Brash (5 page)

Instead, he chose to stick with words. Boring-ass words.

After all, he had a fight next week—no point in tempting himself.

And then there was the sobering reality that her father may have been involved in Cass's disappearance.

“You said it was gettin' late.” The heat and friction of her hand made his heart kick in his chest. “I should be going.”

She looked down at him like he was crazy. “I didn't mean . . . You can't walk, much less drive. You'll stay here tonight.”

His body reacted instantly. Tightening up.
Bastard
. Groaning with all the images that suggestion brought on. “Look, I can call Deac or James to come and get me—”

She pushed off of him and stood up. Her expression was a strange combination of weary and appalled. “The two of them are pretty much on their honeymoons. It would be incredibly rude to ‘wake them up' late at night to come all the way out here to get you, don't you think?”

She'd made little air quotes for the “wake them up” part, as if she was really saying the couples
were no doubt up to something dirty. Which they probably were.

“Sure,” he agreed. “That's just a bonus.”

Her eyes widened. “You're evil.”

He laughed. “I know you're not just figuring that out now, Doc.”

“You're staying here,” she said, end of story. “You shouldn't be moving. Not tonight, anyway. You need to keep that foot iced and elevated. I'm going to get you something for the pain.”

“Nope. Don't need it.”

“Something like Advil will bring down the swelling, Cole.”

“No meds go into my body this close to a fight,” he explained. “And I don't need any cold on it either. I can handle the pain. Shit, I could probably drive if I had to.”

“Well, you don't have to. You're staying right here in my bed.” She went red and backed up a few feet. “Err . . .
the
bed. This bed. I won't be in it, of course. I have a guest room.” She turned away and shook her head.

Cole grinned at her embarrassed rambling and let his gaze drop from hers and skim down her body. She had a small frame that housed the most delectable curves. Damn if her clothes weren't still wet and clinging to her. She hadn't even noticed. And he was supposed to sleep with her in the next room?

“What?” she demanded. “What are you thinking?”

Not a chance. He wasn't letting her in on those kinds of thoughts. Shit.
He
didn't even want to know he had 'em. She wasn't a woman he could ever get involved with. Sheriff Hunter's daughter.

His hands went behind his head. “Just never slept in a pink bed before.”

She looked relieved and took a deep breath. “Well, then this is your lucky day.”

Right. Real lucky.

“Well, good night, Cole,” she said, then turned and headed for the door.

“Night.” Cole stared after her. As hot going as she was comin'.

“You call me if you need anything, okay?”

His mouth kicked up at the corners. “Sure thing, Doc.”
Not in a million goddamned years.

She turned off the light, then left the door ajar like he was a little kid afraid of the dark. When in truth what he was afraid of had just left the room. Sure, he'd found her attractive during their battle of wills and restraining orders. He wasn't blind to her charms and assets or the brain in her head—which frankly was the hugest turn-on of all—but he'd understood on some cellular level that she wasn't to be looked at as . . . well, a possibility. Datin' material. But now, as he lay here in her pink bed, smelling her on the pillows, his foot aching but the muscle between his legs aching far worse,
he knew he needed to get out of this house tomorrow and get things back to the way they were with Dr. Grace Hunter. Annoyed, pushy, maybe working together, but with a mutual distrust.

Because any more time here, in her presence, under those watchful, intelligent, caring green eyes? And he was going to be in danger of letting down his guard and letting the enemy in.

May 7, 2002

Dear Diary,

My birthday is coming up soon. Eeek! I'd like to have a big party. Invite who I want to invite. But Mama's set on doing it her way again. I almost told her about Sweet last night. Not about us. And how I feel about him. She would kill me then lock me in my room until my next birthday. But about the new boy in town who doesn't go to school while he's here, and doesn't get to make friends.

But that would be STUPID. Maybe I'd get him here to my party and all, but Mama would think he'd be a friend for Deac and James. I don't know. Seems like a big can of worms I don't wanna open.

Is it dumb that I want to show him off?

Don't answer that.

