When Bruce Met Cyn (14 page)

“What are your feelings for me?”

Very slowly, her tongue came out to moisten her bottom lip. Bruce felt that warm, damp lick as if it had been against his own mouth. His nostrils flared, his body warmed and his abdomen grew taut. It was insane the effect she had on him. Insane, but undeniable.

“I like you.”

He suppressed a groan. “And?”

“I think you're handsome and sexy.”

Humor saved him. He grinned. “That's an observation, Cyn, not a feeling.”

Her shoulders straightened in defiance. “Okay, you turn me on.”

He hoped so, because she definitely did it for him. But her past couldn't be dismissed, so he tilted his head in contemplation, and pressed her further. “You told me when I kissed you that you hadn't known a kiss could be so nice.”

“Yeah, so?” She stared at his mouth. “Maybe you're just a good kisser.”

Determined to make some headway, Bruce scooted his chair closer to hers. He didn't lighten his tone, didn't remove the seriousness from his question. “Have you ever been turned on before, Cyn? Seriously turned on?”

She actually blushed. “I was a hooker.”

“Who didn't like kissing,” he reminded her.

Disgruntled, she finally understood. “Okay, so for me it was a business. It's hard to feel anything when you just want to get the guy off so he'll pay you. And they were strangers, mostly pathetic, not exactly a young girl's dream, if you know what I mean.”

Her words tore through him, leaving lacerated emotions in the wake. Bruce had to fight the awful, possessive urges because as much as it galled him, he couldn't protect her from her past. He
could
protect her from the present. And he would.

“You're different,” she continued stubbornly. “I do want you. Physically, I mean.”

Bruce hoped that was true, but he knew enough about abuse not to trust surface claims. He gentled his voice, took her hands in his. “Are you sure it is physical? Are you sure it's not just because I provide a sense of comfort, or acceptance?”

He could tell by her expression that she wasn't sure at all.

Back to square one. “That's what I thought. I want you, Cyn. Never doubt that.” His hand lifted to her cheek, downy soft and warmed from their discussion. “I think you're desirable, inside and out. But I'd be an unconscionable bastard if I took advantage of you now.”

As she often did when she felt defensive, she tucked in her chin and gave him such a sultry look, a slow burn started in his belly. “Maybe I want you to take advantage of me.”

It wasn't easy, but Bruce fought temptation. “Not yet, honey.” And before she could get too upset about that, he voiced a niggling question. “You thought you had killed Palmer. Will you tell me what happened?”

“Why? He's alive, so obviously I failed.”

“I care about you. I need to know what happened in case any trouble shows up.”

“I don't want you involved.”

“That's tough, because I am, and there's nothing you can do about it except make sure I'm informed, so I can better handle the situation.”

She looked rebellious, before she gave up and shrugged with feigned indifference.

Bruce felt the trembling in her fingers and saw the wariness in her gaze. He knew this wouldn't be easy for her, and if he could, he would have spared her. But in case Palmer did show up, he had to know what had happened.

“He tried coming into my room.”

“Your bedroom?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, her gaze averted. “He'd been different all day, and I could practically feel him building up to something.”

Bruce swallowed, squeezed her hand tighter. His throat felt tight, but he forced the question out. “Rape?”

She rubbed her forehead. “Yeah, I think so. He'd been in my room before, and it was awful, but this was different. He'd been weird all day. Full of…sick anticipation. It turned my stomach and I…”

Bruce put his forehead to hers and whispered. “Tell me.”

“I couldn't take it.” She swallowed, bit her lips.

“I wasn't stupid even then, so I knew what he wanted to do and I knew I couldn't let him. I waited, and when he opened my door, I bashed him over the head with a lamp.”

“I see.”

“I doubt that.” She gave a near-hysterical laugh.

“Whatever you're picturing, add a lot more blood.” She shuddered, and for only a moment, the pain suffered by a young, frightened child filled her eyes. “It was…everywhere.”

Bruce held her closer to his heart. “You struck him in the head?” At her nod, he explained, “Head wounds often bleed a lot. They can look worse than they are.”

“Well, this one looked pretty damn bad. I hit him more than once.” She stared at him, refusing to look away. “I hit him, and even though part of me wanted to stop, I kept hitting him. It was like I couldn't help myself. Like I was someone else. Then I realized he wasn't moving. He wasn't even breathing.”

“And you thought he was dead.” It made sense. She'd been a kid, on the run.

