In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (17 page)

An hour later, Rachel polished off her second serving of eggs
Benedict and smiled at Nick across the table. "You weren't kidding. You really can cook:'

"I'm glad you enjoyed it:" He took a swig of coffee from his
oversized mug and returned her smile. It was nice to have company for a meal. Much as he liked this house, it sometimes felt
cavernous when he was here alone. More so since Mark and
Coop had stayed with him last summer.

"You've also done a great job with this place. I envy the lucky
family who will reap the benefits of your labor."

He dismissed her compliment with a shrug. "I enjoy the work.
But I have to admit this house has been special. I like that it's
survived for more than 150 years. That it has a history, and
roots. The instant I stepped inside the door I got a feeling of
substance and permanence and stability-even though the walls
were literally falling down around me." He grinned and shook
his head. "Go figure:"

"I sense that too. I wonder if foster kids are more attuned
to those qualities?" She treated the question as rhetorical and
moved on. "I do know having a home was always one of my goals.
My house may be humble, but it means the world to me. And I
love knowing I never have to move again if I don't want to'

Nick rested his elbows on the table and lifted his mug with
both hands. He wanted to ask her why she lived in her little
bungalow alone. A woman like Rachel should have a devoted husband and a couple of kids to come home to each night, not an
empty house. Since Valentine's Day he'd kept their conversations
light, but perhaps it was time to shift into a more serious gear.

"I'm curious about one thing, Rachel. And tell me to back off
if this is too personal. How come there's no man in your life?"

Surprise arched her eyebrows. Fearing he'd made a tactical
error, he backtracked. "Sorry. None of my business"

"No. It's okay." Her swift response eased the sudden tension in
his shoulders. "I don't mind answering. Except all I can give you
is the standard line. I never met the right guy. No surprise there,
I guess, considering my lifestyle. I teach at two grade schools.
I give piano lessons to children. Painting murals is a solitary
occupation. I've never seen a man come alone to afternoon
tea at the hotel. And what little free time I have I prefer not to
spend in bars" She propped her chin in her hand. "I could ask
you the same thing"

Nick had known when he'd broached the question that she
might turn the tables on him. Had almost hoped she would.
Unlike his off-limits past, this was a subject he was willing to
talk about. With this woman, anyway.

"My job can require long hours. It also carries a certain risk
many women find glamorous in dating partners, but not so appealing when it comes to more serious commitments. As for the
bar scene, it's not my style, either. In general, the women I've met
in that venue don't live by the values that guide my life"

"Did this make you think I do?" She fingered the cross around
her neck, watching him.

"My faith is very important to me, Rachel:" His gaze held hers.
"I'd like to find a woman who shares it. Or at least who hasn't
ruled out that possibility."

He'd phrased his reply as a comment, but he could tell by
the sudden conflict in Rachel's eyes that she heard the question
underneath.

"I admire your faith, Nick:" She said the words carefully. "And
I would call myself a Christian if asked to name my religious
preference. But I don't pray. I don't feel connected to God like
you do. I never attend services:" She shook her head. "I doubt I
could ever get to the place you are."

"Would you like to?"

Rachel touched the cross again, and faint creases etched her
brow. "I don't know. I do think about God. Every Sunday I pass
several churches on my way to tea, and in nice weather I always
see groups of people standing around outside, mingling, laughing, conversing. In the summer, one of the churches has a picnic
on the lawn the first Sunday of each month. I've considered
asking about membership because I'm drawn by the sense of
fellowship ... of family, almost. But I don't think you should
join a church for social reasons"

"Maybe deep inside your reasons are more than social:"

She shook her head, and he could see the regret pooling in
her eyes. "I'm sorry, Nick. I know what you want me to say.
I know what I wish I could say. But the truth is, I don't feel a
compelling need to establish a closer relationship with God. I
believe in him, but I've seen little evidence of his presence. I
tend to think of him as an uninvolved deity who watches from
afar as we humans make a mess of our world. I don't feel any
sense of connection or kinship. I don't know how anyone can
if they watch the evening news"

Nick did his best to quell the disappointment that welled up
inside him. He'd hoped for more. An openness to the possibility
of a relationship with the Almighty, at the very least. He liked
Rachel and had begun to believe she might be the one God had
sent in answer to his prayers. But perhaps their chance encounter
had been just that-chance, and nothing more.

