by Alisha Rai
She’d saved the life of the new police chief. Oh, the irony.
She didn’t know why she’d convinced herself he couldn’t possibly live in Harrison. Maybe it was because she knew everyone who lived there and no one new ever moved to that damned place. Granted, she stayed far away from them, but she tried to keep up with what was going on in town. Why, the last time she’d spoken to Ron White, one of her mother’s only real friends…
Had been well before the summer. So Bainsworth hadn’t died yet, and the gossip on the exciting new hire wouldn’t have existed then. Since the rest of the townspeople and her avoided each other like the plague, she wouldn’t have gotten the news any other way. Newbury, where she went for all of her supplies and necessities, was far enough away and large enough not to bother with the rumor mill of its nearby neighbors.
Genevieve felt like throwing a good old-fashioned tantrum. In some weird corner of her mind, she’d entertained the notion she’d claimed a part of Alex when she’d saved his life. She didn’t want him tainted with the ugly brush she used to paint the residents of Harrison.
Not only a resident, but the police chief…ugh. Her irrational fear of lawmen was a bit ridiculous, she got it. Alex wasn’t Bainsworth, but still, he was a somebody, a man of influence and power. Men of influence and power plus small towns which looked the other way plus isolated women equaled nothing but disaster.
Should have let him die. Genevieve rejected the thought as soon as it occurred to her. No, she was grateful her powers had returned long enough for her to help Alex.
Now she had to do some severe damage control, though. She couldn’t let word get back that she wasn’t the wicked witch of the woods. Her reputation was part of her protection.
While she picked at her breakfast at the kitchen table, she tried to think of what to do with her troublesome houseguest. Oddly enough, the fact he was from New York reassured her a bit. There were people in the small mountain town of Harrison who considered residents who lived there for ten years “outsiders”. If he’d lived here a couple of months, then it wasn’t likely he was in any inner circle of corruption. Still, she couldn’t trust him, could she?
She’d helped him prop his head up on his pillows before handing him his food. He had cast a mournful glance at the bacon and eggs on her plate, but accepted his bowl of almost-liquid oatmeal. Despite his clear preference, he had methodically eaten his way through two bowls before breaking the silence with a decidedly casual tone. “Are you an international jewel thief?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just wondering why you hate cops.”
“What makes you think I hate cops?” she hedged.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the way you hung all those do-not-touch signs all over yourself as soon as I mentioned my occupation.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You pointed a gun at me.”
“I pointed a gun at you before you told me you were a cop.”
He started to speak, but then stopped and looked thoughtful. “Huh. You’re right. Still, before, it was like a friendly gun pointing. You got all icy after. If you’d picked up the gun then, it would have been a mean, scared gun pointing.”
“A friendly… You’re crazy. And I don’t hate all cops.” Just those who abused the system, the ones within the good-old-boy hierarchy who could get away with murder.
“You can tell me.”
She shot him an exasperated look. “Stop it.”
“Did you rob a casino?”
“Eat your breakfast.”
“This isn’t a breakfast. This is what the nuns served us in elementary school.”
“I’ll be sure to give your complaints to the chef.”
He grinned, his teeth very white against his brown skin. “I wasn’t complaining. Just correcting.”
He was damn charming when he was conscious. Then again, he’d been so charming when he was unconscious, she’d decided to snuggle up against him and fall asleep in his arms.
She tried to ignore him as she swallowed the bacon that settled like lumps in her stomach. When his bowl thunked onto the ground, she looked up in alarm. He lay against the pillows, his skin ashen below his natural color. His eyes were closed, the black lashes heavy fans against his cheekbones.
“You okay?”
He shook his head the slightest degree. “Tired.”
Well, sure he was tired. She felt the tiniest pang of remorse for grilling him unmercifully as soon as his eyes were open. The tiniest.
His breathing evened out and she continued to watch him. “So far, you haven’t been the best of houseguests.” Of its own accord, her mind spun an erotic fantasy about a handsome stranger who stumbled onto her porch. They would have wild monkey sex right away and then…
Alex snored.
She stared at him with a twinge of wry humor. Why was reality so complicated?
She studied the bandage on his shoulder, spotted with a couple drops of blood. Genevieve figured she should take advantage of his sleep to change the gauze. It would be easier to handle touching him if he wasn’t awake, easier to keep her distance. The cuts and bruises on his face were healing by the minute, revealing an even more attractive man. The white blankets had fallen when he’d sat up that little bit. They rode low on his hips, the snowy color highlighting his cut, naturally tanned abdomen.
The large bandage marred the beautiful landscape. She fetched her supplies, water and towels. As she unstuck the bandage from the wound, she did enough wincing for both of them. Genevieve dipped the washcloth in water and wiped away the blood and pus that had leaked under the gauze. She wrung the cloth out and grabbed a fresh towel, following the path the previous cloth had taken. Her vanity was more than pleased with the sight that greeted her. The torn flesh hadn’t completely fused together, not yet, but the red and angry edges looked a damn sight better than they had before.
