Gentle On My Mind

by Susan Fox

  Brooke was a recovering alcoholic. With no booze in the house, and hell-bent on attending her meeting. He respected people who could pull themselves out of the black hole of alcoholism, and he understood the constant battle they waged. He’d been through the whole mess with Jamal, his handler and friend. It was their secret that Jamal was a recovering alcoholic. If the department found out, he could be taken off undercover work.

  Jake knew how important those A.A. meetings could be to alcoholics.

  Besides, he realized, she was offering him an opportunity. If he could pull himself to his feet—which he was going to have to do soon anyhow, because he needed to take a piss and wasn’t about to ask for her help—he could search her house and call Jamal for a background check. Then he’d be better able to judge if she was innocent. He’d also find his gun—unless she took it with her.

  “Go to your damned meeting, Brooke,” he growled. “Don’t say a word about me, and come straight home after.” Jesus, he must be brain damaged.

  She swallowed again. “Thank you, John.”

  As Brooke pulled into her driveway after the meeting, the house was dark. She’d forgotten to turn on a light before she left.

  John Doe was likely still there, her problems hadn’t magically been solved, yet she felt more at peace than she had since early that morning. She’d barely spoken a word to anyone at the meeting, making the excuse that she was a little under the weather, but she’d regained her equilibrium. Thank heavens her uninvited guest had let her go; she hadn’t really expected that he would.

  Inside the door she slipped off her shoes, then tiptoed into the living room. Not wanting to wake John Doe, she didn’t switch on a light. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness, but when they did she let out a gasp. Covers straggled off the couch but the man was gone.

  Hurriedly she clicked the light switch and surveyed the room. The dinner tray, with empty dishes, rested on the coffee table. Sunny rose from one of the chairs, stretching. The other chair was empty. Brooke darted to the downstairs powder room but it, too, was deserted. She glanced toward the steps, then shook her head. If he’d felt well enough to go upstairs then he’d have chosen instead to leave—as he’d clearly done.

  Realizing she’d been holding her breath, she let it out in a long sigh. She’d been granted her miracle and he was gone. She was safe, and so were her loved ones.

  But how had he managed it, what with the bullet wound, the loss of blood, the bang to his head? None of the injuries was really serious, but darn the man, didn’t he know he was too weak to ride a bike? He could crash again, do himself even more harm.

  And why should she care, for even a moment?

  Should she call the police, now that she was safe?

  Automatically, she flicked on the radio. When she’d come to Caribou Crossing, she’d loved disco music and rock. Somehow, over the years, the sound of country and western had insinuated itself into her brain until it became comfort music.

  As she sank into the chair across from Sunny’s, Tammy Wynette was singing “Stand by Your Man,” and Brooke almost chuckled at the irony. The cat hopped down and strolled across to rub her foot, then leaped onto her lap and let it be known that he wouldn’t mind having his chin scratched. Brooke obliged.

  “I should feel relieved,” she murmured. “He’s gone. My problems really have been solved.” He was a criminal and he’d threatened her family. It was absurd to feel concerned about him. And yet, there had been something about him. . . .

  She shook her head vigorously. He was handsome and virile and reminded her of Mo. He made her feel hot and edgy, just like Mo had, the summer they’d met. Yes, there’d been something about the mysterious John Doe, and it definitely hadn’t been good for her peace of mind. She’d reflect overnight. In the morning, maybe she’d phone the police. Or maybe she’d wake up and find that this had all been a bad dream.

  Sunny jumped down and stood in front of her chair, his tail arched. Brooke tugged gently on the furry tip. “Yes, kitty, it’s time for bed.” She took the tray into the kitchen, put the aspirin bottle on the counter, then rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. The cat shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, but Brooke wasn’t about to leave dirty dishes lying around. She’d left that bad habit behind five years ago, when she cleaned up her act.

