Winslow cocked her head. “He’s not a real doctor?”
“Oh, he’s real all right, and he’s about to be arrested as an accomplice for attempted murder.”
Somehow, that didn’t surprise Winslow. “What about all the other doctors I’ve been to? Were they frauds, too?”
Tate shrugged one shoulder. “We won’t know until you give us their names, will we?”
Unbelievable. Her mom had dragged her from doctor to doctor. Were any of them licensed? “I’ll have to see if I can remember all of them. There were so many.”
“Do me a favor,” Tate mumbled, his voice deliciously deep and rumbly as he kicked out of his boots. “My back aches from standing here. Stop thinking so hard and scoot over so I can join you.”
It took a minute of rearranging lines and wires, but Tate fit just fine after he lowered the side rail and settled on his side next to Winslow. He eased one arm under her head and tugged her under his chin. His shirt was damp around the edges.
“You’re cold,” she told him.
“Not anymore,” he whispered.
The weariness of all the revelations of the day pushed Winslow toward sleep. She was warm, and with his solid shoulder and arm for a pillow, her lashes fell. She let her fingers wander under his shirt to his skin. Just because.
He’d kept her from floating away in the wind that night on the tower, that night in the stars. A sizzling energy tingled up from her fingertips to her arms at the pleasant touch of an all-male belly. It was precisely what the doctor ordered.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tate couldn’t—didn’t—wouldn’t—think of sleeping. Not with Winslow’s delicate frame hugged up against him like it was. She’d been bathed somewhere along the line, probably after all that purging Dr. Keegan had put her through.
Honeysuckle. Her skin smelled like the wild honeysuckle that grew everywhere during short Alaskan summers. He pulled the scent of it and her into his lungs, his heart not pounding quite so hard now that he knew she would live. For now she slept soundly, whimpering ever so often for no reason—other than she had survived one helluva life and the liar who’d made it so. But that life was over now.
Tate hadn’t the heart to tell Winslow who her mother was or that her last name wasn’t Parrish. She’d had enough to deal with, but Joyce or Hattie or—whatever her latest name was—was still out there. He couldn’t blame Tucker for failing to call it in. They’d all been spun up to reach Winslow in time.
He stared at the ceiling, fully expecting some zealous nurse to barge in and tell him to, “Get out of here!” or ask, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Until that happened, he pressed his lips to Winslow’s forehead. Did he love her? He probably shouldn’t, not as inexperienced as she was with the world of men, but God knew he did. Was it smart? Maybe not. Was it real? Absolutely. From that first meeting, tenderness for Winslow had stormed Tate like a squall over a boat lost in the Bering Sea. The fierce love that he felt for her happened fast, but it was sure and true and, by hell, he’d die to protect her.
Yet he hadn’t told her how he felt, and he knew why. It was too soon, and even now, he was acting like a predator, snuggling in bed with her as sick as she was. Winslow was in no condition to comprehend what adult love entailed, nor the challenges ahead of her. As sheltered from the world as she’d been, the better thing now would be for him to back off, and for her to go to school and live a little. She didn’t need his needs screwing with her mind after all her mother had put her through.
If he were smart, Tate wouldn’t tell Winslow he loved her, either. He’d step back into the shadows and watch from afar while she learned to drive and went to college, while she tested her wings and found a good job, maybe got her own apartment. He’d let her make friends and be happy and realize what independence was about, and most importantly, how strong she was. All those important things she should’ve been experiencing instead of planning to die.
Damn, he hadn’t seen any of this coming from that one inconvenient blind date. Yet here she was, cuddled in his arms. Warm. Trusting. Breathing steadily into his neck like a lover.
The simple escort job he’d cussed Tucker for had become Tate’s chance to be more than just a warrior. Not that he’d grab onto that chance. He shouldn’t. This was Winslow’s time to shine, not his.
Tate bowed his forehead to hers, and despite sharing a bed with her at the moment, he vowed to back off and let her live a good long life. It didn’t have to be with him, though he wished it could. Winslow needed to heal and grow into the woman she was meant to be, with or without him. She just needed to finally be free of the cancer and live.
