Trust No One (21 page)

Their gazes met, held, and for a moment she felt a connection with him, a disturbing, somehow familiar connection. Unsettled to the point of alarm, she had to look away.

She was picking at an imagined spot of lint on her shirt when he said, “You might understand at that.”

His look felt as real as a touch, his perception way too close to the truth. No. There could be no alliance between them.

MJ pulled practicality around her like a heavy, no nonsense blanket. Short on fluff but it kept a person warm. And being a practical person, knowing how impractical it would be to get lost in his big brown eyes, she stared at a point just above his left brow and told him, “You probably need to rest.”

“Probably.”

His less than enthusiastic response made her stop the battle with herself and reluctantly she looked at him again, in spite of her intentions. “Bad dreams keep you from sleeping?” she guessed, unable to squelch her compassion no matter how much she tried.

“Why do you ask?”

“You were tossing and moaning when I got back,” she said before admitting, “I’ve been there.”

“Alcohol helped me sleep.”

“Not long term.”

“You speak from experience?”

“Yeah.” She straightened the blanket over his chest, awkwardness at just standing and doing nothing catching up to her. “I found cuddling Angelina works better with the bad dreams.”

“You make her sound like a teddy bear.”

MJ considered, turned her lips up into a small smile. “That’s a good description. A cuddly warm teddy bear.”

“What? You sleep with her or do you wake her after a dream?” No question she still had them.

“I sleep with her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That method definitely wouldn’t work for me.”

“You don’t like kids.” She made a flat statement. A lot of people didn’t like children, no quibbles there. Even she had thought she didn’t like kids when she’d been working. And no doubt about it, children were a hindrance to a job like theirs.

He didn’t answer; it was his turn to look away. Sadness poured off him in waves, and she felt compelled to touch his hand even while she silently cursed her weakness.

“I didn’t mean you had to like kids. I always seem to talk about Angel these days.”

“I can understand that.” He squeezed her hand. She didn’t want to acknowledge his touch felt good. Instead, she tried to unobtrusively withdraw her hand. But he wouldn’t let go.

“There are better things to live for than being drunk. You know that. You just have to find it.”

“Yes, mommy.”

He startled a grin out of her. “I suppose I am lecturing.”

He made a weird move, between a nod and a shrug. “A little.”

“I’ll let you sleep.” She tried again to free her hand, but this time he pulled it up close to his mouth where she was forced to pay attention.

“Since Angelina’s not here with you, if you have a bad dream tonight, you can come cuddle with me.” His lips brushed her knuckles.

She jerked her hand away without a thought of being rude. The image of her snuggled next to him had plastered itself so completely on her traitorous brain she had to create some distance.

Nope. No climbing in bed with Ben, she lectured herself. No matter how good the thought sounded. She forced a chuckle. “Dream on.”

“I might just do that,” he said with a drug-induced smile.

Shaking her head, she left the room but the image didn't leave her mind. It wasn’t a bad image, no, not at all. Their bodies side by side, legs and arms tangled. A warm feeling came over her. Too much time had passed since she cuddled with a man, but she didn’t want to break her fast with Ben.

And for good reason, she reminded herself. She opened the flowered sofa sleeper she and Tasha used to share. MJ put the sheets on the thin mattress.

Tonight MJ got the sofa all to herself. And though weariness made her steps drag, she didn’t know if she’d be able to sleep. She wanted Tasha to show up. She wanted to get back home, get on with her life, a life without Vista. Or Ben. Especially without Ben. And at this moment she especially wanted to quit thinking about climbing into bed with tall, dark and handsome.

She tossed a lightweight pillow onto the mattress, and plopped down to take off her shoes. She realized she needed to change Ben’s bandage. Damn. She was simply too tired, too long without sleep. He hadn’t made a word of complaint either. He’d be okay until morning.

She realized too, she’d like a shower but while she’d brought back gasoline, she didn’t want to strain the generator to heat up that much water. She didn’t have the energy to go to the trouble for that either. So she settled for washing her face, wiping off the rest of her body with the wet cloth, and brushing her teeth before crawling under the covers.

She hoped neither she nor Ben had bad dreams.

Chapter 12

The sun startled MJ awake the next morning. Used to getting up early and being at work before the sun rose, she couldn’t believe she’d slept so late. Too many hours without sleep, too many years out of the business. Her body simply shut down.

But there were things to do, and so she hopped out of bed soon after she opened her eyes. A few minutes later she had food ready, and mentally steeled herself to face Ben. Hopefully in the light of day she’d have more control over her unwanted attraction. She took a deep breath before she opened the door.

“Breakfast,” she announced and popped through the open bedroom door. She’d slept well, no dreams at all, but Ben looked less than refreshed. She’d awakened a couple of times during the night to listen for him, but she hadn’t ventured into the room.

Ben slit one eye open, his gaze drifted from her then to the tray in her hand, actually a baking pan she’d converted for the purpose. He closed his eye. “No thanks.”

“Not an option. You have to take your medicine. With food, see?” She balanced the tray on one hand and showed him the sticker on the bottle of antibiotics.

“Later,” he answered keeping his eyes tightly shut.

Thick dark stubble covered his face, another couple of days he’d have a beard. Small thin lines accented his pinched lips, his forehead wrinkled in deeper grooves, from pain or withdrawal or exhaustion she couldn’t tell.

She sighed loudly. “Is it just universal that men are the worst patients?”

“No lectures,” he warned, but his voice lacked power.