  She clicked off the radio, folded the blanket, put the sheets and drop cloths in the washer, then gathered up her medical supplies and followed Sunny upstairs. The house was their own again, Brooke’s life was her own again, yet she still felt unsettled.

  When she entered her bedroom she froze in her tracks. John Doe, naked but for bandages and black boxer briefs, lay faceup on top of her bed. She darted forward to touch his throat, her fingers trembling so badly she could barely find his pulse. Yes, he was alive.

  As she gaped at him, she felt an unsettling mix of relief and consternation. Why had he come upstairs? Had he sought a more comfortable bed, then, having exhausted his strength, collapsed on top rather than manage to get under the covers? Or had he been looking for his gun?

  She dropped her medical supplies on the bed and darted into the walk-in closet to check the laundry basket. The gun was still there, along with the shoulder holster she’d hidden that afternoon. Relieved, she returned to the side of the bed. He hadn’t pulled the curtains and the light from the moon and stars was sufficient so she could study him.

  He really did have an amazing body. Male perfection, but for the old scars. Again she felt the unwelcome pulse of arousal, low in her belly. She wanted to lie on the bed beside him, touch that bronzed skin, feel the powerful muscles underneath, run her fingers through those crisp curls of hair.

  Sunny leaped onto the bed and settled on the far pillow. Odd behavior for a cat who didn’t trust easily.

  As odd as Brooke’s own ridiculous attraction to a criminal who had threatened everything she held dear.

  What now? She’d sleep in Robin’s room, with the door locked, and hope that in the morning John Doe had disappeared—for real.

  She lifted the free side of the quilt he lay on, and covered him with it.

  “What the . . . ?” He woke suddenly, jerked upright, cursed, and even in the dim light she could read his pain and disorientation.

  “You’re on my bed. You came upstairs. Why?”

  “I . . .” He brushed his hand across his face, like he was clearing a spiderweb. “I don’t remember. I, uh, wanted something. Oh yeah, aspirin.”

  “I left it on the tray. Didn’t you see it?”

  He shook his head, wincing. “I’ll go down.”

  “No, stay here. The stairs are too dangerous for someone in your condition.”

  She hurried down to collect the aspirin bottle she’d left on the kitchen counter. When she got back, her bed was empty except for the cat. “The amazing disappearing man,” she muttered.

  Then she heard the toilet flush in the bathroom across the hall, and water running in the sink. She smoothed back the bedspread and saw that it bore a large, dark stain. He’d bled on her prized quilt. She was furious, and worried. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood.

  She gathered up her medical supplies and headed for the hallway. The bathroom door opened as she approached, startling her so much that she almost dropped everything. “You’re bleeding—” she began, just as he said, “I had to—” They both broke off and stared at each other.

  The bathroom light was bright and her unwanted visitor was all but naked. He didn’t seem concerned and she was darned if she’d let him know it bothered her. Besides, there was a secret part of her that did enjoy the view, even if its effect on her body embarrassed her.

  “You bled on my quilt. It’s handmade, by a local woman. I love that quilt.”

  “I’m sorry.” He swayed and gripped the door frame.

  Quickly she rushed past him to deposit her burdens on the counter, then put an arm around his waist. He was so warm, so hard, so splendidly male.
Her senses were on overload and her body responded as if this man were a lover, not an escaped criminal.

  Surely she wouldn’t have this reaction if he were clothed. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any men’s clothes in the house and she’d bet he didn’t want her shopping for him in town. It dawned on her for the first time that he’d need clothes before he could make his escape.

  “Let’s get you sitting down,” she said firmly. She guided him to the toilet and flipped the seat and lid down.

  Grimly she studied the bloody bandage. She’d have to replace it. If he’d stayed downstairs, he wouldn’t have started bleeding again. Bad enough he was a criminal; did he have to be a darn nuisance as well? Fortunately, once she unwrapped the bandage, she saw that the wound showed no signs of infection. She tended to it quickly, then doled out a couple of aspirin. “Go back to bed.”

