by Susan Fox
It was as unlikely as a woman who’d been threatened at gunpoint being aroused by the man who’d done it, but there was no doubting her reaction. Though she hadn’t had sexual feelings in forever, she recognized the heat, the ache, the tingle. Now that her initial panic had worn off and she’d begun to interact with him, she’d started to believe he wasn’t actually going to hurt anyone. And that made her an idiot. She’d read about Stockholm syndrome, where hostages begin to like their captors. Was it already starting?
Quickly she pulled the jeans off his feet and tossed them onto the coffee table. Determined not to reveal her feelings, she forced herself to meet his sultry gaze with a cool one of her own. In an effort to establish control, she asked, “What’s your name?”
His eyes went from steamy purple heat to blue-gray ice in less than a second.
She realized her mistake. “Not your real name. And if there’s ID in your pocket, I promise I won’t—”
“There isn’t.”
“Good. But give me something I can call you other than ‘hey, you.’”
“Call me . . . John.”
“As in John Doe?”
“Like the unidentified corpses at the morgue? Yeah, call me John Doe. Except I’m not planning to turn into a corpse anytime soon.” His expression cool and assessing, he cocked an eyebrow in an unspoken question.
“I won’t turn you in to the police or anyone else. I don’t want any harm to come to my family.” She huffed out a sigh and said, a little grudgingly, “And I won’t kill you or let you die. It’s not in my nature, even though I hate the fact that you’re here.”
He watched her closely as she spoke, then nodded. “I hate it, too. Do what I say and I’ll be gone soon and you’ll be safe.”
It was the second time he’d said that. Did he really intend to leave without harming her? He sounded sincere—or was that just wishful thinking on her part?
She reminded herself that she had his gun. “Good, then we’ve got the same goal. Want some aspirin? I’ll have to run up to the bathroom.”
He eyed her warily.
“Look, you trust me or you don’t,” she said.
He swallowed. “Aspirin would be good.”
“Okay, then.” She hurried upstairs, getting not only the pills but more bandages and rags. After she’d refilled the water glass, she helped him sit up enough to swallow the pills and drink the water, all too conscious of his naked heat under her arm.
“I’ll get warm water to wash your wounds.” She headed for the kitchen and placed a cooking pot under the tap.
“Hey!” he called.
She stuck her head through the door. “Yes?”
“What’s your name, angel of mercy?”
She hadn’t realized what a personal question it could be. How vulnerable it made her feel to give him her name. But she hated to lie, and he’d know if she did. Returning with the pot of water, she said, “My name’s Brooke. As for being an angel of mercy, I bet you won’t say that after I take the antiseptic to you.”
She knelt beside him and, gritting her teeth, tackled the worst injury, anxious to get it over with. As she sponged blood from the bullet wound in his side, she realized his assessment had been right. The flesh was torn and ragged and he would have a new scar, but the injury wasn’t serious and the bleeding had slowed to an ooze.
A liberal splash of antiseptic made him jerk and curse, but she kept going, taping on a bandage spread with antibiotic lotion. He’d have to watch out for infection, but a man with those scars on his body would already know that.
Turning her attention to the scrapes on his hip and thigh, she sterilized tweezers and extracted the grit. For a time she was too aware of his nakedness, and also of his winces and an occasional smothered curse, but then she lost herself in her work.
When she was done she sat back on her heels, her whole body one huge, exhausted ache. She glanced at his face for the first time since she’d begun to play nurse.
His gaze met hers steadily. “Thank you. I know that wasn’t pleasant.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Uh, no, it wasn’t. You’re . . . welcome.” She forced her weary body to its feet. “You should rest.”
“You too, Brooke.” His tone was gentle, his dark eyelashes fluttered, the lines carved into his face by pain relaxed, and his eyes stayed closed.
Absurdly, she wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek.
Instead she cleaned up the mess, cut up his ruined tee and jeans as rags and put them in the washer along with the bloody cloths she’d used to clean his wounds, then bundled his jacket into a garbage bag and hid it in the tool shed.
