by Lori Foster
"Visitation was the place that chose me."
He smiled again. "Maybe you're right. Maybe fate is lending a hand. For both of us."
Cyn licked her dry lips. All things aside, a girl couldn't be too careful. "I've gotta ask you something, Bruce."
She'd kept her tone light, but his look was full of serious regard as he stared down at her. "Of course. Anything."
She nodded, thought about how to put her question, then just blurted it out. "You into hitting women or kids? For any reason?" She watched him closely, waiting for any telltale sign that might give him away as a liar or a fraud.
There was no hesitation. "Never." His fingers touched her chin, tilting her face up to his. His thumb brushed at a litde dirt on her jaw. "And I'd do anything in my power to stop anyone who did."
Cyn wasn't sure about that. No one had ever really intervened on her behalf before—but then again, she remembered the trucker and how Bruce had rushed out to defend her.
Just as he had before, he dropped his hand the moment he realized that he touched her. "Good men don't abuse others, and I wouldn't want to think of myself as less than a good man. Not perfect, mind you, because God knows I have my flaws."
Cyn nodded. "Picking up strangers is one of them."
He grinned at her quip. "I have nothing but disdain for anyone who deliberately hurts another person." He paused, his eyes narrowing, "Is that what you're afraid of? That someone will hurt you?"
She shrugged, wary of dredging up the past and the ugliness of it. It was incredible that she'd told him so much already. She'd never shared her awful secrets with anyone. "If a man thinks he's justified, then who's to stop him?"
Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets. The fact that they were alone on a deserted road in the middle of the night didn't disturb him. "There is no excuse, none, for ever hurting a woman or child. Unfortunately, bad people are everywhere, hiding behind occupations, wealth, social standing, and fanatical convictions. A mean spirit isn't something exclusive to the ugly or the poor—it's not something you can easily see in a person's eyes."
He'd be good at delivering the sermons, she decided. He had a real passionate way of sharing his opinions and beliefs. "I can sometimes tell."
He stared down at her so intently, she felt it like a tactile touch. He looked big and imposing, but she wasn't afraid. Not now.
"You couldn't tell with me."
'You just took me by surprise, that's all." She tried a halfhearted smile. "If you say you're a saintly sort, then who am I to argue?"
He wasn't appeased. Just the opposite—her words seemed to set him off. "Tell me something, Cyn. You're obviously an intelligent woman. Why are you taking so many chances? When you know the risks, why are you hitchhiking and—"
"I don't have a car." She felt like saying, "Duh," but didn't.
He gave her a look of incomprehension.
By necessity, her view of such things was philosophical. "I needed to travel."
"But it scares you."
"Most times, fear is a luxury, so it doesn't matter if you're afraid." She shared with him what she'd always known. "And I don't really have a choice."
Bruce rubbed his face, stared up at the heavens, and muttered something under his breath that she didn't quite catch. Then, in an almost angry stride, he headed to his side of the car.
Cyn had learned to read people, especially men, and Bruce Kelly was as sincere as a man could be. She would have seen that before, if his odd vocation hadn't taken her by surprise.
He slammed his door and started the engine. "Ready?"
"Ready is my middle name." She swung her legs into the car, shut the door, and let out a long breath. She'd been up for too many hours to count, which maybe had contributed to her earlier panic. As she fastened her seat belt, she asked, "I think I'll sleep while you drive. I'm pooped."
* * *
Bruce knew that Cyn wasn't really asleep. With his jacket pulled up over her chest and shoulders like a blanket, she dozed. But anytime he moved— to adjust the radio, to turn down the heater—she opened those pale eyes just enough to watch him.
It broke his heart to see such a young woman so vigilant and fearful. She was stretched out as much as a person could be in a car while still sitting upright. She kept her purse looped across her neck, with the purse tucked securely under her arm, but otherwise her limbs were loose and relaxed.
Her face was half turned toward him, her long, silky hair teasing her breasts, hanging almost to her elbows. Her nails were short and blunt, un-painted. Her feet were small and narrow. She wore no makeup at all.
