Lawman's Redemption (18 page)

She'd made it halfway to her bed when Brady caught hold of her arm and swung her around and hard against his body. “Damn it, Hallie, no more putdowns. You're the most important person in our lives.”

Don't believe him, her little voice warned.
You damn well better not believe him.
She had no doubt he meant it at that very moment, but moments didn't last. Heartache did. Pain. Sorrow.

Forcing herself to lift her head, she met his gaze. “If you're not planning to sleep with me in that bed for what's left of the night, would you please leave my room?”

Slowly he released her and took a step back, then another. “I can't stay.” His voice was low, heavy with regret, and created a dull heaviness inside her.

“Why not?”

“It's almost dawn.” He gestured toward the window, then offered the weakest of smiles. “I'm like a vampire. I only do it at night. In the dark.”

“Why?”

As he stared at her, she identified a number of emotions flitting through his eyes—anger, frustration, pain, fear. He was a big, strong, brave man who carried a gun and could intimidate most people with no more than a look. What could he possibly be afraid of?

After a moment, he turned away. He leaned against the edge
of the dresser, and his left hand clutched the curved edge as if the contact might somehow give him courage. He opened his mouth several times without getting any words out, grimaced, then, striving to sound casual, blurted out, “Did I ever tell you that my parents' favorite pastime was beating the hell out of my brother and me?”

Through sheer will, Hallie kept a low moan inside. She wanted to be shocked and disbelieving. She wanted to think that he'd had a relatively ordinary upbringing…even though she'd already known that wasn't true. A father who left him to drown and a mother who didn't kill the bastard for it—there was nothing ordinary about parents like that. And that was only one incident. She didn't want to know that his entire life had been filled with such incidents. She didn't want to imagine the horror he must have lived with all those years.

She just wanted to kill his parents.

Though she felt queasy with anger and the fierce need to protect him, she made an effort to keep it from her face as she sat primly on her bed. Her hands were folded in her lap, her bare feet propped on the side rail. “No, you didn't,” she said evenly. Judging by the panicky undertone to his voice and the desperation he was trying so hard to hide, she would bet he'd never told anyone but Sandra.

“Yeah, well…it was, and I've got the scars to prove it.”

So that was why he shied away from being touched. Why he only made love in the dark. Why he hated his parents and never wanted to set foot in Texas again. Why he didn't let people get close. With such a betrayal in the most fundamental relationship a child ever had, it was a wonder he'd been able to fall in love with Sandra—and then she'd betrayed him, too. If Hallie ever had the opportunity, she swore she would make the woman wish she'd never been born. “And you think if I see or feel these scars, I'll find them repulsive.”

“Repulsive. Sickening. Grotesque.” He shrugged as if it didn't matter. “You wouldn't be the first.”

Just as he wasn't the first to underestimate her.

“I snore,” she said, her tone conversational, “and if my nose is the least bit stuffy at night, I drool, too. I have a scar here—”
she pointed to a spot on her leg “—where I fell off my bike when I was eight. I only eat the cream centers of Oreos and throw out the chocolate cookies, and I pick all the nuts out of caramel corn. My little toes are crooked, I never can remember to put the little twistie thing back on the loaf of bread, and I hide my chocolate kisses if anyone else is around. Though I haven't told Lexy yet because I don't want to encourage her, I've got a tattoo right here—” turning, she tugged the shoulder of her jumper down to reveal the moon, star and fairy on her left shoulder “—and I also wear a small, tasteful sapphire in my navel.

“I always read the ends of books first. I can't carry a tune. I have a birthmark shaped like California on my right hip. Yogurt makes me sick, and the mere thought of exercising makes me feel faint. My left breast is smaller than the right one, I have a tendency to carry ten extra pounds on my hips, and I haven't been fashionably thin since I was ten. The last time I voted was for senior class president and Marcy, the head-cheerleader twit, won in spite of my campaigning for her opponent. I'm not—”

“What are you doing?” he interrupted, sounding seriously bewildered.

“I'm listing my flaws for you. You told me yours. It's only fair you should know mine.” She watched him, holding her breath. His reaction would determine how this conversation—and this relationship—would go. If he responded with the seriousness the subject deserved, they had problems he might never get over. But if he could treat it more lightly…there was hope for him—for them—yet.

As much hope as a short-term relationship could afford.

He scowled at her. “Those aren't flaws. They're personality quirks and superficial imperfections, and they hardly compare to scars.”