Finally, she sought the sanctuary of her sunny kitchen. She put the radio on low, sank into a chair, and rested her head in her hands. What was she going to do with John Doe?
A muted trill of birdsong made her lift her head. It was the clock Robin had given her for Christmas. Each hour, a different bird sang its song. The current one was a mockingbird, which meant it was twelve o’clock. The bird always reminded her of To Kill a Mockingbird, one of her favorite books. The theme, as she saw it, was that you shouldn’t stereotype people, you should open your mind and find out who they really are.
What about John Doe? Who was the real man: the gun-wielding biker who had threatened her family, or the gentle man who had thanked her?
She leaned her head against the back of her chair. She would have liked nothing better than a nap but she couldn’t imagine sleeping while that man was under her roof.
Sunny strolled in and leaped to her lap. He rubbed his head against hers and she scratched him. “Yes, it’s safe to come out of hiding. What do you say? Feel like some tuna?”
She forked a bit of fish into his dish and made herself a salad with the rest, then went out on the back porch to eat, telling herself that she was much happier eating a healthy meal than drinking a few beers.
When she finished the salad, she lifted her feet to the railing—painted white to match the fence—and leaned back. The cat purred on her lap, while the soft twang of country music drifted out the open kitchen door and the sun’s warmth caressed her gently and eased out the aches. It felt decadent in a way, being home at lunchtime on a weekday. Decadent, but unsettling. Routine was the key to her survival, and she would gladly have traded her sunny porch for the air-conditioned, chemical-scented world of Beauty Is You.
How was she going to get through the rest of this day? And how soon until John Doe recovered? Would he keep his promise and leave her unharmed?
Brooke tried to relax, to focus not on the dangerous man on her couch but on the warm weight of her cat, so peaceful on her knee. Sunny was her favorite stress-buster. At A.A. they’d advocated getting a plant, and later an animal. One goal was to learn responsibility, but there were also wonderful benefits like companionship.
She wove her fingers through Sunny’s silky fur. He’d been such a tattered mess when she found him a couple of years ago, drenched and shivering at the back door of the tiny house she’d been renting in town. She’d let him in, figuring on taking him to the SPCA because she hadn’t felt ready for the “get a pet” part of her recovery. After the disaster she’d made of raising Evan, she couldn’t imagine assuming responsibility for another living creature.
But the storm that had brought him was a doozy, making the roads treacherous. By morning, when it was safe to drive, the cat had taught her what a fine thing it was to have a friend on a stormy night, and somehow he’d acquired the name Sunny. Once he had a name, she couldn’t let him go.
They had adjusted to each other, taken care of each other, and it was he who’d given her the confidence to invite Robin for her first overnight visit after Brooke had moved into this house last fall.
She had resisted accepting Wade and Miriam Bly’s offer of the rental cottage on their ranch land. It was like a dream come true—a nice house with its own sizable garden and no noisy, intrusive neighbors—but it had felt like charity. She’d given in when Jess’s dad poi
nted out that the last tenants had run the place down and both the house and garden needed some hard work. Miriam, a kind and generous soul, had added, “We’d appreciate it if you’d give the poor place some TLC, Brooke.”
Brooke had been so blessed in the past year.
Stroking Sunny, she reminded herself that she’d been thinking exactly that in the moments before John Doe crashed his Harley through her white picket fence. “We’ll survive this,” she murmured to the cat, “and life will return to normal.”
“Supper?” The female voice drifted into Jake’s consciousness and he struggled to open his eyes. Today it seemed all his body wanted to do was sleep—or pass out.
She’d roused him a few times, worried that he was concussed, asking him dumb questions like the name of the prime minister, and each time he’d fallen back to sleep immediately.
He gazed upward and squinted against the light. She was an angel again, the late afternoon sunlight behind her turning golden hair into a glowing halo. Brooke. She’d said her name was Brooke. A pretty name, but less dynamic than her golden hair, ocean eyes, pink-rose lips, and gutsy spirit.