He pulled the blanket up to her chin and overlapped the bottom edge of the beanie to be sure she was extra warm, that no draft would chill the back of her bare neck. Winslow had an elegant neck, a creamy white column that lent a regal tilt to her head when she walked, one she didn’t seem to realize she had.
She must’ve gotten that trait from her unknown father, because Hattie didn’t have it. Her neck jutted forward like a turkey buzzard’s, but Winslow’s was almost—proud. Regal. Even up there on the tower last night and as thin as she was, she reminded Tate of an English princess in a lavish wedding ceremony he’d seen once on TV. A real princess, not a Disney one. That was Winslow. His princess.
He smoothed a hand over her shoulder to her elbow. She fit against him like an oyster in its shell, and wasn’t that the best comparison? He was the barrier between her softness and the cruel, hard world, like a shell destined to protect her pure heart and perfect soul.
They weren’t exactly spooning, but this was a better position. This way he couldn’t poke her with that hound dog in his pants. He couldn’t scare her with the man he was. He’d been careful to keep the blanket between them to ensure no nurse or doctor checking on Winslow would think anything improper was going on. Winslow was still so much a little girl. She needed time to grow up, and he intended to make sure she got it.
This sweet woman asleep in his arms had brought him back to life in more ways than one. Sure, his body was rocking for her, but he could control that urge, and he did. She’d touched a part of him he’d locked up in the cellar of his heart where it hadn’t seen the light of day since he’d lost his mother. Seemed he had a heart and soul after all.
Tate scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. He found it peculiar that this fragile woman had gotten through his defenses, but she had.
He pressed a kiss to the knitted beanie, smelling her scent on it as well as his. They didn’t really know each other, and yet they did. Tate closed his eyes and let loose a sigh. Yes, he was a very stupid man, but for this one brief moment, or until the nurses made him leave, he held on to his whole world.
Winslow stretched her back and arched her body all the way down to her toes. She tugged her beanie back on tight. There was nothing sillier than her big Dopey ears sticking out from under a nice warm hat. Since she’d lost her hair, they’d resembled taxicab doors flapping in the wind.
The musky scent of pine and man flesh lifted into her flared nostrils and... Oh. Tate.
She ran her nose along the warm pectoral muscle she was pressed against, thrilled he was sleeping as sound as he was, letting her get away with this tiny stolen intimacy.
The scent of him brought back memories of the crazy chain of events from last night. Him catching her when she fell, although how she’d fallen out of that window was still a little fuzzy. Pepe barking like a demon. Her mom and that insane talk they’d had about assisted suicide. There was a shower mixed up somewhere in there too.
The rest were intangible feelings she couldn’t quite grasp with all five senses. Not yet. But tumbling out of that window and into Tate’s arms? That moment stood out from the rest. He’d caught her just like he’d said he would. He’d saved her.
Her body ached, but strangely, it felt better too. It wasn’t many days that she woke up not needing to make a mad dash to the toilet, so this was a nice c
hange.
But Tate… Ah. She risked waking him as she let her fingers flutter over his impressively muscled chest. The solid slabs of pectorals. The valley between them. The heat of his skin beneath his shirt, and, oh my, the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart under her palm.
Winslow flattened her hand to absorb every last throbbing beat. She was in tantalizing territory where the faint scent of clean male sweat teased her feminine nature like a hook teased a trout. All she needed was for him to open his eyes, and she’d be caught.
Feeling giddy at her outrageous boldness, she dipped her fingers along that ridge between his pecs and ran them lightly down to his abdomen. Still dressed except for his boots, the man was relaxed, his belly expanding with every breath. Heat flared in parts of her body where it hadn’t flared before. Talk about needing a moment to enjoy the thrill of manhandling.
She forced her naughty fingers from strolling lower beneath the blanket to his belt and jeans. Was this how true love felt? Exciting and trembling and hungry and overheated and daring all at once? She hoped so.
