Brash (4 page)

Yeah, that's right. I said it.

Blue. Cavanaugh.

They'd set up camp in Grace's well-lit and very organized garage. A medium-sized card table held their grilled cheeses and steaming soup. Cole was sitting on one of the chairs tucked into the table, laptop resting on his denim-clad thighs. Not surprisingly, Belle was fixed to his side. As Grace watched from her perch atop three massive boxes belonging to her father, Cole broke off a piece of his grilled cheese and fed it to the smitten basset.

“You're going to spoil her,” she called down.

Cole's focus remained on the screen before him. “Don't know what you're talking about, Doc.”

A smile touched her lips—quite without her permission—and she reminded him of their conversation a few weeks earlier. “Remember, you don't have space for her.”

“Shhh . . .” This time he looked up, his eyes heavy with concern. “She doesn't need to hear that.”

“Listen, Champ—”

“You know I don't like you calling me that.”

Grace continued without stopping for breath. “It's important she hear the truth. Not get her hopes up with all your charms and sweet gestures.”

His brows drew up. “I have charms?”

Oh, he was such a pain. “You know how charming you can be, Cole Cavanaugh. And rejection can be very devastating to a girl.”

Predatory black eyes surrounded by long, pale lashes seized her gaze. The look sent a strange shiver up her spine. She wondered if he stared at his opponents that way. Or the women in his life. Or both.

“I'm not rejecting her, Grace,” he said coolly. “My life doesn't allow for her. That's a very different thing.”

“Not really.”
Not to a girl
.

“What do you mean?”

“Clearly you don't know the female species.”

Those dark eyes flashed with wicked intent and a smile curved his mouth. “Oh, make no mistake, Doc. I know the female species.”

Grace swallowed. Good Lord. Along with the shiver making its way up her spine, a blast of heat and unwanted awareness snaked through her belly. Charming—and dangerous. She'd have to watch that as they worked together. There was no way she was going to let herself fall for another
player. Especially one who wanted to get to her father—not get into her pants.

Heat rushed up her neck and into her face. Thankfully, Cole was already back looking at his computer, or she was pretty damn sure he would be remarking on her lobster-colored cheeks.

She studied him for a moment. Brow furrowed, thick fingers stabbing away at the keyboard, intense gaze. Besides being a fine-looking man who wore ink as well as he wore denim and T-shirts rolled up at the sleeves, he fairly oozed masculinity and strength. Her eyes moved up, watching as the cords of muscles in his forearms strained and flexed. Completely unwanted, an image of him lifting her up and placing her over his shoulder before walking off somewhere private flashed into her mind.

“You going to stare at me, Doc?” he asked, his eyes trained on the screen. “Or get to work?”

Lobster cheeks were on fire now.

“I am not staring,” she lied, clearing her throat and returning to the box in front of her. “I was wondering if you'd found something. You looked transfixed.”

“No.” His reply was more of a grumble.

“Okay, what's wrong, then?” she asked, searching through files for the months surrounding Cass's abduction. “And don't say you're still hungry. I'm not making another grilled cheese just so you can feed it to Belle. She's getting a little full around the middle as it is.”

“I'm not hungry,” he said tightly. “And Belle is fine. You shouldn't say shit like that around her. Don't want to give her any body image issues.”

Grace looked up in surprise and interest.

He still stared at the screen, but his lip was curled. “Maybe you're the one who doesn't know females, Dr. Hunter.”

Granted, she loved that he was championing the basset the way he was, but she had a sneaking suspicion his irritation stemmed from more than her comment regarding Belle's weight. “Care to share?” she asked.

“Share what?” he replied, gaze still fixed intently on the screen.

“What's got a bug up your ass? From the moment you walked in here, you've been angry with me.” She released a breath. “Look, I'm sorry about the restraining order. But you should be sorry too. What you did was wrong. Now, I'm all for putting that behind us and working together without anger and frustration. Are you?”

He snapped the laptop closed. “I don't know what I am. But I do know I'm not finding anything. No articles about the case I haven't seen or read a hundred times.” He growled softly. “Not sure why I thought there might be something. Everyone looked for this Sweet asshole, and they came up with nothing.” He set the laptop on the table beside the not-so-steaming-anymore soup and looked up at her. “What are we doing?”

Behind his eyes she saw worry, and maybe just a hint of fear. Did he want to know the truth? Or, like her, was he scared to know it?

“We've only been at it an hour, Champ.”

His jaw tightened. “I asked you not to call me that.”

“Okay, I won't. But can I ask . . . is it bad luck or something?”

