Alaskan Nights (9 page)

She pinned the sleeping bag around her tightly and sat up, obviously doing her best to move away from any bodily contact with him. “Look, Brandon, I’m sorry about my temper. I know I have a problem—”

“Heard it had something to do with green eyes and flame-red hair.”

“I’m trying to apologize here!”

Brandon couldn’t help but chuckle as he raised his eyebrow at her. “Really.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t kiss me again.”

“Why not? I think we both enjoyed it. At least, I did.”

“It can’t happen again,” she said with a furious shake of her head that bobbed her springy hair in an enticing way.

“No, you’re right.” He shook his head. “A first kiss can never be duplicated. It’s never like the first time. It usually gets better. But baby, if it gets better and better each time I kiss you, I’ll think I really did die in that plane crash and I’m in Heaven.”

“Don’t,” she whispered.

Her bottom lip trembled, and damned if tears didn’t gather in her eyes again.

Hell!

Was it her ex-husband who’d done this to her? He was positive she’d been married. She hadn’t denied the point-blank question he’d posed. He was good at reading people; he had to be, it was his job. She’d been married. And something had gone horribly wrong.

“I’ll never hurt you,” he whispered.

The laugh she released was anything but humorous. “I’m not afraid of you hurting me. But I thought I made it clear that I’m not interested.”

“But you are interested. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have reacted the way you did when we kissed.”

She was shaking her head again. “We didn’t kiss. You kissed me. And the only reason I didn’t injure you is because I was going into shock from the cold water.”

“Really.” He knew damned well she’d returned that kiss. Every hot stroke for hot stroke.

She nodded at him.

“Okay then, if I kiss you right now, you’ll have no reaction to it whatsoever?”

“You won’t, though.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because if there’s one thing you are, you’re an honorable man. And an honorable man would never, ever force himself on a woman.”

Brandon groaned. “Give me a break, Bella. Stealing a kiss is hardly jumping your bones.”

“That’s crude!”

“That’s honest.”

“It’s still sexual harassment.”

“I’d like to see you prove it in court.”

“You are such a...such a...”

“Man?” he offered.

“Yes!
Just like all the others. Disgustingly rude and arrogant and...lustful.”

“All the others? How many have there been, Bella?”

She pierced him with a scathing glare. If looks could kill...

“As for lustful, you’ve got me there. I won’t lie to you. That kiss damn near curled my hair. I’d like nothing better than to—”

She clapped her hand over his mouth. “Don’t!”

Gently wrapping his fingers around her wrist, holding her so she couldn’t retreat, he slid his tongue between her middle and ring finger. She gasped. Her eyes widened and then softened. Yeah, it might take a while, but the chase would be worth it.

He slowly dragged her hand downward, holding it against his mouth until he could take the tip of her index finger between his lips and gently suck. He saw the explosion of her heartbeat at the base of her throat. His own heart seemed to double in speed as another wave of lust rolled through him. As he released her, he raked his teeth over the pad of her finger.

“All right,” he said, hoping he sounded aloof. “If that had no affect on you, then I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.” He stood up, needing to distance himself. To keep her from seeing the proof of his wanting her, which was plain as day in his lap. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”

As he pulled the door open to leave, he could have sworn he heard her sigh. He smiled. Since he had nothing better to do with his time, a little seduction would be fun.

~*~*~

Darkness gives way to the blinding blaze of fluorescent bulbs. Gleaming stainless steel, starched white sheets.

Woman pants, moans, strains to give birth. Blond man stands next to the bed. Soft words of encouragement.

Blond man turns. Evil grin firmly in place.

Bart!

“She gave me a baby on the first try, you worthless little bitch.”

Tears sting eyes. Stomach roils.

“One time. Just one time is all it took. And I spent three years on you.”

A sob tears through the noises of labor.

Humiliation.

Desperate need to flee. Running from the room into the hallway. Not the hallway. The kitchen of her childhood home.

Mom’s kitchen. Sunshine yellow walls, sparkling clean counters, pastel lace curtains.

Dear Mom. So sweet, so kind. Sitting at the green Formica table with young Isabella, planning her twelfth birthday party.

The picture of innocence.

Frank staggers in. The stepfather from hell. Drunk. Mean. Angry. He grabs Mom by the hair, shouting slurred words of loathing. That sinister laugh of his, the one that meant Mom was going to get it. All because his dinner is still warming in the oven and not on the table when he stumbled through the door.

Screaming profanities at Mom, Frank reaches for the only thing on Mom’s ultra-clean counter. The cherished marble rolling pin, the only thing Mom has left of Grandma. Little Isabella begs him to stop.

Frank swings the rolling pin like a hammer at Mom’s head. Young Isabella runs from the room, sobs torn from the child’s throat.

Mom’s blood.

Stomach heaves. Tears flow.

Twelve-year-old returns with the dreaded Colt .45 Frank insisted she learn to load, to shoot.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Frank’s dead.

Too late. Much too late. Mom’s blood covers the floor. Mom’s dead, too.

Pain of loss. Pain of hatred. Escape!

Running from the house, out the kitchen door into the green stench of rotting jungle.

Men in torn fatigues. Thrown into the dirty hovel. Stomach rebels. Acrid aroma of death. Decay. Vomit.

Thirsty.

Intestines twist into knot of pain.

“She needs a doctor.” Uncle Cam pleads for her.