And she was so incredibly sexy she made his heart race. Half asleep, she should have looked like a child.
Instead, she looked ... wanton.
Her features were exotic, so delectably carnal and earthy that she needed to do nothing at all to make a man think of rumpled sheets and sweat-damp bodies straining together. Bruce had no doubt that she'd had more than a few men anxious to bed her.
In all likelihood, she'd sold them the privilege on a regular basis. He also knew, given her reserve and probable background, that some of those men had hurt her.
Yet, they hadn't broken her spirit. That bespoke an uncommon inner strength, and gave him hope.
Despite her fortitude, the exhaustion was plain in her boneless posture and the weariness etched in her face, so Bruce drove straight home. After parking on the gravel road in front of the half-finished church, he turned off the headlights and cut the engine. "Cynthia."
Her eyes opened and she straightened with a luxuriant stretch and a lusty yawn. "Where are we?" Curious, she glanced around, saw that everything was dark and empty, and gave him a suspicious frown.
"My place." He got out and circled the hood to open her door.
Eyes wide, she scampered from the car so fast, she forgot her shoes. She faltered a moment on her hurt ankle, then breathed deeply of the cold night air. Bruce watched her toes curl against the chilly, dew-wet grass.
"This is Visitation?" She looked around with a sort of silent awe.
Bruce felt his lips twitch. She said "Visitation" with the same reverence one might give heaven. "It is. Part of it, at least."
He reached in the car for his jacket and wrapped it around her, then fetched her sandals. She braced a hand on his shoulder as she slipped them on her feet, saying a distracted, "Thanks." She was too busy soaking in the sights to pay much attention to her feet
He pointed down the street "There's a nice diner where you can catch breakfast in the morning, but they're closed for the night now. Around the block, about two minutes from here, is a small motel. The town's small, with one strip mall, a few small businesses, and a factory farther out. Fact is, you can drive completely through town in under ten minutes, but if you go back about an hour from where we came and take the exit into—"
"No." She closed her arms around herself to ward off the April chill and favored him with a bright smile that made everything masculine in him stand at attention. "I'm here and I'm staying. In Visitation. Nowhere else."
Bruce cocked a brow at her quick insistence.
Her smile turned whimsical. "I've dreamed about this place so many times. I want to see if I recognize it in daylight, if it feels as good as it did in my imagination."
"All right." Bruce had learned long ago when to push and when to let things ride. "I can take you to the motel after you eat."
She gave him a calculated look. "If the restaurant's closed, how do you plan to feed me?"
Because he couldn't help himself, he flicked the end of her nose. "I can cook."
"No kidding? I mean, I didn't expect you to do that, but a starving woman doesn't quibble." She nodded toward the building. "So these are your digs?"
Bruce relaxed. Finding herself alone with him in a less-than-public place didn't seem to alarm her at all. Other than her brief, overwhelming fear on the road, she'd been as at ease as a long acquaintance.
"This will eventually be my church.
" Pride filled him as he gestured to the two-story, red brick house now sporting a very large, not-quite-complete addition. Because he'd been gone overnight, he'd left the porch light on and it showed the destroyed lawn typical of new construction. The building wasn't fancy, but he loved it.
God didn't need fancy, and neither did Bruce.
"It doesn't look like a church."
He watched her smooth her unruly curls, tossed by the wind. It distracted him, and made him think of things he shouldn't. He shook his head. "In the same way that I don't look like a preacher?"
"Just the opposite. It's too plain to be a church." She lightly elbowed him. "And you're too hunky to be a preacher."
Plenty of women had teased and flirted with him, but he'd never paid much attention, never lost sight of the fact that they needed him and depended on him. With Cyn, it was different and he had to deliberately keep his mind off taboo speculation. With her, he didn't just see the bravado of a woman covering past hurts. He saw long, silky hair and warm, smooth skin. He smelled her—the scent of woman, more provocative than any manufactured perfume. He enjoyed her bold gaze, the tilt of her sexy mouth ... "Did I mention that my father was a preacher, too?"
