When Bruce Met Cyn (18 page)

Cyn shoved him back hard, and he staggered in surprise.
Or that I wouldn't die trying…

“Now what?”

How dense could a man be? She could handle the threat of Palmer much easier than the idea of Bruce being hurt. “You
idiot.”

Aggrieved, Bruce propped his hands on his hips. “One minute I'm Lancelot, now I'm an idiot?”

She thrust her face up to his and snarled, “What do you expect?” God, she didn't know if she could take much more of this. “I was ready to forgive you, but if you're going to talk stupid, then you can just forget it.”

Bruce shook his head and walked to the room service tray to open the sandwiches. “Be as mad as you want, Cyn. Rant all you want. Yell loud enough for the entire motel to hear if it'll make you feel better. But Joe thinks someone followed us today, after we left the house. We know Palmer is out of jail. There's a lot going on, and you are
not
leaving my sight.”

Derision seemed her only defense. “So now you're my guardian angel?”

“God knows, you need one.”

A temper tantrum was not the way to reason with Bruce Kelly. The man was a rock of moral conviction and if he thought it was his duty to protect her, sniping at him wouldn't change his mind.

Cyn drew a breath to calm herself and then started over. “Look, Bruce, there's no reason to think Palmer wants anything to do with me now—”

“He's the biggest suspect. Detective Orsen said so.”

“But…”

“Your mother was murdered, Cyn. And with that ridiculous note forging your name, you are most definitely involved. Probably as the next victim.”

She curled her arms around her middle and shook her head.

Bruce took in her expression and narrowed his eyes. “Don't worry. I'm not going to let that happen.” He took her arm, and because she was so muddled, so afraid for him, she let him lead her to the tiny round table tucked into the corner of the room.

She sat, and Bruce put half a cold-cut sandwich in front of her, along with chips and a cola. “Now eat.”

She wanted to throw the stupid sandwich at his head. She stared at it while trying to think of some way to remove him from danger. Only one option came to her. “Make me a deal, Bruce.”

While taking a big bite of his own sandwich, he eyed her. Chewing thoughtfully, he pulled out the chair across from her and sat. He swallowed and said, “What kind of deal?”

“I'll eat,” she promised. “I'll let you stick close to my side. I'll be extra, extra careful. But I want your word that you won't put yourself at risk.”

Bruce picked up a pickle spear and munched into it. “Will you quit insulting yourself, too?”

So now he was going to push? She should call it off—but she couldn't. “Sure.” She only hoped she could remember that one. Old habits were hard to break.

Bruce pondered her, probably trying to judge her sincerity, until her integrity felt lacerated.

Finally, he said, “All right. But for the record, I never put myself at risk. And as long as you stay safe, I'd have no reason to anyway. So I'll give you my word—and we both know I never lie—if you'll give me yours.”

Gritting her teeth, Cyn said, “I already did.”

Bruce shook his head. “No, you don't understand.”

He laid the half-eaten sandwich aside to fold his arms on the table and give her the benefit of his undivided scrutiny.

“Joe and Bryan have done this cloak-and-dagger stuff for much of their lives. They eat danger for lunch. They smell it when it gets too close. If either one of them…” He paused, thought about that, then added, “or if Jamie Creed, says you need to do something to be safe, swear to me you'll do it.”

Of all the…
“So now I not only have to take orders from you, but from your brother
and
Joe
and
Jamie?”

“That's right.” He looked very resolute. “Luckily, we're all reasonable men.”

Cyn jumped up from her chair. “Well, what about the rest of Visitation?” She laughed in disbelief and propped her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “Don't they get to boss me around, too?”

“No.” He ate another chip. “Just us four men.”

He was totally serious. Cyn blinked in bemused disgust. It would have been funny if she wasn't so damned afraid of Palmer. She'd tried to kill him, and Palmer wasn't a man given to forgiveness. Her mother had been strangled to death. What might he do to Bruce?

Once more, her life left her with no choice.

“Yes, sir, General Patton.” With blatant disgust, she saluted smartly. “I'll follow orders to a tee.”