Cass

P.S. Haven't felt like any eyes are on me the last couple of days. But I keep watching and waitin'. Bye-bye for now.

The question was, how many times could an adult read the Harry Potter series before it got weird? Or embarrassing?

Five? Ten?

Do you really care?
Grace asked herself as she closed
Chamber of Secrets
and opened up
Prisoner of Azkaban
.
The judgment of your reading choices is your own, babe.
Besides, nights like these were made for dipping into one of the best fantasy worlds of all time. Heavy rain, insomnia, and well . . . a hurt, gorgeous, tatted-up, mostly jerky man asleep in your bed in the next room.

Your pink bed.

She grimaced. It wasn't that pink, for goodness' sake. The shade was so pale it was hardly a color.

She glanced at the clock. One fifteen a.m. She had work in the morning. Patients. She needed to sleep. She scooted down deeper under the covers.
Her guest room was very comfortable. She'd decorated it herself in shabby chic. White and gray with accents of powder blue. Cole would've probably been more at home in it than the
pink
. But she hadn't thought of that when she'd helped him inside out of the pouring rain. She'd just taken him into her room without thinking. It had been the closest to the front door.

Her cheeks warmed. A man in her bed. That man. Nearly naked. All that muscle over smooth, inked-up skin.

Go to sleep, Grace. Go to sleep and stop thinking about things you shouldn't be thinking about.
Strike that. About a certain
man
she shouldn't be thinking about. A man who—if he knew what she knew about her father—would be doing everything in his power to land him in jail after forcing an interrogation on him. Forget that the ex-sheriff was nearly senile.

Closing her book and placing it on the side table, Grace switched off her light. The sound of the rain, its steady fall, had her breathing deep and easy and her eyes closing. She knew she must've fallen asleep, for when she woke up she felt groggy and unsure of where she was. The rain still pounded the roof and the windows of the room. The guest room, she realized.

But what was that? The other sound? Belle? Was the dog having a bad dream?

She sat up, blinked. The room was dark, but
the pale light of the hallway spilled in from under the door. Her heart seized. There it was again. Not Belle. Yanking back the covers, she jumped out of bed and raced from the room. Deep moans echoed throughout the hallway. It was Cole. And he sounded like he was in pain.
Shit
. Maybe she should've called a GP to come out. Maybe she'd been too cocky about what she knew. And he'd been too stubborn about taking a few anti-inflammatories.

She opened the door in a rush, nearly upsetting Belle in her slumber on the rug, and hurried to his bedside. The light from the hall illuminated his form well enough. His massive, shirtless form. Eyes closed, he was definitely asleep. Dreaming about something awful—or was he in pain? This powerful, tattooed badass of a cowboy was groaning, writhing, fisting the covers, his stubbled jaw tight.

Her own hands balled into fists at her sides, she vacillated. Should she wake him? He was either dreaming about something disturbing or in pain. If it was the former, he could be moving around so much it could hurt his ankle further.

She leaned in and with gentle hands gripped his powerful shoulders. They felt smooth and dangerously solid against her palms and fingers.

“Cole,” she whispered. “Cole, wake up. You're—”

The rest of what she was going to say came out in a rush of air. In one moment, her hands were on
his shoulders; the next she had her back to the mattress and a man's thigh between her legs. Breath nearly knocked out of her lungs, she stared up into the drowsy, confused face of Cole Cavanaugh. For several long seconds, they just stared at each other, breathing heavy.

“Grace?” he uttered hoarsely, as if trying to remember where he was.

She nodded furiously. “Yes.”

“Oh, Christ.” He released her instantly, rolling onto his side. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No.” No, he hadn't. Hurt wasn't at all what she was feeling in that moment. Or what she'd felt lying beneath him.

“You sure?” he asked, his anxious gaze running over her face, her white tank top and fuchsia pajama bottoms in the dim light. “What were you doing in my room?”

“Well, it's my room actually,” she chided with a half smile.

“Your pink-ass room,” he added with a strange grin of his own. “Seriously, Grace. What's going on?”

“You were . . . making noises,” she explained stupidly.

