Outlaw Derek (3 page)

She flushed again, avoiding his steady gaze. “No. I limp because I was in an accident when I was a child.”

Derek nodded, realizing quickly that she was very sensitive about the limp, which was undoubtedly much worse than usual after the night she had had. He led her through the apartment to the neat bathroom, turning on the light for her. “Have you eaten anything?”

She was gazing around, but looked back at him then, very small and pale in the engulfing
blanket. “Not since lunch yesterday. But I couldn’t—”

“You’ll eat,” he told her with calm certainty. “I’ll go find something for you to wear, then fix an early breakfast. Make the water hot and soak until I tell you to get out.”

For the first time, she smiled. “Yes, sir.”

A bit unnerved by that smile, Derek rummaged in a linen cabinet and produced a bottle of bubble bath, looking at it with the baffled frown of a man who isn’t quite sure where it came from. “Put some of this in,” he instructed. “It’s supposed to relax you.”

Shannon nodded. “All right.”

He backed out, shutting the door, and stood there a moment until he heard the water running. Then he went into his bedroom and found a flannel shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist. He carried them back to the bathroom and knocked briefly on the door before opening it a few inches and thrusting them inside. “Clothes,” he called.

They were taken from his hand. “Thank you.”

Derek closed the bathroom door and headed for the kitchen, tiredly rubbing the nape of his neck and wondering what in hell he’d gotten himself involved in this time.

She slid lower in the water, resting her head on the lip of the tub, and sighed without being aware of it. The lavender fragrance
was
soothing, and the hot water felt wonderful. The coldness was leaving her, seeping away, and with its leaving she became more aware of a steadily worsening pain. Automatically, she rubbed her aching hip, knowing she had badly overstrained the joint and her muscles. And he had noticed, of course. People always noticed. Especially men.

Shannon felt the warm trickle of tears escaping from the corners of her eyes, and made no move to wipe them away because she was too tired.
But you’re alive, idiot!
Alive. How many times had people said that to her while she was growing
up?
You’re alive. Be thankful. You could have been killed like your father. The leg brace is nothing, after all. What’s a limp? At least you can walk
.

So what if her apartment and every single thing she owned except the underwear she wore had gone up in smoke? She was alive.
So what if somebody’s trying to kill you.…

She wanted to draw herself into a small knot and pass unnoticed by the world.
And don’t forget to turn your crippled hip to the wall!
she jeered silently at herself. Don’t ever forget that, don’t ever forget to hide the flaw. Wasn’t that what her mother had told her over and over, even after the brace was gone and the limp a slight one?
Walk straighter, Shannon. Wear a lift in your right shoe, Shannon, and never wear very high heels because they make you look awkward. Move slowly, Shannon. Hold your head up, Shannon. Look people in the eye, Shannon
.

Years. Years of being gently told by the beautiful mother who couldn’t bear imperfections that
there was something wrong with her, something flawed. Years of submitting to the conspicuous matchmaking attempts of her mother, and of watching the dutiful boys and, later, men avoiding any glance at her leg. And, finally, escape to a life of her own, only to discover painfully that there was still something wrong with her. That men still avoided glances at her leg and never asked her to dance, even though she could because of her mother’s determined lessons.

And she hadn’t told Derek Ross all of it. She hadn’t told him that Civatech had been her fourth job in as many years. She hadn’t told him that after that first devastating job two more had been lost because she wasn’t perfect, because she limped. Because she was a lame duck in a world of swans.

Stop it!
she told herself. She was healthy. Alive. Even if somebody was trying to kill her. A giggle escaped her, and Shannon opened her eyes to stare fixedly up at the ceiling. She was getting hysterical, dammit. Tired. She was just tired,
that was all, that was all it was. And so sleepy. The bath was making her sleepy. Her eyes slowly closed again, and disjointed images whirled behind her lids.

He was such a big man, she thought drowsily. He made her feel safe. Made her feel, for the first time in many long years, that she … that maybe … her hip throbbed and ached. She rubbed it harder, the growing pain of it fighting off drowsiness. It hurt, and she was just too tired to tell herself it didn’t. Her muscles, sustaining their strength as long as possible, had finally given in; they twitched in painful spasms, knotting, making her entire leg tremble, jerk. And the joint felt raw and hot, hurting until she bit her lip.