“Superficial only if you're not the one sleeping beside me when I'm snoring, or the one who always has to eat sandwiches on stale bread, or the one who likes the nuts in caramel corn, too. And if ten pounds sounds superficial to you, that's because you've never had to escort me to the Oscars in front of the whole
world when I looked like… What was the word Max used? Oh, yes. A
cow.
”

He stared at her a long time, his brow knitted, his narrowed eyes making him look lethal…and wickedly sexy. Finally, his mouth barely moving under his mustache, he asked, “Want me to punch him?”

Relief whispered through her. “You might break your other hand.”

“It would be worth it.”

“I appreciate the offer, but Max is so insignificant in my life now that he's not even worth punching.” As she said it, she realized it was true. She still had plenty of heartache, insecurities and regret, but none of it was over Max. That was over and done with. Finished. On the cutting-room floor.

“So…” She rose from the bed, closed the blinds and shut off the overhead light, then tugged the jumper over her head, careful not to catch her chemise, too. “Back to my original request. If you're not going to sleep in my bed—and it can be nothing more than sleep; I know you've been through a lot—will you please leave my room?”

His gaze moved over her, from her uncombed hair to her toes curling on the rug next to the bed. Though she knew she didn't look her best, the warm, appreciative look in his blue eyes suggested that he didn't particularly care.

Then he swallowed hard and pushed himself away from the dresser. “Remember that saying—be careful what you ask for?”

“Because you just might get it,” she finished for him. Which part might she get? Him in her bed? Or another lonely night alone?

He bent and turned off the lamp on the table behind her, then his sleeve brushed her bare arm as he started toward the door. Holding her breath, she followed his movements by the whisper of bare feet on wood, then disappointment sank like a rock to settle in the pit of her stomach as he closed the door quietly.

Well, that answered that. Just another night alone.

In a life filled with them.

B
rady stood at the door, palm pressed flat against the wood, forehead resting there, too. After his experience with Sandra, he had sworn he would never tell anyone about his parents beating him as long as he lived. Though he'd felt sick when he was trying to get the words out, it hadn't been as hard as he'd expected. That was to Hallie's credit. Maybe it was because she'd been through some tough times herself, or because she didn't make a big deal over things.

Or maybe it was because he trusted her more than any woman he'd ever known.

Wanted her more.

Cared for her more.

But telling was a big step from showing, and showing was where it would make a difference…or not. He really wanted to hope it would be
not,
but he couldn't shake the fear that it would matter. She was accustomed to beautiful people with perfect bodies, and his was damned
im
perfect.

At times he could acknowledge that it was a stupid insecurity. He was thirty-five years old. He knew not everyone judged people on the way they looked. He knew he amounted to a hell of
a lot more than a mass of scars. But at other times…. Sandra had done such a number on his ego. She'd thought the scars were ugly and repulsive, and she'd made him feel that way, too.

But Hallie wasn't Sandra.

Slowly he turned from the door. Just enough illumination from the lightening sky filtered around the blinds to allow him to see the big oak bed and Hallie standing beside it, her back to him. Part of him wanted desperately to run, but he'd spent his whole life running from one hurt or another, and what had it gotten him? Nothing but a desperate longing to be part of something, part of some
one.

From across the room came a whisper of sound. “Damn, damn, god—”

“You know, I wasn't kidding at the wedding reception about Oklahoma having a law against swearing. It's called outraging the public decency.”

She whirled around in a rustle of satin. For a moment there was such emotion in her expression—sadness, disappointment, surprise—then it disappeared behind a cool smile. “But I'm not in public, and you don't look outraged.”

He shrugged. “Hey, any excuse to put a beautiful woman in handcuffs.”

After a minute or two ticked by in silence, she gestured. “I thought you'd gone.”

“If you want me to, I will. But if you don't mind, I'd rather stay here. There's just one catch.” While she waited, he tried a smile that was a miserable failure. “You'll have to help me with my clothes.”

She tossed her head. “I thought you were a big boy who could undress himself.”

“You
know
I'm a big boy…but I need your help.”
And you.

She took a few steps toward him, then stopped and waited for him to close the distance. When he did, she took hold of his shirt hem and peeled it up, over his head and free of his left arm, then carefully slid it over his cast. She tossed the shirt aside, and he shifted uncomfortably. He'd never felt so exposed, so much at risk. Facing armed killers and almost certain death at
Reese's house a few months earlier had been easier than standing without the protection of his shirt in front of this woman.

