Small-Town Redemption

by Andrews, Beth

  “He was probably in so much pain, he forgot. Plus,” she added, in a tone most people only used when shouting Eureka, “he’s always been horrible with dates. He probably thinks I’m not coming until next weekend.”

  “Hmm. Probably.”

  Char wasn’t buying it for a moment.

  Kane stirred and shifted. Winced.

  Charlotte motioned for Estelle to follow her into the kitchen.

  “Ugh,” Estelle said when she joined Char by the microwave. “It’s even uglier in here.”

  Char couldn’t argue with that. “Why do I get the feeling you’re hiding something?”

  “God. Suspicious, much?” Estelle brought her hair forward over her shoulder, started combing her fingers through it. “Do you want to know what I think?”

  “I can barely contain my curiosity,” Charlotte said, meaning it. She didn’t believe everything that came out of Estelle’s mouth, but that didn’t mean she didn’t find the teen’s tidbits fascinating. And wildly entertaining.

  “I think you’re trying to divert attention from the real question here. Which is—why are you here?”

  “I told you—”

  “Yes, but why did you bring him home? Or is that some small-town thing where nurses drive patients home? Because that’s just weird.”

  “That would be weird, except Kane and I know each other. My sister works for him at the bar.”

  “So you’re friends.”

  Barely. “Yes. Plus, I felt bad for him.”

  She had, she insisted to herself as guilt poked her, incessant and irritating. Okay, so maybe part of her, a small, tiny part, had hoped that by helping him, she’d get to feel—and this wasn’t easy to admit—superior.

  Or better yet, he’d feel indebted to her. Grateful.

  Shame filled her, effectively shoving that guilt far, far away.

  Time to look at this rationally. She had an unconscious man in the living room, his could-be daughter in the kitchen and the promise she’d made to stay echoing in her head.

  “Why don’t you go back to bed,” she told Estelle, “try to get some more sleep. When Kane wakes up, we can figure out what he wants to do about bringing someone in to help around here while his injuries heal.”

  “We? So you’re staying, too?”

  A sigh rippled through Char, shuddering out before she could stop it. “I’m staying.”

  * * *

  KANE AWOKE WITH a groan as pain shot up his side. His dry mouth, pounding head and queasy stomach all reminded him of the many mornings—or afternoons—after a bender, his brain fuzzy, memories of the night before hazy. Or worse, nonexistent.

  Fear coated his throat. Had he fallen off the wagon? He shifted onto his back, felt something heavy on his arm. Using what seemed like a Herculean effort, he lifted his head, saw the cast decorating his right arm. It all came back to him in a painful flash.

  The pressure of staying in one place too long had gotten to him. He brought his good arm up, covered his eyes. And he, being the idiot he was, had thought a good way of dealing with that pressure was to drive his motorcycle like a bat out of hell on wet, slick roads.

  Not his finest hour.

  He shoved the blanket that was covering him to the floor. The blanket that was usually on his bed. Charlotte must have done that, must have made sure he was all snug and warm. He remembered her bringing him home, his confession about being a former addict, but then things got hazy.

  He just hoped he didn’t say or do anything else that was going to come back and bite him in the ass.

  He rolled over and, ignoring the ache in his side, pushed up into a sitting position, the cast weighing heavily without his sling. Breathing hurt as much as it did last night, if not more, the fingers of his right arm were stiff and swollen, the stitches in his face stung and itched.

  All letting him know he was still alive.

  Whoop-de-freaking-doo.

  Not that he had a death wish or anything. Being alive was all well and good, especially since he had work to do. The bar needed to be restocked, inventory taken and paperwork handled. Tomorrow, he’d contact a real estate agent about putting O’Riley’s up for sale.

  He’d been looking for a sign, something to let him know it was time to move on. Last night had taken care of that. He didn’t need to hit his head twice before he got the message.

  Standing, he shut his eyes against a wave of dizziness. When he opened them again, he caught a bright flash of color from the corner of his eye.

  A bright flash of red.

  He pressed his forefinger and thumb against his closed eyes but when he dropped his hand and opened them again, the image was still here.

  Charlotte Ellison, curled up in his chair, fast asleep.

  He’d thought he was in hell last night when she’d refused to leave him alone. What had she said? Something about him getting to the fiery depths eventually.

  Eventually was here.

  He frowned at Charlotte. Her legs were bent, the side of her head leaning against the back of the chair at an awkward angle guaranteed to give her a sore neck. Her shoes were lined up next to the chair leg, her arms crossed.

  She’d stayed.

  Something niggled at the edge of his brain, remnants of a conversation between them, but the images were vague, the words unclear. He needed coffee, a shower and copious amounts of over-the-counter pain medication.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  He dragged the blanket behind him as he crossed to the chair. Stared at Charlotte for a moment. She didn’t look peaceful, not with her mouth open and her neck bent that way, but she did look sort of sweet with the faint color in her cheeks, her expression soft.

  There’d been a time when he’d been big for sweets. For anything and everything that was decadent, sinful or just plain bad for him.