“No. Just don't like you saying it.”

“Me or anyone?”

“You ask too many questions.”

She shrugged. “I think that's another female thing.”

He pushed away from the table and stood up. He looked twitchy, on edge. “I need some air. I need . . . to do something.”

Grace watched him. She'd seen enough animals in her life to know when they felt caged.

“When I'm in training mode, I'm restless,” he explained. “I need to use up excess energy constantly. Emotions are running high, that sort of thing. And with what we're doing here . . . what's been happening since my dad died . . .”

“I get it,” she said quickly. And she did. She'd lost someone so close to her that at times it had felt like a limb was missing. What she couldn't imagine was how it would feel to not know what had happened to that person . . . “You want to take off? Pick this up later—?”

“No.”

She watched him, watched as he paced the floor of the garage, the basset following along behind him. “Belle could use a walk,” she suggested finally. “We haven't been out today. Her leash is right there on the peg by the door.”

He stopped, caught her gaze, and stared at her hard, as if trying to read her, figure her out.

“What?” she asked.

He explored her face, cheeks, mouth . . . then came to rest once again on her eyes. He shook his head. “It's nothing. Just . . .” After a second, he seemed to think better of it. “Nothing. The grilled cheese was good. Soup too. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Confusion spilled through her as well. What was that look about? What had he been about to say?

He went to the door, grabbed the leash. Belle trotted after him eagerly and sat very still as he snapped her in. Grace imagined a good percentage of the female species reacted like that to Cole Cavanaugh.

Before walking out the door, he glanced back at Grace. “You gonna stay here?”

“Yeah. There may be nothing to find on the web, but we have a lot of boxes to go through.”

His gaze shifted to the stack. “I'll be back in thirty.”

“Take your time.”

His eyes found hers once again, and in them she saw conflict stirring. No doubt he was wondering why she was being so accommodating,
kind, forgiving. Why she didn't think he was weird for needing to rush outside and work off some pent-up energy. Or maybe he believed this—her, everything—was all a ploy to keep him close so that when information did come their way, she'd have a chance to vet it first.

He wouldn't be wrong on that last bit. But there was something about Cole Cavanaugh that tugged at her. Something that had nothing to do with his looks, brawn, or sharp attitude.

A shared past of loss, perhaps. A confused and shaky present?

“Clouds are full of water tonight,” she said. “Go easy.”

One side of his mouth quirked up.
As if I ever go easy, Doc,
he seemed to be saying. Then he gave her a nod, turned, and headed out into the night.

*   *   *

Cass was running beside him, moonlight bouncing off the trees, making her long blond hair glow. She was seven. They were seven, and Cole had blown off Deacon and James and given up his last summer night before school started to be with his twin. He'd never admit it to her—that would make him look all soft—but sometimes there was just nowhere he'd rather be than by her side. When they were together he felt whole, his missing puzzle piece set nicely in place.

Stars flickered in the sky overhead, and they joked and laughed their heads off as they followed
the path of the stream. Their parents didn't like them out past eight, thought they'd get lost running around on Triple C land. But it just wasn't so. They knew every inch, every tree, every rock. Knew it like they knew each other.

“Watch it!” Cole called out, grabbing Cass and yanking her sideways just as she was about to face-plant into a massive rock.

She didn't even miss a step. “You're the best brother ever, Cole,” she called out before turning around again and kicking up water with the tip of her boot. “But don't tell Deac and James I said so.”

He'd granted her a deep grin. “I won't. Now watch where you're going.”

“And my best friend,” she kept on.

“But don't tell Mac, right?”

She laughed. “Right.” Dancing her way up the small incline, she called back, “Hey, Cole?”

“Yup?”

“You think we'll be friends when we're all grown up?”

“Heck, no,” he tossed out as a couple of squirrels gave chase up a tree to his right.

Cass stopped and stared at him, hands on her hips. Under the bright September moonlight, her black eyes glowed with mock fury. Or at least he thought it was mock. Sometimes it was hard to tell with Cass.

Cole laughed. “Come on. You know I'm kidding. We're family, girl.”

For a second, she looked unconvinced, narrowed her eyes at him in a real show of vehemence. But after a moment she deflated, shook her head, and took off downstream at a bit of a gallop.

Cole followed her with a grin. He loved messing with his twin. Maybe it was because he was a gigantic jerk. Or maybe it was because he needed to be assured that she loved him, relied on him, needed him.

But when I did need you, you weren't there for me.

“Cass!” he shouted.

