Her Forbidden Hero (10 page)

“Yeah. But it won’t be for long.”

He frowned. “My house is yours for however long you need. Besides, uh, you know Brady would have a fit if he found out about last night.”

Alyssa’s hopes plummeted to the ground. Duty and obligation it was, then. “I’m sure you’re right,” she managed.

“So just follow me home, then?”

Alyssa agreed, eager to return to the privacy of her car so she could spend a few minutes kicking herself over reading into what he’d said, how he’d touched her. “Lead the way.”

Marco slid into his car as she got into hers. Alyssa followed Betty to the edge of town to Marco’s house, a surprisingly charming brick Cape Cod with a curving sloped roof, loft-style windows on the second floor, and a wide front porch. His street backed to Braddock Mountain, the part of Catoctin Mountain that formed Frederick’s western boundary. The setting gave the house a rural feel even though it was only ten minutes from the small downtown.

Marco walked from his car in the driveway to where she’d parked on the street. “What can I help you with?”

Alyssa slung her overnight bag onto her shoulder. “I don’t have that much. I can manage.”

“Seriously. Load me up.”

Alyssa smiled. “Okay. Remember, you asked for it.” She popped the trunk, reached in, and chucked two pillows at him.

He bobbled the second one, nearly dropping it to the ground, and cocked an eyebrow at her.

Her grin was instantaneous. “Just seeing if you were a man of your word.”

“Count on it.” He stuffed both pillows under one arm and yanked her suitcase out with the other. “What else?” He surveyed the contents of her trunk, then stepped around and peered into her backseat. “Is this all you have?”

“For now.” The trunk held a small TV, a DVD player, her guitar, two boxes of kitchen items, a folded comforter, and three crates of books and picture frames. In her backseat sat a laundry basket of sheets and blankets and a duffel bag filled with towels and a few pairs of shoes.

He pressed his lips into a tight line and nailed her with a disapproving gaze.

She closed the trunk and tilted her head. “No yelling, remember? And no stern talking, either.”

He stared at her for another moment, then chuffed out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am. Come on.” He started up the front walk. “I don’t know how I’ll ever fit
all this stuff
in my house.”

Alyssa followed after him. “Do I need to add ‘no smart-ass commentary’ to the list?”

He unlocked the front door. “Probably. But I can’t make any promises on that one.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped in behind him. “Wow, Marco. This place is great.”

Original hardwood floors stretched out in every direction and matched the carved molding that ran along the baseboards and around the doors. A huge front window let warm light into the
L
-shaped living room, which connected directly to a dining room. However,
sparsely decorated
didn’t begin to describe it. “I don’t think I’m the only one who needs to get some furniture, though.”

Marco glanced around, a troubled expression on his face. A futon, a folding tray, and a TV on a small stand comprised the totality of his belongings in the two rooms she’d seen so far. “Yeah. It’s on my to-do list. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

A hallway off the empty dining room led to a set of stairs with detailed moldings all along the side, then to a bathroom and a bedroom.

She followed him into the bedroom, the most furnished room she’d seen so far. A queen-size mission bed and two nightstands sat on one wall, and a long dresser with a mirror took up most of another. A solid navy comforter provided the only color in the room. The walls were bare.

“Here you go.” He dropped her pillows onto the bed and settled her suitcase next to it.

Two folded shirts rested on the long dresser, and a glass of water and a sports watch sat on one of the night tables.

“Wait,” she said, looking around, her stomach flipping in realization. “This isn’t your room, is it?”

She eyed him for a long moment, then dropped her bag off her shoulder and sighed. “Okay. Well, thanks.”

“No problem.” They stood looking at each other. She was so damn pretty. “Um, so, I’ll let you get settled in. I guess.”

“Oh. Right.”

Marco stepped around her, then paused in the doorway. “Bathroom’s right out here in the hall. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will.”

He pulled the door shut and walked into the kitchen. Bracing his hands on the counter, he stared out the window at the mountain. Alyssa Scott was in his house. In his bedroom. Maybe sitting on his bed right now. His dick twitched at the thought. Treacherous bastard.

But what was he supposed to do? Let her struggle to make ends meet for however long it took her to get on her feet? And what if she ended up again in the position she’d been in last night? Not enough money to put a roof over her head and nowhere to go. Next time, they might not be so lucky—it might not be him who finds her. And then… He couldn’t even let himself think about all the ways her little campout at Whiskey’s might’ve gone wrong.

By taking her in, he was doing what was right.

And wasn’t that a convenient rationale that allowed him to ignore how much he
wanted
her there. Even though it was stupid, and dangerous, and just…really fucking stupid.

The way his body strained at the fly of his jeans proved that.

A door opened behind him. “I’m going to grab my guitar,” Alyssa called.

“Okay,” he said, feeling like a schmuck for not getting it himself, but he wasn’t really, er, presentable right now. He heaved a deep breath and willed his body under control.

She returned a few minutes later and leaned in the kitchen doorway. “Wanna see?”

“Yeah. Break it out.” More settled now, he followed her into the living room where she’d left the case sitting in front of the futon.

She opened the lid and pulled the acoustic into her lap.

“Oh, man. That’s a beauty. Let’s hear it.”

“Really?” She smiled and, when he nodded, checked her hand position and started to play.