Her heart thudded at the illicit contact, but could she stop? Uh-uh. Da-yum, he smelled good. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek over his ribs, just a little as she purred like a cat. She wished he’d wake up, but at the same time, she was glad he didn’t. This quiet moment of exploration belonged to her, and she wanted to luxuriate in the sensual magic of his sleeping body for as long as she could.
The man was dead to the world, but dark and handsome. Drool-worthy. Absolutely. His skin tone was somewhere between golden tan and bronzed, and he had the cutest eyelashes, curled like ebony butterfly wings resting high on his cheekbones. Dark stubble shadowed his angular jaw. Trimmed sideburns ended at his ear lobes. A straight nose extended from thick dark brows, pinched together as if he were angry about something even in his sleep.
Imagine that. Tate angry. That was the one emotion he seemed immersed in, and she wondered who’d hurt him so badly that he dreamed about it? How dare they?
For the first time, she noticed the tiny vertical lines between his brows, three tiny creases, as if he’d frowned one too many times and his face got stuck that way. No laugh lines at the corners of his eyes though. Lying there in his arm and examining him, it was easy to see the little boy beneath the surface. The angry little boy...
She could’ve lain there and watched him forever. His hair had been nicely spiked the first time she’d met him, but now it looked even sexier, all rumpled like it was. Darned if her overheated brain didn’t jump tracks and trigger the need to know what his bare chest looked like. Was it clear of chest hair, thick with it, or barely dusted? That’d be good to know.
The tip of her index finger ached to trace a line from that masculine nose down to his lips and from there over the scruff on his chin to…
Uh, uh, uh. Her whole body clenched at the temptation, nearly waking him. He grunted and wrinkled his nose, spoiling the delicious thought of where she wanted her fingers to end up. How did a man feel—down there? She’d never felt so naughty before, nor so tempted.
Winslow had no idea where all these lust-filled ideas were coming from, but wow. She liked them. They got her heart pumping in the most delicious way.
Drawing in another deep breath, she put her lust on hold for the day that she felt well enough to do more than just get herself excited and stimulated and—wet. A wicked smile cracked her face as she snuggled against the man in her bed, molding her breasts and stomach to the finely carved edge of his ribs and hip. Okay, so it would’ve been tons better if she’d been at home in her bed, only…
No, it wouldn’t have been better. Not at all. Just the thought of all the wasted days and nights and life in that bed deflated her wayward ambition. Assisted suicide. Wow. What was Mom thinking?
Her dying would’ve made her mom quite the heroic martyr, come to think of it. Once more, Joyce Parrish would’ve been that poor, poor single mother standing facing the cruel world alone, her only child forced to take matters into her own tiny hands and—die.
Winslow bit her lip envisioning the drama of the day after that supposed voluntary suicide. She knew better now. This was another one of her mother’s scams, another trick to get people to feel sorry for her. If Winslow had a dime for every gas station and grocery store she’d been dragged into, so her mother could drop off donations jars, begging for loose change for her poor baby, well, she’d be one rich woman by now.
How could any mother suggest suicide for her daughter? If that depressing thought wasn’t a buzz kill to Winslow’s virginal—but awakening—libido, nothing was.
So many things made sense now. The late night, get-out-of-town-in-a-hurry departures. The continual rounds of new doctors and holistic therapists. The ‘alternative medicine’ people. Joyce had hauled Winslow to an Indian shaman one time in New Mexico. Had she ever intended her daughter to live or was her whole life nothing but a smokescreen for—what? Ego? Vanity? Some twisted version of motherly love?
What Tate had said felt right—Joyce Parrish was crazy. Winslow didn’t want to admit it, but finally free from her mother’s clutches, finally able to breathe without feeling dizzy and nauseous, she faced the facts. Her mother had tried to kill her, not once, but apparently many times over the years. What Joyce did was indefensible and downright criminal. What if she’d succeeded? Joyce Parrish would be a murderer. A lying, deceitful, child-killer. But worse, no one would’ve been the wiser.
