by Cari Quinn
“Every day of my life.” The twinkle in his eyes brought a smile to her lips. How easily he did that, she thought. Making her smile just by looking at her. He sat beside her, leaving her coffee in arm's reach. He was close. Close. So close she could smell that spicy combination of citrus and sandalwood that made her head spin in an oh-so-intoxicating way. Who needed coffee as a stimulant when Brodie Crawford was around?
“I had every intention of renting an apartment when we first moved," he said, shifting to face her so she couldn't help but look at him. Those eyes of his. Hypnotic. "But one day we drove by and Cilla saw the For Sale sign. I barely had time to stop the car before she was jumping out yelling that this was the house she’d dreamed about before. After that, there was no other option.”
The halting way he said before had cookie crumbs sticking in her throat. “Before what?” She reached for her coffee.
Brodie’s face darkened as he sat next to her, staring down into the steaming mug. “Before I found her. Gemma, my ex-wife, disappeared with her just after Cilla turned one. Her reaction to me filing for divorce and full custody.”
“I’m so sorry.” Regan reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I knew there was something—”
“Having an addict of an ex-wife isn’t something I advertise.” This time Brodie's smile was tired. And strained. “Gemma always had a lot of problems not the least of which were parents who believed she could do no wrong. I thought I could help her, save her. Fix her maybe. Turns out I was wrong. She’s serving time up at Carlton Correctional. Drug possession with intent to distribute, fraud, vandalism and child neglect. A bunch of other stuff I’ve chosen to forget.”
“For how long?” Regan couldn’t help but worry what would happen when Gemma got out.
“Not long enough as far as I’m concerned.” He set his coffee down and turned his hand over in hers, squeezed her fingers gently. “Too long for her parents, which is one of the reasons we moved. They’ve been calling to ask for my help in getting Gemma's case reexamined. Or they ask me to bring Cilla to see her. Neither is going to happen, in case you were wondering. Cilla had just turned three when I tracked Gemma down. I took a couple of private investigator courses online, learned some of their techniques. I made friends with the police in different areas I thought Gemma might turn up in. Longest two years of my life, not knowing if Cilla was alive or dead. When I found her...” he broke off as grief and horror flashed on his face. “I can’t even begin to describe the conditions Cilla was living in, but it was enough that I promised nothing would ever going to hurt her again. And that I’d do whatever I had to to keep Cilla far away from that life.”
Regan knew men—fathers—like Brodie existed, but they never had in her world before. In her experience, fathers holed up and gave up when life turned on them. Part of her wanted to reach out to Brodie, to hold him, and never let go. The other part—the part she’d relied on for the last eight years—told her she couldn’t get involved or invested in Brodie and his daughter. No matter how much she might want to. “What about your family? Didn’t they—”
“Don’t have one of those,” Brodie said. “I never knew my parents. I grew up in the foster system in Miami. Bounced around from home to home, never really settled anywhere. By the time I was fourteen, I’d had enough and made my way to New York.”
“You were on your own at fourteen?” Regan tried to think what her brothers had been like at that age. They were good boys, but whether they could have managed on their own? That she doubted.
“I lived on the streets until I was nearly seventeen. Had a nice place in an alley behind a tattoo parlor and Chinese restaurants. And by nice, I mean a box that kept the rain off my head.” The humor behind his admission fed into her impression that he truly was one-of-a-kind. He’d had more difficulties than she could fathom and yet he didn’t seem to dwell on them. Instead, they'd empowered him. “I was lucky,” he continued. “Drugs and booze never appealed; they were a distraction. I knew I was meant to do something, I just didn’t know what. One night the owner of the tattoo parlor caught me tagging his garbage can and instead of calling the cops, he brought me inside, stuck a pad of paper and a pen in my hand and told me to draw him something.”
He pulled up the hem of his T-shirt and pointed to the image of the soaring eagle embedded in a rainbow of rays. “Eagles have always fascinated me. They soar above their circumstance. This is what I drew him. He tacked it on the wall and offered me a job cleaning the floors in exchange for a bed in the store room. A few weeks later I was answering phones and moved up from there. When I turned eighteen, he handed me the picture and said if I wanted, he’d do my first tattoo. Watching him work, understanding the talent and ability it took to empower people with illustrations, I was hooked.”
“So I see.” Regan surrendered to temptation and reached out and trailed her finger around the various images, from the eagle, to the Celtic cross, to the snake winding its way from his wrist all the way up to his bicep. She shifted closer, her heart pounding as he caught his fingers in the length of her hair. “They each mean something to you then?” She could barely get the words out. He fascinated her. Entranced her.
Scared her.
“Every tattoo means something.” Brodie's smile was slow, his eyes darkening as if he understood the emotions swirling inside her. Understood and approved. She took a breath, let it out in a long, barely controlled shudder.
“Some people get them for rites of passage." He stroked his thumb across her lips, his face inching toward hers. She licked her lips, eyes darting from his mouth to his gaze, wanting, wishing...hoping.