She laid her hand directly on top of the wound, closed her eyes and directed another flow of energy into the healing flesh. When she opened her eyes, the skin along the jagged edges flared purple for an instant and then subsided to a pink that looked even better than it had before. She smiled in satisfaction, so proud she wanted to pick him up and stick him to the fridge. I did that! Me, me, me. The rebound she felt was only mild, a slight dizziness. Either she was getting better, or he didn’t need much help.
Don’t get too cocky, Genevieve. She sobered at the recollection of her mother’s voice. Yes, she would cool it. No one knew better than her what happened when a person became arrogant and careless with what they’d been given.
She cast a quick glance at his face before she took the washcloth to his chest. She kept her motions efficient and practical when she really wanted to drag the towel slowly over his delineated muscles. Not even the many scars riddling his body could detract from the work of art that lay in front of her. She knew the explanation behind the newer ones, but she had a sudden desire to pepper him with questions about the others, like the big healed scar on his thigh. She had no right to any kind of information, but while she was touching him, and they were all alone, it was tough to remember that.
Yesterday she’d cleaned him more personally, even removing his boxers, laundering them and dressing him again. Somehow, though, this seemed far more intimate.
It was because he was no longer just a piece of meat, a generic male lying on the ground. He’d woken up and talked to her and looked at her with those beautiful black eyes and… Genevieve sighed.
“Why are you sad?”
His voice made her hand jerk, and she realized she’d simply rested it over his navel. Thank God the wet towel had been between their skin. His voice was rough, and she plopped the towel in the basin and grabbed the glass of water she’d meant for him to drink before he fell asleep. No IVs here, and he wouldn’t want to be dehydrated.
He drank, finished the glass and lay his head back down. “Why are you sad?”
“I’m not sad. I was just changi
ng your bandage.”
They both looked down at the drying wetness on his abdomen. Far from the site of his wound. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he looked back at her. Her face flushed and she tried not to sound defensive. “You don’t want to smell sweaty, do you?”
“Nope. You can sponge bathe me if you like.”
His tone was low and brought all sorts of erotic thoughts to mind. She cleared her throat. “I did it yesterday. You should be fine now until you can do it on your own.”
“You sponge bathed me yesterday?”
“Well, I couldn’t just let you lay there all dirty, now could I?” Shoot, there went her vow not to sound defensive.
“Of course not. Thank you.”
“Anyway, I’m done. Let me just bind you up again.” She looked up in time to see his confused frown as he studied his gunshot wound. Uh-oh.
“What the fuck? I don’t see any stitches.”
“I didn’t use any.”
“You should be able to see even a Steri-Strip.”
She stroked a cloth along the injury to dry any wetness. His muscles contracted. “Really?”
“I was shot four days ago. There was a hole in my shoulder. I felt it when I was trying to staunch the blood. So where the fuck did that hole go, Genevieve?”
“You went from thanking me to yelling at me? And they call women temperamental.”
She watched as he visibly tried to control his temper. “I’m sorry I raised my voice. I’m just trying to understand how you made a bullet wound practically disappear overnight.”
Right, ’cause then he could run back to town and tell people what she could do. She’d have every Tom, Dick and Harry on her doorstep, looking for a cure for their sprained ankle and headache. “Just used some herbs my mom taught me about.”
“No way herbs brought about this kind of healing. I know a little something about injuries. I want to know what you really did.”
“What could I possibly have done, except use medicine and cleanliness?” she asked mildly.
“I don’t know.” He glanced up at her, his eyes unreadable. “Maybe you’re a witch. Maybe you have some sort of healing power.”
With every word he spoke, she could envision the hordes of people who would start creeping around her precious hideout. She forced a laugh. “Nice one. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“I’ve seen some crazy stuff. And I remember things, from after you found me, about my body burning—”
“You were feverish.”
His jaw set stubbornly. “There’s no way I could be this far along in my recovery unless you did something funny. The injury barely hurts.”
Genevieve dropped the towel at her side and stroked over the edge of the wound. Then she pressed down at just the right angle.
He inhaled. “Oh, fu—okay, okay. Let go.”
She increased the pressure the tiniest bit and blinked at him. “What?”
He grimaced. “So it’s not completely healed. I get it. Stop.”
Good enough. She ducked her head and tried to hide the slight smile playing on her lips.
When she looked up, he was studying the old shotgun leaning against the kitchen cabinet. His expression was serious as he glanced back at her. “You know how to use it?”
Genevieve snorted. “I can probably outshoot you.”
Alex’s eyes twinkled. “Them’s fightin’ words, sweetheart.”
She rolled her eyes and pressed a fresh bandage over his wound. He arched his back a bit, making it easier for her to wrap it around him. She didn’t realize how much she had to lean over him until she felt his breath on her neck.
Genevieve sat back and finished tying the bandage. “Are you thirsty?”
He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Actually…”
“Yes?” she prompted when he trailed off.
“I—that is, I kind of need to, you know, use the bathroom. Do you have indoor plumbing?”
Genevieve cast him an exasperated glance. “Of course I do.”