Another shiver skittered up Winslow’s spine at what she’d very nearly not survived. What would her mother and that fake doctor have done with her body if they’d killed her? Would they have hacked her up into manageable pieces and stuffed her in a garbage can? Would there have been a burial? Would anyone have come? Would anyone have cared?
Oh, no, no, no. Winslow couldn’t dwell on what could’ve been. The possibilities were too frightening. She draped her arm over Tate’s strong, warm chest and, one last time, she rubbed her cheek into his shirt to dry her tears. If he hadn’t come into her life when he did, this could’ve ended so badly.
The steady sound of him breathing lulled her toward sleep. She thought back to that moment on the water tower when she’d told God she was sick of lying and pretending to keep peace with her mother. All she’d wanted then was for one person—one someone—to see her, as in truly, finally see her for the person she was.
Winslow swallowed her tears instead of drenching Tate’s shirt more than she already had. It seemed God had sent her exactly who she needed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
He woke in a dream, a very warm, sensual dream with a woman’s gentle fingers where no woman’s fingers had been before. Rubbing his right nipple.
Tate looked to his left and absorbed the pleasant view of Winslow snuggled under his arm, her left arm extended across his chest and her fingers tucked between two buttons of his shirt. Even sound asleep, her index finger and thumb were busy pinching that flat protuberance on his right pec.
A smile slid over her lips. What was she dreaming about? Her dog? Probably...
He set his chin to the top of her head, content to let her play. There might come a day when he’d turn that play into something more, but for now, he needed to check in with his boss. Tucking her in nice and tight, Tate lifted her fingers to his lips and planted one warm, moist kiss before he pulled away from his sleeping princess. She moaned, but burrowed into her pillow.
Pulling the blanket up to her chin brought a deep sense of male satisfaction. It was a small thing, but somehow it felt like so much more. Wasn’t he surprised when he rounded the curtain and spotted Isaiah’s long legs spread next to Winslow’s door in the hall. “What are you doing here?”
Isaiah arched his back and stretched, both arms high above his head. “Guarding our client,” came out in a mumbly growl.
“Why?”
“Because Winslow’s in protective custody, and you looked…” Isaiah lifted a hand to his mouth and coughed. “…a little preoccupied.”
>
Heat swarmed up Tate’s neck to his cheeks. He shook it off. “Does Tucker know you’re here?”
“It was his idea. He knew you wouldn’t leave Miss Parrish.” Isaiah dipped his head once at a police officer sitting across the hall on a fold-up chair, then scrambled to his feet. “The next shift just arrived. Want to hit The Skillet for ham and eggs? We could do the mental test there.”
The Skillet was a local greasy spoon, Mom-and-Pop kind of place where a guy could get a good cup of coffee and platter-sized pancakes with a hefty side of bacon. But that would mean leaving Winslow, and no offense, just because that blue shirt showed up to guard Winslow didn’t mean squat. “No thanks. It can wait until you get back.”
Isaiah lifted to his feet. “Knew you’d say that. Sit tight. I’ll bring you something.”
Tate watched him go. The guy was taller than him by a few inches, and Isaiah was what women called debonair. There wasn’t a rugged thing about him. He dressed sharp, always crisp and cool, and he was one of those perpetually levelheaded guys. A civilian, he’d never served, unless that one trip to Vietnam with Tucker Chase to get Deuce Chase away from his maniacal mother could be termed service. It seemed more like a sentence to Tate.
But Isaiah was what experts called a level ten psychic. He wielded uncanny mental influence over some individuals, but not all. The psychic world was one of mankind’s final frontiers where there were more unknowns than knowns, where people who believed they were psychic were openly ridiculed as heretics like Galileo was back in the 1600’s, when all the smart people were positive the world was flat.
The distinction that he might be a pioneer into the new frontier called psychic universe didn’t impress Tate. Palming his cell, he thumb-dialed Ky.
Eden answered. “Hi Tate, how’s Winslow?”
“Sleeping. Have we picked up Joyce Parrish yet?”
“You mean Hattie Beauregard?”
“Whatever. Is she in custody?” Please say yes.
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 20