  He rose, swayed, then staggered out of the bathroom. When she saw he was heading for the stairs she darted after him. “No!” If he fell down them, she simply didn’t have the energy to tend to him. “You can use my bed.”

  She didn’t want him in Robin’s room. It would be a kind of profanity. She had to separate her granddaughter from this danger.

  “I can’t take your bed.”

  “You already did. Besides, you don’t have the strength to go downstairs.”

  “I do.”

  His stubborn expression told her she’d again insulted his macho pride. Men could be such fools. She gave a growl of pure exasperation.

  His face softened. “I’ll do whatever you want. What do you want, Brooke?”

  His gentle expression, his question, the way he said her name, all combined to weaken her defenses. For a moment she wanted to give in to the desire she kept trying to deny. She wanted to feel all of that hard maleness pressing against her own soft femininity. She wanted this man to hold her in his arms as if they were lovers.

  She cleared her throat. “Get into my bed. It’s easiest.”

  Without a word he turned and hobbled into her bedroom. He paused a moment by the bed. “Sorry about the quilt. Will it clean?”

  She hadn’t expected apologies from John Doe. “I think so. It’s cotton. I’ll soak it tonight.” She pulled off the quilt and went to the hall closet for a blanket. When she returned, he was between the sheets.

  As she spread the blanket over the top sheet, he said, “You came back alone. You didn’t call the police.”

  “Your threat was effective.”

  “Sorry.”

  My gosh, another apology.

  “I have no other choice,” he said.

  Perhaps it was true. How else could a seriously injured criminal keep her under control? But tonight he seemed far less the criminal and more just a tired, hurting man.

  “How was your meeting?” he murmured.

  “Good.”

  His arms rested on top of the blanket, and now he stretched one out and caught her hand. “You go every week?”

  “Always on Tuesdays. Sometimes another time or two.” She stared down at their linked hands, wondering why she didn’t pull hers from his grip. His hand was hot, almost feverish, and hers trembled inside it.

  “How long have you been sober?” He tugged gently and she eased down to perch nervously on the side of the bed.

  “Four years, ten months.”

  His lips curled into a smile. “And how many days?”

  She gave a choky laugh. “Twelve.”

  “Good for you. Won’t be long until you have your five-year pin.”

  She nodded, feeling quiet pride.

  “How long did you drink?”

  “Since my teens. At some point it turned from social into a serious problem.”

  He squeezed her hand, then released it and, oddly, she felt bereft. But then he put his hand down again, this time resting it on her thigh.

  She jumped. Male touch was a scary thing—with Mo she’d never known whether to expect a caress or a blow—yet now she couldn’t bring herself to move away.

  “Why did you drink, Brooke?” he asked gently.

  She bowed her head. “I don’t know. My dad drank a lot. Mo—my ex—drank heavily. But that’s just an excuse. I picked up the bottle because there were lots of times when I hated my life, and hated myself, but I kept on drinking because I’m an alcoholic.”

  To a large extent her depression had been due to her bipolar disorder, but she hadn’t known it then. Besides, that was another excuse. It amazed her that she was telling John Doe about her alcoholism; she certainly wasn’t going to tell him about her other condition.

  “Sometimes I was depressed,” she said, “and booze—well, if it didn’t make me feel better at least it dulled my awareness. Other times, when I was hungover and there was no alcohol around, I felt . . . awful.” She shuddered. “I don’t ever want to feel that way again.”

  He stroked her thigh. “Is that what keeps you from drinking again?”

  “I’ve reached the point where I don’t live in a constant state of craving. And when I do want a drink, it’s not with the same intensity.”

  “What do you do when the craving hits?”

  “I remind myself of who I was. How awful I was to everyone around me, and how miserable I felt. I think about how far I’ve come. I go to a meeting or call my sponsor. Or I talk to my family—not about the craving, just about what’s happening in their lives. They ground me, they remind me my life is good now.”