He dipped his head, but instead of kissing her, he trailed his mouth along the length of her neck. She shivered, heard the tiniest whimper escape the back of her throat as he continued to talk. "Others use tattoos to mark events in their lives or commemorate goals or someone they’ve lost." He lifted his mouth as his other hand came up to cup the side of her face. "The other day I did a butterfly for a woman over her mastectomy scar. She wanted to embrace the change she’d undergone and commemorate the fact she’d come out the other side of her treatment completely transformed. It’s a responsibility I take very seriously. I take a lot of things very, very seriously."
"Do you?" She whispered, pushing aside any hesitation she should be clinging to. This wasn't right. Not for her. Not for her family, her life. But Brodie was right.
Right for now at least.
She wrapped her hands around his wrists, keeping him in place as she shifted over him, straddling him on the suddenly too small sofa and then, as he leaned his head against the back of the coach and smiled at her, she pressed forward.
And kissed him.
Teasing at first, hesitant, a slight nibbling as she reveled in the feel of his mouth under hers. His hands released her face, traveled down her arms, around her hips to cup her backside as he shifted her more solidly, so solidly her whimper became a moan.
She gasped as he moved under her, his hips rising slightly in the same tempo as his lips, pressing hers open before he loosed his hold and let her take charge.
The surge of feminine power had her entire body igniting. Everywhere he touched her, everywhere he didn't touch her, felt as if it were coming alive for the first time.
"Brodie," she murmured against his mouth as his hands roamed up under the edge of her shirt, over her bare skin. She wanted more. She wanted everything. She wanted... She wanted him. She hadn't wanted anything more in her life, as if she needed him to breathe.
"Now isn't the time to be thinking," Brodie whispered. She felt his fingers slip under the strap of her bra, inching to the hooks that once they were undone, she would be, too. She kissed him again. Softly, regretfully, before replacing her mouth with her fingers.
"I'm sorry." She pressed her forehead to his, squeezed her eyes shut as her body continued to throb. "I can't do this. Not now."
His hand stilled, but he didn't remove it and for those long seconds, she knew what
it felt like to be branded. "How about now?"
She laughed, and wondered if he could hear the undertone of a sob. It would be so easy to let go. So easy to give in. She lifted herself off him and moved to the far end of the couch, curling her legs under her as if she were cocooning herself against the pull of him. "You were saying about tattoos?"
He took a deep breath, shifting on the couch with a cringe that told her she'd made him just as uncomfortable as she felt. Well. She hid a grin. Maybe not quite as uncomfortable. "What do you want to know?"
"You think they're misunderstood."
"They are," he said with a slow nod. She wondered if he was having as much difficulty clearing his head as she was. “Tattoos aren’t just for gang-bangers, bikers, and felons. They’re people’s way of marking passage through their life and it’s something humans have been doing since the beginning of time.” He took hold of her hand again, his lips curving at her sharp intake of breath as he exposed the inside of her wrist and traced over her unsteady pulse line. “I can see you with a heart. Right here.” His finger pressed, teased, and he inclined his head as if envisioning what he’d forever etch into her skin. “Nothing big, nothing flashy. A simple heart to represent the one that’s too big for your own good.”
“So tattoo artists are part shrinks, too?” Regan swallowed as she fought the urge to shiver. His touch was mesmerizing, entrancing, and the way he talked about his calling, she completely understood the power of what he was capable of. She'd gotten a definite feel for what this man was capable of and tomorrow, she'd probably be kicking herself for not confirming her suspicions.
“We have to be," Brodie's voice took on a gravely tone, sexier than a lion's rumbling claiming of his mate. "Tattoos are a commitment. I want to know it’s what they want and need, and not something they think is trendy for now.”
Maura came to mind. “I don’t think my sister considered that—”
“I think she did.” Brodie stopped moving his finger, but laid his hand over her wrist. “She could have chosen any image, Regan, but she chose one of her heritage, her family. Was she wrong?” Brodie shrugged. “Only in the fact she didn’t follow the rules. But what she did she did for a reason.”
“She did it to piss me off.” Regan tried to laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in Brodie’s eyes.
“She might have done it to get your attention, but I’ve seen that image, Regan. It symbolizes feminine power and strength. Whether she was exhibiting those qualities or calling for them, whether she regrets it ten or twenty years from now doesn’t really matter. That tattoo will always be a lesson.”
“I had no idea you were such a philosopher.” Or so open minded. Nothing about Brodie made sense to her. His appearance versus the man she was getting to know were so incongruous she had trouble reconciling the combination. “So hiring Maura—”
“Yeah.” He cringed. “I probably should have talked to you about that first.”
“No.” Regan dipped her head to meet his fallen gaze. “No, I’m glad you didn’t. She took charge and did something I don’t know I would have had the courage to do at her age. It’s not like you didn’t know what you were taking on. You knew she has, had, issues.”
“Had?” His eyebrow arched.
“Toshi threw us in your back room to hash things out.” And she owed Toshi for it. “We have a long way to go, but I think we understand each other better. I didn’t know she was as passionate about art as she is and I guess I have you to thank for that.”
“I’ve seen a lot of artists in various mediums. Your sister’s one of the best, Regan. And I don’t say that lightly.”
Regan didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified at that prospect. “So where’s your mentor now? The tattoo artist who took you in?”