“It would be useless to lecture,” she agreed. “Men’s ears are perpetually closed, and they never hear a thing.” She sat the tray on the chest of drawers close to his bed. “So I’m not lecturing. You’re going to get up. Eat something. And take your medicine to get better if I have to sit on you and force it down your throat. I’m on a tight schedule here, and you’re wasting my damn time.”

He finally opened both eyes to glare at her. With a growl he turned sideways. “Just like a woman, nag, nag, nag.” The harsh effect he’d probably intended was weakened by a slightly green look around his face. Was he going to be sick?

He tossed the covers back and lurched to his feet. At some point during the night, he’d ditched his jeans and the burning question “boxer or briefs?” was now answered.

He lurched his way to the bathroom. She refrained from offering to help, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any interference.

Instead she called after him, “You’re lucky I’m here to take care of your sorry ass. I’m not a nurse, you know.”

He slammed the bathroom door.

She thought about how he’d looked as he stumbled toward the bathroom. Yeah, he’d been shot, but it’d been a clean wound. And yeah, he was running a fever, but he’d had a dose of antibiotics and something to bring down his temperature, and he was strong enough physically.

So the alcohol was causing him as much trouble as the gunshot.

He fumbled his way back to the room, crawled onto the bed, and lay down face first on top of the covers. The navy blue boxers might be looser fitting than briefs, but the material framed his muscled butt well enough. Must think of something else besides the well-shaped butt covered only in thin cotton and long muscled legs stretching naked beyond the flimsy material. Thank goodness he still wore a shirt so she didn’t have the opportunity to stare at his naked back as well.

“How many days have you been sober?”"

He mumbled to the bed, but it sounded like he said “too many”.

“Still going through withdrawal?”

He turned his head, face toward the wall. “Is that what this is? I thought I was dying.”

She allowed a brief smile to pass over her face at his dark humor before she walked over to the bed and touched his uninjured shoulder. A muscle flinching was his only reaction.

“Eat,” she ordered, picking up a toaster pastry for herself.

He rolled over, looked at her. One eyebrow raised. “What the hell are you eating?”

Do not let your eyes travel down to the front of the boxers, she told herself.
Answer the question
. “A toaster pastry, but it’s not toasted, no toaster. Which is why we don’t have toast. But I do have bread for sandwiches later.” She took a bite. “Cherry, yum.” Definitely needed toasting, but it was better to concentrate on eating than on the almost nude man on top of the covers. She resisted the urge to tell him to climb back under the blankets. No need to let him know that his bare legs or what hid behind the fly on those boxers, was distracting her.

“Is that more junk you feed your kid?”

“Only occasionally,” MJ said without a touch of guilt. She liked the sugary things more than Angel. “And these were in such a cute princess box. Angel will love it.”

“You want me to eat Princess Pastries?” he asked, seeming to have trouble grasping the concept.

She almost laughed at the look on his face. “You could pretend you’re a prince.” Even the most sensitive of men would have trouble with that, and men who worked at Vista never scored high on the sensitivity scale. Got in the way of the killing they had to do.

Before he could answer, she shook her head. “No that’s too much of a stretch. So I bought you these.” She tossed him a granola bar sending it to a perfect landing on the bed just in front of his nose. “I know you’re such a connoisseur.”

“Gee thanks.”

“Eat it, you’ll feel better.”

Reluctance evident in every move, he sat up, ripped open the package, tossed the wrapper on the floor. With a sullen look on his face he took a bite and chewed.

She picked up the wrapper. “Are you a slob or what?”

“Be happy I’m eating.”

True. And he wasn’t a boyfriend she’d need to train in neatness anyway. Still. . . “I’ll get you a trashcan to keep beside the bed.”

He finished the granola bar in three bites.

“Good. Here’s your medicine.” She unscrewed the child proof lid, poured out a pill and passed it to him along with a glass of water. “Do you need something for pain or fever?” she asked, not wanting to touch his forehead today.

With a shake of his head, he swallowed the antibiotic without further comment. A real chatty kind of guy.

“You’re lucky Jeff got to you when he did, got you away from the booze.”

“Can’t imagine why I don’t feel lucky.”

“Meaning, you’d rather be back home, wherever that is, drunk and passed out, instead of here with me?” She twisted her lips into a fake amused smile. “I feel so flattered.”

He sat the water on the nightstand. “So far you haven’t offered me anything more appealing.”

“What?” MJ gasped, the word slipping out at his unexpected words. Just what the hell was she supposed to offer him? “You’re the one who came dragging me–”

“Being drunk’s less painful than being shot.” He interrupted what was sure to be a tirade.

She went along with the redirection. “What about hangovers?”

“What hangovers? If you stay drunk it keeps the hangovers away.”

She frowned. "You can’t stay drunk 24/7."

“Sure you can. Look at that dude from the Eagles, what’s his name? Joe Walsh. He said he got drunk once. For twenty years.”

“And it’s your childhood dream to be Joe Walsh? If that’s the case, here’s a news flash, he’s sober now.” She laid her half eaten pastry on the tray. “I need to look at your arm.”

With less than steady hands, he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt.

“Let me help.” Aware her libido was still being quite unruly, she steeled herself and pushed his hands out of the way. Her fingertips brushed against his bare skin.

“Now, this is getting more interesting,” he said.

She looked down, saw him starting at her breasts and jerked his injured arm out of the sleeve.

“Ouch, you did that on purpose.”

“Sorry.” There was no doubt of the insincerity of her apology. She pulled away the bandage, then found her bottle of peroxide in her medical supply kit.