“Just checking. Okay. Point me in the right direction.”
“You can’t get up!” She rested her hand against his chest. “I’ll get you a bedpan.”
The tips of his ears turned red. “I am not pissing in bed. If my injury looks as good as it does, I can get up and walk.”
“Your head was hit pretty badly.”
“I’m sure you rubbed whatever super-mushroom you used on my head as well.”
“Okay. Fine.” She pressed her hands against his chest. “If you can push against me and get up, I’ll let you use the toilet.”
He smiled grimly. It was clear that he was none too pleased that she was requiring the test, but he needed to stay prone for another day, at the very least.
If she could supply energy to heal, she could take it away without it adversely affecting her. Let’s see if you still remember how to do this.
Of course, he’d know for sure after this that she wasn’t normal. However, it was far better if he viewed her gifts negatively instead of positively. If her reputation as the creepy witch of the woods suffered, she’d have no protection.
Her hand heated, recapturing the little boost she’d offered him earlier.
When he pushed up against her, she had no trouble pressing back. Apparently, she’d given him even more than she realized. His body flinched and he collapsed against the mattress. Tiny beads of sweat popped out on his brow. He grimaced in pain. “What the fuck?”
She kept her hands on his chest and opened the door in her mind, pouring the fission of energy back into his body. The pain receded from his expression. Despite the way her head spun from the back and forth, it couldn’t have happened fast enough for her. There had been no joy in delivering that hurt to him.
It took her a couple of minutes to compose herself before she could look him in the eye. The anger was expected, a strong man’s response to having his pride compromised, but the shadow of fear just about punched her soul. “What are you?”
Her body stilled. Each beat of her heart sounded like cymbals crashing in her head. What, not who. Damn him to hell.
She was what they had made her. Him and his cronies.
Not him, reason interjected. Anyway, you should be happy. This is what you wanted.
Whatever. She allowed a mask of indifference to slip over her features. “I’m the little girl who just pinned a big bad cop to the bed. Looks like you’ll be using a bedpan.”
“Genevieve…”
She didn’t want to hear him. If it wouldn’t have looked childish, she would have pressed her hands over her ears and hummed.
Instead, she went through the back door to the room that had been added on to her home. The large closet in there held the nursing supplies her mother had been forced to use at the end of her life. She fetched what she needed and returned to Alex. “Look at that, it’s pink too. Bet you’ll love that.” She placed the pan next to him and did her best to walk casually to the front door. “Have fun.”
“Wait, where are you going?”
She jammed her feet into a pair of boots and swung her coat off the coatrack. “Sorry. I’ve got other bodies depending on me too. See you later.”
“Genevieve! Genevieve, damn it, get back—”
The snick of her door cut off his tirade. A grim smile crossed her face as she envisioned him swearing at the door and then struggling to use the bedpan on his own.
What, indeed.
5
Genevieve expected to return to a barrage of insults and a bed full of angry male. Instead, Alex was dead asleep. He didn’t even stir when she crept close to take care of his bedpan. Nursing her mother for as long as she had, the chore was just that to her, a chore.
She was still irritated with the guy, but her outrage had burned off as she stomped in the snow outside. To be fair, she had wanted him to look at her like that—she’d deliberately done something which would take his pride away and instill fear. He’d be wary of her now, keep his distance. No m
ore of that bantering and flirtation.
Alex needed his rest so badly. She slipped out to the back room. It had been fashioned as a sunroom with a large closet on one end and a small bathroom at the other. A huge bag filled with her crafts took up one end of the beaten-up couch. She settled into the cushions and removed a half-finished blanket. She entered her crafting Zen mode. The silence in the small cabin was broken only by the sounds of the house settling, the wind rustling and the click of her needles. From her position, she watched the afternoon slip away, the darkness of night overtaking the darkness of a snowy afternoon. She snapped on the small lamp next to her.
When the sky had become pitch black, the falling snowflakes only visible thanks to the light from inside, Genevieve heard a slight stirring coming from within the main cabin. She laid down the thick blanket and made her way inside.
Sure enough, Alex was struggling to sit up. Just as she was about to help him, he managed to haul himself up on the pile of pillows. When he noticed her, his gaze was still a bit blurry. With the short strands of his hair sticking up and the stubble on his jaw, he should have looked crazy, not sexy. She waited for him to stare at her in horror, or call for her to be burned at the stake. Instead, he rubbed his hand over his face. “Did I fall asleep?”
“For most of the day.” She waited. Now. Now he would start looking for a pitchfork.
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to. Is it still snowing?”
“You needed the sleep. And yes. Phone’s still out too.”
“I guess I did need it. I’m still tired.”
What game was he playing? Were they going to pretend she hadn’t messed around with his body? Well, that kind of didn’t surprise her. Most people repressed what they couldn’t explain. He’d convinced himself, no doubt, that it had been a figment of his imagination. She didn’t know if she was disappointed or elated, neither of which made sense.
“Genevieve.”
She couldn’t help but stiffen. You shouldn’t like the way he says your name. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
She blinked. He was apologizing to her? “For what?”