Lightning erupted in the sky, answering him, stealing his thoughts and memories—and torment. Chest tight, he stood stock-still in the center of the open field at the very edge of Grace's property. Clouds now blocked out the moon entirely, gunmetal and threatening. How long had he been out here? He glanced down at Belle. She was sitting on her butt staring up at him, eyes wide as if to say,
What's your problem, buddy?

He swallowed thickly and inhaled. “Just losing my mind, is all.”

She cocked her head to the side.

“Cass has always been with me. In high school, after I left River Black, in the ring. Outside the ring, watching me as I took out her murderer over and over again. But lately . . .” Since all this had gotten dredged up again, when she was with him, in his mind, she wasn't soft and playful. She was accusatory and frightened.

He turned around and headed in the direction of the house at a light jog. “I don't know if I want to hear the truth,” he muttered aloud. “Shit, that's not exactly right. I want to know the truth, but . . . I'm fucking scared to know it. Scared of what I'm going to do to anyone who was involved.”
Palmer, Sheriff Hunter . . .

Entering the dark woods, Belle barked up at him, a low, funny howling sound that made him smile. Sadly. Bitterly. “You think I'm nuts too, don't you, girl?”

The basset never answered him. Or if she did, Cole didn't hear it. Midstride, his foot caught on something—a felled log, maybe—and he went flying forward like goddamned Superman. Without the superpowers. Arms outstretched, he braced for impact, but saw Belle dart out in front of him. At the last second he twisted to avoid hitting her and slammed against a large rock. Knowing his body the way he did, he knew the second he hit dirt that his face was cut and bleeding. But worse, his left ankle was royally fucked up.

Grace wasn't normally a clock-watcher. Even at work, she found herself ignoring the time when she was engrossed in a patient. But in the past fifteen minutes, as she dug through box after box, she'd glanced up at the garage wall seven times. Granted, Cole Cavanaugh was a big boy—bigger than most, going by muscle mass—and he could take care of himself on her twelve acres. But he had said he'd be back in a half hour.

A rumble of thunder sounded.

And rain was coming. Crap. Belle hated storms. In the weeks since the basset had been living at her place, Grace had witnessed her slip under the bed and howl softly when there was even a hint of a storm in the sky. Maybe Belle was the problem. Maybe she had heard the thunder, stopped right where she was—or climbed into a hollow log or under a bush—and refused to move. Cole
probably wouldn't know how to coax her out. But Grace did believe that if the dog was scared, the man who pretended he wasn't completely taken by her wouldn't leave her.

Cursing softly, Grace climbed down from the boxes. She shouldn't have let Belle go with him. Should've locked her in the house. Where should she look first? Woods? Field? She slipped on a jacket, grabbed a flashlight and an umbrella, and headed out. No rain was falling just yet but, boy, was the sky distressed. Ominous gray clouds were moving swiftly, heavy and ready to burst. There wasn't much time. She needed to find them.

Rounding the house, she hurried across the back field and into the woods, calling both of their names as she went. Her place was vast, lots of trees, green, privacy, a stream running through it. After returning home to River Black from a clinical residency in San Antonio a year before, she'd craved a life on verdant property. But right that moment, under the cover of darkest night, silent lightning strikes and rumbles of thunder overhead, she wished she'd gone with the condo near town.

Nearing the edge of the forest, which looked unpromisingly black, she stopped and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Cole?” she yelled. “Belle!” But the reply was only wind whipping through the trees and another boom of thunder.

Flashlight up and near her ear, she left the open field and headed into the forest. High grasses
brushed her legs, and the soles of her boots made squishing sounds over the muddy ground. Inhaling deeply, she smelled the familiar scent of the stream. Most people tended to walk alongside water when it was available. Just human nature.

A familiar howl rushed her way on the wind as she neared the footbridge. Her heart jumped inside her chest and she cried, “Belle! Cole! Where are you guys?”

Another howl sounded. Then another. She followed it, tracked it. “Belle!”

The first sprinkles of the coming rain had hit the back of her neck when Cole's voice exploded through the forest.

“We're here!” he shouted. “North side of the stream! Massive oak.”

Grace took off, keeping the flashlight aloft. What had happened? Why were they stuck on the other side of the stream? Another howl sounded, then a series of barks. Closer. She was nearly upon them. A circle of yellow light hit her in the face, then quickly jerked away, capturing a shocking scene. Leaning against a tree, that mighty oak, his face scratched up and bloody, was Cole. Belle was pacing back and forth in front of him.

Grace's heart slammed into her throat. “What happened?” she demanded, her breathing labored.

