Saving Grace (5 page)

Chapter
Seven

Walker

I lean under the hood, trying not to think of anything but
the car and the work. Three days ago I left her. Three days of silence, every
minute certain she’ll call, dreading she won’t. Maybe it is time to forget her
and move on. Fuck! I yank the wrench hard enough to break a bolt and step away,
slapping the hood closed. I set my palms flat on the metal, leaning over with
my head tucked to my chest and close my eyes. Immediately her face springs to
mind, eyes tight with anger and fear every time I try to push our relationship
to another level. Maybe it is time to pack it in. Maybe there is a reason she
hasn’t called. Maybe she’s remembered what I am.

I hear a throat clear behind me and I slowly straighten to
turn around. My brother Trace leans against the open door a few feet behind me.
Prison hardened Trace so much I’d been afraid he’d never have a moment’s peace
in his life. Lynn changed that. Odd how Lynn’s presence has changed the course
of both our lives. Too bad she’d never been what I wanted. No. Needed. Like I
need air. This ‘calmly waiting till Grace comes to her senses’ shit is going to
kill me.

“How’s it going, bro?” Trace asks.

I grunt, giving my head a slight shake in response and start
to put away my tools. I’ve been working till midnight every night and the work
is finally caught up. Not because I’ve busted my ass, but because Trace has
picked up my slack. Trace came behind me like the big brother he is and cleaned
up all the screw-ups I’ve spent the last few days making. And there are plenty.
My mind is definitely not on the job. No, my mind is on a certain blonde
bombshell in Atlanta who refuses to admit she might need help. Might need me
and what we should be together.

Tools locked in their proper drawers, I move to the
industrial sized sink and reach for the
GoJo
. I scrub
my arms and hands with the heavy duty cleanser, but feel Trace’s gaze on my
back, sense his questions coming before they do, and my back stiffens in
advance.

“Heard from Grace?”

“No,” I answer curtly, hoping to discourage any other
queries.

“Maybe it’s time...” Trace pauses, taking a deep breath.
“Maybe it’s time you let her go. Move on.”

I have just been thinking the same thing, but for some
reason hearing it from someone else enrages me. Grace is
my
woman. She
has been for years. I know it. I know I’m not worthy of her but no one can love
her more. If she would just admit it, life would be one hundred percent good.

“The same way you forgot Lynn?” I snarl. Even ten years in
prison wasn’t enough to make Trace forget Lynn.

Trace barks a short laugh. “Yeah, like that, man.”

Rinsing the soap from my arms, I reach for a towel to dry
off and turn to meet my brother’s gaze. After ten years in Holman State Prison,
Trace has mastered masking emotions. Hell, for a while there I wasn’t sure he
even had any left. But finally after years of uncertainty, Trace’s relationship
with Lynn is secure and his rough outer edge is beginning to soften. With the
people he loves at least. I don’t like what I see in my brother’s eyes now,
something that feels uncomfortably like pity. Instead of saying anything,
offering some stupid banal condolences, Trace’s expression closes and he stands
back from the door.

“You done here? Let’s walk over to the house and get a
beer.”

I take a look around the garage feeling grim. Hell, why not?
My mind isn’t on task anyway. I nod, lock the door behind us, and cross the
short yard that separates the garage from my house, which sits facing the
river.

As careful as I am to keep the shop locked, I often don’t
bother with my home. Trace turns the knob and pushes the door open, heading
straight down the center hallway to the kitchen on the back of the house. He
goes to the fridge, pulling out two beers, before flipping a chair around and
sitting at the table. He hands one to me and twists the lid off his.

“Where’s Lynn?” I ask.

Trace rolls his eyes. “Some country club thing with her
mother. She’ll be home soon.”

I hide a smile behind a swig of beer. Trace’s opinion on
Lynn’s continued membership at the town’s small country club is well known. The
Graham brothers are not exactly from the right side of the tracks. Hell, they
named the wrong side just for people like us.

“So about Grace,” Trace says and this time I do the eye
rolling. My brother is obviously determined to make me talk. I sigh. Just
great. Exactly what I need--to rub salt in an open wound.

