Just A Little Bit Married?. Eileen Wilks
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I’m good at detecting. No television in the living room means that either you don’t watch it, or that it’s in your bedroom. I took a guess.”
She laid the dough carefully in the howl, seamed side down. A platter went upside down on top of the bowl. “Good guess.”
“Why don’t we eat out tonight? We can talk awhile, get to know each other. Maybe take in a movie.” A movie was a great idea, in fact As long as they weren’t followed, they’d be much safer there than here.
She froze, her hands on each side of the yellow bowl. “I have to work.”
“You know I don’t think that’s a good idea. That bowl looks heavy. Let me.”
She shook her head. “I can get it. I always do.”
As soon as she picked the bowl up he reached out. He ran his fingertips along the backs of her hands before gripping the bowl, his eyes fixed on hers the whole time. But she didn’t let go.
Such a soft, drowning blue he looked into—such a mixture of confusion and desire. “You know,” he said, not moving, “I really wish you’d consider taking a few days off from work.”
Those eyes closed briefly. “Don’t,” she said, her voice strained. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he challenged her softly.
Her eyes opened. The hurt in them condemned him as thoroughly as only real innocence could have done. “Rule number one, remember? You said you’d let me know when you were trying to change my mind.”
Slowly he released his hold and stepped back. “There’s something you may as well know about me, Sara Grace. I’m a very good liar.”
She turned her back on him and walked over to the stove.
He let her settle her burden in the oven herself. The heavy silence between them was as painful, in its way, as the continued throbbing in his loins. And just as useless.
Poor mouse. She didn’t know how little she really had to fear from him.
She closed the oven door and straightened. “I don’t like being manipulated,” she said.
He sent both eyebrows up. “I don’t like being asked to risk my life by someone who’s unwilling to trust me professionally.”
She bit her lip. “I’m not—”
“Yes,” he said, coming toward her. “You are. Remember Carl’s neighbor? How many bullets did he take for being nearby when Javiero caught up with him?”
She flinched. “All right. All right. I guess I am, but that doesn’t make it right for you to—to try to change my mind the way you did.” Her chin came up. “I could fire you.”
“You could.” He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to continue to meet his eyes—which she did, though he could see it cost her. “But I don’t think you will. You’re too smart. Smart enough to be scared. Smart enough to know you can’t hire the kind of devoted attention I’m going to give you while I’m your bodyguard. I’ll tell you something else about me—”
“In addition to the fact that you’re a liar?” she asked, two patches of color flaring on her cheeks.
“Yeah. In addition to that. Remember this—I’d do anything for my family. Which means I’ll do anything I have to in order to keep you alive.” He shook his head. “You don’t want to fire me, Sara.”
Now her eyes dropped. A long, silent moment later she spoke. “I’m going to take a nap. We’ll talk about it when I wake up.”
“That’s fine,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t fire him, knowing he’d both won and lost. And he hated himself for his methods, but whether on her behalf, or his own, he wasn’t sure. “You go right ahead. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
He knew, of course, that was what she was afraid of.
What if he was right?
Sara lay on her bed, a pale green afghan snuggled up under her chin, and wished she could sleep instead of chasing her thoughts like a weary cat trying to catch a whole family of mice.
What if she were endangering others by insisting on going in to work? She honestly didn’t think so, but he certainly seemed to think there was a danger. Sara lay quietly and tried to focus on what had to be the most important issue, but those little mice scurried all over the place.
Very few people ever commented directly on her limp. Her new bodyguard had referred to it as casually as he might have mentioned her height or hair color. His attitude had disconcerted her as much as it pleased her. Of course, he’d needed the information professionally. In case she needed to run for her life.
He knew his business, knew what to plan for. What if he was right about her going in to work? Was she exaggerating her own importance in the ER? Dr. Retger, her boss, had encouraged her to come in to work as usual, but Dr. Retger’s specialty was trauma, not security. Maybe, she thought, rolling over restlessly onto her side, she should talk with Dr. Retger again.
But she’d go crazy, staying out of work for days and days—spending all day, all night, every day and night with him.
What would she have done if he’d gone on touching her? What if he’d actually wanted to touch her, the way those melted-chocolate eyes of his had claimed?
She wiggled over onto her stomach. How ridiculous. He’d been using his charm and her foolishness to get what he wanted from her, and what he wanted wasn’t sex. The back of her throat still burned with humiliation, yet she didn’t wholly blame him. He had family involved, after all. His brother’s wife had been threatened. She thought it must be rather wonderful to have family who meant that much to you.
And what would it be like to mean that much to someone?
That thought brought her up sharply, as if she teetered on the edge of some chasm. A wind, dark and cold, swirled up from the empty depths, and the threat of it nearly unbalanced her. With the determination that had gotten her through months of therapy and later carried her through medical school, Sara jerked her mind back from that unnamed edge. She rolled onto her side. This time she tucked a small throw pillow between her knees. The pillow kept her hips aligned comfortably, so that her bad hip wouldn’t stiffen up too much while she slept.
She closed her eyes. Later. She’d think about all this later. Right now she had to sleep or she wouldn’t be alert tonight, when her patients needed her.
Ten minutes later she slept.
Memorial Hospital was a new building in an older part of the city. Some of the homes in the area were shaded by hundred-year-old elms. The nearest residents belonged to professional clubs, historical associations and the Junior League. They parked Volvos and Mercedes in their curving driveways, along with the occasional sports car.
Not so very far away, however, lay a section of Houston that was neither new nor old. Simply tired. Poverty wore down a neighborhood fast. For three blocks on either side of that stretch of Burroughs Avenue, people were careful about what colors they wore, who they spoke to. The gangs had moved in two years ago.
Sara lived in the pleasant section, not far from the hospital where she worked. Normally she drove her four-year-old Ford Taurus to work. That night she rode in Raz’s black-as-night muscle car. He made conversation while she sat, stiff and mostly silent and all too aware of him.
Even after she arrived at work she was aware of him nearby, watching. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like the way her eyes kept straying toward him, or the fact that she felt safer with him there. Oh, she really didn’t like that. Her independence was too dearly won for her to appreciate his presence or the way it made her feel.
Halfway into her shift, Sara stood at the nurses’ station, writing