by Kara Lennox
Mitch wasn’t too hard to find; he was with the goats in the tiny barn behind the house.
The barn looked authentic, with its double doors and hayloft, except it was in miniature, reminding Beth of the incredibly detailed playhouse her dad had built for her and her sisters. Inside the barn were three stalls, and each of them held one goat. Beth didn’t know beans about goats, but she could at least recognize that the white one in the front stall was a billy. He had big horns and a beard, and he was lying in some hay contentedly chewing his cud.
The second stall held a large brown goat, no beard, smaller horns. She appeared to be asleep.
And in the third stall—oh, my. Another brown goat, and a tiny baby. And Mitch, sitting on a milking stool and rubbing the mother between her horns as the baby, no bigger than a cocker spaniel, nursed.
“Mitch.”
He looked up, not with any degree of surprise, so he must have heard her approach. He’d cleaned up the blood from his nosebleed and, other than some slight swelling around his nose and a small cut on his chin, he didn’t look like he’d suffered any serious injuries.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
She sighed. How could she answer that? “What happened?” she finally asked. “How did you end up in a fight with Dwayne? What did he say to set you off?”
“We said a lot of things to each other. That fight was a long time coming.”
“I can understand your being angry but does the word self-control mean anything to you?”
“He told me to hit him.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to do it.”
“We didn’t hurt each other. Not really.”
She leaned her elbows on top of the stall door. “That wasn’t what it looked like to me. Violence is not the answer. It’s never the right answer, especially toward people who are trying to help you.”
“I don’t care what it looks like, Dwayne isn’t trying to help. He has an angle. My guess is, he’s a spy for the police. He wants to keep an eye on us, so if we do uncover any exculpatory evidence, they can jump on it.”
“And your mom? You haven’t been very nice to her, either, and she definitely doesn’t have an angle. She just wants to keep you out of prison.”
Mitch blew out a long breath. “I don’t know what she’s doing. Keeping my room like some kind of shrine. Making me fried shrimp, like that’s going to fix everything.”
The mother goat, perhaps sensing Mitch’s roiling emotions, backed up and put herself between him and the baby.
“Did you ever think it’s because she loves you?”
“Not in a healthy way.” He stood up, knocking over the milking stool, which he didn’t bother to right. He let himself out the door of the stall, then latched it and headed for the exit.
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s not important.”
“I think it is.”
He left the barn and stalked to the back porch, but he didn’t enter the house. He went to an old refrigerator that stood in the corner and pulled out a cold bottle of beer, then twisted off the top and took a long draw.
“If my mother loves me, it’s a new development,” he finally said. On the move again, he stepped off the porch and walked around to the front of the house, to the picnic table they’d all shared earlier. There were no lights in the front yard, and this far from any big town, it was dark. At least Beth had on a pair of running shoes now instead of the ridiculously high heels, so she wasn’t as likely to break her ankle by stepping in a hole.
“Why do you think she didn’t love you?” Beth pushed, following him despite the fact he was obviously trying to get away from her. It was probably none of her business, but she’d been told often enough that curiosity killed the cat. She was nothing if not insanely curious about what made Mitch Delacroix tick.
“She sure never gave any indication she cared whether I lived or died.”
Beth had a hard time reconciling that picture with the woman she’d just washed dishes with. Yes, Myra had behaved a bit oddly at first, but…then a thought occurred to her.
“Because she didn’t protect you.” She’d said the words out loud without meaning to.
She felt, rather than saw, Mitch turn his attention toward her. His breathing accelerated. “What the hell did you women talk about while you cleaned the kitchen? My whole life story?”
“It just…came out. Linda and your mother sort of forgot I was there,” she rushed to explain. “They were both saying how they wished you and your brother were closer because…because you shared…” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words.
“We share bad blood, that’s all.”
“You shared an abusive father,” Beth insisted, forcing the truth out in the open.
Mitch barked out a pain-filled laugh. “Willard C. Bell, lifting a hand to his favorite son, his golden boy? Not likely.”
“It’s not only likely, it’s a sure thing. According to Linda, anyway. Parents don’t normally single out one child for abuse—”
“I wasn’t abused. Don’t label me. My daddy had a temper and a drinking problem, and sometimes I just didn’t get out of the way fast enough.”
She understood why he would bristle. She’d done the same thing when someone in her counseling group had referred to her as an “abuse victim.” She hated that word, victim. Everybody had their hot buttons.
“So you don’t think it’s possible sometimes Dwayne didn’t move fast enough?”
“He was the perfect one. I was the one who always came up short. I didn’t make the football team. I didn’t want to go out and kill small furry things. My grades sucked. I didn’t date cheerleaders.”
“So, the bastard made constant comparisons. But did it ever occur to you he might have done exactly the same thing to Dwayne? If he wanted to find flaws in Dwayne, he no doubt could find them.”
He studied her, looking supremely uncomfortable.
“It makes sense, Mitch. A bully is a bully. And the fact that Dwayne bullied you only makes me believe he was continuing a cycle of abuse—”
“Dammit, Beth, stop using that word!”