“He died seven years ago. Cancer. He asked me to bring his ashes out to San Francisco, scatter them in the bay. He’d left me some money so I was comfortable, but I got a job at a parlor there, met Gemma and well...” He shrugged and whatever trance they'd been caught up in finally broke. “And now here I am. Starting over. What about you?”
“What about me?” Regan was back to focusing on his arm work, losing herself in the images that were a map of his life. She wanted to know every moment, every obstacle. Every triumph. She wanted...him. Even though she shouldn't.
“What do you want, Regan?” He reached out his other hand and brushed a finger down her cheek. “Are you happy?”
Happy? Regan forced herself to meet his questioning gaze. “My family is in one piece. They’re safe, for the most part, and turning in to good people. Like my mother wanted.”
“What happened to her?”
“I want to say one too many kids,” Regan attempted to joke, but a soft sob caught in her throat. “Apparently my family’s fertile enough to defy a vasectomy and birth control. Before Fallon was born, Ma called her the oopsie baby. It was a family joke. Ma was forty-six when she got pregnant.” Tears burned her throat as she remembered the night her parents had told them about the new baby. “Trust me, at twenty the last thing you want to hear is that your parents are expecting. Again. I was in college, so I was able to push it aside. Until Fallon was born. Ma never got to see her; she suffered an embolism delivering her. And then that was that. I came home and—”
“Took up where your mother left off.”
“I had to.” Any dreams she might have had had fallen away. And she’d had to let them. “Pop was no use. He shut down, turned off. He’s never really turned on again. Fallon needed me, needed us, and between me and my brothers and sister, we managed. She’s like this little light in the family. Always bright, always on.” Regan shrugged and realized it was the same gesture Maura made when she wasn’t sure how to deal with emotions bearing down on her. “I’d made Ma a promise, a few months before Fallon was born when she said she thought something was wrong; something didn’t feel right. I told her she was imagining things, that even if something was wrong, I’d always be there for the family. That I’d see them through no matter what. She seemed relieved, so I let it stand. And then it became a reality.”
“Some would say you’ve had it harder than I have.”
“I wouldn’t.” Regan shook her head. “I had stability and tons of family around—”
“But you’ve been alone. Haven’t you?”
It was one thing for Regan to know that. It was another to have someone—Brodie especially—point it out. She was alone—in all the ways that mattered. In others... “It is what it is. And now you understand why this.” She waved her hand between them like a flipper. “This can’t go anywhere, Brodie. I can’t take on anyone or anything else. I have a family to care for, a business to run, and it can’t matter how much—”
“How much what?” He leaned closer, his warm breath brushing her face.
“Don’t,” Regan whispered even as she realized there wasn’t anything more she wanted in the world than for Brodie to kiss her again, to touch her again. “Please. I can’t do this to you or to Cilla. My life is what it is. It’s already too full. Don’t ask me to choose between you and my family.”
“I would never ask you to do that. But I do think you’re underestimating yourself and me,” he said, stroking his hand down her face. “And your family, too. You don’t have to choose, Regan. There’s a way to—”
“No.” She pulled away from him, tugged her hand free and realized then that his touch had marked her forever as effectively as one of his needles. “And now I’m not even sure friends is a good idea.” She got to her feet and smoothed a hand down her sides. “I can’t take on anything more, Brodie. I’ve got my hands full with the family I already have. I’m sorry if you can’t understand that.”
“I understand you think that’s the case.” He stood but instead of walking away, he drew her with him. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop wanting to spend time with you.”
“Don't make me be the bad guy, Brodie, please.” If she didn't walk away now, she would feel
torn every second she was with him. She didn’t want to know how happy she might be with him, with him and Cilla. She didn’t want to fall in love with either of them and yet she was terrified she might already be too late. “I’m glad Cilla’s okay. Tell her I’ll always have a box of crayons for her at the pub. But it’s best if you and I say goodbye.” She pulled her hands free and hurried down the hall and yanked her purse off the floor beside the front door. She had her hand on the handle when she felt Brodie’s on her shoulder, turning her around “Brodie, please—”
He kissed her, a gentle pressing of lips, a soft caress of fingertips against her face. Just enough to remind her of the promise of what she was walking away from. Just enough to slice through her heart and leave a permanent mark.
“Please what?” he murmured against her lips.
She blinked open her eyes and grabbed hold of his wrists, squeezing her fingers tight before letting go. “Please let me go.”
He did and for an instant, she regretted the request, but there was too much between them. Too much she couldn’t risk taking on for fear of failing the family she already had.
“At some point you need to live for yourself, Regan. I’ll be here if you change your mind.” He opened the door for her and stepped back. She walked outside and faced him one more time. He smiled, that amazing beautiful smile that had haunted her dreams from the first day they’d met. “But I won’t wait forever.”
He closed the door.
CHAPTER NINE
Regan shielded her eyes as her brother Des clicked on the fringed Tiffany lamp next to the sofa. He stared down at her. Three years her junior, Des was the level-headed one, the practical one. The one who believed the world was black and white and the grays were only a matter of perception and choice. He’d been her support system these last years. She couldn’t have made it this far without him. But right now, she wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.
