Diane Pershing - Whispers in the Night

“Which is why he’s not much of a watchdog.”

“True. Poor Bailey can’t hear anyone coming unless they’re practically on top of him. But when a stranger comes into his limited view, by heavens, he gives it his all.”

Paul lowered his gaze again, moving his scratching to under the dog’s chin; Bailey raised it for easy access, a look of sensual pleasure on its face. Paul couldn’t help himself—he felt some kind of sympathy for the old thing. Aging, deaf, orphaned. Hell, what would it hurt to fuss some over the little guy?

Bailey began to moan, an oddly human sound. “He likes that,” the woman said.

“Yeah. Most living creatures like to be rubbed and stroked. It feels so good.”

He hadn’t really meant it like it came out. Well, not consciously, anyway. But when he shot a glance up at her, he saw from the awareness in her eyes that his remark had hit home. They locked gazes for a moment, hers surprised, even a little alarmed. And was it his imagination, or did he see the tips of her breasts harden to become two firm pearls?

In the next moment, she removed her hands from her hips, raising her arms to fuss with her hair and causing the T-shirt to lose its body-molding effect. Her attitude changed; now she seemed nervous, distracted, not at all pleased.

Oops, he thought. Busted.

No need to worry, he’d nearly said out loud. I won’t lay a hand on you…unless you want me to.

And he had about the proverbial snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. A real shame, because, damn, he wanted her! Not for the first time, he felt blood rushing through his veins to pool between his upper thighs, giving him an instant erection. He was grateful his crouching position kept that particular fact from her.

He patted the dog once more, saying casually, “I’ll take you up on that coffee, if you don’t mind.”

Only after she’d gone into the house did he stand.

With Fitzgerald trailing her into the kitchen, Kayla felt as though every nerve ending in her body was exposed. Only now did she admit to herself that she’d been looking forward to his arrival all morning, and that when he’d appeared on the porch, she’d been way too glad to see him.

What had happened to yesterday’s gut-level fear of him?

Not a factor today. Or not so far. Slowly, he was becoming an individual to her, no longer a symbol of masculine domination and brute strength. In fact, seeing him with Bailey, he’d seemed nearly human. And the bunny slippers remark—she’d almost caught him in a smile there. How would a full-throttle grin look?

She found herself wishing the fear response would come back; it had been a real barrier to that other response he aroused in her, the one that brought out all kinds of inappropriate female yearnings, the mental, emotional and physical kind.

“Any disturbances last night?” he asked from behind her.

“Not a one. Or else I slept through it.”

“Good. I’m going to work on your plumbing this morning, okay?” They’d reached the kitchen, but she didn’t really want to face him yet, so she didn’t. “That’s a priority in these old houses,” he continued, “keeping them dry and free from the elements. Hank’ll be up in a couple of hours with some supplies—wood, hardware, new tank innards.”

“That’s fine.”

Wow. Her handyman was actually stringing sentences together. Yesterday’s communication had been all clipped phrases, and curt, need-to-know answers to her questions. Hank had done most of the talking. The selling, really.

She wished the kitchen were larger; it was still way too small to hold him. He stood just behind her as she poured him coffee from the pot; again, she could feel the heat from his big body, could smell his lime after-shave, could hear the sound of his breathing.

And was she totally insane or was his breath caressing the back of her neck? The sensitive skin there felt all tingly. Again, she couldn’t fail to notice that this much closeness, rather than feel threatening today, made her body shift and sing in odd places.

That connection again. Oh, lord, she really did have a problem here.

“Black, right?” she asked him.

“Excuse me?”

“Your coffee.”

“Oh. Yes.”

After handing him his cup, Kayla sidestepped him, turned and leaned against the counter, keeping her gaze chest-level. He wore a clean work shirt of tan denim, its sleeves rolled up to reveal a light dusting of dark hair on his muscular fore-arms…and on the left one, a fierce-looking tattoo of a hawk and a knife intertwined.

Startled, she tried not to stare, but he caught her reaction.

“I got it when I was inside,” he told her matter-of-factly. “It was purely defensive, trust me. If I hadn’t joined one or another of the gangs, well—” he shrugged “—let’s just say I didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to stay alive.”

“Oh.”

She shuddered inwardly at what she could only imagine the conditions must have been like for him in prison.

Don’t ask him about it, she begged herself silently. Keep your distance. Look at the tattoo, remember where he’s been. It was safer to keep an arm’s length and more between herself and potential violence, which included the men who worship it.

Sipping her coffee, she darted a quick glance at his face. His hair was so very short, so close to his head, making the bones and contours of his face seem sharply defined. It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome, only that he was so very masculine. Had he always worn his hair like this? Or was it growing out from being shaved in jail?

Another sip, eyes lowered, then another glance at him, at his face this time.

To find him staring straight at her, a look of half-lidded intensity on his face that made her breath stop. His nostrils flared, his mouth was tight with some kind of tension.