“What about her?”

Trace tips his bottle back before answering.

“Did you know she was married once?”

I’m leaning back in the chair, the front two legs tipped off
the floor. They thud to the ground as jealousy whips through me.

“No,” I say through gritted teeth.

Whether it is a denial of knowledge or inability to accept
she kept it from me, I can’t say. One thing is sure. That I have to hear about it
from my brother instead of her practically begs some kind of punishment.

Trace nods as if confirming a suspicion. “Apparently the
husband was a real piece of work.”

Fuck. I don’t like where this going.

“Lynn said he busted Grace up pretty good when she divorced
him.”

I shove to my feet and stalk to the window. No wonder she
doesn’t trust men. The unexplained scars on her body suddenly have meaning too.
I stare outside and shove my shaking hands into my pockets, trying to control
my reaction to Trace’s words. The first thing I want to do is find the
ex-husband and rip him apart piece by piece. Then I want to find Grace and
shake her. What other secrets is she using to keep me at an emotional distance?

“How long have you known this?” I ask my brother in a low
voice. How long has Trace kept it from me?

“Couple of days. Lynn seems to think Grace is completely
over it, that it doesn’t affect the way she lives her life.”

I snort. Sure she is. “Like hell.”

“Yeah that’s what I said.” Trace continues in a quiet tone.
“What are you going to do? You can’t force her to accept you. And with a
history like that, if she’s unwilling or unable to try, you’re setting yourself
up for a world of hurt, brother.”

“I can’t not try,” I mutter. Turning around, I face my
brother. I have no idea where my new determination comes from, but I embrace
it. “I won’t give her up.”

Trace knocks back the rest of his beer and stands up. His
expression is grim, but then it usually is.

“I know how that goes.” He gives me a steady gaze, one of
support, one of understanding. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He stops to drop the empty bottle in the trash, then says
good-bye and walks out the backdoor. I watch him walk to the path that follows
the river and disappear from sight, before I turn back to my empty kitchen.

My stomach rumbles, protesting my recent habit of skipping
lunch, and I rummage through the cabinets. I haven’t been to the grocery store
in weeks and the most interesting find is stale cereal. Tossing it towards the
trash can, I turn towards the fridge. It is just as bad. Deciding to drive into
River City for dinner, I grab my keys from the hook on the wall and pick up my
cell phone. I hate the damned thing, but what the hell, she might call. And I
need to be available if Hunter tries to get in touch. I don’t lock the back
door behind me as I go outside.

Halfway around the house, I hear a car pull into the
driveway that bypasses the garage. I’m afraid to believe my eyes when I round
the corner. Grace sits behind the wheel of a compact rental, staring at the
house. She doesn’t notice my approach, so I get to study her before she puts up
her protective mask. My hands clench in anger.

Her mouth is pressed in a firm line, the skin around her
eyes tight with black half moons under them. Her hands are on the steering
wheel and they convulsively clench it when I tap on the window before she
twists her head to face me. What has her so spooked? I watch her take a deep
breath as if trying to slow a suddenly hammering heart. Her breasts rise under
a white tank top riveting my attention for a moment. All the blood in my body
rushes to my cock.
Down boy.
Doesn’t look like she’s here for sex, much
as I like the idea.

Reaching for the door handle, I step back and swing it open.
She steps out, gives me a weak smile and tucks her hands in her back pockets.
By force of sheer will, I ignore her up thrust breasts and watch her face. She
looks tired and wary, but healed. She stands steady on her injured leg. I want
to grab her and never let go, and wonder what the hell she is doing here.
Normally by this point she’d be jumping my bones. Or I’d be jumping hers.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

She presses her lips together and looks at her feet.

“Um. How are you?”

I choke down an angry laugh. Is she joking? And what is that
in her voice? Indecision? Insecurity? She has to realize I’ll never turn her
away. I watch her, silently willing her to open up to me. She refuses to meet
my eyes.

“I don’t think you want a real answer for that, Grace.”

Her gaze clashes with mine, but she wisely holds back a
denial. Her reply is sarcastic.

