Branded Sanctuary (26 page)

Been doing it nearly all my life.”

“And I can carry you. I haven‟t been doing it nearly long enough.”
Chapter Thirteen

He‟d given her a serious glance with those Fae hazel eyes, and strode for the main house. She‟d liked the noise and life of the carnival, but now, in the aftermath of her latest meltdown, she welcomed the quiet of the back gardens, the beauty of the Florida room that Brendan entered, shifting her in his arms. “Why don‟t I put you down here?” He nodded to a deep cushioned chair. “If you tell me what room you‟re in, I‟ll go up and get your things.”

“It‟s the first bedroom on the left upstairs, but I haven‟t really packed it up.”

“I‟ll know what‟s yours.” He met her gaze. “If I overlook anything, Marguerite will bring it to the tea room. Just rest easy here, all right? Did you bring your car?”

“No. Marguerite brought me here.”

“Okay, then.” As he lowered her into the lounger, her hands tightened on his shoulders. She couldn‟t let him go, afraid of what might happen if she broke that connection. He pressed his forehead to hers. “I‟ll be right back, I promise.” A soft creak drew her attention to the doorway. Chloe saw Tyler‟s silhouette framed in it.

Brendan kept a loose hold of her hands as he straightened, letting her arms slide down in his grip. “Master Tyler, can you stay with her while I get her things? I‟m going to take her to my place.”

Tyler nodded, stepping into the room. Chloe wondered if the well of shame and humiliation ever ran dry, as she thought about her erratic behavior today. But when Brendan squeezed her hand, giving her a steady look that promised a quick return, she couldn‟t help clinging to his fingers. Fortunately, as if the men were in a Vulcan mind meld over her care, Tyler‟s hand closed over her wrist, so as Brendan‟s touch slid away, his took its place.

With his other hand, he drew an ottoman close to the lounger and sat down on it, reaching out with two fingers to smooth back a tendril of her hair. Then he reached into the pocket of his slacks and drew out a neatly folded and pressed handkerchief for her sweat-stained, makeup destroyed face.

“You know, guys don‟t carry those any more.”

“There are many things that men don‟t do any more that they should. Particularly for women.” Leaning forward, Tyler touched the fabric to her cheeks.

She fished about for something to say. “I‟m sorry about leaving. And taking Brendan. I want to explain, but—”

Taking the cloth away, he put his hand on her face instead. It was a different feeling. Whereas Brendan gave her that feeling of absolute connection, with Tyler it was a reassuring command. “When and if you wish, you can.”

“I don‟t know if he‟s exactly serious, but Brendan suggested I move in with him for a little while, since he‟s between roommates.”

“Really?” Tyler lifted a brow.

“Yeah. That‟s the complicated part. I really want to, but most relationships don‟t start with „Hey, why don‟t you move in with me?‟ I like him a lot, Tyler. I don‟t want to blow it for both of us, and if he turns out to be not the right guy, I don‟t want it to be over too fast. I want to savor the good before I find out he cross dresses or has bodies in his freezer.”

“Some men look very good in women‟s clothes.” But Tyler smiled.

“Does Brendan tell Marguerite a lot of things? Are they that kind of friends?” An intriguing look passed over Tyler‟s face, here and gone. Chloe wasn‟t sure how to interpret it, but he inclined his head. “Brendan would trust Marguerite with anything.”

“Okay. I told him something tonight. I‟m pretty sure…it‟s something that Marguerite should know, but I don‟t think I can say it again. I haven‟t talked to anyone about it, Tyler, and I‟m not sure I want anyone else to know. I know you and Marguerite don‟t have any secrets from one another either, but if he tells her, and then she tells you, you guys could pretend not to know, if I need you to do that. Right?” A grim smile touched his firm lips. “Marguerite and I will do whatever you need to make you happy, little flower.”

She gave a half chuckle. “I‟m zapped, but not zapped enough to miss the fact that‟s a qualified answer. But it‟s okay.” She realized she was leaning more of her head‟s weight against his hand, and pressing it to the lounger. “Tell Marguerite I do know it‟s wrong, but I‟m going to let him take care of me for a little while, okay? I‟m sure I‟ll say I‟m sorry for it…” Her words were slurring, her head rolling against his broad palm.