Marco braced his elbows on his knees. It was an old Lennon–McCarthy song he used to play for her on the piano. Back then, she’d said “In My Life” reminded her of her mom. She played it beautifully, in a light, hopeful arrangement that pulled a rare smile out of him. Her body swayed with the rhythm and her fingers flew over the fretboard. How many afternoons had the two of them sat in the basement family room at his parents’ house and played guitar together, him on the old acoustic packed away in his bedroom closet, her on the smaller guitar his parents bought for her one Christmas. Brady bored quickly of their jam sessions, so the music was something they’d often shared alone.

Pride surged through Marco. She’d improved so much since he’d last heard her that he was well and truly awed.

And she so clearly felt the music. It poured through her and wrapped around him, making him recall the lyrics he’d never considered meaningful between them before, but now kicked up his pulse as he wondered if
she
thought they had any significance. The song spoke of loving someone more in the now than all the important people they’d known and loved and lost in the past. Marco pressed his fingers to his lips and rubbed, unable to look away but suddenly feeling like the walls of the open, airy room were closing in on him.

When the last notes faded away, the silence of the room rang loudly. Marco cleared his throat. “You’re really good, Aly. You killed that. Seriously.”

She blushed and settled the body of the guitar on the floor so it rested against her leg. “I took music lessons as electives. I didn’t want to lose, uh, the guitar.”

Marco swallowed down the knot that lodged in his throat, the one growing bigger as her big brown eyes settled on him and refused to look away. He leaned toward her, his hand aching to wrap around her neck, tangle in her hair, and pull her in. He reached out…and pointed to the guitar. “Can I see it?”

She grinned and passed it to him. “Of course. It’s solid wood. Spruce, mahogany, and rosewood.”

He accepted the instrument. “A Seagull. Nice. These guitars always have a great tone, as you just proved.”

Alyssa’s cheeks flushed beautifully. He wanted to taste the heat off her skin.

“Go ahead. Give it a try,” she said.

He cradled the guitar in his lap, drawing his knee up to support the body of it. “Shit, Aly. I don’t know if I can anymore. My damn hand.” He dropped his lefty to his side, shielding it from her gaze.

She scooted nearer on the futon and rested a hand on his knee. “Just try.”

His leg went tense. Not from fear of playing but from the effort it took not to toss the guitar to the side, pull her into his lap, and see what else his fingers might be capable of. Jesus. He heaved a breath. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

He centered his right hand over the sound hole and curled his left around the neck. The strings bit into his fingers as they settled into a C chord. One of the pitfalls of not having played in a long time, his fingers no longer had the calluses he’d built up when he’d played frequently. The bite of the metal wasn’t unwelcome, though.

He strummed the guitar, changing into another easy chord. Man, this played like a dream, the tone warm and resonant.

Alyssa gripped his knee, drawing his concentration away from his hand position. He lifted his gaze to her, and pride shone out of every pore of her beautiful, smiling face. Man, how that expression lit him up inside. In fact, he would’ve sworn the whole house shone more brightly with her there.

He launched into the first bars of an old favorite, and damn if he wasn’t playing. But his joy didn’t last for long. Twice he messed up his fingering, unable to change chords fast enough or compress the strings hard enough. A muscle cramp seized his forearm. He’d beaten his arm to shit two nights ago, and clearly it wasn’t up for any more abuse. His fingers slipped from the neck and he clenched his teeth to keep from roaring in frustration. Just one more part of his old life that was gone.

“That was great, Marco. See? You can still play. You’re just rusty.”

He held out the guitar and rose when she accepted it. “I’m not rusty, Alyssa. I’m too fucking broken to play.”

He paced to the front window and braced a hand against the molding. Out in the street, a man walked his dog and, farther down, a woman pushed a stroller. Just ordinary people going about their days. Did any of them feel this constant pressure on their heart and weight on their shoulders? Or was that shit reserved especially for him?

Oh, goody, because self-pity is such an attractive quality.

Warm arms came around his stomach as Alyssa embraced him from behind. Her head settled between his shoulder blades and, without telling his hand to move, he found himself clutching her hands to his chest.

He gave in to the comfort of her touch and absorbed everything he could from her. The magic of her music still swirled in the air, and in his mind’s eye, he saw himself turning in her arms, bending down, clutching her face in his hands, and drawing their mouths together. He’d walk her backward through the house as their hands tugged at shirts and bared skin. They’d end up on the bed and she’d be all splayed out, warm and his for the taking.

Alyssa nuzzled into his back and pressed a kiss against his shoulder.

He sucked in a breath, his erection punching against the fly of his jeans again. But it wouldn’t just be sex. Not with her. The ache in his chest and the constriction in his throat, that was about the part of him that wanted to comfort her and be comforted in return, that wanted companionship and a place to belong. It would be about lo—

He shook his head, clamping down on the tail end of that thought. Without question, Alyssa would give him everything he wanted and more, but what he wanted was just a bunch of fantasy bullshit for someone like him.

It killed him to do so, but he twisted free of her arms and forced himself to face her. Frustration and regret weighed on his shoulders like an anvil. “This”—he waved his finger back and forth between them and swallowed down a river of sadness—“this right here. This can’t happen.”

Alyssa’s expression morphed from surprise into hurt, and the tinge of pink on her cheeks revealed a healthy dose of embarrassment mixed in.

Wasn’t that the sour cherry on his shit sundae? Hurting her was the last thing he wanted to do, but better to hurt her a little now than a lot later.

She dropped her gaze. “I didn’t mean… I just wanted…” She turned and crossed the dining room to the hallway.