His Pregnant Sleeping Beauty. Lynne Marshall
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shelter? She’d been out of touch with her parents for years and Ross was the reason she’d run away. She had zero intention of contacting any of them.
Recent history proved she couldn’t necessarily trust her instincts, but she still had a good feeling about the paramedic.
When they first left the clinic parking lot Joseph slowed down so she could look back and up toward the hillside to the huge Hollywood sign. Somehow it didn’t seem nearly as exciting as she’d thought it would be. Maybe because it hurt to turn her head. Or maybe because, being that close, it was just some big old white letters, with some parts in need of a paint touch-up. Now she sat in his car, her head aching, nerves jangled, driving down a street called Highland. Having passed the Hollywood Bowl and going into the thick of Hollywood, she admitted to feeling disappointed. Where was the magic? To her it was just another place with crowded streets in need of a thorough cleaning.
It was probably her lousy mood. She’d never planned on visiting California. She’d been perfectly happy in Montclare. She’d loved her RN job, loved owning her car, being independent for the first time in her life. She still remembered the monumental day she’d gotten the key to her first apartment and had moved out once and for all from her parents’ house. Life had been all she’d dreamed it would be, why would she ever need to go to Hollywood?
Then she’d met Ross Wilson and had thought she’d fallen in love, until she’d realized too late what kind of man he really was.
Nope. She’d come to Hollywood only because it had been the first bus destination she’d found out of Chicago. For her it hadn’t been a matter of choice, but a matter of life and death.
* * *
Back at his house, Joe gave Carey space to do whatever she needed to do to make herself at home in her room. She’d been so quiet on the ride over, he was worried she was scared of him. He’d probably need to tread lightly until she got more comfortable around him. He thought about taking off for the afternoon, giving her time to herself, but, honestly, he worried she might bolt. Truth was, he didn’t know what she might do, and his list of questions was getting longer and longer. All he really knew for sure was that he wanted to keep her safe.
The first thing he heard after she’d gone to her room had been the shower being turned on, and the image that planted in his head needed to be erased. Fast. So he decided to work out with his hanging punchbag in his screened-in patio, which he used as a makeshift gym. He changed clothes and headed to the back of the house, turned on a John Coltrane set, his favorite music to hit the bag with, and got down to working out.
With his hands up, chin tucked in, he first moved in and out around the bag, utilizing his footwork, warming up, moving the bag, pushing it and dancing around, getting his balance. With bare hands he threw his first warm-up punches, slap, slap, slap, working the bag, punching more. The stitches across his rib cage pulled and stung a little, but probably wouldn’t tear through his skin. Though after the first few punches he checked to make sure. They were healing and held the skin taut that was all.
As his session heated up, so did the wild saxophone music. He pulled off his T-shirt and got more intense, beating the hell out of the innocent bag where he mentally pasted every wrong the world had ever laid at his feet. His wife sleeping with his best friend, the lies about her baby being his. The divorce. He worked through the usual warm-up, heating up quickly. Then he pounded that bag for women abused by boyfriends and innocent victims who got mugged after getting off buses. Wham. He hit that bag over and over, pummeling it, his breath huffing, sweat flying. Thump, bam, whump!
“Excuse me, Joseph?”
Jolted, he halted in mid-punch, first stabilizing the punchbag so it wouldn’t swing back and hit him, then shifted his gaze toward Carey. She had on different jeans, and one of his sister’s bright pink cotton tops, and her wet hair was pulled up into a ponytail, giving her a wholesome look. Which he thought was sexy.
“Oh. Hey. Call me Joe. Everything okay?” he asked, out of breath.
“That music sounds like fighting.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the jazz.
“Oh, sorry, let me turn it off.” That’s why he liked to work out with Coltrane, it got wild and crazy, often the way he felt.
Her gaze darted between his naked torso and his sweaty face. “I was just wondering if I could make a sandwich.”
“Of course. Help yourself to anything. I’ve got cold cuts in the fridge. There’s some fruit, too.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes stayed on his abdomen and he felt the need to suck it in, even though he didn’t have a gut. “You know you’re bleeding?”
He glanced down. Sure enough, he’d tugged a stitch too hard and torn a little portion of his skin. “Oh. Didn’t realize.” He grabbed his towel and blotted it quickly.
“Did you get hurt when you helped me?”
“Yeah, the jerk sliced me with his knife.” Still blotting, he looked up.
Her eyes had gone wide. “You risked your life for me? I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, I didn’t risk my life.” Had he? “I was just doing my job.”
“Do paramedics usually fight guys with blades in their hands?”
“Well, maybe not every day, but it could happen.” He flashed a sheepish grin over the bravado. “At least, it has now.”
Her expression looked so sad he wanted to hug her, but they hardly knew each other.
“Thank you.” He sensed she also meant she was sorry.
“Not a problem. Glad to do it.” He waited to capture her eyes then nodded, wanting to make sure she understood she deserved nothing less than someone saving her from an alley attacker. They stood staring at each other for a moment or two too long, and since he was the one who always got caught up in the magic of her eyes, she looked away first. Standing in his boxing shorts, shirtless, he felt like he’d been caught naked winning that staring match.
“So...I’m going to make that sandwich.” She pointed toward the door then led into the small kitchen, just around the corner from the dining area and his patio, while he assessed his stitches again. Yeah, he’d taken a knife for her, but the alternative, her getting stabbed by a sleazebag and maybe left to die, had been unacceptable.
The woman had a way of drumming up forgotten protective feelings and a whole lot more. Suddenly the house felt way too small for both of them. How was he going to deal with that while she stayed here?
Maybe one last punch to the bag then he promised to stop. Thump! The stitches tugged more and smarted. He hated feeling uncomfortable in his own house and blamed it on the size. He’d thought about selling it after Angela had agreed to leave, but the truth was he liked the neighborhood, it was close enough to work, and most of his family lived within a ten-mile radius. And why should he have to change his life completely because his wife had been unfaithful? Okay, one last one-two punch. Whump, thump. Ouch, my side. He grabbed his towel again and rubbed it over his wringing-wet hair.
One odd thought occurred to him as he dried himself off. When was the last time a woman had seen him shirtless? His ex-wife Angela had left a year ago, and was a new mother now. Good luck with that. He hadn’t brought anyone home since she’d left, choosing to throw himself into his expanding business and demanding job rather than get involved with any poor unsuspecting women. He was angry at the world for being sterile, and angrier at the two people he’d trusted most, his wife and his best friend. Where was a guy supposed to go from there? Ah, what the hell. He punched the bag again. Wham thud wham.
“Would you like a sandwich?”
Not used to hearing a female voice in his house, it startled him from his down spiraling thoughts. A woman, a complete stranger no less, was going to be staying here for an indeterminate amount of time. Had he been crazy to offer? Two strangers in an eleven-hundred-square-foot house. That was too damn close, with hardly a way to avoid each other. Hell, their bedrooms