Queen (11 page)

She stifled a gasp, anxious not to awaken the boys. For several moments they stood toe to toe, eye to eye, lost in the shock of the moment and the silence of the night. His breath was soft and warm against her face, and Queen closed her eyes and swallowed a sigh.

Cody's sight had already adjusted to the darkness. And when she turned and nearly barreled into him, he almost let it happen, so desperate was he for an excuse to be able to touch her. But something—an instinct—told him not to push her or rush things, so he simply stood, and watched, and wished. And when her eyes closed, he took it as a sign.

He reached out, softly threaded a finger through a loose lock of her hair hanging over her shoulder, and shivered as it seemed to curl around his hand like a clinging vine. It had him ensnared… and if he wasn't mistaken, so did she. Just what the hell he could ever do about it was another problem altogether.

And then she jerked away, and his hand dropped to his side, and she walked past him in the dark.

"Sweet dreams, lady," he whispered. But she didn't answer. Moments later he heard her footsteps on the back stairs and then the sounds of pots and pans in the kitchen, and he knew that she was finishing what she'd been hired to do.

Queen rolled over and sat straight up in bed, her heart pounding, still trying to decipher what had awakened her so suddenly. Thinking she must have heard one of the boys cry out in his sleep, she staggered out of bed and started down the hall, forgetting in her confusion that she was wearing nothing but the nightshirt she'd had for years.

It was old and faded from blue to near white, and its shirttail hem barely covered her knees. Her body was completely bare beneath the thin fabric, which emphasized the feminine outline of her figure in a way she would have hated had she been aware of the seductive quality of her appearance.

Ignoring her femininity and refusing to enhance her beauty assets had been part of her self-protection in Cradle Creek. In Cody Bonner's house, however, she'd begun to feel safe and had unconsciously let down her guard.

She stood for a moment in the dark hallway, straining to hear whatever it was that had awakened her. And then it came again, through closed doorways and into her heart in a frightful, chilling manner. It was a low moan and then a high-pitched wail of someone in intense pain, and in that moment she knew.

Cody!

The dreams had returned—the nightmares he'd suffered that had sent him searching for answers the day he'd wound up in jail instead. And with that same thought came the sudden knowledge that she couldn't let the Whittiers hear him or see him… not like this.

She tiptoed down the hallway and was inside his room before she had time to think. Quickly she shut the door behind her so that no further sounds could escape, then was at his side in seconds.

The sheet covering his body had slipped far below his waist, and Queen trembled at the sight of so much man and manhood barely covered by the snowy-white briefs he was wearing. He moaned again, thrashing out weakly against unseen restraints. When she saw him so helpless and hurting, she knew that she was lost.

She dashed into the adjoining bathroom, grabbed a still-damp washcloth hanging by the tub, and returned to his bedside. Ignoring the warning her mind was sending, she slid onto the side of the bed and gently grasped his arm. With a soothing motion, she began to wipe his sweat-soaked face and neck, all the while whispering quietly in a desperate hope that she'd be able to stop his nightmare without alerting the rest of the household.

"Sssh," she whispered over and over. "Don't fight it, Cody. Don't fight it. It's over. It's over. You're safe. You're home."

She dropped the wet cloth on the floor and grasped him firmly by the shoulders, trying to shake him awake.

It didn't work. He was still locked into the nightmare playing out in his head.

He groaned in whispers, although in sleep they were shouts. "They've got a lock… got a lock! Taking evasive…"

His voice trailed away as his motions increased. Queen's stomach jerked in response to what she heard him say as she realized he was reliving his plane being shot down.

"Oh, damn… can't shake…" All movement of his arms and legs ceased. For a split second in time he seemed frozen in place as his body arched in the bed. "I'm hit… I'm hit!… going down… going… Mayday! Mayday!"

Queen's eyes widened as she listened to the muttered coordinates he was giving, and she ached for the panic he couldn't seem to let go.

His body bucked beneath her hands, and a fresh wave of sweat beaded his skin.

"Cody! Wake up! You've got to wake up," she whispered urgently. It didn't happen, and the last word she heard him say before he went still as death was "ejecting."

Queen rose on shaky legs and took the washcloth back to the bathroom. After running fresh, cool water through it, she leaned over the sink and splashed her own warm face, then wrung the excess water from the cloth and hurried back to Cody's bedside. Now that he was still, she had no further fear that the Whittiers would hear him. For tonight the dream was over.

But she knew that there had been other nights before this one… and feared that there would be many more before this would end.

"No more," she whispered as she wiped his face and neck. "No more dreams… just sleep… sleep."

The cool washcloth was all there was between her hands and his body, and for one insane moment Queen had the notion to toss it aside and let her hands roam at will across the muscled breadth of his chest.