“Running in the dark,” was Cole's answer. He sounded pissed off. Not afraid or in pain.

She shined the flashlight in his face. “How hurt are you?”

“Ankle's blown . . .”

“And you have some facial lacerations,” she finished, her gaze running over his cheek and jaw.

“Was trying to get back, but I couldn't move very fast. And I was injuring it further . . .”

Grace tucked her head under his arm so he could lean on her. “Come on,” she urged, taking some of his weight—or trying, anyway. “Before the sky really opens up.”

He turned to look at her, his face scraped and bloody, those dark eyes eating her up, examining her, probing her, even in the near blackness. When he looked at her like that, Grace felt her breath hitch in her throat.

“You sure that restraining order's been retracted?” he asked.

She swallowed thickly. She'd never noticed the scar near his right ear or the fullness of his lower lip. Should she be noticing them now?

Lightning crackled in the sky, causing Belle to howl again.

“We should go,” Grace muttered.

“You think you can take my weight?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting.

He grinned. He looked strange, frightening in the dim light, but somehow . . . sexy. Heat sizzled in her belly. She mentally rolled her eyes; then, as the rain started to fall in real, true sheets of icy
water, she led her battered and bruised guest back toward home.

*   *   *

Normally, Bossy Dr. Hunter pissed Cole off, but not tonight.

After arriving at her house, she'd helped him inside and into the closest bedroom. Then she'd taken off his clothes. Stripped him! Not so he was buck naked or anything. But pretty damn close. Down to his slightly damp boxer briefs. And even then, she'd taken a second to decide if she was going to yank off those too before ordering him into bed.

As the rain fell in torrents outside the window behind him, Cole watched her inspect him thoroughly, her cool, gentle hands cleaning up his face, before moving on to his ankle. The palpating hurt like a motherfucker, but if she went any higher—say, above the knee, she was going to get a big surprise. Yeah, that's right. Cole Cavanaugh could be bleeding, have a couple of broken bones—maybe even be close to death—and his plumbing would not only work, but work at a hundred damn percent.

A hundred and ten around this girl,
he thought, eyeing her soaked tank top, which clung to her breasts, rib cage, and flat stomach.
Hundred twenty-five.
A low growl rumbled in his throat.

Not good. Not good at all.

Remember why you're here, asshole. And it's sure not to play doctor
.

She glanced up then, her eyes concerned. “Hurt?”

“Sure,” he said noncommittally.
Not in the way you think, but sure . . .

“I'm going to wrap it.” She reached around to grab her medical bag from the floor.

“Don't you think a doctor should be doing this?”
Like
an old guy with cold hands and a bored expression.

Her eyes met his and she looked slightly insulted. “I am a doctor.”

“You're a vet,” he countered.

She lifted her chin. “And you act like an animal most of the time, so I'd say it's a match made in heaven.” Her thumb grazed the inside of his ankle.

“Made in hell, more like,” he ground out.

“You feeling the pain now?” she asked innocently.

“Yup. The pain of being forced to lie here surrounded by all this pink.”

She glanced up and around the room for a second. “It's pale pink,” she said, turning back to him and gently placing the compression wrap around his ankle. “The palest pink ever.”

“Still pink.”

Her brow furrowed. “You're sounding like a guy who's not all that confident in his manhood.”

Cole just laughed, and again wished for an ancient male doctor.
Honey,
he wanted to say,
if you would just drag those soft, warm hands a little higher,
you'd bear witness to my manhood.
Every curious, overeager inch.

Forget the pink walls—he needed to get out of here, get back home . . . Well, he didn't exactly have one of those, but to the Triple C anyway.

“All right,” she said after a moment. “I think we're done here.” Avoiding looking at his bare chest or boxers, she put an ice pack on his ankle, then dragged the sheet over him.

Cole couldn't stop himself from looking—from running his gaze over her. Her dark hair was wet and slicked back on her face. It was a sharp, smart, beautiful face. The face of the enemy. Well, not the enemy exactly, but someone he needed to keep his guard up around. Someone he couldn't trust. Someone who was coaching for a team he wanted to take out. He breathed in, his nostrils filling with a scent that should be illegal. At least to a horny fighter. What was that? Soap, rain, a little sweat . . . damn if it didn't make his gut go tight. And the Florence Nightingale caretaking thing she had going on? Well, that was the veritable cherry on top of his sundae.

She was staring at him. Maybe wondering what he was thinking about. Or if he was hurting. Or if it made him at all uncomfortable that he was tucked into her bed with nothing on but a pair of boxers.

“What?” he asked her.