She pressed away from him and pushed to her feet. With her arms wrapped around herself, she paced away. “I never thought to check the obituaries or anything. I just got away, as far and as fast as I could.”

Bruce stood and followed her to the other side of the room. Cyn was such a paradox of emotions, so cocky and proud most of the time, but so small and hurt whenever she discussed her past.

He took her shoulders, turned her to face him. “And now, thanks to the vagaries of fate, you're here with me.”

“Probably thanks to Jamie Creed.”

“As I said, the fates.” Bruce smiled. “Will you trust me, Cyn? Please? Because more than anything else, I want your trust.”

She drew a deep breath, pinched her eyes shut in indecision, then nodded. Her lashes lifted and Bruce got lost in the blue depths of her eyes. “I don't want to. I don't want you involved.”

His chest tightened, in anger, in remorse. “Cyn—”

“But I do trust you. I have almost from the first.”

He'd just finished explaining to her all the reasons why he couldn't kiss her again, why they couldn't get physically involved yet.

He was all hot air.

A hypocrite of the worst kind.

A man with no backbone at all—at least when it came to Cyn.

He didn't mean to do it. He didn't even remember moving. But when Scott opened the door, it was to find Bruce holding Cyn tight, his arms wrapped around her while he kissed her like a man on his honeymoon.

Scott cleared his throat loudly, and they jumped apart. Cyn felt her face flush, more because of how she knew Bruce would feel than any discomfort on her part.

When Bruce kissed, he did so like a starving man, which suited her just fine. Her lips were still tingling, her heart racing, when Bruce cleared his throat.

“Any news?”

After a long look of dawning understanding, Scott closed the door, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “Am I interrupting?”

Bruce scowled and stepped in front of Cyn. She had to tiptoe to see over his shoulder. “Don't be obnoxious, Scott.”

“Wouldn't think of it.” Scott grinned, noticed Cyn peering at him, and lost his amusement. “You both might want to sit down.”

“Look,” Bruce said, “I've known her a few weeks now. It's not like—”

Scott shook his head, disregarding that. “Your business is your own.”

“Of course it is.” Bruce tried to look stern, but Cyn was willing to bet he didn't get caught making out very often.

Then the look on Scott's face registered.

Cyn stiffened. “What is it?”

His gaze lifted and he shook his head. “Miss Potter, I'm sorry. I have some bad news.”

Cyn's mouth went dry. “The trucker…?”

“Forget that. He found his wallet and dropped the complaint.”

She didn't feel an ounce of relief, not with Scott's expression so concerned.

“Then…” Bruce frowned. “That's good news, right?”

Visibly troubled, Scott pulled out a seat. His eyes, when he looked at Cyn, were gentle and kind. “There's a new…problem.”

Together, Cyn and Bruce took seats opposite Scott. Sensing the worst, Cyn asked, “What sort of problem?”

“I'm sorry, but there's no easy way to put this.” He braced himself. “Your mother is gone.”

Confused, Cyn laughed. “Gone where?”

Bruce's hand touched her shoulder. “Cyn, sweetheart, he's trying to tell you that she's
gone.”

Cyn looked from one man to the other. “Dead?”

Scott rubbed his face. “I'm sorry.”

Aware of a deep silence, of Bruce pulling her closer and Scott standing in front of her, Cyn asked, “But…how?”

Scott appeared more troubled by the moment. “She was murdered.”

Murdered.

Unmoving, Cyn stared at the deputy. As his words sank in, her vision began to narrow, growing darker and tighter. In the back of her mind, somewhere far away, she could hear both men asking her if she was okay, but it wouldn't quite register.

He'd said her mother was gone. Forever.

“Cyn.” Bruce pulled her from her chair and shook her until she gasped. Then he held her so close that his heartbeat drummed with hers and his warmth seeped past her clothes, into the coldest part of her soul.

Certain that she'd misunderstood, Cyn shook her head. “That doesn't make any sense.”

Scott was miserable. “I'm sorry for springing it on you like that.”

“How did you discover this?” Bruce wanted to know.

“I ran her name.” Scott paced in restless acceptance of his job. “She was listed as a runaway through NCIC.”

Cyn flattened one palm on Bruce's chest and eased herself away. If she didn't want him responsible for her problems, then she'd better start speaking for herself right now. She started to talk, sounded like a sick frog, and tried again. “NCIC?”