He couldn’t make out her features until she moved forward, out of the sun’s dazzle. Nope, not an angel, not with that scowl. He would have grinned if it wouldn’t have ruined his “I’m a hardened criminal” act. Suddenly he realized he was fully awake and not feeling entirely shitty. Best of all, he was alive and she clearly hadn’t turned him in—or shot him. By the look on her face, she was pretty mad, though. He found he didn’t like having Brooke mad at him.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Instinct told him to trust her, and he wanted to retract his threats. But he’d come to Caribou Crossing to hunt a killer, and that goal came first. Brooke might be involved with the killer, though it seemed unlikely.
“Supper?” she said impatiently, her brisk voice a contrast to the country ballad some sugary-voiced female singer was crooning in the background.
He realized Brooke was holding a tray, and something on it smelled just fine, like tomatoes and herbs. He shifted position, loosening the old blanket that was tangled around his waist, and bit down on a groan. “Help me sit up.”
She gave an annoyed frown but set the tray on the coffee table, then gathered a cushion from a nearby chair and bent over the couch. “Lean forward.”
He obeyed, wincing as pain lanced through his side. She crammed the cushion behind him and he gasped. His head felt like someone was riding a Harley around inside it.
“Push yourself up,” she said.
If she’d been more gentle with him he might have complied, but her cavalier treatment annoyed him—even if he did deserve it. Besides, she was damned pretty and he wanted her to come closer. He had a vague recollection that she smelled of tropical flowers. Or had that been a dream? “Can’t do it by myself,” he said. “Maybe if you hooked your hands in my armpits and pulled me up?”
Her scowl grew even deadlier.
“Or you could just feed me,” he suggested softly.
She gave a snort and muttered something that sounded like, “Or you could starve to death.” But she came closer and studied his position.
“If you got up on the couch, and kind of straddled me . . .” His body—naked but for boxer briefs—stirred at the idea. Even with that glare on her face, Brooke was one fine-looking woman.
She went behind the arm of the couch and leaned over the stacked pillows, grabbed him under both armpits, and gave a mighty heave.
He barely had a chance to appreciate the soft, exotically scented curls that tickled his face before pain nearly made him black out again. He bit down on the lip he’d mangled earlier, and managed to stay conscious, then gingerly shuffled his body into a semicomfortable position.
He lifted the light blanket that covered him and peered underneath. With cautious fingers he tested the dressings she’d applied.
“I checked an hour ago,” she said. “I don’t think there’s any infection.”
He imagined her examining his body while he slept, and the pulse of arousal quickened.
Her cheeks were pink and he saw a flutter at her throat, the quick lift of those fine little breasts. Damned if she wasn’t aroused, too. He made a lazy visual inspection of her, admiring every soft curve. If he wasn’t in so much pain he’d be tempted—
Christ, what was he thinking? He was holding this woman hostage until he got back on his feet, and right now he could barely sit up.
He had to figure out how to proceed with his investigation of Anika Janssen’s murder. He had to work out a new cover story, get his handler Jamal’s help in providing fake ID, and ask him to check out Brooke. Jamal was going to be pissed that he’d messed things up.
No, this was definitely not the time to be thinking about sex. Yet, with Brooke, it was hard to think about anything else. Jesus. Maybe he was concussed. His brain sure wasn’t functioning. He had to pull himself together. First things first. “Have you got a husband coming home from work?”
She’d been standing absolutely still, as if his gaze had held her in a spell, but now she took a step backward. “No.”
“Boyfriend? Kid? Anyone?”
“I live alone, except for Sunny.” She waved a hand toward a chair by the fireplace and he saw a cat the color of liquid honey, curled in a ball.
Brooke bent to pick up the tray, then settled it on his lap and stepped quickly away. Soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, a glass of milk. A great lunch for a kid, he thought huffily. Still, the soup was obviously homemade, with chunks of tomato, onions, and mushrooms. Rosemary and garlic too, his nose told him. The bread was thickly cut, speckled with grain and maybe nuts, and didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen in a grocery store.
