The Millionaires' Club: Ryan, Alex and Darin: Breathless for the Bachelor. KRISTI GOLD
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“Nathan,” she said hesitantly. “Can… can I come in?”
Before he could stop her, she shouldered around him and into the apartment.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her hands clenched together in front of her. “It was horrible… what Ryan did. I came to… well… to tell you that if you still want to spend the night with me—”
Her voice trailed off as her eyes strayed, then opened wide and held on a spot just beyond his shoulder.
He knew without turning around what—or who—she saw. He turned, looked over his shoulder and saw Marci standing in the doorway, wearing only his shirt and a catlike smile of triumph.
“Whoops,” Marci said with a laugh and disappeared back into the bedroom.
He drew a deep breath and turned back to Carrie who looked as if someone had just gut punched her.
“Carrie… I can explain,” he said quickly, confident he could put a spin on this that the gullible little ingenue would buy.
“Not necessary,” she said stiffly, and turned for the door.
He snagged her arm, angry all over again, at Marci, at this stupid little doe-eyed girl and the time and effort he’d had to put into winning her over. “Please,” he said, sounding appropriately desperate. “Let me explain. It’s not what you think.”
“Nothing,” she said with a pathetic lift of her chin, “ever is.” Then she practically ran out the door.
Seething, he damned her rotten timing and his bad luck for getting caught in a little recreational sex. And then he turned back to the bedroom… blood in his eyes.
Carrie’s hands trembled as she raced across the parking lot and punched her keyless remote to unlock her car.
Eyes wide, blinking back tears of humiliation, she peeled out of the lot and onto Hanover Street.
And then she just drove.
Wanting to deny what she’d just seen… even considering turning around and letting Nathan make his explanation.
And then she got a clue.
There was no explaining… no matter that Nathan had snagged her arm and begged her to let him.
What was there to explain? He’d just gotten out of bed. With his nurse… Mary somebody. Maid… Mary. Made… Mary. A hysterical laugh burst out. Mary made quite a statement standing there in nothing but her bed-mussed hair and Nathan’s rumpled shirt.
“What, do I have a sign on my back, or something?” she asked skyward. “Humiliate me. Lie to me. Fool me. I love the abuse. Pile it on. I can take it.”
And then she wasn’t laughing anymore. She was crying. Damn it, she was crying again! Like she never cried. Like she hadn’t cried since that awful time when her parents had died. Huge, racking sobs flooded her vision and made her throat ache and made her feel spineless and pathetic. Because she couldn’t take it. Didn’t understand why she had to.
He’d been right. Ry had been right. Nathan was a loser. He’d just been… what? Using her?
She wiped the back of her wrist over her cheek and under her nose. “But why? To what purpose?
“And why me,” she demanded bitterly. Or maybe the questions was, Why not me? Why, just once, couldn’t something work out for her in the love department?
All she wanted was someone special. All she wanted was someone to love. To make a life with. To make babies with. To replace the family she’d lost when she’d been little more than a baby herself.
And all she’d ever gotten was interference from her brother and now Ry… and from fools who either ran or didn’t care enough to make a difference in her life.
Hours later she’d left the city lights behind and was cruising down miles of empty highway. She wasn’t even aware when she’d crossed the Royal city limits. Wasn’t conscious of the fact that she’d taken the old Cattle Trail Road. She’d just driven. Mile after mile after mile.
It was after midnight when she pulled into the main drive of the Dusty E. And it wasn’t really a surprise, when five minutes later, she cruised to a stop in front of the Evans’s ranch house.
She might not have deliberately set out for the Dusty E, but her subconscious had led her to the one place she’d always felt safe. Home.
Yeah. She’d come home, she realized as she cut the motor and killed the lights. Then she just sat there and let the darkness and the sense of open arms settle around her like a warm, cuddly blanket. She’d been an orphan when Ry’s mom had welcomed her into the rambling tan stucco house with its graceful, open veranda and endless banks of arched windows. She’d been brokenhearted then. She was brokenhearted now.
And this place—filled with fond memories that had become her safe haven all those years ago—had drawn her like a combat-weary soldier was drawn to home.
She let out an exhausted breath and, leaning forward, pressed her forehead against the back of her hands, which were gripped around the top of the steering wheel.
And felt another overwhelming wave of grief wash over her.
She’d come home to lick her wounds…and yet the man who had caused the deepest cut to her pride was even now, sleeping in the bedroom behind the fourth window to the right of the entryway.
Tired to the bone, she sat there for several moments…then lifted her head and squinted toward the house when the porch light flicked on.
The front door eased opened and Shamu tiptoed out. The big coward, she thought, finally managing a watery grin. This was no watchdog, cautiously sniffing the air. Clearly, he was hoping his master was going to handle whatever critter had decided to risk life and limb to trespass on hallowed Evans ground.
And then Ry stepped outside. She wasn’t grinning anymore.
He was shirtless, barefoot and barely tucked into a pair of work-and wash-faded jeans that hung precariously low on his lean hips.
Without her sanction, her heart skipped several beats, and she accepted that it wasn’t only home, but Ry who had drawn her here.
He was, she told herself bleakly, the most beautiful man in Texas, with his dark hair mussed and falling over his brow, his brown eyes piercing hers with concern and questions as he walked slowly toward her car.
“Bear? What’s up, sweetie?”
She just couldn’t help it. When he leaned down, a concerned and sober scowl on his face, she started crying again. Hot, silent tears that trailed down her face and tracked under her chin, and ran, like a salty river, over the convulsing cords at her throat to wet her blouse.
She cried for all the things she’d lost when her parents died. She cried for all she’d lost when she’d finally accepted Ry didn’t love her. She cried for her lost pride and Nathan Beldon’s betrayal.
When Ry opened the driver’s-side door and, without a word, lifted her out of her car, she wrapped her arms around his warm, strong neck and took solace in his softly murmured, “Shh. Shush now. Don’t cry, bear. Don’t cry, baby. I’ve got you.”
And she kept right on crying.
It was killing him.
Ry couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand to see her in this much pain and know he was probably the cause of it. The Carrie he knew was strong. The little girl who had mourned for her parents had grown into a self-contained woman who would feel diminished and embarrassed by giving in to tears. She’d consider it a weakness. Unlike some women he knew, she would never resort to weeping to manipulate a man or get her way. If she cried, then she was hurting. Hurting bad. It took him back to that horrible time when the only thing he could do to help her was be someone for her to hold on to in return.
Wincing