She smiled provocatively. “If I were a cruel woman, I could take great pleasure in dragging this out.”

He moistened his lips, cleared his throat. “Yes, you could. But you understand that one day soon my wrist will stop hurting, and then turnabout is fair play.”

Hooking her index finger in the waistband of his jeans, she slid it from side to side. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Not much at all.” Truth was, the throbbing was almost completely blocked out by the panicked urge to grab his shirt, her quilt, anything to wrap around himself. “I'm a superhero, remember? Broken bones don't faze me.” After a pause, he swallowed hard, then continued. “However, show me a belt….”

Through no more contact than her fingertip rubbing against his belly, he felt the tension streak through her. “Was that their weapon of choice?”

“My father liked his fists. My mother preferred a belt. More pain, no broken bones requiring trips to the emergency room. A kid can only fall and break so many bones before the doctors start to suspect either abuse or some rare medical disorder.”

“My friends from the great Lone Star State tell me Texas has a he-needed-killin' defense for murder. Sounds as if that would apply here.”

“I've wished them dead many times, but I never had what it would take to kill them.” He smiled faintly, or at least he meant to. It felt more like a grimace. “I used to think that was some kind of failing in me.”

“No. It just meant they could beat the hell out of you, but they couldn't take away your honor, your decency or your humanity.”

She undid the button on his jeans, then unzipped them before sliding her hands inside to guide them down. She did it efficiently, modestly, which didn't stop him from responding as if she'd boldly caressed him. After discarding the jeans, she raised one brow. “Boxers on or off?”

“I'm not making love to you with them on.”

“You don't have to do that.”

He slid his fingers into her hair and tilted her face to his. “Yes, I do. I need you, Hallie. I need to feel you under me—well, on top of me. I need to hear those little noises you make when it feels so good you can't stand it anymore. I need to kiss you and taste you and smell you and feel you…” He brushed a kiss to her lips, took a breath that smelled sweetly of her, then kissed her again, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She opened to him immediately, slid her arms around his neck and clung to him as if she couldn't bear to let go.

The bed was only a foot behind her, but it took them forever to reach it. He lay down first, easing back into the center of the mattress. With her blond hair tumbling around her face, she knelt beside him and slowly inched his boxers down, then gave him a tantalizing smile as she removed her gown. For a moment, all he could do was stare—not at her body, though that was well worth ogling, but at
her.
Her lovely, delicate face. Her lazy, sexy smile.

How could any man willingly give her up? Choose to live life without her?

How could
he
give her up?

And why in hell should he have to?

“Brady?” A shy look came over her as she knelt there, naked, before him. “Are you okay?”

He drew a deep, shuddering breath. He hadn't been okay, not for more years than he could recall. But at that moment, damned if he didn't feel about as
okay
as a man with a broken wrist who'd just lost everything in a fire could feel. “Once you quit tormenting me and come over here, I'll be perfect.”

For a moment she studied him, as if torn between continuing the torment or obeying. Then, as pure sensual sultriness replaced the shyness in her manner, she shifted to kneel astride him, reaching between their bodies with her long, delicate fingers to guide him inside her. Then she did exactly what he'd requested of her. She came over…and over…and it was perfect.

 

Shoving her hair back from her face, Hallie rolled onto her side and groped on the night table for the clock. Once she found it, she had to rub her eyes to bring the numbers into focus.
Sleepily she set it down again. It must need new batteries. It said it was nearly eleven-thirty, and she hadn't slept until eleven-thirty in…well, forever. Only when she'd had a really big night the night before and needed the extra hours to recuperate, and the last time she'd had such a night was when she ran off and married her first husband.

Setting the clock down again, she collapsed on the bed and rolled over…and remembered everything—the fire, the hospital, Brady's admission, their lovemaking. No wonder she was still in bed at practically noon and still tired. She hadn't gotten there until sometime around 5:00 a.m. and hadn't gone to sleep until several hours later.

And she'd sure had fun.

Brady lay on his stomach, the sheet pulled to his shoulders, his right arm propped on a pillow that was balanced half on the nightstand. His face was turned toward her, and his breathing was steady, slow, deep. It sounded peaceful and could lure her back to sleep in a heartbeat if she let it.

If she wasn't curious.

She hadn't yet seen his back and the scars that caused him such torment, but there was something so sneaky about lifting the sheet and taking a peek while he slept. Not that she would be doing anything wrong. After all, he'd let her undress him, and he'd slept naked beside her. He'd known there was a chance she would awaken before him, that she might catch a glimpse.