Had she spent the afternoon cooking? For him? He didn’t like it when women he was dating cooked for him. Made him think they were getting ideas. But right now, from his gunpoint hostess, he didn’t mind it one bit.
She stood beside the couch, her body language wary, like a suspect poised to flee.
“Looks good,” he said, and saw her face relax a degree. “Got a beer?”
She tensed immediately. “No. There’s no alcohol in the house.”
“Damn.” It figured that the owner of a white picket fence would be a teetotaler. Could today’s luck get any worse? He scowled at the glass of milk. Milk was okay, but after the events of this day he could really use a beer. Or three.
“Do you need anything else?” she asked.
Even though she’d earlier asked for a name to call him by, she never used the one he’d given her. “Not at the moment.”
“Uh, what about the next couple of hours? I have to go out.” She mumbled the words, almost swallowing the last of them.
“Out? You’re not going anywhere!”
Chapter Four
A wave of exhaustion swamped Jake. Maybe he could control her tonight, but he had to stay in Caribou Crossing if he was going to find Anika’s killer. When he set up a new cover, she’d have the power to blow it wide open. Fuck.
If only he could trust her with the truth. It seemed unlikely that this quiet woman with her cozy home, country music, and golden cat was mixed up with a murderer who sold drugs. But he already knew the criminal he sought wore a mask of respectability; how could he be sure Brooke’s wholesomeness wasn’t also a façade?
Besides, if she was innocent and he told her what he was up to, he might put her in danger. He was supposed to protect the innocent, not endanger them.
When he’d yelled, she had glanced down and retreated a couple of steps, but now she firmed her jaw and fixed him with a level gaze. “If I didn’t turn you in today, I’m not going to do it tonight. Besides, I have to go.” When she spoke the last words her voice quavered. “It’s Tuesday night and I have a meeting to attend. I go every Tuesday. If I’m not there, people will call. Maybe even drop by.”
He groaned. “Do what you did about your job. Call and say you’re sick.”
“I have
to go.” Her voice was shrill, almost desperate, her body so taut it almost vibrated.
“Why? What’s so important about this meeting?”
“It’s . . .” She swallowed, so hard he could hear her. “It’s A.A.”
She had managed to shock him. He’d never have taken Brooke for an alcoholic. She seemed so in control. But then, if she was a recovering alcoholic, she was in control. She was waging a constant battle for control over her cravings—and winning, one day at a time. No wonder she was so plucky when it came to dealing with him; she’d faced a tougher demon.
“I need to go,” she said. “Today has been . . . hard.”
Damn. He was sorry to put so much pressure on her, but at least she couldn’t start drinking again if there wasn’t any booze in the house. He shook his head, grimacing as the goose egg brushed the cushion. “You can’t go. Sorry, but that’s how it is.”
“My family’s the only thing in the world that’s important to me!” Brooke’s angry voice hurt his aching head. “I’m not going to endanger their lives, not for scum like you. I won’t say a word about you being here. But I really need to go to my meeting.” Across the room, her cat gave a yowl, leaped to the floor, and scurried away.
Jake glanced at the photographs on her mantel, which he’d studied earlier in a brief period of consciousness: the wedding picture with the attractive young couple, the girl on a horse, the same girl with Brooke. Who was Brooke to these people? The groom bore a resemblance to her, might be her younger brother.
He’d have taken the little girl to be her kid, but she lived alone. A niece?
Odd that there was no picture of Brooke with a man. She was pretty, sexy, obviously competent. But she was an alcoholic. And alcoholism was tough on relationships.
Still, it seemed she had her alcoholism under control.
She was an interesting woman. She could go head-to-head with a man she believed to be an escaped criminal. Despite her discomfort, she’d done a thorough job of caring for his injuries. She made tomato soup that smelled like an Italian kitchen. She put her family above all else—though that might be guilt over past behavior, from her drinking days.
