OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (27 page)

“You all right?”

Gus lifted his head, the movement making him wince. “You’re Paul Stark?”
He damn well better be!

He nodded. “I’ll get you a towel.” When he came back two seconds later, he said, “Erica hire you?”

“In away.” Burying his face in the damp towel, he decided to leave explanations for later. When he took the towel away from his face, it had a splotch of red. He looked at Paul’s bandaged hand, the thin motel terry heavily encrusted with dried blood. The guy had done a lot of bleeding. “Get the Icy Cream disk, and whatever else you need,” he said. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

“Mayday House.”

“Erica?”

“She’s there. She’s okay.”

“Good.” Paul went back to his bed, slid his good hand under the mattress, and took out a disk. “Let’s go.”

“Not much of a hiding place.” Gus gestured with the Glock to the bed.

“Good enough when no one thinks you’re hiding anything.”

Gus grunted. When he got to his feet, unsteadily, Stark gave him his good hand, then a shoulder to help him out the door.

“Thanks,” Gus said. “And thanks for the help back there. You swing a mean pillow.”

By the time they’d walked to Gus’s car, his head was thumping like hell, but other than that he was okay. A headache he could handle. What really pissed him off was Mace getting away.

He’d be back. Gus was sure of it.

Back at Mayday House, Keeley became a lean, mean nursing machine. Within minutes, she had Paul’s finger cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. “We’re lucky, no sign of infection,” she announced. “But we’ll need to keep an eye on it.”

She wouldn’t look at Gus and replied in grunts to any questions he put to her. Inelegant grunts, noncommittal grunts, angry grunts. He gave up.

After she’d heard the bones of what had happened at the Jasper, she insisted Paul get settled into the second-floor bedroom next to Erica and get some rest. Any more talking could wait. She told Erica to stay with him, enlisted Bridget for kitchen duty, and made a mid-afternoon meal. Bridget took the Starks theirs on an overladen tray and disappeared into her own room.

Then Keeley disappeared, didn’t come back until well after six. The house, except for the rain slashing at the windows, was quiet as a tomb. Gus met her kicking off her boots at the back door.

“You should have told me where you were going.” Anger replaced relief the second he set eyes on her wet hair and dripping face. He’d covered half the miserable, muddy roads in the neighborhood looking for her until he’d knocked on the priest’s door and the housekeeper had told him she was there.

She brushed some strands of hair from her face.

He lifted his chin and took in some air, a trace of control, when what he wanted to do was throttle her.
Hold her.
“I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are.”

She rounded on him then, her eyes curiously bright, as if she’d been crying. “If you must know, I went to visit my mother, then Father Barton. We had tea.” She shot him a challenging look.

“I know that. What pisses me off is I had to find out the hard way. Stalk around like a second-rate gumshoe.”

Her face tightened. “And while we’re on the subject of your
‘
protecting me
,’
that was your idea, and by the looks of it a bad one.” She glared at him, frowned deeply.”You’re bleeding again.” She stomped to the table and picked up the medical kit she’d left there earlier, when she’d slapped a bandage on him and patched up Paul.

“Sit.” She jerked her head in the direction of a kitchen chair. “Your bandage is soaked with rain—and blood.”

“It’s fine.” Hell, it was barely a scrape.

“Sit,” she ordered, again.

When he didn’t move, she added, “Paul’s not the only one at risk of infection, you know.” She waited.

He sat, winced when she dabbed some kind of germ-killing hot sauce on his bloody head.

“Baby,” she whispered under breath, then dabbed some more.

He grabbed her hand. “Care to tell me why you were Florence Nightingale with him”—he gestured with his sore head to the upper floor—“and you morph into Nurse Ratched the minute you touch me?”

She pulled her hand free, dabbed again. Harder this time. “Because I’m angry.” She tugged out a square bandage and pasted it on with the same lack of finesse she’d used earlier.

“Who’d have guessed?” Gus touched the bandage gingerly, got up, and took himself a safe distance away.

“What you did was stupid. You could have been”—her mouth tightened—“And I told you to get rid of the gun. You didn’t.”