Vaguely she was aware of him easing her back on the lounger, down to a resting position, but she didn‟t have the energy to say anything further.

I just can’t let him go, even if we’re wrong for each other.

* * * * *

She was quiet on the ride to his place. The Jeep had an unfortunate center console, so Brendan couldn‟t keep her close to his side like he wanted, but he kept a hand on her as he held her hand, resting his palm on her knee. She leaned against the seat, turned on her hip toward him, as if she needed that closeness too.

He‟d seen Chloe‟s face reflect myriad emotions now, and had made careful note of all of them. Part of it was the drama coach in him, scrutinizing how people expressed the countless emotions and multiple shades of gray in between. As a submissive as well as a drama teacher, he knew there were two physical languages. While a woman‟s face might reflect the universally recognized expression of happiness, there would be nuances to it, not only the unique signature to her brand of happiness, but subtle messages of what drove the happiness, how long it would last, how real the happiness truly was.

With her, his interest was more than his deep curiosity in the human condition. It was his sheer desire to understand her mind, anticipate her needs and wants, even before she herself might realize them. Because he‟d watched her so closely, he‟d understood from the beginning that there was more to what had happened that horrible day at Tea Leaves. Her surface expressions, no matter if they were was happiness or pleasure, had possessed a wariness, as if she knew that under layer, the story untold, was waiting in the wings, ready to turn everything she‟d wanted to feel into a lie.

Something perilous had occurred tonight, perilous and cathartic at once. She was struggling with the idea she‟d built her life on an illusion of happiness, foolishly, childishly pushing away the reality. However, in this too, he saw something entirely different, something she couldn‟t yet see.

The world was full of beauty and light, and reasons for joy. Rather than letting the adult world of darkness take that from her at the age of nine, she‟d built her own tower, refusing to do anything less than embrace life fully, with her laughter and her joy. It made her remarkable, exceptional and courageous.

The fact that the incident with Marguerite‟s father had laid siege to that tower didn‟t alter her truth. It had only altered her belief in it, and he was determined to give her whatever she needed to help her see that, drive that dragon away.

Joy and happiness, darkness and rage had all visited her since he‟d known her.

They were all part of her, as they were part of everyone, but he knew which ones truly guided Chloe Davis.

As he pulled up to his townhouse, her tired eyes studied the door arrangement, a drama mask designed like a pumpkin‟s face, ensconced in a spray of autumn leaves. It was a reminder of the fall equinox that didn‟t match the warm Florida weather, but many residents, including him, insisted on observing the seasonal transition anyway. A little black rubber spider dangled from it, an incongruous touch of whimsy.

“Was the door arrangement a gift?”

“Yes and no.” Because he wanted to do it, he lifted her hand to his mouth, nuzzled her fingers. She watched him, her lips parting. He knew such Old World gestures bemused her Bohemian personality, but the female animal beneath recognized and responded to them. When her fingers quivered, he increased his grasp on them. “When I was little, my mom was pretty busy, a decorator, and a really good one. Even though she didn‟t have a lot of time to transform our house for the holidays or passing of seasons, she made a production of decorating the door. She had me „help‟ her.” He smiled at Chloe, rubbing his thumb over her fingers. “I‟d say where I thought different things should go. In retrospect, I‟m sure they were ideas that destroyed the artistry of her design. Like for Christmas, I‟d want a gaudy lit-up Santa with a plastic face and rosy cheeks in the middle of the elegant wreath she‟d arranged with white doves and silver and blue ribbons. But she helped me see where it would best fit. She‟d talk me into putting Santa on the stoop, surround him with pine cones and sprigs of holly, perch a few doves there like the white of his beard. We‟d spray frost snow flakes on the glass of our storm door, and they‟d sparkle when she‟d hang a single strand of white lights around them.”

“She sounds nice.”

