A Time to Die. BEVERLY BARTON
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lodged in Cara’s throat. She’d been slowly but surely falling in love with Bain Desmond since the first time she’d met him, when he’d been the detective assigned to locate her missing half sister, and now she loved him so much it hurt. She suspected that he felt the same way. But an old-fashioned macho guy like Bain could never get serious about a woman like her. They lived in two different worlds, and neither could exist in the other’s.
“Someday there will be a woman who’s more than just your friend,” Cara said. “And I’ll hate her.”
Bain didn’t say anything for a long moment; then he cleared his throat. “If I could, I’d be there with you to take care of you.”
“I know.”
She flipped the cell phone closed, laid it on the night-stand and swallowed her unshed tears.
HE LIFTED her into his strong arms, holding her close, protecting her from all harm. The clatter of battle, of gunfire and retaliation, of shouts and screams and the cries of the injured and dying, faded into nothing more than background noise as he carried her to safety. Barely able to endure the pain, she drifted in and out of consciousness, her thoughts a wild jumble of questions and blurred memories. The only constants in her world were the feel of his powerful, protective arms, the scent of his musky perspiration and a foggy glimpse of his smoky-gray eyes.
Reality blurred with fantasy, taking her away from the past where she’d been wounded and he had saved her.
He held out his open arms, inviting her into his embrace. She went happily, willingly, no other place on earth she would rather be. He slipped his arm around her waist and took her right hand into his left, and led her onto the ballroom floor. He waltzed her around the room, faster and faster, their bodies moving in perfect unison to the music and the beating of their hearts.
Suddenly her legs froze and she couldn’t move. No, please, no. I want to dance and dance and dance.
He released her, moved away from her and slowly disappeared.
She cried out for him, begging him to come back, pleading with him not to leave her.
“Ms. Murrough!” The concerned voice broke through the haze and awakened her from a dream that had turned into a nightmare.
“Hmm…?” Her eyelids fluttered.
A heavy weight dropped down on the side of her bed. “Ms. Murrough? I heard you crying out. Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes. There in the semidarkness of her bedroom, with only the moonlight streaming in through the tall windows, she saw the hulking figure of a man sitting on her bed, hovering over her.
“Oh…oh, Mr. Bronson. I’m so sorry I woke you.” When she pushed herself into a sitting position, she suddenly realized just how close he was. Eye to eye close. She gasped silently, and they both pulled back far enough that there was little danger of their bodies touching. “I was dreaming.”
“From the way you were crying out, it sounded more like you were having a nightmare.”
She nodded. “I suppose, in a way, my dream did turn into a nightmare.”
“Are you plagued by nightmares very often?” he asked.
“I—I used to be,” she admitted. “But I don’t have them as often now.”
He eased off the bed and stood. “Would you like a glass of water? Or I could make you some hot chocolate or—”
“Hot chocolate sounds good.” She tossed back the covers and stood, then realized she was standing there in her silk pajamas, the ones that hugged every curve. “I’ll make the hot chocolate, if you’ll share a cup with me.” She felt around at the foot of the bed for where she’d tossed her robe earlier that evening.
“I wouldn’t mind a cup.” He backed away from the bed and toward the open door. “I’ll just go put on my pants first and meet you in the kitchen.”
As he exited the room, she caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight. Wearing nothing but a pair of cotton boxers, his big, hard body glistened like a bronze sculpture. Just that one glimpse took her breath away. My God, he’s got a gorgeous body!
Ten minutes later, with her in her robe and him in his slightly wrinkled tan slacks, they sat at the kitchen bar and sipped the hot cocoa she had prepared.
Lexie tried her darnedest not to keep looking at his bare chest, but how could a woman not stare? His hairy chest was broad, lean, muscular and apparently naturally tanned. His arms were large, every muscle well defined.
What’s the matter with you? she asked herself. Was she transposing images of her dream man onto Deke Bronson? Was her pulse racing and her stomach fluttering because of Deke, or because she had him confused with the memories of her long-ago rescuer?
“Ten years ago, after I was shot and learned I was partially paralyzed, I had a lot of nightmares.” Lexie cupped the mug in her hands and stared down into the creamy brown liquid.
“That’s understandable,” he said.
She hazarded a glance his way and caught him staring at her. Their gazes met and locked for an instant. What was it that she saw in his eyes? Sympathy? Concern? Lust?
Lexie swallowed. “I don’t remember much about what happened to me after I was shot. But I do remember one thing. It’s a good memory, and it’s always a part of my dream before it turns into a nightmare.”
He didn’t say a word, just kept staring at her, almost as if he were holding his breath waiting for her to tell him about that one good memory.
“There was a man who saved my life. A soldier. He lifted me up in his arms and carried me to safety. I don’t know who he was. I never saw him again, and no one could or would tell me his name.”
Deke clenched his jaw tightly. “He was probably just a guy doing his job.”
She shook her head. “No, I distinctly remember hearing someone say, ‘You can’t take her with us.’” She sighed heavily. “I think he went against orders when he took me with him and saved my life.”
Deke lifted his mug to his lips and sipped the cocoa.
The silence between them returned and lingered. They drank the rest of their hot chocolate without talking. Oddly enough, Lexie realized that they didn’t need to talk. Just sitting there together quietly felt right, as if they were old friends who didn’t need words.
Or old lovers…
CHAPTER FOUR
LEXIE WOKE suddenly, instantly knowing she had overslept. With eyes wide open and a nagging thought that she had forgotten something flitting through her mind, she turned her head so she could see the digital bedside clock.
Six fifty-seven.
Why hadn’t her alarm gone off? She kept it set at six, and even on weekends, when she could sleep late, she usually woke no later than six-thirty.
After crawling out of bed, she grasped her cane, which had been propped against the nightstand, and padded barefoot toward the bathroom.
As she turned on the faucets and stared groggily into the mirror above the sink, she remembered that she hadn’t set her alarm last night. She wouldn’t be going in to work today. Just as she splashed cold water on her face, she remembered something else. She wasn’t alone in her apartment. Deke Bronson had slept in her guest room.
After patting her face dry with a hand towel, she inspected her appearance more closely. The puffiness under her eyes would disappear within an hour or less, but there was nothing she could do to those unflattering bags right now. She could put on makeup and fix her hair, but if she did, Deke would know she’d done it solely for his benefit.
So don’t do anything special to yourself. Maybe she should at least change out of her pajamas and run a comb through her hair.