Thank God, she'd been unaware of his intimate perusal. She smiled without a care. "Does he look like you?"
Mentioning his family would hopefully help him keep his head. "Not really. He's darker. My brother and I got our fair hair from our mother, but our brown eyes from Dad."
"Dad's gotta love the bounty hunter, huh?"
Bruce enjoyed her teasing. "We're very proud of Bryan. He helps people, same as we try to do. It's just that his methods are ... a little different."
"Yeah, I can imagine." She winked at him. "So, where are we going to eat?"
"The construction crew's managed to leave most of my living quarters around back untouched. It's small, but then I'm only one person. I don't need much space."
"Lead the way." But when Cyn went to take a step, she stumbled, and Bruce saw a grimace on her face.
She was hurt more than she wanted to admit, stubborn woman. "Lean on me, and I'll help you inside." He put his arm around her waist and pulled her against him.
Even though she held herself stiffly—due more to pride than discomfort at his closeness, he was sure—he was very aware of her softness, of how slight she felt against his side, the heat of her small body. The top of her head aligned with his mouth, and he fought the instinct to plant a small kiss on her forehead.
She was dead tired, had probably been on the road for hours, but she still smelled fresh and spicy and so much like a woman that Bruce almost stumbled, too.
As they passed the side of the church, she noticed the crumbled wall where plastic had been tacked up to protect against the weather. "You sleep in there with your house open?"
"Visitation isn't exactly a hotbed of crime, and it's not for long. They're saying within a month, but it'll probably take longer. I'm learning that in construction, a month often means three months. A very nice glass block niche will go there. Shay, my sister-in-law, donated the money for it We'll use it as a sunny play area for the little ones who come to church with their parents."
"She donated that, huh?"
"Did I mention that Shay was filthy rich?" He grinned. "She could probably buy the whole town, but instead, she's been running amuck making improvements everywhere. Thanks to her, we've been able to hold services in the basement of the only local bank. She's paying the rental fee until the church is complete."
Bruce unlocked the door that led into his kitchen. Warmth greeted them, along with the scents of sawdust and drywall. He flipped on the inside light. "Here we are. Why don't you sit down and rest your ankle."
He glanced at her, winced at the dirt still on her face and clothes, and pulled out a kitchen chair for her. "You're a mess, young lady. Sit still and let me get you a few damp cloths."
Thanks." Once Cyn was seated, she kicked off her sandals again and bent to look at her ankle, while saying, "You're a man who housed hookers, with a preacher for a father, a bounty hunter for a brother, and a wealthy sister-in-law. Your life must never be boring."
What an understatement. Much of the past year had been chaotic, sometimes frightening, and full of change. "You should meet some of my friends here in Visitation." He returned to her with two damp dishcloths. "Hold still."
She held up her hands. "See these? They make it easy for me to do my own bathing."
Bruce winced. "There's no mirror down here, and I doubt you're up to climbing the stairs. As to these hands..." He laid the cloths down and caught both her wrists, examining her palms. In places, they were scraped raw, probably from her fell in the woods. She had dirt under her nails, scratches and scrapes.
Bruce pulled her upright and practically carried her to the kitchen sink a few feet away. Her bulky purse was between them. "You can leave your purse on the table."
"It goes where I go."
"What about when you sleep?"
She patted it. "Makes a nice pillow."
Bruce rolled his eyes. She must have something mighty important inside that she thought to protect with her person. "Suit yourself, but it pains me to be thought a thief."
"Yeah, well, it'd pain me more to lose it."
Did she have her entire life in that bag? It was possible, so Bruce let it drop. Trust would come in time.
Feeling bedeviled by his own wayward musings, he stood beside her, supervising while she washed away the dirt and small streaks of dried blood on her tender palms.
When she saw his frown, she said, "Relax, Lancelot. It's no biggie."
How many hurts in her life had she dismissed as no biggie ? Her stomach rumbled, breaking his troubled thoughts enough that Bruce laughed. "I can take a hint."