“National Crime Information Center.” Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “It's eerie that you would show up here now, right after your mother…” He glanced at Cyn and looked away. “After a murder's been committed.”

“How…how did it happen?” In every scenario ever enacted in her mind, not once had Cyn ever considered that her mother might be gone. She'd pictured her full of regret, wanting her daughter back and sorry for the way she'd treated her. She envisioned her old, sick and needy, wanting Cyn to care for her. She'd even thought of her still obnoxious and uncaring.

But never dead.

She hadn't thought she would care, but…she did.

“Please, sit back down and I'll tell you what I know.”

More coffee was fetched, and both men treated Cyn with kid gloves, making her uncomfortable. She wasn't breakable. And she couldn't even claim to be all that hurt.

Her mother hadn't loved her, hadn't been close to her at all—regardless of the many times Cyn had wished otherwise.

“It's not eerie,” Cyn said to no one in particular, while sipping at an especially sweet cup of coffee. Bruce had really laced in the sugar. “Remember, Jamie sent me here.”

Scott wasn't happy with that reminder. “I go by facts, Miss Potter, not Jamie Creed's predictions.”

“And the facts are?”

“Someone entered your mother's house, likely someone she knows because it wasn't a break-in, and that person…strangled her.”

“When?”

Scott blinked at her dispassionate question, then glanced at his papers. “Only a few days ago. Last Friday. Because you were a runaway, listed with NCIC, I ran a check and found the connection between the names.”

Bruce put his arm around Cyn. “But there is no connection. Cyn had nothing to do with it. She's been here, with me.”

“That's the weirdest part, and why her name came up.” Scott tugged at his collar. “There was a note on the table, supposedly from Miss Potter.”

Cyn's mind went blank. “Miss Potter? But that's…”

“You.”

Her heart almost stopped. “I didn't do it.”

Bruce squeezed her fingers. “He already knows that, honey.” And then to Scott: “Isn't that right?”

“It is.” Scott leaned toward Cyn. “The detective I spoke with said that although the handwriting was similar, it wasn't yours. Someone forged the note from you.”

It seemed too absurd for words. “How would anyone know my handwriting?”

Scott shook his head. “I don't know, but isn't that a good reason to go see Detective Orsen, to maybe find out?”

Her eyes closed. Oh God, she'd been so dumb, believing things were over, that she was safe from her past. Why did it have to come back now, when she'd just gotten comfortable with the present?

“Tell us what you know,” Bruce requested.

“Arlene Potter didn't show up to work. I'm guessing that wasn't an uncommon occurrence, because the owner of the bar where she worked sent someone after her.” Here Scott paused. “Apparently she had a drinking problem?”

“For as long as I can remember.”

He nodded in acceptance of that. “Her boss thought she was still in bed, but when he sent the bouncer after her, he found her on the kitchen floor. She'd been there a day. The note—signed by you—was on the kitchen table.”

Cyn went over it in her head, but nothing made sense. “Why would anyone want to frame me for murder?”

“I don't know. But you're wanted for having possible information regarding the case.” Scott held up a hand. “Now, that doesn't mean you have to go back to Benworth if you don't want to. But it'd be helpful if you could find the time to answer the detective's questions.”

Bruce turned to Cyn. “Benworth, Indiana? I've never heard of it. That's where you're from?”

“Home sweet home.” Her mouth trembled with the effort to smile. “Our little house wasn't that far from a pig farm. You could smell them cooking in the summer sun. It was rank.”

Scott appeared pained with his current duty. “I'm sorry to ask, Miss Potter—”

“Call me Cyn, okay? No one calls me Miss Potter.” She wrinkled her nose. “It makes me sound like a retired schoolteacher.”

Bruce hugged her. “Julie might take issue with that image.”

She elbowed him, but she smiled, too.

“Cyn, the detective wants to know if you'll be visiting. They'll hold your mother's body if there's any hope of new evidence.”

“I don't have any evidence. I don't know anything about it at all. I haven't seen my mother—I haven't even seen Benworth—in five years.”

Scott wasn't discouraged. “It's amazing what a detective might be able to uncover with the right questions. You just never know. It'd be real helpful if you'd go back there, give them a chance to pick your brain.” Cajoling, he added, “Just for a few days.”

“It's a long drive,” she complained, giving herself time to work up her nerve. The last thing she wanted to do was to return to Benworth and all the awful memories. Just the thought of it had her stomach in knots.