Bruce looked up. “Lancelot, idiot, and now Patton? Make up your mind, will you?” He stood, reached across the table to ease her back into her seat. “Now let's eat, honey.” His fingers touched her cheek, drifted away. “I don't know about you, but I'm starved.”

Bruce watched Cyn pace the room. She'd showered and changed into a slip-type nightgown guaranteed to make his imagination run wild, and now she was suffering insecurity of a most unusual kind. So far, he'd done very little of what she expected from men. Considering the men she'd known, he intended to keep it that way.

He'd gotten a room with only one bed, so she'd have no delusions on where she'd sleep—which would be right beside him. Or on him, or under him, spooned beside him…as long as they were touching, he didn't care how she got comfortable.

And he'd already turned off the lights. He cared deeply for the person Cyn was, but he was a man, and the sight of her tested him. Dim lights seemed his only recourse if he was to be able to play this through.

Only the television illuminated the room, and neither of them was watching it.

Without a word, he stood, stripped off his clothes without haste and with no modesty. He turned back the spread and blankets. “Come to bed, Cyn.”

Glancing at him, she let her gaze linger on his chest for a thorough inspection, then went to the window and parted the heavy drapes to peer out at nothing in particular.

“Or,” Bruce said, chagrined by her reaction, “we can take in the parking lot view.” He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and drew her back against his chest.

“Bruce?”

“Hmmm?”

“What are you going to do tonight?”

He smiled to himself and kissed her hair. “I'm waiting to see what you want me to do.” She surely wasn't used to her wishes being a priority. How many times had she told him that she had no choice in things?

With him, it was always her choice. To a point.

“If you're tired, we'll sleep. If you're anxious, we can talk.” His mouth grazed the side of her neck and his hand opened over her belly. “If you're aroused,” he said, in a voice grown deeper with desire, “I'd be happy to give you relief.”

Her hand covered his, her fingers lacing in his. “And if I want sex?”

“Consummation?”

“Yeah, the whole shebang.” She tipped her head back to look at him upside down, and her eyes were dark and mysterious as only a woman's could be. “You inside me, both of us coming—”

“Soon,” he interrupted, “but not tonight.” He slipped his free hand, fingers spread wide, down her body, over her chest and onto her breasts, cupping the heavy weight, cuddling her, moving his thumb over her nipples. “I have my reasons, and I hope you'll trust me enough to wait.”

Her mouth twitched even as her breathing deepened. “Until you're ready? Like a virgin on prom night?”

Until you're mine in every way known to man and God. But of course, he didn't say it. She had an odd habit of panicking anytime she thought they were getting too involved. She feared commitment, not because of how it'd bind her, but because she believed that she'd fail him somehow. It had taken him a while, but he'd finally come to that realization.

“Until I know you're ready—for me.”

She reached back and her hand closed around his erection. Bruce sucked in a breath as his knees locked and his guts tightened. “You're all man, Bruce Kelly, but not so much that I can't handle it.”

Humor saved his crumbling convictions. Chuckling, Bruce stepped back from her, forcing her to release him. Much more of that and he'd have had her on the floor—which was exactly what he didn't want to do.

She dropped the curtains and turned with him.

Bruce took her hands in his, still smiling. “Physically, we're meant for each other. It'll be nothing less than perfect.” He back-stepped to the bed, taking Cyn with him. “It's your emotions that are wavering, honey. But I figure my charm is bound to win you over sooner or later.”

Together they went down to the mattress, and Bruce covered her, relishing the soft, lush cushion of her small, sexy body.

“Exactly what do you want, Bruce?”

Everything. But he didn't tell her that, either. He kissed her nose, her fluttering eyelashes, and said, with great but inadequate sincerity, “You.”

 

Burning with a mixture of rage and lust, he lowered the night goggles and cursed. Fucking whore. His hands shook so badly, he felt like he had a damn disease. He tossed the goggles onto the bed and dragged a forearm across his hot, sweaty face. He'd seen her there in the window, in the nicer motel across the street. And he'd seen the man with her, playing with her tits, licking her throat—doing the things
he
should be doing.

He'd kill them both. But not until he'd finished with Cyn. And he wouldn't finish for a long, long time.