“Noises?”

“Groans.”

His brow lifted and another hint of a grin touched his mouth. “I was groaning in my sleep?”

“Well, yes—”

“And you came in here to see about my groans?”

His tone made her shiver. “No. Not like that. Well . . . I don't know.”

“I'm just trying to put the pieces together here, Doc. Woman comes into the room of a sleepin' man—a sleepin' man who's groaning—”

“You were having a nightmare, okay? Or you were hurt. I didn't know. But I wanted to make sure you were all right. There was nothing sexual about it, if that's what you're implying.”

His expression dimmed. “A nightmare?”

“Or pain.” She studied him. “Which was it?”

He didn't answer her. Instead, he rolled to his back. Grace's eyes moved over him. Waves of hard, tanned muscle. What would it feel like under her fingers? Beneath her palms? Against her lips?

Shocked and disgusted by her thoughts, she started to sit up. “I'll go now,” she said. “Let you get back to sleep.”

“Wait.” Cole reached for her, wrapped his hand around her wrist. “No.” Then he blew out a breath. “I mean—go, of course. Ah, shit, I don't know what I mean.”

Confused, Grace turned to face him, rested her head in her palm. She wanted to ask him about his dream. It was clear that his troubled sleep wasn't due to the pain in his ankle. But she felt like he didn't want to go there with her. Could it have been about his sister? About her abduction? That
must've wrecked all the Cavanaugh brothers, but the girl's twin especially.

“Is it the pink?” she asked finally.

He turned his head, looked over at her. “What's that?”

“Did your close proximity to this dreaded unmasculine color bring on the nightmares?”

She waited. Waited to see if he would open up or kick her out or pretend he didn't understand her humor. She really wouldn't blame him on the latter.

“You're kinda nuts, you know that?” he said, turning onto his side to face her.

“I do know. It's part of my charm. I mean, I'm the only one who thinks so at this point. Except for maybe Rudy, but—”

“Who's Rudy?”

“One of my vet techs.”

Cole stared at her, something different crossing his features. Something she'd never seen in his expression before, and she couldn't name it.

“He finds weird charming,” she continued. “Probably because he's weird.”

“So he finds you charming.”

“No.” She laughed softly. “I mean, maybe. I don't know. How did we get on this subject?”

“The subject of Rudy? Or guys who have a thing for you?”

Her lips parted. “I didn't say he had a thing for me.”

“I know. I did.”

The thought of arguing the point, assuring the man not six inches away from her on the bed—her bed—seemed inane. Rudy was an employee and maybe a friend, nothing more. Not that it mattered. How she and Cole had gotten on this subject was anybody's guess, but she wasn't keen on continuing it.

“Ready for me to go back to my bed?” she asked, her chest a little tight.

“This is your bed, Doc.”

The husky way he said it made her clear her throat. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. And no, I'm not.”

Her heart jumped into her throat. “Why?”

He shifted his head on the pillow. Apart from his nearly skull-shaved blond hair, he was all dark eyes, hard cheekbones, a night's growth of beard around lips so full and dangerous and kissable they should come with a
WARNING! HIGH VOLTAGE!
sign.

“Let's just say I'm scared to be alone,” he said.

“Is that the truth?” she whispered back.

“No,” he returned with a serious look. “But can we just say it?”

A shiver moved up Grace's spine. He wanted her to stay. In her bed with him. Sleep next to him. Cole Cavanaugh. Champion fighter, ruffian extraordinaire. Partner in truth and fear. Sometimes charming, all times sexy, a problem she really
shouldn't take on. So . . . yes or no? Stay or go? Pink or blue?

“What's wrong, Doc?” he asked, his eyes probing in the dim light.

Outside, the rain had tapered off to continual sprinkles against the windowpanes. “You're going to laugh at me.”

Instead of saying,
No, of course I won't
or
Don't be silly
, he offered a very tough-ass “So what if I do?”

“I don't want you to laugh at me,” she said simply. “It'll make me feel uncomfortable, and weird.”