“Might as well have, for all the good it did.” He wished to hell he had got a piece of the guy, slowed him down long enough to ask him what game he was playing—and who he was playing it with. Maybe when Keeley gave him a chance to think of something besides her, and where the hell she was, he’d be clear-headed enough to figure it out, but for now at least, with everyone snug in their beds, the not-so-quietly-fuming woman in front of him had his full attention.

She didn’t know it—yet—but looking down the barrel of a gun had reorganized his priorities.

“Give it to me,” she said, her voice crisp, her hand out, palm up.

“It’s in a safe place.” He walked toward her. He had no intention of getting rid of the gun until this mess was resolved. He lifted her chin and looked into her face, all tight with anger—and concern. “It’s not the gun that’s bothering you.”

She gave him a scathing look and jerked her face from his hand.

“You’re angry because I didn’t make love to you last night.”

She rolled her eyes. “The ego speaks.”

“You’re irritating me, Farrell. Talk to me.”

“I’m irritating you? Dear God!” She put her face inches from his, her eyes shot with fire. “You don’t want to make love with me. Fine. I’ll cope. But you roaring off to play hero with guns, knives, and assorted artillery? That doesn’t play with me, Gus. You could have been—”

He kissed her to shut her up, kissed her because he wanted to, and because that gun Mace had pointed at his gut had changed everything. But before things went further, he had to sort a few things out. He set her away from him.

“I need to tell you why I’m here,” he said and paused. “Hagan Marsden hired me—”

“You told me that.” She touched her just-kissed mouth.

“I didn’t tell you everything.”

“Have you ever?” She looked as if she were mad all over again.

“No. But I had my reasons.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Hagan knows where April is.” He took a couple of steps away from her. “He said he’d tell me if I got him something to use against Dinah.”

“Oh, Gus …” She closed her eyes and shook her head.

He couldn’t read her reaction, but it was either pity or disappointment. He didn’t like either choice. After a moment, she added, “And, of course, you agreed.”

“Yes.”

“You really were going to sell Dinah out. You never were working for me, were you?” The last came out softly as if there were pain attached.

“Yes. And no.”

“You lied to me.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I see.” She took a step back. “And you’re telling me this now, why?” She studied him, her expression unreadable.

“Because the lies are over,” he said.

She looked wary. “Another change of allegiance, Gus—or a change of heart?”

Gus couldn’t think of a better choice of words. “The latter—and I need you to believe me.” The admission had him feeling raw, exposed. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way his breath snarled in his throat or the way his heart pounded. Yet he stood stone still waiting for her answer.

She nodded her head, slowly, thoughtfully, then turned her back on him and walked to the kitchen window where she stared out into the darkness for what seemed goddamn hours. When she turned back to him, he expected questions, a demand for promises. He was half right.

“What will happen now?” she asked. “How will we find April?”

We…

He swallowed hard. “Did you hear what I said? I lied to you.”

“I heard.” She let out a long breath. “Is that the last of them? The lies?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely the end? Not even a small white one lying around waiting to pounce?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, then.” She pushed at her hair and nodded as if agreeing with herself.

“That’s it?” He took her head in his hands, forced her to look in his eyes. He had to be sure about this, absolutely sure. “You’re not angry?”

“Of course, I’m angry. But you did ask me to forgive you, so I—” She stopped and her brow furrowed. “Didn’t you? Ask me?”

“In my own roundabout way.”

“Then I do. Forgive you, I mean.” She paused. “Although I’ll never, never understand you.”

“You don’t have to. All you have to do right now, is trust me—and let me kiss you.” He brushed his lips over hers. “Sound okay to you?”

She nodded.

He kissed her deeply, pulled her flush to his body, to where he burned for her. He loved this woman. He loved her hair, her baggy jeans, her ugly shoes, and her even uglier nightgown. Lifting his head, he smiled against her mouth.

“You’re smiling.” She touched his mouth with her finger. “You don’t paint. You don’t do dishes—and you don’t smile. Ever.”

“It’s been known to happen.” He smoothed her hair back. “There is one other thing.”