“How many times have you been hit?” she
asked him, her eyes moving over him. They were an incredible shade of green. Changed with the light, and with her mood. He'd never seen anything like them before.

“Too many times.” He grinned. “'Course, some might say not enough.”

She smiled too. “Like that man you're going to fight next week?”

“Him, among others.”

“Well, that's barbaric,” she said.

“No. That's just me, Doc. Cole the Barbarian.”

She laughed. Goddamn, it was a pretty sound. “Is that what I should call you instead of Champ?”

“Shit, anything's better than Champ,” he said on a grumble.

“Why?”

He shrugged, didn't meet her gaze. “It's what a father calls his boy when they're having a soft moment. It's not a name for what I do.”

“Did your father call you that?”

Cole felt a pull on his insides.
Lie. Just lie. She doesn't need to know anything about you or your past, or your daddy.
But instead, he caved to the moment. “Sometimes he did.”

She smiled and nodded. “My dad called me Peanut. And Duckling and Green Bean, and the Pellet Princess—”

“Wait,” he interrupted. “Pellet Princess? For real?”

“Oh yeah. I would've preferred Pellet Queen. I was that good with my BB gun.”

Surprise coursed through him and he sat up a little bit. “You used to shoot?”

“Big-time.”

“Where?” Here he was, getting personal, talking history.

“When I was in River Black,” she began, her eyes lighting up at the memory. “I'd go down to Cory Craft's lake cabin. There was this—”

“Perfectly straight fence where you could line up cans,” he finished for her.

Her eyes widened. “You've been there?”

“Only a thousand times.”

For a few seconds, she just stared at him. As if she saw a few inches deeper into his skin. Cole wasn't sure if it bothered him or if he wanted her to probe further.

“How many you take down in one go?” he asked.

“Ten out of twelve was my best,” she answered. “You?”

“Same. Ten out of twelve.”

Her lips twitched. “Wow. I can't believe I never saw you. I would've remembered seeing you. Cute boy with skills.” Her smile died as she realized what she'd said. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she reached down into her medical bag and grabbed a tube of something.

His eyes narrowed on the cream she squeezed onto her index finger. “What's that you got there? Something for a cow's udder?”

“No,” she said, deadpan. “For a horse's ass.” Then she looked up and grinned.

Struck momentarily dumb, Cole just stared at her. Then he started to laugh. Really laugh. In a way he hadn't done in a long time. The sound and feeling and the action drained some of the anger he'd been holding on to from earlier in the night at the Bull's Eye. It was a good feeling.
Light . . .
Shit, he hadn't felt light for a long time.

Grace leaned in then and rubbed the cream into each of the scrapes on his cheek. Cole didn't even flinch. He was too busy looking at her. Damn, she was pretty. Her dark hair slicked back, showing off a face free of makeup—a face that didn't need any. Most of the women Cole hung around with were heavily painted. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Just maybe, as he looked at this woman, he realized he preferred the natural thing. Or was it the Grace Hunter thing?

“Can't believe you tripped over a log,” she said, sitting back and cleaning her hands with one of those wet wipes mamas used on their babies. “Fancy Feet Cole Cavanaugh.” She raised a brow at him. “Hey, that's an interesting fighter's name. You like?”

“No.”

She laughed. “All right, we'll keep thinking.”

“We really don't have to,” he said tightly. “And the tripping and falling thing I blame on the long-eared one.”

Her brows lifted. “Belle? You're blaming this on Belle? You sure you want to do that?”

“Listen, I could've made a nice easy fall after tripping on that log, but she got in my way.”

“Awww,” she cooed.

“What?”

“You didn't want to fall on her.”

“I'm not liking the tone, Dr. Hunter.”

“What tone?”

“Excessively sweet. Goes hand in hand with this”—he gestured to the walls—“room and these sheets.”

She feigned indignation. “I could've put you on the couch.”

He lifted a brow. “Is that pink too?”

She tossed him a smug smile. “It's getting late, and you, injured fighter, need your beauty rest—”

“Hey—”

“And maybe an attitude adjustment,” she concluded.

“I don't have an attitude.”

“You're cranky.” She stood up.

“That's nothing new, Doc,” he said, tearing back the sheets and starting to get up. “I was born cranky.”

She was on him in an instant, over him, her hands on his chest, keeping him in place. “What do you think you're doing?” she demanded.

He stared up at her, taking in that worried frown and concerned gaze. Granted, if he had a
mind, he could be up on his feet before she had time to take another breath. Or—if he didn't have a soul—have her back to the mattress, and him looming over her.