The anger, hurled through the darkness at Beth, had the desired effect. She clammed up in a hurry as her chest constricted and her eyes burned.
Poppy whined and took off.
Mitch might have a temper—he’d certainly proved that tonight—but he’d never raised his voice at Beth.
“I’m sorry, Mitch.” Her apology came out as a whisper as she struggled to control her trembling. “I didn’t mean to…” She couldn’t continue. Sucking in an uneven gulp of air, she tried her best to hold in the sobs that wanted to escape.
She wanted to flee like the dog had, but she also didn’t feel right leaving him out here alone when he was in such a black mood.
He would never hurt me. Not Mitch. No way.
What the hell was she doing, trying to drag painful admissions out of him? She knew that keeping dark secrets inside wasn’t healthy, but neither was rubbing someone’s nose in traumatic memories when they weren’t ready. Talking about her trauma in a safe place had helped her tremendously, but that didn’t qualify her to attempt do-it-yourself therapy on Mitch.
He had every right to tell her to go straight to hell.
Her eyes brimmed, and she sniffed, trying to suck the tears back, but it didn’t work.
“Are you crying?”
“No,” she lied.
“You sound like you’re crying.”
“Allergies.”
“Uh-huh.” His voice wasn’t raised anymore. In fact, it was velvety quiet, all the anger drained out of it. “Great. On top of everything else, I made you cry.”
“I overstepped.” She silently cursed her stupid, quavery voice. “You had every right to—”
“The hell I did. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“I always do this. I don’t recognize the signs that I’ve pissed someone off until—”
“You never lost your temper with me before,” she pointed out. “You’re already stressed out and I’m just adding to it, prodding you about something that’s none of my business. I’ll go away now.” She stood up, but he grabbed her hand, preventing her departure. She was surprised how close he was, how quickly he moved.
Just for a moment, an image of Vince shattered the barriers she’d built against the painful memories—of how impossibly fast he’d moved, how he’d caught her when she’d tried to leave, how she’d struggled to escape as he’d smashed his fist into her face. This was Mitch, not Vince—but she’d become increasingly aware of how little she knew Mitch, and how physically powerful her supposed computer geek really was.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I know you don’t like raised voices.”
“Then I shouldn’t bait you.” She tried to tug her hand away, but he pulled her down next to him on the bench. She landed half in his lap and quickly scooted off. “Let go, please.” Her heart raced as she flashed back to how Vince used to use his superior strength to manipulate her—not by striking her or causing pain, but by simply forcing her to stay in one place or move to another at his whim.
Mitch immediately released her hand. “Whoa.”
“We all have baggage, Mitch. Mine doesn’t make me special. Yours doesn’t make you special, either. We just have to find ways to move on. My promise to myself is that, no matter what, I won’t contribute to someone else’s baggage. I won’t let my pain become another person’s. For a minute there, I thought I might have some special insight into your pain. But that’s a dangerous supposition. People seeking out other people, trying to make pain a common denominator—it’s no good. Never works.
“Forgive me. Please forgive me for intruding where I don’t belong. Please tell me I haven’t destroyed our friendship.”
“And here I was worried I’d already done that.”
She detected a bit of her old, familiar Mitch in the teasing line, and she couldn’t help smiling through the last of her tears. “You haven’t done anything.”
“The local cops think differently, and they’re the ones with the handcuffs and a nice cozy jail cell waiting for me. The one thing that’s gotten me through so far is that you still believe in me. Well, you and everybody at work, but mostly you.”
“That won’t change. And, you know what? If you need to vent, if you want to yell and scream and throw things, don’t be afraid to do it in front of me. I won’t enjoy it, but I’ll still be there when you’re done.”
“I don’t deserve a friend like you.” She heard the rustle of his clothing, felt the warmth of his hand as he extended it, but he didn’t touch her. His hand hovered just inches from the skin of her arm.
He shouldn’t have lost his temper with her, but she’d overreacted, too. She’d made him afraid to touch her.
Their hands collided as she reached out to meet him halfway. They clasped hands, but suddenly that didn’t seem strong enough. The touch seemed too faint and impersonal to seal the verbal bargain they’d just made.
She felt his breath ruffling her hair, then the warmth of it on her neck near her ear.
“I don’t want to scare you like I did before.” He sounded unsure of himself. It wasn’t an attitude she was accustomed to getting from Mitch.
“I’m not scared. Not now. Sometimes…it’s just a reflex. Not logical. Comes straight up from my reptilian brain.”
Oh, God, why was she talking about her lizard brain?
His mouth was near her cheek, now. All she had to do was turn her head. Blood pounded in her ears. This was something she’d wanted for a long time…but with her old Mitch, the gentle, easy-going computer nerd with the lazy drawl.
Did she want it with the real man she was coming to know?
The answer was an immediate yes. If anything, the layers she had started to uncover, the depths that made him more complex and fascinating, also drew her to him.