  For some reason, it was easy to talk to him in the dark bedroom. Somehow, his hand on her leg had become a comfort, a reassurance, which was incredible if she stopped to think of who he really was.

  “You’re a strong woman.”

  Now she did dart a glance at his face, to see if he was making fun of her. His skin and hair were dark against the white pillow, and his expression, as best she could see it in the dimly lit room, seemed sincere. So did his voice.

  “I lost my son,” she said so softly it was almost a whisper. “I was a terrible mother. I drove him away. But he came back—just last year—and he forgave me. If I drink, I’ll lose him again. Him and his family.”

  And she’d lose Evan and his family if John Doe harmed them. Her heartbeat quickened with fear.

  It was as if he read her mind. He patted her thigh. “I won’t hurt them. Help me for one more day, then don’t tell a soul about me. That’s all you have to do. The hard part is over, Brooke. I won’t harm you or them, and I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

  She wanted to believe him. “You’re too badly injured.”

  “Flesh wounds. Headache, but no concussion. I’ll be fine. Tomorrow.”

  He captured her hand again, and squeezed it in what felt like a promise. Then he set her hand down on the blanket and stroked it, his fingers caressing the back.

  She watched, mesmerized, but then something made her look up.

  Grooves of exhaustion and pain cut into his handsome features, yet his eyes flamed with desire. She couldn’t look away.

  He turned her hand over and stroked the tender skin of her palm, the inside of her wrist.

  Sensation zinged straight to her center and she could feel her female flesh swell and ache.

  “Brooke . . .”

  She jerked away and leaped to her feet. “Good night.”

  Chapter Five

  Jake woke to sunshine and birdsong. To pain and disorientation. To a warm presence curled against his side. He jerked upright, cursing at the pain, and the golden cat uncurled itself lazily and yawned. Brooke’s cat. He was in Brooke’s bed.

  He lay back, remembering the last twenty-four hours.

  In the black hours of the previous morning he had located the grouping of trailers he’d spotted doing aerial surveillance. A grow op could exist anywhere, such as an apartment or a house, but he and Jamal had speculated that out here in ranch country, the guy they were looking for would try to consolidate his operation well off the beaten track.

  At first glance, Jake had taken the half dozen trailers and l
ong shed for a small trailer park—then he’d realized the only access was a narrow dirt road, the buildings were almost hidden among trees, there was no landscaping or anything to pretty things up, and lights didn’t show from the windows. The buildings were off all regular flight paths, and he didn’t risk flying lower to see if the windows had been covered by blackout drapes.

  Instead, he’d taken his readings from the air then come back on his Harley, to work his way through a maze of country roads. When he was close enough someone might hear the engine, he hid the bike in bushes alongside the rutted road, stripped off the motion-restricting leather jacket, and hiked the last mile.

  He reconnoitered cautiously but saw no guards. If this was a grow op, these guys were overconfident.

  There was only one vehicle on-site: a black Chrysler truck with big wheels, a canopy with tinted windows, and a mud-covered license plate. Unlocked. No registration papers. But, inside the back—bingo! Boxes containing bags of marijuana.

  Hoping these guys were really stupid, he scraped mud from the plate and memorized the tag. A boggy patch supplied fresh mud to doctor the plate again.

  The long rectangular building he’d seen from the air looked makeshift, its wooden walls blended in among the trees, and its windows, like the trailers’, were dark. He guessed it housed workers, probably illegal immigrants.

  He skirted the bunkhouse and eased open the door to one of the trailers. Inside, he found a thriving green crop. Lights, water, nutrients; marijuana wasn’t hard to grow, and these folks knew what they were doing.

  He’d have liked to go inside and search the trailer for clues to who ran this operation, but a radio was playing classic rock, suggesting that a guard or worker was on duty.

  Perhaps he’d have better luck with the next trailer.

  He slid the door shut carefully and slipped through the darkness to the neighboring trailer. But this time, when he turned the handle and pressed gently against the door, the damned thing squeaked loudly, and there was no music to mask the sound.