“What?” She looked wary again.

“I was thinking how much I hate that pink nightgown. Any chance you’ll burn it?”

When she started to protest, he put his finger on her moist, just-kissed lips. “And there’s something else I want.”

“You want to talk at the strangest times. We’ve got people upstairs, all kinds of unanswered—”

“I want you to think about the long term. I want you to think about us waking up together—morning after morning. I want you to think about the future. Our future.” He kissed her before she had a chance to answer, selfishly taking advantage of her surprise at his question, the soft slackness in her mouth. “Because if you want more than this, you’re going to have to make an honest man out of me.”

At his words silence invaded the room, so deep it was impenetrable, a solid where air should be.

The word
shock
didn’t describe Keeley’s wide eyes and slack mouth. She looked as if he’d stunned her with a laser.

He set her away from him. “Well?”

She took a couple of steps back, looking dazed.

“Well?” he said again, bending his head to catch her eyes.

“You’ll have to cut me some slack here. Getting from you walking out of my room less than twenty-four hours ago to the, uh,
ever after
thing is a stretch. I need a little time.”

“Take all the time you want, as long as it’s less than sixty seconds.”

“First off.” She took a breath. “What you said, mornings, future, all of that. It sounds suspiciously like a proposal of … marriage.”

Gus thought about that. What he knew about marriage he’d viewed from an outside window, and looking in he’d seen cheating wives—and husbands, alimony fights, and drug-inspired violence. As institutions went, it was easier to see himself standing in a cell block than at an altar, but if that’s what it took to have Keeley … “That would be okay with me.”

“Okay?” She frowned.

She wasn’t getting it and it was his fault. He’d never tried to get more from a woman than an orgasm and a call back.
Shit!
“What I’m trying to say is I don’t want one of those sleep-and-run things your priest—”

“He’s not my priest, he’s my friend.”

He ground his teeth, started again. “I want more than—” He stopped to sort through the clutter of words in his head, the mess of feelings in his gut. “I want more from you than I’ve ever wanted from a woman. And I want you to want more from me. To expect more. I want the sleep part of Barton’s equation, but not the run part.” He looked at the ceiling. “And I’m sounding more like a goddamn fool with every word I say.”

Silence. So heavy it damn near sank him.

She moved closer and touched his face. “I think you sound wonderful, but …”

Jesus, the lady said
but! The word sounded like a death knell.

“As you said before, we’re all wrong for each other. You with your cool silences, your detachment. Me with my involvement—which is neither cool nor silent. And definitely not detached.” She sounded a little breathless. “You with all your—and don’t hate me for saying this—experience with women. Me with … none of that.”

It didn’t sound as if she expected a response, so he opted for the cool silence again. The experience thing stung, but it was what it was. So he waited, and gained a full understanding of the heart-in-throat phenomenon.

“Which means we’d have to work hard to make it work, be seriously committed.”

He nodded. No problem there.

“And I won’t leave my work here. You’d have to live at Mayday House.”

His chest lightened, his throat loosened; another nod. Hell, he’d live in an igloo in Alaska if she were in it.

Silence again, then, her face sober, she said, “You’re talking about a possible life sentence here, Gus. And I’m not an easy person. Never will be. Are you absolutely sure that this”—she waved a hand around the old room, then straightened and met his gaze—“That
I
am what you want?”

“Never more sure of anything in my life.”

“And this isn’t something you feel obliged to say because I was a nun, or because of Glen Barton?” Her tone had an edge of nerves, and she grasped both his hands, held them tight to her chest.

He thought about that. “Partly,” he said. “Then there’s the other part, the one that won’t let me imagine my life without you in it.”

She studied him with those lie-detector eyes of hers, but he couldn’t read her face, couldn’t figure what she was thinking. What she’d say. Suddenly, she let go of his hands, shook her head, and took a step back.

He braced himself.

“The thing is …” Her expression softened, turned wry. “That’s a perfectly good nightgown—”

Ignoring the flood of relief that nearly took him to his knees, he stood his ground and smiled. “A man has his limits, Keeley.”