"I appreciate your honesty. And I admire it:" Nick tacked on the
last as he looked at Rachel across the table and realized how much her admission had cost her. The attraction went both ways; he
could read it in her eyes. He doubted she wanted to do anything
to jeopardize the tenuous connection they were establishing, but
he suspected she'd sensed her lack of faith could be a deal breaker.
Yet she hadn't lied to him. That bumped her up another notch
in his estimation. And had him scrambling to think of some way
to convince her to give Christianity a serious try.

"When was the last time you went to Sunday services, Rachel?"

With one finger she traced the grain pattern in the wooden
table. "I can't remember. But it has to be at least twenty years
ago."

"Would you consider giving it one more try? I go to the ten
o'clock service, and I'd be happy to pick you up. You'll be finished
in plenty of time to get to your tea commitment"

She shifted in her seat. "I'd feel like a fraud sitting among a
congregation of believers"

"You wouldn't be the only doubter in our midst, Rachel. Even
people of faith struggle with their beliefs at times. Besides, it's
just one service. Not a lifetime commitment" He kept his tone
conversational, bordering on teasing.

Her lips curved into a slight smile. "Are you trying to strongarm me, Nick?"

"I'm not into strong-arming. I prefer persuading with charm:"
One side of his mouth hitched into an answering smile and he
lifted the mug toward his lips.

"No strong-arming, hmm?" She tipped her head and studied
him, mimicking his teasing inflection. "Then where'd you get
that scar on your temple?"

Nick's hand froze halfway to his mouth and his smile evaporated.

Her smile faded too, and she reached out to rest her fingers
on his. "Nick, I'm sorry"

He tugged his hand from beneath hers and shoved his chair
back with more force than necessary. Standing, he crossed the
room in a few strides and busied himself at the coffeepot as an
awkward silence settled in the room.

Outside, a sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. Rachel
rose and picked up her plate.

"You wouldn't let me help with the cooking, but I'm not going
to leave all this cleanup in your hands" There was a false lightness to her tone.

From his vantage point across the room, Nick watched as she
carried her plate and glass to the sink and set them on the granite
countertop, rinsing them one by one, each action deliberate. The
stiffness in her shoulders, the tautness of her profile, the tremble in
her hand when she reached for the glass beside her were telling.

Way to go, Bradley. Ask her personal questions and then act
miffed when she reciprocates. That's agreat example of kindness
and charity. And a surefire way to convince her to accept your
invitation to attend services, where she can learn more about
how to be a good Christian.

Clenching his teeth, Nick tried to regroup. The scar comment
had blindsided him, and his withdrawal had been automatic.
He'd avoided talking about his past for so long that retreat was
second nature to him. That was true about his youth in general,
and the scar in particular. He'd shared the origins of it with no
one in the thirty-two years since he'd acquired it. They were too
painful to dredge up.

Yet he felt an obligation to offer some explanation to Rachel.

As he grappled with his dilemma, he saw the glass slip from
Rachel's hand. Heard her utter a soft exclamation of dismay as
it fell against the unforgiving granite. Took a step toward her
as she grabbed for it. Watched as it shattered in her hand and
her fingers turned red.

He was beside her in three strides, reaching for her hand.

"I'm sorry, Nick. It s-slipped."

The quaver in her apology, and the blood on her hand, had the
effect of a punch in the gut. "I'm the one who's sorry" His words
came out hoarse as he cradled her hand and eased it under the
stream of water. The cut on her index finger was long but not
too deep, he noted in relief. "Keep this under the water while I
go get some antiseptic and a bandage:"

"It'll be okay. Don't bother"

"It's no bother, Rachel:" Her eyes were inches from his, the
gold-flecked irises wide as she stared up at him. With an effort
he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. "I'll be back
in a minute:"

Leaving her at the sink, he strode to the foyer and took the
stairs two at a time. His fingers were clumsy as he rummaged
around in the master bath closet for his first-aid supplies, the
streaks of blood on his hand distracting him.