“Shannon?” He knocked softly on the door.

She swallowed hard. “Yes?”

“Breakfast in ten minutes.”

“All right.”

She pulled herself from the tub and let the water out while she was drying off. Any weight
at all on her right leg was almost unbearable now, and it was difficult for her to draw on the sweatpants. Even sitting down hurt. She finally got the pants on and tied the drawstring, trying to find some amusement in the extremely baggy fit. The flannel shirt was also ridiculously large: she rolled up the sleeves over her forearms and thought idly that she certainly made a fetching sight.

She left her things in the bathroom and moved toward the kitchen, gritting her teeth in order to walk.
Hold your head up, Shannon. Move slowly, Shannon. Walk straighter, Shannon. And, for God’s sake, look people in the eye!

She looked Derek in the eye as she entered the small kitchen, and he instantly came to help her to the breakfast bar, supporting her totally. “Here, sit down. What have you done to yourself?” he asked roughly.

Shannon blinked back tears as he eased her onto a padded stool at the bar. Fooling no one, as usual, she thought tiredly. “I’m all right,” she
murmured. “I’m just not used to so much walking. The bath helped.”

He looked down at her with a frown, then went to pour coffee, and set the cup and a plate containing an omelet before her. “Eat.” He fixed his own coffee and carried it and his plate to the bar, sitting across from her. “How did you hurt your leg?” he asked bluntly.

Shannon was looking fixedly at her plate, trying to eat enough to satisfy him although she hurt too much to feel hunger. “A car accident when I was four,” she answered, a little relieved by his open notice of her flaw. At least he wasn’t tactfully avoiding the subject.

“Is it the leg or the hip?” he asked in a casual tone.

She stole a glance at his face and found it intent but relaxed, the dark eyes gentle. He had put on a shirt, she realized vaguely, a dark sweatshirt that set off his blond handsomeness and made her disturbingly aware of him. “Both,” she
said finally. “They thought I’d lose the leg for a while, but I didn’t.”

“You shouldn’t have been wearing those heels,” he told her, not in criticism, but understanding. “High heels throw the hips forward and the spine out of alignment. It
looks
sexy as hell, mind you, but I’ve noticed that fashion tends to put women in uncomfortable clothes and shoes most of the time. And it’s worse for you because of your hip.”

Shannon found a smile from somewhere despite the fire in her hip. Other than the friend who had bullied her into agreeing to go to the party last night, no one had ever talked to her so matter-of-factly about her flaw—especially not a man. Men tended to avoid any mention at all of her leg. She ate most of the omelet, more to please him than anything else, trying to keep her mind off the worsening pain.

When she had finally laid her fork aside, Derek reached a long arm to the counter, getting a bottle of pills she hadn’t noticed until then. He
shook one small white pill into his palm and held it out to her. “This is for pain. It’s mild, but I couldn’t give it to you on an empty stomach. Take it.”

She looked at him, hesitant even though she realized that the pain had brought tears to her eyes again.

“It’s all right, Shannon.”

After a moment, she took the pill and swallowed it with coffee.
He has the eyes of an old soul. So wise
. She trusted him without even wondering why she did. She had almost literally put her life in his hands, after all.

Derek rose from his stool and came around to her, bending to gather her into his arms.

She was startled: her voice emerged breathless as she said, “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he said calmly, handling her slight weight very easily and very gently. “You’re in agony every time you move; you’ve overstrained your hip with all that walking, and it’s getting
even with you. Now, shut up,” he added politely, “and relax.”

Shannon felt very small and very confused, but her arms had automatically encircled his neck and she shut up. He carried her through the apartment to his dark bedroom, laying her very gently in the center of the rumpled bed. Before she had realized what he was going to do, he rolled her smoothly onto her left side so that she was facing away from him, and she felt the bed give as he sat on it.

