The Secret Life Of Bryan. Lori Foster
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held the front closed over her breasts with fingers gone numb from the cold rain and humiliation. She lifted her gaze to his face, but he was busy watching the men around them. He certainly wasn’t acting like a customer. Not that she knew how a customer would act. But somehow, she thought he’d be more…interested.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“There’s a safe house close by. You can get dry and wait out the storm. No one will bother you there.”
A safe house. So he wanted to help her? He’d just solved one of her problems, and her mind buzzed with possibilities. Maybe she could work with him; they could combine their efforts.
She certainly wouldn’t object to spending more time with him.
Explanations would have to wait. As he looked up and down the street, watching for danger, impatience throbbed off him in waves. Shay became aware of running feet, then someone broke a window behind her and loud, rather creative cursing was followed by shouts and laughter.
The preacher grabbed her, pulling her close to his chest and turning to move her farther away from the crowd, shielding her with his big body. Her face tucked into his neck and she breathed in his scent. Once again her stomach curled, then tightened. It was a delicious feeling, one she could get used to pretty quickly.
He said against her cheek, “We have to go.”
Shay nodded, her options limited as more breaking glass erupted around them. “Lead the way.”
He grabbed her hand. “Try to keep up,” he ordered, and hurried her along down the middle of the street. The rain stung her skin and the wind tried to tear her hair from her head before he darted back into the shadows again, away from the lights and the possibility of being noticed.
Glad of the fact she’d worn low-heeled shoes, Shay trotted along behind him, her steps slightly hampered by the narrow width of her skirt. She’d been at a fund-raising banquet and would have changed before coming here today if there’d been time. But she’d needed to reach Leigh, to get to her before she changed her mind.
She’d met Leigh at one of her women’s shelters a few months before. She’d known then that the girl had many problems, but she hadn’t known she was a hooker.
Shay had left the banquet in a rush, taking only enough time to grab Dawn on the way. When someone finally reached out, someone desperate, you didn’t ask her to wait while you changed into something more comfortable.
Lightning shattered the black sky in front of them, followed closely by the crashing of thunder. The preacher pulled Shay into the recessed door front of a small, seedy motel. “Wait here.” Still keeping her hand secured in his, he peered around the corner. “Anyone looking for you?”
“Excuse me?”
He glanced at her, gaze sharp, almost piercing. He repeated, “Do you have a…” He shook his head. “A keeper? A pimp.” He shifted against the building, growling the word in a way that Shay knew it bothered him even to say it.
It disturbed Shay a great deal more, especially after seeing what a pimp had done to Leigh. She leveled an indignant look on his profile. “No.”
“I can deal with it,” he told her, and his tone reeked of confidence. “I just don’t want any surprises.”
No one had ever accused Shay of needing a “keeper.” Lecturing the preacher here and now on the evils of assuming too much tempted her, but she settled for saying, “I’m capable of taking care of myself.”
He turned to better face her, settling all that awesome attention on her until she felt like squirming. “Don’t get all huffy.”
She was indignant, not huffy, and there was a huge difference. Not that he seemed inclined to hear about it.
“I’m not judging you.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “I leave the judging and condemning to the society bitches who keep trying to have this area written off.”
Shay took a step back. “Society—?”
“Bitches. You haven’t heard of them? WAM. Women Aiming for Morality, or some such ridiculous crap. As if they even know what morality means.”
Shay knew them well. They were a group of righteous biddies who had been rather persistent in petitioning her offices, wanting her to back their cause. They considered her one of them: rich and elite and upper class, ready to rid the world of the more unseemly elements, especially the human elements.
But they hadn’t taken into consideration the fact that Shay had come by her money through marriage to a wonderful man, not by familial inheritance. She hadn’t been raised with it, so she had no inbred snobbery. Her own parents were happily middle class, and very supportive of any measure that might help the less fortunate.
She herself had been one of their efforts at helping where and how they could, which added to her determination to spread the goodwill.
When she was six years old, they’d taken her in and smothered her with affection and acceptance, making her a part of their family, giving her a little sister and safety and stability. Now they lovingly put up with her pushy, domineering, take-charge ways, and her unorthodox methods for giving back.
But even they would have difficulty accepting her pretense of being a prostitute.
She should probably tell him the truth. Instead, she said, “You don’t talk like any preacher I’ve ever known.”
That observation brought his frown back and flattened his mouth. His eyes looked like flint, his jaw like granite.
Unfazed by the show of hostility, Shay asked, “Is it just a nickname, or are you really a preacher?”
Leaning his head back against the crumbling face of the building, he released her hand to rub the bridge of his nose.
Shay immediately missed his warmth, his comfort.
After what seemed like forever, he growled, “Yeah, I’m a preacher.” He fell silent a few moments more, listening as the sounds of a police siren swelled and then faded. “But you don’t have to worry about constant sermons and advice at the safe house. You’ll get help, not lectures.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Intrigued, yes, but not worried. He had an edge of sharp competence to his manner that seemed more suitable to a gunslinger, not a man of God. Shay knew her own background, the motives that drove her to this neighborhood on such a miserable night, the overwhelming compulsion to help others as she had been helped.
But what motivated him?
She tucked her hands behind her back, resisting the temptation to touch him. “So you’ve given up on your religion?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He sounded so put out with her, Shay let that topic drop. “What’s your name?”
His gaze zeroed in on her again. “Everyone calls me Preacher.”
“So I’m not allowed to know it?”
“You don’t need to know. Besides, we have more important things to think about tonight.” He started away, but Shay didn’t budge.
Glancing over his shoulder, he ordered, “Get a move on.”
Shay countered, “Tell me your name.”
Impatience rose up, nearly making his dark blond hair stand on end. “This is no time for games.”
Oh, boy. And here she’d always thought preachers were supposed to be full of endless, unwavering forbearance. Such a contradiction. But Shay didn’t scare easily. “I’ll go with you. When I know your name.” And then, to soften her insistence: “You can’t expect me to just go traipsing off with a stranger.”
“And hearing my