Not that it even mattered. She hadn't fallen for the smooth perfection of his skin, so how could she care that it was neither smooth nor perfect? Besides, popular opinion to the contrary, she wasn't shallow enough to care. Her mother had taught her that beauty truly was in the eye of the beholder, and life had confirmed it for her.

And she thought he was beautiful.

Pillowing her head on her arms, she studied him for a time. He could be so fierce and distant when he was awake, but asleep he just looked tired. Vulnerable. She could imagine how much he must hate feeling vulnerable, and how vulnerable he must have felt that morning when she'd undressed him.

For a wooden nickel she would go to Marshall City, Texas,
smack Sandra and destroy Brady's parents, then pay the city fathers whatever it would take to eradicate their name from the town and its history. Their only legacy would be the plot of dirt where they were buried.

Which would make her feel better, but wouldn't do much for Brady. It wouldn't heal the scars or make him forget.

A sigh escaped her an instant before she realized he was awake. He hadn't moved other than to open his eyes, and he looked…wary.

“Good morning,” she murmured with a lazy smile. “How do you feel?”

“Like I've been run over by a truck.”

“I hope you're referring to the tussle at your house, the broken wrist and the fire, and not to making love with me.”

His smile started slowly and curved only one corner of his mouth before stopping. “Absolutely. You were the only good part of last night. You made up for all the rest.” He shifted, moving his right arm carefully, to lean on his elbows, and the sheet slipped down his back.

Though she tried, Hallie couldn't have not looked to save her life. Her gaze darted automatically to all the warm brown skin now exposed—skin that was crisscrossed from side to side, from his shoulders to his waist, with long pale scars. Some were thin, hardly more than a line stretching across his back, while others were heavy, ridged and puckered. The differences, she assumed, had to do with the age of the scars and the severity of the injuries that caused them. And there were so many. There wasn't a single place on his back where she could lay her palm entirely on undamaged skin.

She couldn't begin to imagine the terrible pain he must have suffered. She wanted to weep, to hold and protect him, to find some way to heal him, and she wanted to hurt his mother—hurt her
bad.

“It's not a pretty sight, is it?”

Her gaze jerked back to his face. His tone was wry, his smile even more so, as if it really didn't matter. But in his eyes was anxiety, uncertainty and that damned vulnerability. As touched as she was that he could show that side of himself to her—both
literally and figuratively—she hated that
anything
had the power to make him feel defenseless.

She wasn't certain how to respond. She could deny that the scars were ugly—and proof that evil did exist. She could shrug them off, insist she'd seen worse. Or she could tell the truth.

“No,” she said quietly. “It's not pretty. And it's made up my mind for me. I'm going to Texas, and I'm going to make your parents disappear from the face of this earth. I have the money to do that, and I think Max has the connections.”

For a long still moment, he just looked at her, his expression wavering between wariness and amusement. The latter won out. “You think Max has that kind of connections?”

“You know that Mafia movie that came out last year—the Golden Globe winner? He both directed and produced it. You should have seen some of the shady characters he was having meetings with. I suspect most of them had years of experience at making offers people couldn't refuse.”

He rolled onto his side and used his good arm to pull her body snug against his. “So you've gone from consorting with mobsters to consorting with a cop.”

She brushed her lips over his beard-stubbled jaw. “I
never
did this with a mobster.”

After pressing a kiss to her forehead, he rubbed up and down her spine in slow easy strokes. She let her eyes drift shut and thought about sleeping another hour or two, but there were still things she wanted to know, questions she wanted to ask. With a great effort, she opened her eyes and focused on him. “What happened to your brother?”

For just an instant his hand stilled on her back, then resumed the relaxing massage. “Logan ran off just before his sixteenth birthday. He'd committed some infraction—there were so many of them, I don't even remember what—and I took the blame for it. That's what an older brother does, you know? I was bigger, tougher. I could handle it better than him. So our mother punished me, and…I guess he just couldn't take it anymore. He packed whatever he could carry and took off in the middle of the night. I haven't seen or heard from him since.”

So he'd been betrayed not only by his parents and his wife,
but also by his brother—the brother he'd literally suffered for. How awful Logan's leaving must have been for Brady…but how impossible it must have been for Logan, seeing his brother beaten in
his
place. If he were anything at all like Brady, he would have preferred enduring the pain himself over the helpless heartache of being responsible for his brother's pain.