His lips ticked up at the corners. “But we've already established you're weird. Or Rudy has, at any rate.”

“Argh . . . forget it,” she said, starting to sit up again.

Cole reached for her and eased her back down to face him. This time, his expression was serious. “I won't laugh.”

They were close. Closer than a moment ago. Too close. She chewed her lip, wondering if she could make something up real quick. Maybe something about needing the whole bed for her rare sleeping disease . . . or . . .
Fine
. “I've never slept in the same bed with a guy before.” There. There it was. She'd said it.

Cue the laughter.

But there wasn't any. Not even a smirk. Only mild surprise. “Really?”

She nodded.

He didn't say anything for a moment, just continued to look at her.

“You think it's weird, right?” she said. God, why did she care?

“No, Doc,” he said softly. “I think it's nice.”

Nice.

Neither one of them said anything more. Neither one of them moved. Grace let her gaze travel from his eyes to his lips, then close. That's how she fell asleep, her face just inches away from the last man in the world she'd ever have believed would be her first.

Sleeping companion, that is.

*   *   *

Warmth infused Cole, and he sank deeper beneath the covers. He wanted more—more of whatever that was. Her? Had she stayed with him all night? Was it her skin that radiated such heat?

As his mind slowly returned to reality, he opened his eyes. White ceiling, pale pink walls, sunlit black-and-white photographs of dogs, a snoring basset hound beside him on the bed. Hadn't Belle been on the floor, on the rug, before he'd dropped off? How the hell had she gotten up here with those short legs? Maybe someone had slipped out and slipped the dog in. His gut pulled slightly.
So she didn't stick around. Big deal.
She wasn't meant to. She wasn't his. Christ . . . at most, she might become a friend.

“Good morning,” her voice called to him from the doorway.

Cole turned, let his still slightly muddled gaze skim over her. She was freshly showered, wearing her scrubs and carrying a tray. Must be headed into work. Her pretty face was free of makeup, except maybe something glossing her lips. And her hair was down, hanging loose and lovely at her shoulders.

Yep. Friend. They could manage that now, couldn't they? After sharing a bed, airspace, a mutual love of BB guns.

He pushed out of his mind the strange urge he had to yank back the covers, leap from the bed, and kiss her, and instead called, “Mornin', Doc.”

Her smile was a little shy as she came over to the bed and placed the tray down on his lap.

“What's this here?” he asked, taking in the covered plate.

“Breakfast.”

“You didn't need to do that.” He couldn't recall the last time someone had brought him breakfast in bed. Maybe because it was such an intimate thing to do—and Cole Cavanaugh steered clear of all things intimate. They brought on a desire to swap war stories, find weaknesses, root out emotions that were dead and buried. Like his sister.

“It's no trouble,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

She meant his ankle. He moved it, tried to circle the foot. Grit his teeth against the pain that remained.
Son of a bitch
. “I'm fine.”

Her brows lifted and she cocked her head to the side. “I don't believe you. Your face says different.”

“Don't go analyzing me, Doc.”

“Can I take a look, though?”

The woman was as stubborn as a tick. With immodesty born of years of locker rooms and weigh-ins, he pulled back the covers, trying not to cover up Belle, who was snoring like a buzz saw. Granted, she'd helped him undress last night. Checked him out thoroughly—well, his hurting parts anyway—but what was going on now was an altogether different kind of checking out. In fact, Cole thought with a dry grin, what the good doctor was doing could be considered ogling.

“My ankle's down there, Doc,” he said with a soft chuckle.

Cole had never seen cheeks flush so fast. And such a pretty pink. Hmm . . . maybe the color was growing on him.

Her head came up and her eyes met his. She looked positively mortified.

“See something you like?” he asked.

Her eyes widened and her chin lifted haughtily. “I think you must've bumped your head, Cole. It's far too inflated this morning.”

He grinned and picked up a piece of toast. “Nothing wrong with lookin' or admirin', Grace. I'm doing it right now, in fact.”

She looked down at her scrubs as if she'd forgotten what she was wearing. “I have to go to work this morning.”