his finger, then sucked it into her mouth. In an instant he had his hand behind her neck and was pulling her down to meet his lips.

  Once again she speared her fingers into his hair, this time without the excuse of tending to an injury. She matched the hot, open-mouthed kiss, her tongue tangling with his. One thing was immediately clear. Jack Morgan brought every emotion surging to the surface, making her feel more deeply than she’d ever felt before.

  He rolled onto his back, pulling her to lay over him. She moaned low in her throat when she felt the heat of his erection nestled against her hip. Need flashed white hot, her response frightening in its intensity.

  She pushed back, breaking the kiss, pressing the back of her hand against her lips in denial. She shook her head. “No, no, no. I can’t do that.”