The Bluest Eyes in Texas. Marilyn Pappano
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herself down and switched on the television.
After securing the locks on the doors, Logan emptied his pockets on the nightstand, including his car keys. Bailey’s gaze instantly went to them, then away. Would she hide them as soon as she judged he was asleep? Probably. It didn’t matter. If he left her, it would be someplace a hell of a lot more remote than Dallas.
He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his T-shirt, then stripped to his boxers. When he turned to slide between the covers, he heard a gasp that started loud, then choked off, as if she’d clamped her hand over her mouth. Scowling, he turned to look at her and saw that was indeed what she’d done.
He held her gaze a long time, daring her to ask, but she swallowed hard, lowered her hand and said nothing. Satisfied, he eased into bed, shut off the lamp on his side of the center table, rolled over and went to sleep.
Bailey kept the sound on the television low so it wouldn’t disturb Logan, but she couldn’t concentrate on the show. He’d undressed so casually—something of a surprise considering that they were practically strangers while at the same time not surprising at all considering what an ass he’d been. She’d been trying not to watch—not an easy task when he was all smooth brown skin and hard, sinewy muscle—but when he’d turned his back to her…
His back was striped with scars, some no more than thin, pale lines, others thickened and white. They’d stretched from side to side, from shoulder to opposite hip, some disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers, and they’d looked…horrible.
She could think of only one way to get scars like that: torture. He’d been beaten with a strap of some sort, beaten until his skin was torn, raw and bloody. Her first thought was the war—the enemy wasn’t known for treating prisoners humanely—but he hadn’t been taken prisoner. Besides, these were old scars, existing prior to his time in the Army.
Which left his parents as the most likely source. That explained his hatred for them, his utter lack of interest in whether they lived or died. But why did he hate his brother? God forbid, had Brady taken part in the abuse?
She didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She’d watched her brother-in-law with Hallie and with the girls. He was far too gentle, too good a soul. He protected people. He didn’t hurt them.
More likely Brady had been the favored son, the elder who could do no wrong, and Logan resented him for that. She’d read enough about child abuse to know it was sometimes like that—the parents would single out one child for all the punishment, all the rage, while treating the others the way loving parents should.
It was the only explanation she could come up with.
Nearly two hours had passed when a yawn shook her out of her thoughts. She shut off the television and rose from the bed, lifting her suitcase into the space. Usually she slept in a tank top and panties, both so skimpy they were only a step up from being naked. Tonight she dug a T-shirt from the bag, then took it into the bathroom along with her tote bag.
She combed her hair, washed off her makeup, moisturized her face, then changed into the T-shirt. It was about four sizes smaller than she would have liked and eight or ten inches shorter, but unless she developed a fondness for sleeping fully dressed, it was the best she could do. Hesitantly she returned to the bedroom, slid hastily beneath the covers, then reached to turn out the lamp.
For a long moment she lay there, leaning on one elbow, the other hand stilled on the switch, her gaze fixed on Logan’s keys. It wasn’t likely he would leave her there. Surely his preference would run to some West Texas town miles from nowhere. Still, that one percent doubt made her switch off the lamp, then scoop up the keys and slide them under the covers with her. He would probably be smugly amused at this proof that she didn’t trust him, and she was getting tired of his smugness, but better safe than sorry, right?
She’d settled on her side, the key ring looped over one finger and tucked under the pillow that supported her head, and was concentrating on slow, even breaths when a gravelly voice came out of the darkness.
“You counting on me to be gentleman enough to not root through those covers for my keys?”
Damn. She would have sworn he was asleep. “A gentleman would be the last thing I’d mistake you for,” she replied, keeping her own voice quiet in the darkness. “I’m counting on waking up if you do start rooting.”
“You make me sound like a damn pig.”
“I was merely using your word. Besides, sometimes you act like one.”
His chuckle was mild. “Any other insults you want to add?”
“I’ll let you know as they come to mind.” She tucked the covers under her chin, making a tight little cocoon for herself, then plumped the pillow under her head. It would be best to end the conversation right there, to close her eyes and pretend to sleep until she actually drifted off. She doubted he would object.
But she didn’t close her eyes or let things drop. “Those scars on your back…did your parents give you those?”
This time there was nothing light about his chuckle. “The only thing they ever gave me that mattered.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
She couldn’t take offense at his dismissal. An apology was such a little thing, and coming from a stranger, it meant nothing. Nothing could make right what his parents had done to him, except possibly knowing that they would suffer for it in hell.
She listened to his steady breathing for a while. With anyone else, she would take it as a sign he was asleep. With him, assuming anything was likely to prove that trite old saying about making an ass of you and me.
As the bedside clock rolled over to eleven, Bailey was convinced she would never fall asleep, but the next time she glanced at it for confirmation, it read six thirty-three. She was about to turn over and snooze again when her gaze slid past the clock to the other bed. Logan was dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt, his jaw was freshly shaved, his hair was damp from his shower and he was watching the morning news with the volume muted.
There was something incredibly disconcerting about the fact that he’d been up and about while she’d lain sleeping, dead to the world. It made her feel vulnerable, although clearly he hadn’t disturbed her. She’d slept through whatever noise he might have made, and her little cocoon was tucked as securely as it had been last night. More importantly—she thrust her hand under the pillow, searching until her fingers closed around cool metal—he hadn’t retrieved his keys and abandoned her.
Although she would have sworn she’d made no noise and no movement other than opening her eyes and locating the keys, he knew she was awake. Without glancing in her direction, he asked, “Are you planning to lie there all day? ’Cause I’m leaving in half an hour.”
Slowly she sat up, keeping the covers around her. “I need to take a shower.”
“Then get moving.”
Maybe he had zero modesty, but she did—and no robe either. “Couldn’t you wait outside?”
Finally he turned his head to look at her. His expression was as dry as the desert in August. “I saw you get into bed last night. Unless your panties shrank during the night, there’s not going to be anything new to see this morning.”
Scowling at him, she maneuvered the bedspread free of the other covers, then wrapped it around her before awkwardly rising from the bed. It took an effort, but she managed to make it as far as the bathroom door with her suitcase and tote bag before shedding the cover and disappearing inside. She locked the door, scooted her bags up against it, then tossed the car keys on top.
When she came out a short while later, showered, shampooed and shaved, he was sprawled in the same position, with the volume turned up on the television. He gave no sign of noticing her except to say, “You’ve got nine minutes.”
Brush her teeth, dry her hair, fix it, put on makeup and re-pack