Like a moth to a flame…
She turned her head one inch, two. They were sharing one breath, then one desperate gasp as their lips touched. He pulled her hand he was holding closer to his chest, then buried his other hand in her hair as he crushed his mouth against hers.
Oh, Lord in heaven. How many times had she dreamed about this moment? How many times, when they were watching a true-crime show or a dorky comedy movie, had she yearned for him to move closer, to touch her, take her hand, kiss her?
She’d never thought it would happen like this, and she’d never imagined how really, really good it would feel to be kissed so roughly—and so soon after she’d had that mild freak-out over him grabbing her hand.
She’d always been drawn to the wrong sort of man—macho tough guys who made Rambo look like a milquetoast. Mitch had been her exception. But was he really? Had she sensed that darkness in him all along?
Was she making another error in judgment, worse than all the others combined?
CHAPTER EIGHT
MITCH KNEW, IN SOME DEEP, dark recess of his mind, that kissing Beth senseless was a mistake. But he could no more stop kissing her than he could stop breathing.
Somehow, comforting her and reassuring her had turned into something he’d never intended. If she would just give him the slightest indication that his advance was unwelcome, he would back off. But how was he supposed to show good sense when she was kissing him back like a greedy kitten lapping milk?
She was all softness and sweet, feminine smells, and her mouth tasted like honey with a hint of rum from the bread pudding and her hair smelled like raspberries. She was like the prettiest, most delectable cupcake in the bakery window.
That’s how he’d always thought of her—pretty to look at, like a candy confection, but off-limits, the way candy was when he was training.
He’d just broken training.
Beth was already half in his lap, and suddenly she rose up and swung one leg over his, straddling him. Never breaking the kiss.
Good Lord.
Her hands were everywhere, in his hair, on his back, on his chest, and her touch was not tentative. She even took his hands and put them where she wanted them, and where she wanted them was over her breasts.
He was feeling Beth McClelland’s breasts. He’d dived into the icing headfirst and had smeared it all over his body. He wanted to taste her all over and find out if she was as sweet as she smelled.
He inhaled sharply, intoxicated by the unique combination of scents and the heady night air. He’d forgotten how Louisiana nights smelled, heavy and damp, laced with night-blooming flowers that lurked in nearby swamps and creek beds.
His blood roared in his ears, drowning out the drone of crickets as the universe shrank to him and Beth. While he was kissing her, with her hips pressed snugly against his sex and his hands filled with her cushiony breasts, the ugliness from his life, past and present, receded to nothing more threatening than the buzz of a mosquito.
She slid back and dipped her head, kissing his neck, squiggling her tongue into the hollow at his throat. For some reason that was the sexiest thing anyone had ever done to him. Her clever hands worked at the buttons of his denim shirt. He leaned back, the edge of the picnic table cutting into his vertebrae. Balanced precariously on his knees, she leaned down farther still and kissed his chest, her tongue whirling around one of his nipples until he groaned with unspeakable pleasure and the pain of wanting more.
“Beth, honey…” he croaked, not exactly the strong objection that was called for. But she was rapidly driving him past the point of any reasoning power.
She slid off his lap, and for a minute he thought she’d heeded his warning, but no, she was going for the button of his jeans.
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’ll stop if you want me to.” Her words were rough with desire, not the sweet, honey-glazed voice he was used to.
She was kidding if she thought he was strong enough to put a st
op to this, although he should. It was wrong, one-sided. He should make love to Beth on a feather bed amidst rose petals, not have her blow him on a rough picnic table in his mother’s front yard. She’d seen enough roughness in her life.
Three more buttons undone. Then she was reaching her hand inside his fly, almost there.
He groaned at the first silky touch of her questing fingers. “Beth, no…” he managed.
She went still. “You’re saying no?” She sounded hurt.
“No. I mean, yes.” Oh, God, what did he mean?
Beth cleared her throat. “I thought you…when you kissed me…”
“I do want it. Just not like this…”
“What’s wrong with this?” she almost wailed. “It’s dark, it’s a beautiful, warm night. I have no expectations. I just want to do something for you. I can’t change your past and I can’t make the murder charge go away, but I could help you forget for a little while.”
No expectations? He wished he could see her face, but there was no moon tonight, no stars. “Beth, honey, I don’t want sex with you to be an escape from something. I want it to be a journey to something. You deserve better than this.”
“Nothing could be better than this.”
“How about a four-star hotel with a hot tub?”
“Nothing could be better than this, right here, right now,” she insisted. “And we aren’t going to get a four-star hotel. In fact, I suspect if it doesn’t happen in the next ten minutes it won’t happen at all.”
She thought he would regain his senses and reject her. And, dammit, maybe she was right. Gently, he pulled her up until she was sitting on his lap again, but not straddling him. He put his arms around her and just held her for a few seconds.
“You’re too good for me. You’re too nice. I’m a poor Cajun boy with a criminal record and one thing I do well.” One thing he would tell her about, anyway. “I hack into computers. You’re a brilliant scientist—”
She made a strangled note in the back of her throat. “Save it, okay? I guess I should appreciate that you didn’t let me go on when you really aren’t interested—”