“Just being polite.”

I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes. I work
hard to stay under the radar and look like a respectable citizen. I’m not
feeling very civilized right now. I should have established certain ground
rules right from the start. Then she won’t be so surprised when she finally
gets the spanking that’s coming to her.

“Anyone ever tell you that you need your ass spanked?”

Some emotion flickers through her eyes, one that looks like
fear, and she takes a step away from me, nervously drawing her bottom lip
between her teeth. Growling my displeasure, I follow her. What the fuck? I have
never hurt her. I
would
never hurt her and she damned well knows it.

“Don’t do that, Grace. I’m not your ex.”

Still retreating, she gasps, her backward steps halt when
she hits the car. I crowd her, wondering at this new skittishness. Is this the
real Grace? The one she is so good at hiding? Lifting my hand, my thumb hovers over
her lip a moment when she winces. Damn it. How could I get it through her
stubborn skull that I’m not a threat to her? I lightly brush the soft skin,
waiting until she leans just a little bit into the touch before sliding my hand
around to
cup
the nape of her neck. Sighing, she
leans against me, her hands coming up to rest on my chest. Her touch sets my
body on fire.

“I would never hurt you, Grace,” I say softly. “You have to
know that.”

Her eyes flash in anger and stiffening she tries to pull
away, but I hold her close with one arm around her waist and the other around
her shoulders. My hold is firm, but not tight. Damn it, I’m not letting her go.
I’ve worked too hard to get her. We’re quiet and still for several minutes.
Grace breaks the silence first.

“Are we gonna stand out here in the yard all night?”

“I was going in to town to get something to eat when you
pulled in. You up for it?”

She nods her head against my chest and this time when she
pulls away, distracted by the sweet strawberry smell filling my nostrils, I let
her go. After grabbing her purse from the vehicle and locking it, she follows
me to my car and climbs in. We barely speak on the drive, only doing so to
decide on a restaurant, settling on a place with an outside seating area.

Dinner is uneventful. By unspoken agreement we don’t discuss
why she’s come or what has her so nervous. The ex-husband goes unmentioned. Her
mask is back in place, but I watch her intently, seeing an occasional crack in
her composure. A car backfires in the parking lot while I’m paying the check
and she flinches, whirling to face the noise and cursing under her breath. She
wasn’t nearly this jumpy when I left her in Atlanta a few days ago, and I am
positive something has happened.

Hustling her to the car, I vow to make her tell me
everything when we get back to my house. She came to me. She has to be ready to
admit she needs help, ready to admit she needs me. I know at the very least she
can’t take on Hugo’s killer by herself. Hell, I don’t want her anywhere near that
mess, but I know her well enough to know she isn’t ready to back off. She
hasn’t given any hint that her memory has returned so maybe I’m worrying about
nothing.

I keep a close eye on her during the drive home. The closer
we get, the more agitated she gets, worrying her bottom lip and clenching and
unclenching her hands in her lap. When we arrive, I usher her inside.

“Want a beer?” I ask.

“Sure.”

I live in an old modified shotgun house. Instead of the old
four rooms leading directly into each other, a hall was added down the center
to create two front rooms, two bedrooms, and a kitchen and eating area across
the back. I leave her in the living room. My steps are the only sound as I walk
across the wood floors to the hall. Retrieving two bottles from the refrigerator
I twist the lids off and hurry back to the living room.

She is pacing its length and pauses long enough to accept
the beer I hand her and takes a long drink. I settle on the couch and watch her
through narrow eyes, waiting her out while she works through what she wants to
say. After that, I’ll get the truth from her. She stops at the side of the
window and peers out, taking another long drink.

“I left my bag in the car.”

I cock an eyebrow. Not exactly the start I expect. “We can
get it later.”

“I left my guns in it,” she says quietly.

That gets my attention. I know she has a couple, but she
told me once she doesn’t carry one often. She starts walking towards the door
and I jump up, meeting her halfway. She looks up at me, but she is distracted
and I get the impression she doesn’t really see me. I block her path when she
tries to bypass me and finally her gaze focuses on me.