While she finished washing, he opened the refrigerator and took out a covered container. "Leftover chicken, broiled potatoes, and string beans sound good?"
"Like heaven." She returned to the table, pulled a chair around, and propped up her legs, making herself at home. "So tell me about your friends."
Bruce began preparing-a plate to go in the microwave. "There's Joe Winston. Now, you want to talk about a man with a colorful past, Joe fits the bill. He's been a police officer, a PI, a bounty hunter, and a bodyguard. Now he's married to Luna, and together they run a recreational lake here in Visitation. It's further out, very private and very beautiful." He turned and watched her running her fingers through her hair, attempting to untangle it.
Wishing he could do that for her, he cleared his throat. "You remember the deputy I told you about? Scott Royal."
"Cops tend to stick in my mind."
"Scott's a deputy, but you seldom see the sheriff, so if you need the law, odds are it'll be Scott. He's a nice guy, but he goes bonkers whenever Joe's sister, Alyx, is in town."
"How come?"
"They rub each other the wrong way. Or maybe the right way—with those two it's hard to tell." He laughed, remembering their last encounter. The Winstons are pretty outrageous, and they have a lot of presence. When one is around, you know it. But watching Alyx and Scott spark off each other is entertaining."
"Alyx doesn't live here?"
"Not yet, but I expect her to move to Visitation any day now. So far she's restricted herself to monthly visits, which is probably all that's saved Scott's sanity." Bruce put the plate in the microwave and turned it on. "I can't tell you about Visitation without mentioning Jamie Creed."
Cyn cocked her head to the side. Curiosity shone from her light eyes. "Jamie Creed?"
He opened the refrigerator and surveyed drinks. "Jamie has never come right out and said it, but he's a psychic of some sort. Or maybe more specifically an empath."
"He picks up on others' emotions?"
Bruce frowned at himself. "Yes, but actually, it goes beyond even that. Jamie somehow knows things, even before they happen. And he knows how they'll happen, how to manipulate events so they work out the way he wants them to."
"Not really. The women in town see him as a dark, romantic mystery. The men, from my observations, are both jealous and leery of him."
"Why would they be leery?"
Bruce poured her iced tea, which was about all he had to offer other than water, then joined her at the small oak table. "Jamie has this habit of only showing himself long enough to shake things up. He lives up on the mountain—where, exactly, I'm not sure. One minute he'll be here, then he'll be gone, and he only comes back when it suits him to do so."
Cyn's expression became pinched. "He lives in the middle of tall trees with no one else around?"
Because he watched her so closely, with so much fascination, Bruce noticed how the mention of Jamie affected her. "As I said, I don't really know. I suppose so, though. The mountains here are so thick with trees, they're almost impenetrable."
Cyn slowly licked her lips. "He's tall. Dark hair, a beard. Trim but muscular."
Bruce leaned toward her. "You've met Jamie?"
"No." She shook her head. "But he has the darkest brown eyes, not sexy like yours, but almost black and empty and sort of eerie ..."
The microwave dinged, and Cyn nearly jumped out of her chair.
Bruce reached for her hand. "You haven't met him, but you've seen him?"
She avoided his gaze. "This'll clinch it. You'll definitely think I'm nuts."
"I know Jamie, who fades in and out, and I don't think he's nuts. Trust me, nothing you can say will shock me after meeting him."
"All right, you asked for it." She gave him a crooked smile. "It's this strange dream that I keep having. Remember I said Visitation pulled at me? Well, I didn't know it was Visitation, I just knew what it looked like and how it felt. I'd see this big, clean lake and so many trees that sometimes you couldn't see the sky and I saw.. .Jamie Creed. I didn't know his name, I just saw him. But unlike the other things, like the lake and the trees, he was always vague. There, but not real defined."
Beyond fascinated, Bruce rose from his seat to get her plate, giving himself a moment to think. Was it possible that she knew Jamie from somewhere? Maybe Jamie's mysterious past was somehow tied in with hers. "What did he say to you in this dream?"