  Thank God those days were over.

  He covered her, the simple task hampered by his injuries, but he managed to get the blanket spread over her legs. The other corner was stuck on the edge of the cushion. Crouching slowly, he winced at the pain in his side, then pulled the blanket free and tugged it over her arms.

  He glanced up and found her staring at him.

  “Hi.”

  Her voice was soft. Husky. Her breath warm as it washed over his face.

  Speech was beyond him so he nodded in greeting. Told himself to ease back, but his body didn’t seem to be listening to his brain.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “You looked cold...” The rest was self-evident so he lifted his left shoulder, only able to achieve an inch or so of height, but she got the idea.

  She uncrossed her arms and rubbed the edge of the blanket between her forefinger and thumb. “You covered me?” Her voice was still soft, as if she was in that halfway point between wake and sleep and didn’t want to ruin a good dream. “That was nice of you.”

  And she smiled at him, a sleepy half smile that was somehow wistful and sexy at the same time. Something caught in his chest, like a hand squeezing the air from his lungs. A craving for her dug in with sharp claws, taking hold of his willpower. His good sense.

  Before he could regain either, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers.

  She gasped, the sound rushing through him like a windstorm, blowing everything out of his mind except the taste of her. Her hands flew to his chest, but she didn’t push him away. Not yet. So he kissed her again, slowly, carefully, doing his damnedest to coax a response from her. Her shoulders relaxed; her body lost its stiffness.

  And she kissed him back, hesitantly. Sweetly.

  Sweet, that was what she was, despite her smart mouth and cocky attitude. Too goddamn sweet for the likes of him with her big heart and willingness to help others. To help him. He’d end
the kiss, end this madness...

  In a minute. Or two.

  Her hands slid up, one curving over his good shoulder, settling there lightly, the other tangling in his hair. He cupped her cheek with his left hand, the tips of his fingers pressing into the back of her long neck, his thumb on her jawline. He deepened the kiss, flicking his tongue over the right corner of her mouth. Then the left.

  And went suddenly, viciously hard when she did the same to him.

  A low, desperate sound ripped from his throat as he jerked her to him and kissed her harder, deeper, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth. Her hand tightened, tugging at his hair, the sharp bite only adding to his hunger. The beast inside him, the one he’d long ago caged, reared up, snarling and snapping, demanding to be fed.

  He wanted to devour Charlotte. To take whatever she gave until his pain was gone, until he stopped yearning for something—alcohol, drugs, or those prescription pills that were close by—to take the edge off.

  This, he thought, rising up so he was pressed against Charlotte’s slight curves, her breasts brushing his chest, this would work. Being with Charlotte, surrounded by her scent, accepted by her body, moving inside her, would take away his pain. At least for a little while.

  But when they were done? When the sweat had dried, when their hearts no longer raced and their bodies’ desires were satiated? He’d still feel empty inside.

  Worse, he was afraid that so would she.

  He pushed to his feet. Pain rocketed through him, turned his stomach, had him swaying. Before he could even catch his breath, Charlotte was next to him, a steady, solid presence at his side, one hand at his lower back, the other under his good arm.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” she said in her soothing nurse’s tone as she led him toward the chair.

  He shook his head. Afraid to open his mouth in case the whimper trying to work its way up his throat should get out. He stared at her. He was an idiot. An asshole for taking advantage of her like that, kissing her that way when she’d barely even been awake.

  “Why the hell did you stay here?”

  He winced. That hadn’t been what he’d wanted to say. What he’d meant to say.

  I’m sorry.

  Two simple words. Simple to everyone but a Bartasavich. But those words hadn’t come out. Only a low growl of accusation.

  “I’m still here,” she said slowly, as if he should already know her answer, “because you asked me to stay with you.”

  His head snapped back as if he’d been punched. “What?”

  “You wanted to know why I stayed. It was because you asked me to.”

  He stilled, his shoulders going rigid. “I asked?”

  “Yes.”

  “I asked you to stay.”

  “You seem confused, so let me make this as clear as possible. I wanted to leave, but you asked me not to, so I didn’t.”

  A memory, faint as a wisp of smoke, floated through his brain.

  Stay with me.

  His voice. His words.

  Hell.

  “You could have left after I fell asleep,” he grumbled.

  “After you begged me not to?” Eyes wide, she shook her head. “What kind of person would that make me?”

  “Begged?” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he muttered one word—a very succinct curse—under his breath. Dropped his hand and glared at her. “I need coffee.”

  Except when he got into the kitchen, he realized there was no way he’d be able to get the grounds from the upper cabinet without either passing out or crying like a baby.

  Shit.

  “You should have a sling on,” Charlotte said as she walked into the room.

  Straightening, he faced her. “I can’t even get the coffee down. I doubt I’m up for turning a triangle into a sling.”

  She glanced from him to the upper cupboard to the material in her hand. Sighed. “Don’t move.”

  Tossing the thin material over her shoulder, she opened the cupboard door, then rose onto her toes to reach the bag of coffee on the upper shelf.