But sanity returned as quickly as it had left. She stood, laid the washcloth on the marbled top of the bedside table, and walked quietly from the room.

Within a heartbeat Cody woke, as suddenly as one did when falling from dream sleep into consciousness. He felt the bed shift and knew when she stood, and he imagined that she could hear his heart knock against his chest from the shock of her presence.

When had she come into his room? How long had she been on his bed?

A memory returned of a soft voice and a soothing touch and something cool coming through the heat of the crash. He turned his head and saw the washcloth wadded on the bedside table and knew that tonight had been different from the others. Somewhere during the hell of his dream, Queen Houston had come inside and shared some of the pain and, in doing so, had somehow lessened its impact.

The bone-shaking fear that he always had upon awakening was gone. He felt weak, spent from the effort of the nightmare, but this time there was an odd sort of peace within him.

He stared at the closed door, trying to absorb what had just happened. Sometime during the night, when she'd thought no one could notice, she'd come and cared for him as she would have his sons. She'd been so tender and gentle, he wished to hell that he'd been awake in time to touch the woman he'd glimpsed walking out of his room. Queen Houston had already touched his life when she'd stepped in to care for his sons, and now she'd just touched his heart.

"Ah, God, lady," Cody whispered into the darkness. "I want more from you than I think you're willing to give."

With that, he rolled over on his belly and tried to ignore a sudden and unwelcome pain as his manhood hardened and then throbbed between his legs.

"Just what I need," he muttered as he buried his face into the pillow. "Another damned ache that won't go away."

The aroma of fresh coffee, sausage, and pancakes permeated the rooms downstairs. Allen Whittier packed the last of his things into their suitcase and watched with a jaundiced eye as his wife put on her makeup. Every morning it was the same. Whether they were alone in their own room or a thousand miles away from home, she didn't budge until her face was perfectly applied.

Methodically and artfully she added layer upon layer to enhance her features and her complexion, yet she couldn't hide the dissatisfaction lurking in her pale gray eyes or disguise the permanent frown lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes.

"There." She eyed herself coolly, checking her silver pompadour and patting down the collar of her navy two-piece suit. "I'm ready." She turned to face her husband and frowned. "Are you wearing that?"

"Yes, Lenore, I am. I like this shirt, and the slacks are comfortable. We have a long drive ahead of us today. I don't intend to do it in a suit."

Recognizing that he was in one of his assertive moods, she decided to move on to other topics. She sniffed the air, then frowned. "Just what I  suspected. Fried foods. Claire would never have allowed that."

Allen inhaled slowly, mentally counted to ten, and then decided to speak up in defense of the son-in-law he'd always admired.

"Claire would not have cooked it because Claire did not get up before ten A.M., and we both know it," he said. His sarcasm was faint but unmistakable as he continued. "The boys had already had cold cereal and gone about their business by the time she said hello to a day. I don't know about you, but whatever is cooking smells wonderful and I'm going to go beg my share."

He walked out of their makeshift bedroom, leaving her alone. His chance to interject his own opinions and personality into their marriage had come and gone, but it did not save him from regrets that he'd let it go.

Allen stopped just outside the kitchen door, pausing long enough to watch the housekeeper as she stood at the stove, flipping pancakes and turning sausage links with consummate skill. He observed with undisguised male interest the way her long legs and slim hips filled the old blue jeans she was wearing. Her long red hair was loose, providing a stunning contrast to her oversize green T-shirt.

Queen turned around, and Allen took an unconscious step backward at the warning look he saw in her eyes. Recognition changed her expression to one of welcome, but in the split second before she'd masked her thoughts, he knew this woman would give nothing to no man.

"Mr. Whittier… I didn't hear you come in."

He flushed, wishing himself into the next county for what he'd been thinking. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said quietly, and then waved his hand in the general direction of where she was working. "It's just that everything smells so good."

She smiled, and when her face lit up he realized that she was younger than he'd first imagined.

"If you'll take a seat in the next room, I'll bring your breakfast," she offered.

"If you don't mind," Allen said, "I'd rather eat in the kitchen. It's cozier."

Queen shrugged and turned away to fill his plate.

When Lenore finally made her way to breakfast, she found her husband and grandsons seated in the kitchen, sharing a meal and laughter as Allen regaled them with a story of one of their mother's childhood stunts.

"Don't tell the children such things," she said as she sat down. "It'll only give them notions."

Allen rolled his eyes and made a face at Will and J.J. before he spoke. "Not unless the boys suddenly decide to wear lipstick and face powder. I was telling them about when Claire was five and got into your makeup."

"She looked like a clown," J.J. said, giggling.

Lenore almost smiled. "And ruined a perfectly good dress," she felt compelled to add, and then stared pointedly at Queen. "I'll just have juice and coffee. I don't eat fried foods. It's bad for my cholesterol."