Oh, lord, Kayla thought weakly, save me.

Unable to avert her gaze, she couldn’t help noticing that he was looking at her as though she were the highly coveted grand prize in some major contest, one he was hell-bent on winning.

The heat rose to her cheeks, her insides quivered and became liquid. It was true, then. Not only was she sexually drawn to Paul Fitzgerald—despite her efforts not to be—but the feeling was definitely mutual. It was hard to miss it.

The moment was short-lived, so fleeting it might have not even happened, because in the next instant, the animal intensity of his expression was gone, wiped off his face. His gaze hardened; his mouth once again became a thin, smileless line.

He turned toward the door leading to the rest of the house. “I’ll take the coffee with me upstairs,” he said, his voice gruff as he added, “Thanks.”

For several moments after he left the kitchen, Kayla stood where she was, waiting for her breathing to return to something approximating normal.

She spent the rest of the morning doing chores and—as she had done the previous day—avoiding her new handyman. However, by lunchtime, when she was in the kitchen and he was working upstairs, she decided to stop being silly. To act like a grown-up for a change. Standing in the doorway, she called up the stairs, “Can I make you a sandwich?”

“No, thanks,” he called down from the upstairs bath. “I brought my own today.”

“Well, I’m going to sit out on the porch and have my lunch. It’s a beautiful day. Care to join me?”

It seemed to take him quite a while before he answered. “In a few minutes, sure.”

Humming to herself, Kayla brought out a tray with her sandwich and two tall glasses of freshly brewed iced tea. Seated, she was just sipping her drink when she heard the glass door slide open and close again behind her. She smiled at Paul as he lowered himself onto the matching Adirondack chair, the table between them. True enough, he had a brown paper sack with him, and when he set the contents out on the plate she’d provided, she laughed.

“Peanut butter and jelly,” she noted, holding up her own pb and j sandwich. “Great minds…”

Anyone else might have offered an answering smile, a wink, something. Not him. Instead, he grunted and took a large bite of his sandwich.

The return of the cutoff noncommunicator, Kayla observed silently. Aloud, she said, “I appreciate the work you’re doing.”

He chewed and swallowed before answering. “I’m getting paid, Mrs. Thorne.”

“Kayla, please. And I’ll call you Paul, if that’s okay.”

He hesitated before nodding. “Fine.”

“Now, back to the compliment I was paying you. I admire people who take care with whatever they do. Pride in your work is a lost art.”

In the midst of another bite, Paul stopped chewing. Her words created a small glow inside. It had been such a long time since anyone had seemed to appreciate anything he did, and hell, he was human after all.

Still, he’d decided to have lunch with Kayla Thorne for an entirely different reason. To ask her about her brother. He should have done it yesterday, but he’d gotten the feeing she wasn’t real comfortable with him yet. Today, there seemed to be a definite improvement in her mood.

Do it, he lectured himself silently. Use the time to get the information you need.

And forget about wanting her. The woman had good sense—she wasn’t about to get mixed up with an ex-con, and he wasn’t about to screw up his reasons for being here with any sexual nonsense.

But how to start? So, he could say, tell me about yourself—any sisters or brothers? Right. Like they were on a blind date or had just met at a bar. Okay, start casually, lead into it. Gazing around him, Paul said, “This place is really something.”

“Yes, I’m lucky it’s in the family. Although, given the choice, I’d rather Walter were still alive.”

It was such a sad little comment, and it took him by surprise. He studied her face, open, honest and completely devoid of makeup or artifice of any kind. “So…you loved him.”

She seemed taken aback. “Of course I did.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get personal. It’s just—” he shrugged “—you’re so different from what the papers made you out to be.” After it was out, he wondered if it had been a wise thing to say.

But she didn’t seem to mind. Lifting one shoulder in an answering shrug, she said, “They make it up. I’m a creation of the media. They’re getting back at me for refusing interviews and insisting on my privacy. I wanted to mourn my husband’s death. They couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t welcome their fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Yeah. Being damned in the press can really play havoc with your life, big-time.”

“Is that what happened to you? I don’t remember the details. Were you tried in public, too?”

“Believe it. It started out with one of those ‘anonymous sources’ you read about. He called a reporter with the scoop on me, how I was a dirty cop.”

Talking about it dredged up that familiar sense of outrage. He took a sip of his tea to calm himself and to watch Kayla’s face for any hint of recognition. Nope. Nothing there but polite interest.

“An investigation was opened,” he continued, “and then there was a trial. It was pretty carefully orchestrated. I never had a chance. The guy, the ‘anonymous source,’ he started the whole thing.”

She shook her head. “I hate when people hide behind anonymity—it keeps them from having to be responsible for their actions.”

“He didn’t stay hidden, trust me. He testified at the trial.” He was talking about her brother; again, Paul watched her closely, but she showed no signs of having heard any of this before. “It was all a lie.”