Scott agreed. “Probably about fifteen hours, give or take. That is, if you drive.”

“I'll take the bus.”

“No.” Bruce shook his head. “We'll fly up and rent a car.”

Wide-eyed with incredulity and affront, Cyn rounded on him. “I don't think so.” She didn't dare look at him too long, or she'd be begging him to come with her. “The bus is good enough for me, and besides, you have responsibilities here.”

“It isn't up for debate, Cyn.”

Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “The hell it isn't! You're not my keeper.”

“I'm going. Period.” He stood and turned his back on her to walk Scott to the door. “You can tell the detective that we'll be on our way tomorrow.”

Things were happening too quickly. Everything was out of her control and she didn't know how to deal with it. “I can't leave that soon! I have work to do with Shay, and the horses to think of…”

Bruce waved that off. “Forget it. I'll find someone to care for the horses until we return. Mary's not going to fire you over a family emergency. She adores you. And Shay will just have to do without you for a time. Trust me, she can handle it.”

He'd taken all of her excuses before she could even voice them!

Scott let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I'll call the detective right now. Be right back.”

Fuming, Cyn stared at Bruce's back and knew that even though he was a “nice” guy, she'd never be able to handle him when he was in protective mode. And he seemed to be in that damned mode all the time around her.

“Fine.” She stood and stalked up to face him.

“But if you get to make demands, then I get one, too.”

Somehow, he managed to look even taller than his six feet, two inches. And for once, he exuded the menace so typical of his brother. But the menace wasn't directed at her. It was for her benefit.

How could she not love him for that?

Heart racing, she said, “I'm coming home with you tonight.”

Bruce gave her a very long look, but she didn't back down. Tonight, she needed someone. She needed Bruce, damn it, and for once in her miserable life, she was willing to admit it.

Very slowly, he nodded. “Okay. We'll stop and you can check on the horses first.”

Cyn hadn't realized how badly she dreaded the thought of being alone until Bruce agreed. All the vinegar drained from her attitude and she slumped, boneless and worn out, back into her chair—and she barely noticed Bruce's smile of triumph.

 

Bruce had known how Mary would react when Cyn told her of her loss. She was understanding, hugging Cyn, which made Cyn nearly cross-eyed with discomfort, and telling her not to worry, that she'd see to the horses until Cyn returned. Even now, almost half an hour later, Cyn looked mute with disbelief.

For certain, she wasn't used to people caring about her. But she was in Visitation now, a part of the town, so she might as well begin to accept things.

Bruce had made some decisions along those lines, and tonight he'd get the ball rolling.

His home was dark and empty when he led Cyn inside. She started to veer to the kitchen, but he caught her arm and turned her toward the stairs.

The pall of bleakness left her, only to be replaced with confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

Smiling at the obvious assumption she'd made, Bruce said, “You don't want to be alone tonight. No one would.”

Predictably, her spine stiffened and that stubborn chin pulled in so she could look down her nose at him. It was such a cute gesture, at least to him. She was so tiny, so delicate, but she tried to appear more imposing.

“I'm used to being alone.”

“But you're not. Alone, that is. I'm here, and I want you next to me.”

Her steps faltered. “What the hell does that mean?”

He steered her into his bedroom. He didn't bother with the lights; he didn't need them, and Cyn, so bristly in her struggle for independence, might relax more if she didn't have to keep up appearances.

Stopping in the middle of the floor, Bruce cupped his hands around her neck and put a kiss on her forehead. “I need to hold you. I care about you and I don't like what you're going through. Have you ever slept with a man? And no, don't get sarcastic. You know what I mean. Have you ever spent the night with a man holding you?”

“No.”

Just that one tiny, hurt word. “I haven't slept with a woman in years and years, either. Not since I was seventeen and I slipped off to Desiree's boathouse. Dad was so furious the next day, he took away my license for a month.”

He could see Cyn's wide eyes glistening in the darkness, with only the scant moonlight filtering in through the windows.

“You haven't had sex since you were seventeen?”

“I had sex after that, I just didn't spend the night with anyone. Actually, I miss holding women more than the sex, if you want the truth. I miss the closeness of a woman's soft, fragrant body.” His hands began a slow massage, meant to help her relax. “Can I hold you tonight, Cyn?”

Her swallow was audible, and a sign of her nervousness. She may have been free with her body, but he asked for her emotions, and that wasn't something familiar to her.