“She was perfect. In the way a loving mother seen through the eyes of a five-year-old can be.” He paused, glanced back at the door. “My parents were killed in a car wreck when I was young. As the years pass, you forget important details, no matter how long you try to hold onto them, but you remember small things. So I still decorate the door, with the odd gaudy touch.”

“Like a rubber spider.” Now it was her fingers that tightened on his. When he looked toward her, he saw compassion in her eyes, a softness to her mouth, but she didn‟t say any of the usual platitudes. He was glad for that.

Her brown eyes, when they were like this, reminded him of a cow. He didn‟t say that, unsure she‟d understand the compliment, but when he looked at the liquid brown eyes of a cow, he always felt a tranquility, as if the placid animal, in her bovine simplicity, understood something no human ever would about making the most of each day, of every moment. He wanted to give that back to her.

Now though, he simply nodded. “Want to go in and see the rest of it?”

“The door arrangement is a way to keep it from overwhelming you, isn‟t it? Losing your parents.”

“That‟s one way of looking at it. Here‟s another.” Leaning over, he put his lips on hers, a gentle meeting of mouths, slow moving, a drift of feeling and physical stirring between them, quiet understanding. Yet when he started to draw back, she caught her fingers in his hair, holding him there so his eyes were inches from hers.

“I should take you home to my family this Christmas,” she said. “My mother would adopt you in a heartbeat.”

The warmth of his smile settled over Chloe, making her feel close to every part of who he was, and so glad to be here with him.

“Another way to keep things from overwhelming you is to realize that a house not only shelters you from the storm, it has windows to let in the light, hold it.” He teased back a loose lock of her hair. “And I‟d love to meet your parents. I don‟t think you realize how brave you are, Chloe.”

“Brave enough to go into your house at the very least, right?” She managed to give him a faint smile. “Though I‟ve heard horror stories about your laundry. And shoes like spiders. Maybe I‟ll sleep in the car.”

“I keep the laundry safely locked away so it can‟t harm the innocent, and the spider shoes only appear for me.” He made a face at her that almost made her laugh, but then he sobered. “Please come into my home, Chloe.”

Dropping to a sensual murmur, he pressed his lips to her jaw, glided to the pulse in her throat so that she lifted her chin to give him better access. She moved her fingers from his hair to his shoulders, then down to clutch his shirt, holding tight as that brief touch threatened to send her floating away.

“Okay.” She managed it on an indrawn breath. “You‟ve bullied me into it.”

“Don‟t move,” he said, and then he was out the Jeep door and moving around to the other side. He was a little less put together at three a.m. than he‟d been in his chain mail. But she liked the look of him in worn jeans and his faded Cirque du Soleil T-shirt with a fire breathing dragon. Unshaven, his hair tousled, he looked a little rough and unpredictable as he came around the vehicle. It wasn‟t a bad look for him, his Beaver Cleaver jokes notwithstanding.

He opened the door, helped her out, ready if she was still unsteady on her feet. She had an amazing feeling he‟d be willing to carry her for the next decade if she needed it.

At the same time, with his comment about her being brave, she didn‟t feel as if it stole any strength from her. Moreover, it suggested she still had some in her, somewhere.

She‟d give it the night off, hope it would have grown in size by morning.

Opening his front door, he guided her in, carrying her bag, which he set down in the entryway. “Feel free to look around anywhere,” he said. “I‟m just going to go check my messages.”

She nodded as he moved toward the open kitchen. The living space was comfortable, a male abode with masculine furniture, but a style that underscored Brendan‟s background in theater art. There were earthy blends of color with splashes of warm reds in the sectional grouping in his sitting room. The entranceway had a series of black and white photographs, artistic renderings of two nudes, a male and female.

Their positions were intimate. The male kneeling, head to his knees while the woman‟s long hair, a rich brown, draped over him like strands of a weeping willow, her body the slender trunk arched backward over him. In the next, the two models lay on blue velvet, the only color, as their black and white figures spooned together. The male was curved protectively around her, their legs and torso flush against one another.

The other two photos had a similar give and take theme, and then guided the eye to a much larger centerpiece for the same series, positioned alone on the wall over the sectional.