“Uncle Cam! Shut up!”

He won’t listen. “Please help my niece. Just some clean water.”

“No! Shut up, Cam!”

Deafening crack of gunfire.

Lifeless eyes stare into the dusty gloom. Blood pouring from the hole in his forehead.

“My fault! My fault!”

The first moan of anguish woke Brandon. Lying perfectly still, he waited. He heard a soft sob. Bella was dreaming. When she screamed, he bolted up the short ladder to the loft.

She twisted in the sleeping bag, sobbing. He wrapped his arms around her, tried to soothe her. “Shh, baby, shh.”

She yelled, “My fault! My fault!” and fought his hold.

“Bella, sweetheart, wake up. It’s a nightmare. Wake up!” Holding her against his chest, he gently rubbed her back. “Bella. It’s me. Brandon,” he whispered against her ear, trying to soothe her. “Wake up, sweetheart. Please, baby. Wake up.”

Her fighting stopped. She slumped against him. Hot tears ran over his chest as she cried.

“Sweet baby, shh. It’s just a dream. You’re safe. I’m here. Everything’s fine.” He prayed she heard him. Her body trembled, racked with heaving sobs of anguish.

Dear God, what had she been through?

Brandon had experienced plenty of night terrors about things he’d seen. He knew the terror, the anguish. His sweet little angel should never have to endure such pain.

He rubbed his hands over her back and shoulders. Kissed her temple. Lightly rocked her as if she were a child. “Breathe, baby. Come on, calm down.”

It took long minutes, but her body slowly relaxed against him. Her arms crossed over her chest, pinned between them, slowly loosened their grip around herself. “That’s it, baby. You’re safe. You’re completely safe. Just us, in the middle of nowhere, warm and cozy in this little cabin. Nothing but mosquitoes to cause harm around here.”

“I...hate...mosquitoes,” she said between shuddery breaths.

“I know you do, love. But they can’t really hurt you, just annoy the crap out of you.”

“Hold me tight,” she pleaded as she fought another wave of tears.

“Shh. Right here. I’m not going anywhere.” He squeezed her a little tighter, scooting a bit closer so they touched from shoulder to toes. He pushed her hair away from her face and kissed her forehead. “You all right, sweetheart?”

With another trembling breath, she nodded. “I have to blow my nose.”

His lips against her forehead, he smiled. “Stay put. I’ll get you a napkin.”

“Thanks.”

Brandon crawled down from the loft and grabbed up the roll of paper towels from the counter. He ripped a couple off and wet them with water from the jug then took the wet ones, along with the rest of the roll back up to Bella.

Tearing one off and folding it in half, he held it to her nose. “Blow.” She reached for it, but he didn’t let go. “Blow.”

She did.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded.

Then he took the cool, damp towels and gently wiped her from the top of her forehead to the V opening of her nightshirt. She gave a long, tired sigh.

He dropped the used towels over the edge of the loft where they went splat on the floor. Stretching out next to her, he held out his arms. Without a single hesitation, she snuggled against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He pulled her tight against him and kissed the top of her head, her silky hair tickling his nose. “Want to talk?”

“No.”

His body reacted to her soft warmth and womanly scent. As inappropriate as it was, he couldn’t stop the tightening in his groin.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep?”

She nodded against his chest. Her warm nose bumped against his chin.

“Goodnight, Princess Bella.”

Her answer was a soft sigh that shot through him like an arrow piercing his heart and stealing his breath. In a moment so pure, so strong and clear, he knew this sweet woman in his arms owned his soul.

~*~*~

Brandon woke alone. That surprised him. As he’d fallen asleep with Bella nestled against him, her breath softly brushing his skin, he’d looked forward to waking with her in his arms. No such luck.

The scent of coffee permeated the air, and he smiled. She wasn’t a big coffee drinker, told him she wasn’t sure why she’d hauled the small tin all the way out here in the first place, but she made him a half pot each morning.

He climbed down from the loft and stretched. Her mattress was much more comfortable than the lumpy old couch. Too bad sleeping with her had been a fluke. She wouldn’t allow it again anytime soon. He’d like to do a lot more than just hold her while she slept.

A note, anchored down by a pink can of raspberry-scented, girly shaving gel caught his eye. Next to it sat a mint green colored disposable razor.

There’s coffee for you on the stove. I’m going hiking today. Be back before dark. I saw you scratching your face yesterday, and you’ll smell like berries for a couple hours, but the razor’s new.

Isabella.

Once again, an example of her thoughtfulness. She was something else.

He poured himself a mug of lukewarm coffee from the percolator on the stove, sat down at the table and stared at the note. She’d called out her uncle’s name in her sleep. There had to be more than just his loss that cut her so deep she had night terrors.

Brandon had experienced both nightmares and night terrors. Nightmares were the safe kind, the ones a mind conjures up out of nowhere. Unseen monsters that don’t really exist. Then there was night terrors. The one’s he’d seen the department chaplain about. The kind that needed to be talked through. Night terrors didn’t fade from the mind in the light of day. He’d fallen asleep more nights than he could remember, praying to God to make it through the night. Praying to forget.

Brandon took a gulp of the coffee and almost choked. It was horrid, strong enough to stand a spoon in. No wonder she didn’t like coffee if it tasted like this. He grabbed a pack of oatmeal cookies off a pantry shelf. Without Bella around to make breakfast, he’d settle for what was at hand.