  It was far from a seductive pose, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. His blood stirred. An image, crystal clear and unwanted, slammed into him. One of her stretched out in his bed, her short hair mussed, her blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded. In his imagination, she continued to smile at him, reach for him, her long, lean body covered only by a sheet. Her pale skin his to touch. To taste.

  In reality, she lowered back to her heels and tossed the bag of coffee onto the counter, then took the material and laid one long pointed end over his left shoulder. “Lift your arm.”

  “You told me not to move,” he reminded her.

  She made a frustrated sound again, as she had when she’d been forced to dig into his pocket for his key. It yanked his mind back to his daydream, and he wondered what he’d have to do to her to elicit that enticing rumble in a sexual way.

  He doubted he’d ever find out.

  Shouldn’t want to find out, he reminded himself, as Charlotte gently raised his broken arm and laid it across his chest, pinning the material in place. Wanting someone, something so much, was dangerous. It made you weak. Took away your control.

  Hadn’t he proved that already? First by asking her to stay. Then by kissing her.

  Now, by wanting to kiss her again.

  With quick, deft movements, she brought up the other end of the fabric, tied the points together at the side of his neck. Stepped back. “That should do until you get a regular sling.”

  Before he could make a mental note to do so that afternoon, she was filling the coffeepot at the sink. He didn’t bother pointing out that he preferred using distilled water; he just opened the bag of coffee and measured out grounds into a filter. A few minutes later, the air filled with the scent of brewing coffee.

  Since Charlotte seemed content to remain silent for the time being, Kane gladly followed suit. Never let it be said he ever did anything to encourage a woman to rip him a new one.

  That he deserved to be ripped into was beside the point.

  Less than ten minutes later, he was taking the first fortifying sip of coffee when she broke the silence.

  “Want to tell me what that was all about?” she asked, pouring herself a cup.

  He sipped again, prayed the caffeine did its work quickly. “Care to be more specific?”

  She blushed and dropped her gaze. He didn’t think she’d actually call him on it, on the kiss or his reaction to it. But then she lifted her chin and met his eyes.

  And he knew he was screwed.

  “You kissed me,” she said, as if daring him to dispute that.

  “I remember.” He was afraid it was going to take him some time to forget.

  “Why?”

  Now he raised his eyebrows. Did he really need to spell that out? “The usual reasons, I suppose.”

  Her color deepened, but she forged ahead. He could almost admire that about her. “No, I mean what was it? Gratitude? Pity? Good old-fashioned curiosity?”

  He pressed his lips together. “No.”

  “No?” she asked when he remained silent. “That’s it, just no?”

  What else did she want from him? He hadn’t kissed her out of gratitude or pity. He’d kissed her because he’d wanted to. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that.

  He’d kissed her because he couldn’t not kiss her.

  He’d spent so many years taking, taking, taking. Whether it was women, drugs and alcohol or something he could purchase with his old man’s platinum card, if Kane wanted it, he got it. Until he’d hit rock bottom and realized nothing—not the best sex or latest designer drug or high-priced clothes—would ever be able to fill the emptiness inside him. He’d gotten clean, and had spent the past fourteen years able to withstand any te
mptation.

  Until today. Until Charlotte.

  Damn her.

  “No,” he repeated, angry with her for proving to be more enticing than he’d originally given her credit for. Pissed at himself for being so weak. For wanting to blame her for that weakness. “It wasn’t any of those things. It was a mistake.”

  His. But hopefully it would be the last one he’d make around her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS A MISTAKE.

  Charlotte wanted to throw her coffee at him. But it was still hot and she’d hate to see him burned. Still, the man pushed her buttons. No doubt on purpose.

  “So you mistakenly kissed me?” she asked, unsure why she felt the need for clarification when so far, all of his answers to her questions only left her more confused and embarrassed. “How, exactly, does that work? Because it seems to me, you leaning forward and placing your mouth directly on mine was a deliberate action.”

  Deliberate. Slow and sensual. God. Her lips still tingled, and she’d bet if she ran her tongue over them, she’d still taste him. She took a quick swallow of coffee.

  “The action was deliberate,” he finally said. “The mistake was in thinking it was a good idea.”

  That didn’t clear things up at all. Men. The last time she’d kissed him—sort of—hadn’t gone well, either. Then there had been the lip-lock she’d put on James when she’d been trying to convince him they were meant to be together.

  If she wasn’t careful, and didn’t have a deep well of self-confidence, she just might get a kissing inferiority complex.

  “Of course it wasn’t a good idea,” she said, shooting for haughty, but coming across as just bitchy. A woman scorned and all that. “Please do me a favor and the next time you think about kissing me, don’t.”

  “Don’t think about it?”

  Now he was messing with her. “Don’t kiss me.”

  He nodded as though he was completely on board with that idea. “No problem.”

  No problem? Not kissing her was no problem?

  Jerk.

  His lips twitched as if fighting a smile. He’d better keep fighting or so help her, she might resort to violence. He cleared his throat. “I’m curious about one thing....”