Nick had seen plenty of blood in his line of work. Through the
years, he'd built up a pretty thick skin. Spilled blood no longer
made him squeamish, nor did images of it keep him awake at
night. Yet these smears of red on his palm and fingers coiled
his stomach into a knot.

Because they were Rachel's blood.

The significance of his reaction wasn't lost on him. It didn't
matter that the cut was minor. He didn't want her hurt, period.
And if he got the shakes over a scratch, how would he feel if she
sustained a more serious injury?

The answer was simple.

Not good.

The reason for that was also simple. He was beginning to
care for her a whole lot. Faith or no faith.

That acknowledgment brought him back to the dilemma that
had led to this little incident. Uncomfortable with his invitation to church, she'd tried to lighten things up with an innocent
tease about the thin white scar at his hairline. He should have
laughed it off.

Instead, he'd overreacted. And his withdrawal hadn't been
fair. Rachel had no way of knowing about the less visible scars
it represented.

Perhaps if she did, though-if she understood what he'd gone
through, if he explained how finding his way to the Lord had
been his salvation-she might be willing to give faith a try. To
take that first, all-important step toward the Lord.

But close on the heels of that hope came fear.

Sharing secrets was dangerous. It made you vulnerable. And
you didn't take that kind of chance unless you had absolute trust
in the other person.

Logic told Nick it was premature to take that leap with Rachel.
Their acquaintance was too new.

Yet his heart told him otherwise.

Heading back to the kitchen, he paused halfway down the
stairs to survey the empty foyer, the bare living room, the vacant
dining room. This was a house made for a family. It should be
filled with children and laughter and love. As should his life.
There was a chance Rachel held the key to those things-unless
he shut her out.

Rays of sun streamed in the fanlight above the front door,
enfolding him. The warmth seeped into his pores like a calming
balm, and he closed his eyes for a brief prayer.

Lord, please guide me-and give me courage.

Rachel was still standing at the sink when he returned, looking a bit too pale for his taste. Forcing his lips into a smile, he
turned off the tap, took her arm, and led her to the table.

"I can't claim a great deal of medical training, but I do have
experience with minor bruises and abrasions, thanks to my
rehab work" He positioned her hand palm up on the oak sur face and treated her cut as he spoke. "I've also dealt with burns,
pulled muscles, and electric shocks. Fixing up houses is not for
the fainthearted, let me tell you:" He secured the bandage and
picked up her hand to examine it. "There you go. Good as new.
Almost. This won't impede your piano playing, will it?"

She flexed her index finger in his palm. "No. I once played
with a broken pinkie. I'll manage with this."

"Good" He lowered her hand to the table, but when she
started to retract it he tightened his grip. At her questioning
look, he took a fortifying breath. "You mentioned this scar earlier" He traced the thin white line on his forehead with his free
hand, his tone now serious. "It wasn't a rehab injury."

She went still. "I didn't mean to touch a nerve"

"I realize that. And I'm sorry I upset you enough to cause
this" He stroked her bandaged finger.

"My clumsiness wasn't your fault. Not entirely, anyway. I've
been tense and unsettled for weeks. I've broken four glasses of
my own since the first of the year"

"You're still feeling that way?"

"Yes. I can't shake it"

He weighed her hand in his. "My reaction today didn't help,
I'm sure. I'm sorry I pulled back. That was inappropriate."

"I have a feeling it was more like self-defense"

"It was prompted by that, he acknowledged, struck again by
her intuitive ability. "I've avoided discussing that scar for thirtytwo years. Evasion has become a reflex by now. But self-defense
implies a suspicion of danger, and that doesn't fit in this case. I
don't feel threatened with you"