 

Minutes from the airport, Joe's cell phone rang. After snooping in the empty house last night, then hooking up with Detective Orsen, who really was a crackerjack cop, he'd barely gotten to bed at all. He yawned before answering with a less than jovial, “Winston here.”

In the old days, pre–wife and kids, he'd been accustomed to running on little sleep. Hell, he'd been accustomed to doing without a lot of stuff. Like sleep, comfort. Love. Now he missed those things. Shit. He was spoiled. And getting soft.

“Hey, Winston. Aren't you the bushy-tailed one this morning.”

Joe grinned at the detective's wit. “Leave my tail out of this.” He felt comfortable joking because Darby was a very happily married cop of twenty-plus years. He'd found that out after having coffee and pie with her in a diner. And they'd gone for the pie after Joe clued her in on the abandoned house not far from where Cyn's mother had been murdered.

Darby had been through it once before, right after the body was found. They'd checked the entire street and searched all the empty houses—which only proved what Joe had already known: that the fast-food wrappers, muddy footprints, and body fluids were fresh.

Darby and a forensics team had done their thing, and Darby was seasoned enough not to take offense at Joe's presence. Of course, that was probably because he was seasoned enough that he hadn't touched a damned thing, but instead had called her ASAP.

And since she knew he'd once been a cop—and she'd checked his files on that—she didn't mind the input, and the additional eyes, once Bruce and Cyn moved from her jurisdiction.

“Bad news, Winston.”

“I'm ready.”

“The blue truck was stolen, but it was found yesterday, dumped in a creek bed. The plate numbers don't do us a damn bit of good, but if we can get some good prints, they might match. Either way, we'll run what we get through the system. I'll keep you posted on that.”

Very quietly, Joe cursed. The house had been so trashed and nasty, it'd be impossible to tell prints apart. And lifting a good print off a paper cup wasn't likely.

Hopefully there'd be something better in the truck. But if the bastard wasn't driving it anymore…

Joe could see Bruce and Cyn ahead of him. Cars, trucks, and a motorcycle crowded the highway, and he had no idea who to watch, so he'd watch everyone. “Someone's going to a lot of trouble,” Joe told her. He might be out of the business, but that hadn't killed his instincts. And his instincts didn't like this worth a damn.

“Assuming it is the same guy, well hey, what's a little spying or a car heist after murder?”

“You have a point.” One he didn't like.

“I'm calling Deputy Royal next. We'll catch the guy—don't worry too much.”

“Are you going to take that advice?”

“No, I'm going to take a few antacids and get back to work.”

Joe was still smiling when he disconnected the line. But the smile faded with the threat of danger so thick, and he called his wife, Luna, just to hear her voice, and just to know she was okay.

 

Cyn picked Joe out at the airport. Given the ferocious heat in his laser-blue eyes when she snatched the not-so-concealing newspaper out of his hand, he didn't like it that she recognized him. He was scary, but she wouldn't let him intimidate her, so she plucked the ridiculous hat from his head and laughed in his face.

Bruce shrugged at Joe's look of disgust directed his way, and then Joe's mouth twitched, before lifting into a wry smile. He really was a handsome devil, Cyn thought, but he had nothing on Bruce.

They returned the rental cars and got their boarding passes together, then sat down with pastry and coffee while waiting for their flight. Cyn was uneasy throughout it all, and finally Bruce put his arm around her and said, “Okay, what's wrong? Is Joe bothering you?”

After nearly choking, Joe cocked a brow over the edge of his coffee cup. “Me?” He pokered up in affront. “I haven't done a damn thing.”

“You wouldn't have to,” Cyn assured him, but she was worried and it had nothing to do with Joe Winston. “I don't know what it is. I feel like we're being watched.”

Bruce sighed. “You are being watched. I keep telling you, you're beautiful, so men will look. Don't let it get to you.”

Joe leaned forward. “There's a difference in being noticed and being tracked.”

“Exactly.”

Bruce immediately scanned the area.

Joe said, “Tell me again what he looks like.”

For about the hundredth time, Cyn described what she remembered of Palmer. “Obese, rheumy blue eyes. His hair was thin then, so he might be bald now, but it was sort of a washed-out brown.”