“What—”

“Shhh.” One big hand rubbed the small of her back in a soothing rhythm, and the other came to rest on her aching hip. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I was a masseur in a former life. Close your eyes, Shannon.” The hand on her hip moved gently and surely, and when the pain almost instantly lessened, Shannon was so surprised that she relaxed.

“You must have been a good one.”

“Better?”

“Yes.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Much better.”

“Good. The pill will take effect soon, and you’ll sleep for a good long time. When you wake up, we’ll talk about what to do next, all right?”

“Mmmm.” She didn’t even notice when he smoothed the tail of the flannel shirt up to her waist so that only the thin material of the sweatpants separated her flesh from his gentle touch. She was aware only of his soothing hands and the magic of them. “Where did you get the pills?”

“From my doctor.” He rubbed her hip slowly, very conscious that the back of her thigh pressed warmly against his hip. “I wrenched my shoulder a while back. And you’re supposed to be trying to sleep.”

She laughed sleepily, completely relaxed now in the darkness. He was a warlock, that’s what he was. “I know. Why are you being so kind to me, Derek? You shouldn’t be kind to me. I’m a lot of trouble.”

“Are you?” He kept his voice soft, aware that she was almost asleep and hardly knew what she was saying.

“Oh, yes.” She moved a little under his hands, like a cat shifting lazily to find the sun.

“How are you trouble?” He moved both hands to her hip, then slid one down over her thigh, his sure, steady touch easing the muscles that were in spasm.

“Things happen to me,” she said, sighing with contentment as her taut leg relaxed slowly and the ache in her hip faded to a dull throb she hardly felt. “I’m bad luck, just bad luck, always. That money … and then William … and now somebody’s trying to kill me.”

She had relaxed totally under his touch, and Derek knew she was asleep. He gazed down at her, his hands still massaging gently for long moments until he was sure she was deeply asleep. Then his hands went still—but didn’t leave her.

She was, he thought, like a beautiful, fragile bird with a badly mended wing. Somebody had
once—or many times—told her she could never fly again, and she was completely convinced that it was true. It was in her eyes, her haunted eyes, that she felt she had an open wound that would never heal.

Derek drew away slowly and rose from the bed, bending to pull the covers up over her. He straightened and stood looking down at her in the gloom, dawn’s light struggling through the curtains. Then he silently and swiftly left the room. In the den, he turned on the television low, intending to see if there were early news reports of the explosion at Shannon’s apartment building. He sat on the couch and lit a cigarette, staring broodingly at the television screen.

God, he was tired. The situation in Algeria had nearly turned into a fiasco despite his best efforts, and getting out of the country after everything hit the fan hadn’t been fun. Add to that too many long hours in a drafty, noisy cargo plane and a bare four hours’ sleep before Shannon’s predawn arrival at his door, and “exhausted”
was merely a mildly descriptive word with little relevance to his condition.

And that was why, of course. That was why he’d felt so unutterably moved when she had met his gaze in the kitchen, her own big gentle eyes suffering silently. That was why his chest had ached intolerably and something inside it throbbed with a feeling it had never known.

Oh, yes, he was tired. Tired enough to wonder why certain parts of his body didn’t know about tired. Tired enough that he still felt her body beneath his touch, branded in his mind. Tired enough that he wanted to return to the bedroom and crawl in beside her, hold her, feel her naked against him.

Derek swore softly. She was lost, alone, in shock and pain, and he wanted to … of course he wanted to. And if he found that Shannon wasn’t alone, that there was a lover in the wings somewhere whom she carefully hadn’t drawn into danger while she had roamed the streets last
night, lost and desperately afraid, he would very probably tear the poor bastard limb from limb.

But she had come to him for help, and that was the important thing, no matter how he felt. Few knew better than he that the situation between them was tailor-made for the right kind of emotions sparked for all the wrong reasons. All her defenses—assuming she had any—were down, splintered around her. And even without the threats against her, Derek was all too aware that she was a fragile woman, a hurt woman.

And with that wounded spirit threatened by faceless people for enigmatic reasons, she was even more vulnerable, more fragile. She was lost and he was her lifeline; if he moved too quickly, that delicate thread binding them together would snap, and once that happened it could never be repaired.