Joe worked his jaw. “In five years, people lose weight, lose hair, and you did say he might even be scarred now. I think I'll just keep an eye on everyone.”

Bruce took her hand and by his tight hold, Cyn knew the picture of Palmer bothered him, too. “Bryan's getting a copy of his mug shot, which should be more recent. It'll give us something to go on.”

Joe stared at one man, who quickly continued on his way, then another, who wisely turned his back to give his attention to his magazine.

When no one else was paying them any mind, Joe relaxed. “You do draw men like flies. Sorry, honey, but it's the truth.”

Bruce hauled Cyn protectively into his side. “Joe.”

Joe shrugged. “The girl's not blind, Bruce. She knows what she looks like.”

“The girl,” Cyn assured them both, “thinks it's no big deal. As long as Palmer isn't looking, then who cares?”

“Exactly,” Bruce said.

She rested against his shoulder. “But man, I'll be glad to get back to Visitation.”

“Me, too,” Joe said. Then, just to tease Bruce, he added, “You think you'll have time to work up a sermon?”

“I've been with you,” Bruce joked right back.

“I've had plenty of fodder for thought.”

They were all chuckling when the men became aware of the young suit across from them. He watched Cyn and made no bones about listening in on their conversation.

Both Bruce and Joe glared at the hapless man with vicious intent.

Cyn elbowed Joe, but that had no discernible effect on the big brute, so she turned her cannon on Bruce instead. “You're a preacher, for crying out loud. Preachers don't bully innocent people.”

Bruce blinked. “I'm not.”

“What would you call it?”

Joe said, “Minding his interests.”

His interests, being her? Cyn considered the meaning behind that, and the young man wisely chose that moment to make a last-minute trip to the restroom. He no sooner left than an attendant announced they were seating for their flight.

“If he misses the plane, it'll be your fault,” Cyn said to both Joe and Bruce.

Neither man, unfortunately, seemed too concerned about it.

 

“Hey.”

In a rush, the suited man grabbed several paper towels and glanced to the side while drying his hands. Next to the sink, a scrubby, ragtag fellow lounged. He had longish hair and a really hideous hat with the brim pulled low to hide half of his face. His teeth were yellowed and patches of whiskers covered his jaw and chin.

Scary dude. But they'd just called his plane and he wanted to get to his seat, so he nodded, said, “Hello,” and started out of the restroom.

“I saw you were talking to a friend of mine. Valerie.”

“Who?” The passenger hesitated. First, he'd had the two guys glaring bullets at him, and now this loco. “I don't know any Valerie.” Again he started away, but a heavy hand snatched at the sleeve of his suit coat, stalling him.

“That wasn't her? She sat across from you. A real looker—long, dark hair.” He winked. “Hot as a chili pepper.”

Realization dawned. “Oh, yeah.” So, he wasn't the only one noticing the babe. Why the hell did the two bruisers with her act like he'd committed a damn felony? No sin in looking. “I don't know her personally.” And with a grin. “Hard to miss that one, though.”

“I hear ya. She always was sweet on the eyes.” He tipped his head, and his long hair fell past his shoulder. “Must be heading back to Iowa, I guess. I meant to stop and say hi, but I ran out of time and now she's already boarded.”

“But…we're not going to Iowa. We're headed to North Carolina.”

“North Carolina? What, like Raleigh?”

“That's my stop, but I heard her mention something about Visitation.”

Fingers tightened on the sleeve of his coat. “Never heard of it.”

Pulling away, he glanced out to the waiting area and saw that the line to board was just about gone. “It's a little town. The guy with her is a preacher of some sort. That's all I know.” He tugged on his arm. “Look, I gotta go.”

“Oh, yeah, sure thing.” Grubby fingers smoothed his sleeve, and he got another vile, yellow grin.

“You take care, now. And since that wasn't Valerie…well, no need to mention that I was admiring her or anything.”

“Trust me. The two with her would not like to hear it.” He gave a hasty farewell and trotted to the attendant, who took his boarding pass. Once on the plane, he had to pass the woman again to gain his seat. After one quick peek, he kept his eyes on the aisle.